Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (20 page)

Justin was becoming weary of Pruett's mouth, so he made one simple statement. “John ain't gonna ride with nobody on the roundup. He's leavin' M/C in the mornin'. So eat your supper and let him be.” His statement caused a sudden lull in the noisy banter as all eyes turned to focus on Carson.

“Leavin'?” Pruett reacted. “You mean he quit?” He turned to Carson. “You quit?”

“You could say that,” Carson replied.

“Well, I'll be . . . ,” Pruett said. “Couldn't stick it out a week! How 'bout that, boys? Couldn't stick it out a week. That's just like them Texans, ain't it?”

“Why don't you shut that big mouth of yours, Pruett?” Shorty said. “And let us eat in peace.”

Suspecting something more than Justin was telling, and that Shorty was in on it, Pruett was not to be silenced. “Somethin's goin' on here.” He looked from Justin to Carson, then back to Shorty. “You might as well tell all of us. What did he do? Steal somethin'? Botherin' the women?” He was delighted with the possibility that Carson had been caught doing something and was getting fired for it. He turned his badgering on Carson then. “How 'bout it, Texan? You get caught behind the outhouse peekin' at Millie?”

Finally Carson realized that Justin was not going to put a stop to the noisy bully. He had enough of Pruett's mouth for one night, so he broke his silence. “Like Shorty told you, Pruett, shut your damn mouth. What I do and why I'm leavin' is my business, so keep your nose out of it.”

All talking stopped, and a total silence descended upon the table. It lasted until broken by Pruett. “Whoa, now,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “Lookee here, boys, our woodchoppin' Texas rifleman says it ain't none of our business.” He waited for a response, but there was none, so he continued. “Well, I say it is our business. Anythin' that goes on here at the M/C is our business. Ain't that right, Justin?”

Forced to intercede, Justin answered him, “No, it ain't, Pruett. It's his personal business, so leave him be, or I'll fire you, too.”

“Aha!” Pruett exclaimed. “So he was fired! I thought so!” When he saw Justin's dander start to get up, he quickly backed down. “All right, all right. I ain't sayin' nothin' more. I'll let him be, just like you said.” A triumphant sneer spread across his wide face as he turned to Carson and nodded slowly, as if to promise more to come later.

Carson ignored him and concentrated on finishing the fine meal that Lizzie had prepared, feigning oblivion to the eyes upon him.
What the hell is it about me that attracts every bully around?
he
thought.
I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of showing how strong he is.

After supper, he returned to the barn to make sure the saddle Justin had bought from him was clean and in good shape. It was a good saddle. Deputy Marshal Luther Moody must have paid a pretty penny for it, for it was hand-worked and decorated, and Justin had paid a fair price for it, a reasonable deal for both buyer and seller. Satisfied that everything was in order, he left the tack room, almost bumping into Millie as he came out the door. She was holding a single egg in her hand, and quickly stepped back to avoid a collision.

“For goodness' sake!” she exclaimed. “Like a bull coming out the gate.”

“I'm sorry, Millie. I didn't expect to see you down here in the barn. I reckon I'd better watch where I'm goin'.”

She quickly tried to explain her presence there, for she usually gathered the eggs in the mornings. “I was checking the hay in the last stall. Some of the chickens have been nesting there, and I forgot to check on it this morning.” She held up the egg as proof. “One egg, so I did miss one this morning.” She made no move to leave, forcing him to move aside to get past. As he started toward the front door of the barn, she called after him, “So it turns out I was right about you from the beginning.”

He turned then to face her. “And what might that be?”

“A gunman,” she replied, “running from the law.”

“Looks that way, doesn't it?” he replied, seeing no reason to deny it.

“I tried to tell them,” she said, seeming reluctant to let it go. “But you had everybody convinced that you were a top hand with cattle.”

Her tone was beginning to get to him. “I am a top hand with cattle,” he said.

“But you're handier with a rifle, right?”

Fully irritated by the apparent dressing-down he was receiving from the precocious young woman, he responded curtly, “Look, miss, I don't know what I did to get on the wrong side of you, but I ain't gonna be here to bother you come mornin', so I'll say good night to you, and hope you have pleasant dreams.” He turned away again and headed for the door. She stopped him once again.

