Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (25 page)

The man looked pretty dangerous. Bad Eye felt sure it was going to be bad news for the man he was after. “You think he's in this part of the country somewhere?”

“That's where he was headin',” Red Shirt replied. “He was ridin' with a man and woman, headin' this way. I got a little unfinished business with them, too.” One of them had fired the shot that destroyed part of his lung, leaving him unable to breathe without pain.

It would be an almost impossible coincidence, but the thought popped into Bad Eye's mind. “Carson Ryan,” he blurted, remembering that Duke Slayton had told him of a run-in with Carson on the Musselshell.

Red Shirt almost dropped his cup when he heard the name, the muscles in his arms tensed to the point where his veins stood up as if to burst. His face transformed into a mask of black hatred. “You know where he is?” he demanded.

The sudden look of the man frightened Bad Eye, causing him to stammer in his reply. “I know where he might be, but I didn't lay eyes on him myself.” He wondered if the mysterious force that methodically killed the cattle rustlers could have somehow been connected to Carson. He told Red Shirt how to find the M/C, but said that he couldn't go with him. “Once you get to Sweet Grass Creek, you ought'n have any trouble findin' the ranch.”

“I 'preciate the information,” Red Shirt said, and got to his feet to fetch the coffeepot. “Lemme fill that cup for you.”

“Much obliged,” Bad Eye said, and tilted his head back to drain the last swallow, never realizing that Red Shirt was still standing directly behind him until he felt a powerful hand grab his hair and the razor-sharp knife as it sliced his throat. He didn't go back to the M/C with Red Shirt, but his scalp made the trip.

* * *

The range war between the M/C and the Bar-T was effectively over after the night of the avenger was ended. When Shorty and the others arrived at the site of the battle, there was no longer any enemy to fight. Instead, they found a sleeping warrior in the midst of a large herd of M/C cattle. They could not appreciate the magnitude of his accomplishment until they started rounding up the riderless horses and finding the bodies. When the total tally was complete, there were four bodies, one less than the gang of raiders who had left Duke Slayton behind at the ranch. It served to cast a different light upon the person who was John Carson, and not completely to his liking. He had no wish to be defined as a one-man war party.

Shorty and Mule decided it best to move the cattle to the south range until some arrangement could be worked out to round up the Bar-T cattle, since there was no more Bar-T. There were decisions to be made, one of which was whether to combine the two spreads or keep them as two separate ranches. As Shorty put it, “There's sure as hell gonna be a job for ever'body.”

One who was not certain as to whether or not he would be a part of the newly formed partnership of cattle owners was John Carson. There was still the matter of a wanted poster with the name Carson Ryan on it, and he could not see any possibility of proving his innocence. Frank and Nancy begged him to stay on. They tried to convince him that no one of the few who knew his real name would ever tell the authorities, should they ever arrive at the M/C. “Doggone it,” Nancy pleaded, “we need you—Frank needs you, Lucas needs you—they can't run it without your help.” Shorty, Clem, Mule, they all supported her argument. Only Millie kept her thoughts on the matter to herself, keeping her distance from the boy who had morphed into a man. All were unaware of the danger lurking along the ridge that lay north of the house that Mathew Cain had built in the form of a half-breed Lakota outlaw who watched the house, waiting for an opportunity to seek his revenge. He was patient, for he had searched for a long time to find Carson Ryan, and he would not jeopardize his chance of success by acting in haste.

Red Shirt's patience finally paid off. Early one morning, the crew of men came out of the bunkhouse and saddled the horses, all except Carson. The men mounted up and headed out toward the east range. Red Shirt remained in his lookout position on the lower end of the ridge until Carson finally came from the bunkhouse and walked toward the barn. Red Shirt's heart began to beat rapidly. At last his chance had come when there were none of the other men to help Carson. He quickly descended the ridge, circled the smokehouse, and approached the barn.

