Boone's Lick (7 page)

“Arrested for what?” Uncle Seth asked. “All they did was race their horses—you can't arrest people for holding horse races.”

Mr. Hickok raised an eyebrow at Uncle Seth's remark, but the sheriff just looked confused.

“What?” he asked.

“So far I'm the only one who's broken the law,” Uncle Seth went on. “I just shot three horses that didn't belong to me, and I may have killed that fellow whose horse flipped over.”

“No, I seen him stir,” Mr. Hickok said. “I expect him to get up any minute.”

The sheriff looked even more confused. It was the kind of thing Uncle Seth was always doing: turning some simple matter around so that everybody became confused. I've heard Ma flare up at him a hundred times, for just that sort of thing.

“How can you say that to me, Seth! Why would you say such a thing to me?” Ma would say. Sometimes she'd cry and sometimes there'd be bitter words—Uncle Seth would always just sit there with a pleasant look on his face, until the storm blew over.

“There's nothing wrong with looking at the other fellow's point of view,” he might say, if he said anything.

“Yes there
is!”
Ma would cry. “Yes, there is. Just look at
my
point of view! That's what you need to worry about.”

The ambushers were still milling around. It was clear that they couldn't decide what to do. The two Tebbits had yelled themselves hoarse, but nobody seemed interested in rescuing them. Finally they began to hobble on down the slope, as fast as they could hobble. The man whose horse had flipped got up on his hands and knees.

“Ronnie Miller must be lucky,” Uncle Seth said. “A tumble like that could easily have broken his neck.”

“This would be a simpler situation if the two men we really want were here,” Mr. Hickok said. “That would be Jake Miller and Little Billy Perkins.”

“And Cut-Nose,” the sheriff said. “Cut-Nose is a pretty cold killer.”

“As to that I wouldn't know,” Mr. Hickok said. “All I see are a bunch of amateur ambushers. If they knew their business they would have fallen on us while we were still in the mist. Seth's tripod wouldn't have been much use in that mist.”

About that time the two Tebbits finally reached the gang of horsemen. Though all the horses were skinny, the Tebbits and the men whose horses Uncle Seth had shot climbed up behind the mounted men; then they all rode away. Some of the puny little horses could barely stagger along, under the weight of two men and their saddles and gear.

“Damnit, this is awkward—they're headed for the Miller shack,” Sheriff Baldy said.

“It's worse than awkward—something ain't right,” Uncle Seth said. “That was too easy, even if I
am
good at shooting horses out from under people.”

“Agreed—I believe they've flanked us,” Mr. Hickok said. “The
real
team, I mean.”

Uncle Seth and Mr. Hickok began to amble around as if the departure of the ambushers had confused them so badly that they didn't know
which way to turn. In the course of their ambling both of them switched from the uphill to the downhill side of their horses.

“Don't look, boys,” Uncle Seth said. “Baldy, you're likely to be the first man shot unless you change your position and change it quick.”

“I don't think anybody's behind—” the sheriff said, before a bullet splatted into him and knocked him off his horse.

“Duck behind your horses, boys—do it quick,” Uncle Seth said. G.T. and I were quick to obey.

The gang behind us wasn't as numerous as the gang in front of us—on the other hand, they were a lot closer. They were no more than two hundred yards away, and there were six of them that I could see.

“Do we still have to count to ten?” I asked Uncle Seth, but I never got an answer: he was too busy shooting, and so was Mr. Hickok and Sheriff Baldy, who didn't seem to be dead.

“These Rebs, they love a cavalry charge,” Uncle Seth commented, at one point. Just then I heard G.T.'s teeth chattering—his teeth always went to clacking when he was nervous or scared, whether it was a cold day or not.

“By God, they've flushed that bear you mentioned, Seth,” Sheriff Baldy said—and it was the truth. The new bunch of ambushers had run right up on a large black bear that must have been taking a nap behind a rock. He woke up from his nap to find himself in the midst of a gun battle, which he didn't want any part of. The ambushers were
nearly on top of the bear before any of them saw him—they were too busy shooting at us. The sight of a bear square in their way startled them a good deal, and did worse than startle their horses, most of which flew into wild buckings.

“Hold your fire,” Uncle Seth said. “Baldy, you need to deputize that bear—he's doing our work better than we could do it.”