“I want to hear you say it,” she blurted.

“Say what?” he responded, without turning around.

“Tell me you didn't kill that deputy, or those men you stole the cattle from. I wonder if you can own up to what you did.”

He turned to face her again, looking her straight in the eye. Evidently Justin or Lucas had told her the reason he was forced to leave. “In the first place, I didn't steal no cattle, and I sure as hell didn't shoot Luther Moody.” He continued to glare at her for a few moments more. “And yes, ma'am, I can own up to everythin' I've ever done.” With that, he turned again and headed for the barn door.

She called out one final time, this time to warn him, “Pruett Little is loafing around by the corner of the corral. You'd best be cautious.”

Her warning surprised him. He was astonished that she would bother to tell him, even though she might suspect some ill intent on Pruett's part. He would puzzle over it later. For now he would turn his thoughts toward the possibility that Pruett was planning to exact a measure of revenge for his remarks at the supper table. He had hoped to avoid a confrontation, but he had to round the corner of the corral on his way back to the bunkhouse, unless he sneaked out the back of the barn. And he had no intention of doing that. Thanks to Millie's forewarning, however, he could prepare for trouble if Pruett had any such ideas in mind. Spotting a coil of rope hanging on a nail driven in a center post, he grabbed it as he went past on his way outside.

Just as Millie had said, Pruett was perched on the top rail at the corner of the corral, smoking a cigarette. He didn't say anything until Carson passed in front of him. Carson nodded, but said nothing. He had taken a couple of steps past the corner when Pruett called after him, “Hey, Texas, where you goin' with that rope?” When Carson turned to face him, he flipped the half-finished cigarette to bounce off Carson's chest. “I heard all you Texans have a mile-wide yellow streak down your backs.” He came down from the rail to position himself squarely in front of Carson. “How 'bout pickin' up that cigarette for me? I just rolled it and I'm runnin' a little short of rollin' papers.”

“I'm not in a mood to put up with you, Pruett. I've got things I need to do right now. If you're so damn determined to show me how strong you are, go over yonder and pull that little tree up by the roots. If that's too much for you, go pull up some of those weeds growin' along the fence there, and I'll tell all the boys back in the bunkhouse how strong you are. Just leave me the hell alone.”

A malicious smile slowly formed on the bully's face. Carson's reaction was what he had expected. It told him that he was reluctant to stand up to him. “I saw Millie go in the back of the barn,” he said. “What was you two up to in there? I think Millie would rather be saddle-broke by a real man, instead of a yellow-dog Texan, don't you? Now pick up my cigarette like I told you.”

“You ain't gonna let it alone, are you?” Carson replied.

Pruett chuckled, delighted, anticipating the pleasure he planned to enjoy. “Nope. You're gonna have to take a whippin' for tryin' to steal my gal.”

“All right, here's your damn cigarette,” Carson said, and reached down to pick it up. He blew on the smoldering tobacco to revive a glow, then held it out for Pruett to take. When he was within a step of him, he flipped it at Pruett's face, almost striking the larger man in the eye. Pruett recoiled frantically as the harmless missile bounced off his cheek. Carson didn't wait for him to recover, delivering a stinging blow across his face with the coiled rope. Pruett backed away, but Carson stayed with him step for step, using the rope like a club, raining blow after stinging blow upon his head, and leaving raw red stripes about his neck, ears, and face. The attack was so sudden and devastating that Pruett was kept off balance, and he tried to charge his assailant, only to suffer more blows as he tried in vain to grab hold of the flailing rope. In frustration, he finally tried to pull the pistol he was wearing and charged again. With his head down to keep the cruel blows from striking him across his eyes, he was easy for Carson to sidestep, tripping him as he lunged by. Carson backed away warily, quickly fashioning a loop in the rope as Pruett rose to his knees and hesitated a moment to clear his senses. It was a moment too long, for Carson threw his loop, as if roping a steer, before the startled bully knew his intention. Drawing his noose tight as Pruett lunged up to his feet, Carson succeeded in pinning the big man's arms to his sides. Before Pruett could get the rope worked up high enough to slip out of it, the quicker man ran around him several times, wrapping him up in a helpless bundle. Raging mad, Pruett tried to pull away from his captor, but Carson looped his end of the rope over a corral post and used it as leverage to pull his two-legged steer up tight against the corral rails. Once he had him flat against the rails, he secured him with the rope, binding him with his arms immobile at his sides and his feet tied to the post. When the task was finished, Carson walked away toward the bunkhouse, never saying another word, followed by a hailstorm of enraged curses and threats.