Carson pulled his saddle off the rail in the tack room. His mind was not on the chore he had assigned himself that morning. Rather it was on the moment the day before, when Millie had come to the barn to check the chickens' nests for eggs, and he had turned around quickly to catch her staring at him. He had caught her eye on other occasions, and just as she did on those occasions, she had turned immediately away. This was what he was thinking of on this morning when he heard a tiny squeak from the back barn door. Determined he was going to face her down this time, he walked out of the tack room only to be confronted by the business end of a .44 Winchester in the hands of what appeared to be a ghost.

“You've changed, Carson,” Red Shirt gloated triumphantly, knowing Carson was helpless to make a move. “It took me a helluva long time to find you. You've caused me a lot of pain and trouble. This time, I ain't gonna throw my rifle aside, so say your prayers. I got a new scalp lance since I saw you. I'm gonna tie your scalp right at the top of it.”

“You'd better take damn good aim,” Carson said, “'cause I'm gonna be on you before you get off the second shot.”

Red Shirt grinned in evil anticipation. “I will,” he said, and raised his rifle.

The shot reverberated loudly in the confines of the barn, but Carson felt nothing as he steeled himself for the impact of the bullet. Astonished, he saw the grimace on Red Shirt's face as the half-breed staggered against the side of a stall. He tried to lift his rifle again, but was stopped cold by a second shot that slammed the side of his head. “Damn you! Damn you!” Nancy Thompson screamed. “This time you'll stay dead!” To be sure, she shot the already-still corpse for a third time. She looked at Carson then with eyes wild in panic. “You have to stay alive, John Carson. If you don't, Millie never will get married.” Her knees started to fail her then and she would have fainted had not Carson rushed to catch her. The revolver she held dropped to the floor of the barn.

The sound of gunfire brought Frank and Lucas running from the house with guns at the ready. They were met by Carson coming from the barn with Nancy in his arms. “I think she's all right,” Carson quickly assured Frank. “After what she just did, I ain't surprised she fainted. She sure as hell saved my life.” He placed Nancy in the outstretched arms of her husband, and told them what had caused her distress.

Before he was finished, Millie came running and promptly told Frank to take Nancy to the porch. Then she sent Lucas to the pump to wet a cloth and bring it to her. “I'll be right there to help you with her,” she told Frank. Then to reassure him, she said, “She'll be all right. I was supposed to be the one gathering the eggs, but she said she'd do it this morning, even though she was feeling poorly.”

“Is she sick?” a worried husband asked. “She didn't say she felt ill.”

Millie met his question with the look of one who is impatient with the naïveté all men seemed to exhibit when it came to their wives. “Most women have these little spells when they're carrying a child,” she said.

“What!” a startled husband blurted, causing Carson to quickly grab his elbow when he showed signs of fainting himself.

“Better let me take her back,” Carson said, and took Nancy from Frank's arms. He carried her to the porch and lowered her onto a chair. Frank sat down in a chair beside her. Leaving them in the care of Millie, he went back to the barn to dispose of Red Shirt's body. He couldn't help hurrying to make sure the body didn't vanish again, as it had done the first time they thought they had killed him. Finding Red Shirt where he had last seen him, he grabbed him by the heels and dragged him out the back of the barn. When Lucas came to help, he told the boy to hitch up the wagon. “I don't wanna bury this piece of shit close to the house,” he told him. “He might turn the soil sour.” Riding to the other side of the east ridge, he had plenty of time to think about the incident just finished, and he thought back on Nancy's words in the middle of her execution of the hated half-breed. He was not sure what he thought he heard was, in fact, what she had actually said.
Maybe when she's feeling better, I'll ask her,
he thought.

* * *

Frank Thompson, on a rare visit to Big Timber, stopped in the post office to post a letter. While there, he commented to the postmaster, “I don't see that wanted notice for that fellow Carson Ryan up on your board anymore.”

“No,” the postmaster replied, “I got a notice to take it down. I guess they caught him.”

This was good news to Frank. He could hardly wait to get back to the ranch to tell everyone about it. The fact of the matter was the U.S. marshal in Omaha received a letter from Robert B. Grimes, a civilian doctor located at Fort Laramie. In that letter, Dr. Grimes requested that the marshal should get in touch with Robert T. Patterson, who was now a congressman for the state of Texas. The purpose was to verify Carson Ryan's employment as a drover for Mr. Patterson in Ogallala on the date Ryan was accused of murder and rustling a herd seventy miles away. Mr. Patterson verified that Carson Ryan was in fact with him in Ogallala at that time.