That was easy to see. The bear ran through the horses and the horses went wild. Pretty soon riders were flying off in every direction—the horses, once shut of their riders, went tearing off toward Stumptown. Only one of the six riders managed to keep his seat.

“That's Little Billy Perkins. Hands off,” Mr. Hickok said, pointing at the one man who was still in the saddle. Mr. Hickok jumped on his horse—Little Billy Perkins spotted him at once and took off down the slope. He was mounted on a long-legged bay—soon they were nearly flying. Mr. Hickok tried to cut him off but his sorrel wasn't fast enough—the bay had the lead and was widening it by the minute as the two riders headed for the distant trees.

“That's the horse you should have shot, Seth,” Sheriff Baldy said.

“Too late now,” Uncle Seth said. “Wild Bill may have to break his Friday rule if he hopes to catch that fellow.”

“What about the bear—I don't see him,” G.T. said.

“No, he probably went home,” Uncle Seth said.
“I don't think he appreciated having his nap interrupted.”

“I expect he's hiding somewhere, waiting to spring out,” G.T. said. That was my opinion too, although I didn't say it.

“Oh no, Mr. Bear won't be back today,” Uncle Seth assured us. “We need to go arrest these killers. Baldy, are you hurt bad?”

“No, the bullet hit the back of my saddle before it hit me, which is a good thing,” the sheriff said. “The ball fell out. I'm bloody but I ain't in danger.”

“Then let's go handcuff this crew before they run off,” Uncle Seth said.

“I see Jake Miller,” the sheriff said. “He's squirming around as if he's hurt, but it could be a trick.”

“If he ain't hurt, and it's a trick, then I'll hurt him,” Uncle Seth said. “I resent being ambushed by a Reb who won't admit his side lost.”

“We need to be careful, Seth,” the sheriff said. “Cut-Nose is on his feet but he's favoring one ankle—I believe he lost his rifle in the fall.”

“I'm always careful, Baldy,” Uncle Seth said. “You supply the handcuffs—I'll supply the caution.”

C
UT
-N
OSE
Jones seemed dazed—he was under the impression that he was in Ohio. He put up no fight when the sheriff handcuffed him.

“His own horse kicked him in the head—I seen it,” Lester Miller said. “Them horses was in a hurry to get away from that bear.”

Two of the ambushers had hobbled off, but Lester, a boy the same age as G.T., had stayed to help his brother Jake, who had broken his leg in the fall. Even with Uncle Seth pointing his rifle right between the man's eyes the sheriff had a tussle getting him securely handcuffed. Jake Miller hissed like a snake the whole time.

“Don't let him grab your gun—he's got fight in him yet,” Uncle Seth warned; but Sheriff Baldy,
despite being round as a barrel, was expert at handcuffing dangerous criminals: he gave Jake Miller a short sharp kick in his broken leg and got the cuffs on him while the man was yelling.

Lester Miller was no problem to handcuff—I think he was glad the fight was over.

“They gave me a poor gun,” he said. “The hammer's just wired on, you see.”

“I wasn't allowed much in the way of guns when I was your age,” Uncle Seth said sociably.

“Shut up, you whimpering brat!” Jake Miller said—then he actually tried to butt his little brother with his head.

“Who were the men who ran away?” Sheriff Baldy asked.

“Jody and Lyle, I don't know their last names,” Lester said.

With Jake Miller and Cut-Nose Jones safely handcuffed and disarmed, Uncle Seth got back on his horse and rode off toward Stumptown—some of the horses had run themselves out and were standing there looking tired. That left me and G.T. and the sheriff to watch the prisoners. Even though they were securely handcuffed and we had all the guns, I didn't feel particularly comfortable with this responsibility, and neither did G.T. Jake Miller was about as mad as a man can get—he looked at me with little hot eyes, the way a boar hog looks at you just before he charges. Just looking at him made me want to back up a step or two.

“You two Yankee boys have made a big mistake,” he said.

“No, I have never made a mistake in my life,” G.T. informed him. It was G.T.'s disputatious side coming out.

“Don't let him rattle you, boys,” Sheriff Baldy said—for some reason his voice trailed off, when he said “boys.”