Standing just inside the open barn door, Millie watched the confrontation just finished with excited yet mixed emotions. The last faint light of the sun was fading away as she backed away and went out the back of the barn to return to the house, still marveling over the way Carson had so efficiently handled Pruett. She could have freed the oversized bully, but she chose not to, thinking it a good lesson for him. She had no room in her mind for thoughts of Pruett Little, anyway. Her brain was mired in a confusion of conflicting feelings about the man who had roped him. In a way, she was glad that the truth had come out about the stranger who had landed on her doorstep. She had been determined that she would have no interest in the young man, and this made it easier to accomplish. What if what he had told her, that he was innocent of the charges against him, was the truth of it? Would it make a difference in the way she regarded him? Nancy and Frank thought the sun rose and set on the man they had met on the trail. Were they mistaken?
Why am I even thinking about it?
she thought. She was convinced that the man had never been born whom she would consider worthy of her approval. “I'm glad he's leaving tomorrow,” she murmured softly as she went up the kitchen steps.

* * *

“Wonder where ol' Pruett is,” Mule remarked as he placed a couple of pieces of wood on the fire in the fireplace. “He's usually the first one in his bunk on a chilly night like this'n.”

“Well, it ain't likely we'll miss him,” Shorty said. It had been quite a while since the supper dishes had been cleaned up, and most of the men were crawling into their bunks. Because of the situation with Carson's sudden termination, the talk in the bunkhouse was a little more subdued than usual, Shorty being the only one who knew the entire story behind the young man's departure.

“You reckon we oughta see if ol' Pruett's fell through the hole in the outhouse or somethin'?” Clem Hastings wondered aloud. Of all the men on the M/C, Clem was the only one who never seemed to mind working with Pruett.

“Nah,” Shorty answered him. “Pruett don't ever use the outhouse.”

Already in his bunk, with his blanket pulled up over his shoulders, Carson was concerned only with minding his own business and avoiding questions from the other hands, so he made it obvious that he was intent upon going to sleep. After about half an hour more, all conversation died away and the bunkhouse was settled in for the night. No one was curious enough about Pruett's absence to look into the possible reason for it. When an additional half an hour passed, everyone was awakened, however, startled by the sudden explosion of Pruett's irate entrance into the room.

“Where's that son of a bitch?” he roared, and went straight to Carson's bunk. His outburst of rage caused everyone to sit up immediately, all except Carson, who seemingly ignored him. Pruett planted himself to stand menacingly at the foot of Carson's bunk. “Get up outta that bunk,” he commanded. “It's time for you to get a little lesson, and I'm the teacher, so get up.”

“Go to hell,” Carson responded, without moving.

“What the hell's got into you, Pruett?” Shorty asked. “Why don't you leave him alone and go to bed? We gotta get up early in the mornin'.”

“You shut your mouth, Shorty,” Pruett told him. “This ain't none of your business.”

“What did he ever do to you?” Mule asked.

Lucas Cain, who had followed Pruett in the door, answered for him. “He tied him to the corral post,” Lucas volunteered. “If Pa hadn't made me go back to the smokehouse to get the bacon I was supposed to bring Lizzie for breakfast, I reckon he mighta stayed tied to that post all night.” The boy had followed Pruett to the bunkhouse after he untied him. He figured it was going to be a show he wouldn't want to miss.

“Well, I'll be . . .” Mule started to speak when he noticed the welts around Pruett's face when the flickering light from the fireplace played upon it. “Looks like you got a whuppin' to boot.”