* * *

Almost a month had passed since young Lucas Cain had ridden to Big Timber to telegraph the territorial governor for help before that help showed up in the form of U.S. Deputy Marshal Marvin Bell. He was met at the front door by Millie. She walked out on the porch to talk to him. “Well, Mr. Bell,” she commented, “when we sent for help, we were hoping for a detachment of cavalry to fight a gang of murdering cattle rustlers. I guess it's lucky for you that we had enough men to drive the gang away ourselves. It would have been a helluva job for one deputy to take on.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Bell replied respectfully. “Sometimes we don't get the whole story, so I was sent up here to find out. You're sayin' you drove the rustlers off, and there ain't no more problem here?”

“That's right,” Millie said. “All the cattle have been recovered, and everything's back to normal.”

“No range war, then?”

She chuckled. “No, no range war. Is that what they told you?”

“Like I said, sometimes we get the wrong information.” He was obviously relieved to find out that his visit was going to be brief. “And what is your name, ma'am?”

“I'm Millie Cain,” she answered.

He was distracted for a moment when he saw Carson ride up to the barn and dismount. “Is that one of the hands?”

“Oh, that's my husband, John,” she quickly replied.
You picked a helluva time to come riding up to the barn,
she thought. “He must have forgotten something.”

“Well, sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Cain. I think I'll go down and talk to your husband.” He turned to descend the front steps.

“I'll go with you,” she replied at once, and immediately followed him down the steps, fearful now that she might have gotten them in trouble by trying to distract the deputy.

As soon as they reached the barn door, she called out, “John, there's a deputy marshal here to talk about the wire we sent for help.”

This was not news that Carson wanted to hear. He had been thankful that there had been no response from the governor. He walked out to meet them, still holding the bush ax he had come to get. “You wanna talk about the cattle rustlin'?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Bell replied, “although your wife has pretty much told me there ain't anything to investigate.”

“My wife?” Carson responded without thinking.

Millie quickly spoke up. “Yes, me. I know you tell me to let you do the talking, but I just told Mr. Bell here what happened, that's all.” She turned to the deputy. “John thinks it's not ladylike for me to talk to the authorities.”

Carson realized then what she was doing. “I suppose I am a little protective when it comes to the little lady.”

“Well, I don't see anything wrong with that,” Bell said with a chuckle. “I reckon there's nothin' more for me to do here.”

“It was pretty cut-and-dried,” Carson said. “We were able to drive 'em off.” He glanced at Millie, who frowned when a new thought evidently just then popped into her head. He was not prepared for her next comment.

“I thought you were here to investigate the death of Red Shirt,” she said.

“Red Shirt!” Bell exclaimed. “Red Shirt, the half-breed outlaw? Whaddaya mean, his death?” Her remark had triggered a definite interest on the part of the lawman, but Carson could only think that she had betrayed him.

“That's the one,” Millie replied smugly. “I know the word was out that he had tried to attack our family, but we killed him. I can show you where he's buried. It hasn't been that long. You might wanna dig him up to make sure it's him.”

What are you doing?
Carson thought while trying to keep a calm face. He tried to catch Millie's eye, but she purposefully avoided it.

The visit to the M/C suddenly took on new importance to Marvin Bell. Red Shirt had long been wanted all over the territory, but no one had been successful in tracking him down. And if what the girl claimed was true, it would definitely be a feather in his cap. “Yes, ma'am,” he replied. “I surely would like to verify it. Can I borrow a shovel?”

“Of course,” Millie replied. “John, why don't you get a couple of shovels and help Mr. Bell dig Red Shirt up?” Carson had little choice but to comply. When he went into the tack room to get the shovels, Millie said to the deputy, “I'll be right back.” She hurried then to the barn door where Carson had left his horse, and drew the Winchester from the saddle scabbard. Back to the waiting deputy just as Carson returned with the shovels, she handed the rifle to Bell. “This is the rifle we found with him. John naturally didn't bury it with him.”