When I looked around Sheriff Baldy was lying flat on his back on the ground—he had either died or slipped into a faint.

“He's dead—good,” Jake Miller said matter-of-factly. “The son of a bitch was fatal shot and didn't know it. Now you Yankee boys get these handcuffs off me, if you want to live.”

I looked down the hill, hoping Uncle Seth was on his way back. But he wasn't. The horse he was trying to catch was skittish, and wouldn't quite let himself be caught. Uncle Seth wasn't even looking our way, which meant that he didn't know Sheriff Baldy had fainted or died.

“You stay right where you are,” I told Jake Miller. I tried to sound determined, like Ma would have sounded. But I wasn't Ma, and Jake Miller knew it.

“Do as I say, you damned Yankee pup,” he said. “You pups had no business coming after me in the first place. Turn me loose or when I get out I'll track you to the ends of the earth and cut your throats.”

“I guess he'd do it, too,” Lester Miller said—he seemed a little shocked by his big brother's savage talk.

“We better shoot him, Shay,” G.T. said. “He's got them mean eyes.”

“No,” I said. “What can he do? He's handcuffed and he's got a broken leg.”

I had no more than said it than Jake Miller launched himself at me, somehow—made a wild lunge. Broken leg or no broken leg he managed to jump at me and grab my gun barrel. But I had my finger on the trigger and when Jake tried to yank my gun out of my hand the yank caused me to pull the trigger. The shot hit Jake right in the chest and knocked him back across Sheriff Baldy's body.

“Good shot,” G.T. said.

“Uh-oh, Jake's kilt!” Lester Miller said. “That's going to make Ronnie and Tommy awful mad.”

But Jake Miller wasn't kilt. His eyes were wide open and he was still mad. He even started to try and pull one of Sheriff Baldy's pistols out of its holster, but the sheriff came back to consciousness just in time to roll away from him.

“Help me, boys—drag me off, I'm faint,” the sheriff said. G.T. and I caught his arms and tried to drag him well out of the way of Jake Miller, who was crawling after us, still hoping to grab a pistol, the fire of hatred in his eyes.

“Get back! How come you ain't kilt?” G.T. asked.

I would have liked an answer to that question too, since I had shot Jake point-blank, right in the chest. If that wasn't enough to kill a man, what did it take?

“You pups—I aim to cut your throats, and yours too, Baldy,” Jake Miller said, and then he began to curse; but his cursing wasn't quite as vigorous as it
had been when the sheriff was handcuffing him, so at least my bullet had taken a little bit of the ginger out of him.

Just then Uncle Seth loped up—he had finally caught the skittish horse.

“My goodness, can't nobody but me do anything right?” he asked.

He jumped down, grabbed Jake Miller by the hair, and slammed his head into the ground a time or two, real hard—it was enough to take the fight out of Jake, at least for a while.

“The sheriff fainted and while he was out Jake grabbed my rifle barrel and I shot him,” I said, in a rush. “I don't know why he won't die.”

“Because he don't want to, son,” Uncle Seth said. “Folks are tougher than they look, and quite a few are unwilling to die unless they just can't get around it.”

“But I shot him point-blank,” I said. I was shocked that the man wasn't dead.

“So I see,” Uncle Seth said, opening Jake Miller's shirt. There was a hole in his chest but not a very big one. Uncle Seth rolled him over and pulled up his shirt—there was a bigger hole in his back, where the bullet came out, but it still wasn't the size hole I was expecting to see.

“The bullet went right through—it didn't hit nothing vital,” Uncle Seth said. “If you're going to make a habit of shooting at these surly outlaws, then you need to learn where their vitals are.”

“What's a vital?” G.T. asked.

“Heart, lungs, stomach, gut,” Uncle Seth said.
“If I had a tablet I could draw you a picture.” Since he didn't have a tablet he rolled Jake Miller over on his back and proceeded to give us a quick lesson, pointing with his finger at the places we ought to aim for.

“Now, the heart's here, and the lungs here, and the stomach down here, and the liver and the kidneys kind of tucked around in this area,” he said.

I felt pretty embarrassed by my failure to kill Jake.

“He had hold of my gun barrel,” I pointed out. “I had no chance to aim.”

“That's all right, you'll know better next time,” Uncle Seth said.