Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (12 page)

“Over there!” he said, pointing to a clump of larger pines, which offered greater protection than the bushes by the creek.

On the other side of the creek, Red Shirt retreated quickly to take cover behind a thicket of younger pines. When he had been startled by the woman's sudden challenge, his reaction was to assume that they had somehow spotted him and had managed to get around behind him. He counted himself lucky that she had foolishly called out instead of shooting first. In the darkness, he could not be sure if his shot had hit anyone or not, but he removed himself as a target immediately. He cursed his luck in having been spotted before he had the chance to look over the camp and see where everyone was. Now his task was going to be much more difficult and many times more dangerous with Carson lying in wait for him to make a move. There was danger from the woman and the other man, but he felt it paramount to locate Carson, for his rifle seldom missed. Red Shirt would have to work his way in closer to try to spot him, so he left the thicket and moved quickly to a low mound closer to the creek. Since there were no shots fired when he moved, he decided that they didn't know exactly where he was, either. Encouraged by that thought, he moved again, closer still to the camp, this time to a place of protection behind a large log. From here, he could see the deserted camp and the horses picketed beyond. He decided to wait there awhile to see if he might spot one of the three.

Carson guessed that he was about half a mile from the camp when he heard the two shots, and he immediately feared the worst. So far, there were only the two shots as he broke into a run. What did it mean? Red Shirt? Other Indians? He raced to find out. Something told him it could be no one but Red Shirt, and he blamed himself for agreeing to stop to rest the horses for over half a day. He couldn't deduce anything from the two shots, one a pistol, the other a Winchester, for Red Shirt had a Winchester, but Frank did, too. He feared what he might find when he got back.

The moon had freed itself from the mountain peak behind him and was now high enough to cast shadows among the trees by the creek. Carson stopped running when he was within fifty yards of them and began to move with extreme caution, darting from one point of cover to the next: a hummock, a bush, whatever was available. When he reached the trees without drawing fire, he dropped down behind a pine and crawled up to a spot where he could see the camp. There was no one to be seen. Frank and Nancy must have fled. At least there were no bodies in the small clearing, but the mystery was yet to be solved. He had to think for a few moments before deciding whether to call out to them or to remain in the shadows and try to work his way all around the camp, searching for Frank and Nancy or what or who had caused the gunfire. He decided it best to choose the latter and refrain from announcing his presence.

Withdrawing to the trees once more, he rose to his feet and began a careful circle around the campsite on the other side of the creek. The pines were thick enough in most places to allow him to move rapidly while allowing enough moonlight for him to see what was ahead of him. Still, there was no sign of anyone and he was approaching the point where he would have to cross over the creek if he was going to complete the circle around the camp. At the water's edge, he hesitated to listen. There was nothing but the sound of the water running over the rocky bottom and the clicking of the insects. He stepped into the water and started across, placing his feet carefully on the slippery rocks. When he got to the other side, he reached up and grasped the branch of a bush to help him out of the water. Halfway out, he looked up to see the short, compact body and wide shoulders of the demon Red Shirt.

“Howdy, Carson,” Red Shirt growled with an evil grin of anticipation. It was only for an instant, because as soon as he spoke, his body was hurtling through the air to impact with Carson's and they both landed in the icy water. It had all happened so fast that Carson had no time to raise his rifle. It was now somewhere on the bottom of the creek. Both men struggled to regain their feet with Red Shirt clawing at the young white man, trying to get a firm grip on him. But Carson was quick enough to avoid the thrusts of the vengeful half-breed, and managed to gain a few feet of separation. Confident in his ability to overpower the lanky younger man, Red Shirt had dropped his rifle back on the bank and pulled his scalping knife. His evil grin promised the pleasure he anticipated with the methodical killing he planned. “You put me to a helluva lot of trouble to take your scalp,” he taunted, “but there ain't no place for you to run now.”

Carson did not reply, but drew his skinning knife and moved cautiously, trying to set his feet squarely under him on the slippery rocks. He did not underestimate the solidly built half-breed's ability when it came to hand-to-hand fighting. Like the fight he had had with Varner, his survival depended on his quickness to avoid the powerful arms and the thrusts from the deadly knife. He knew that, despite his thick torso and wide shoulders, Red Shirt was quick also. Who was the quicker was about to be decided, and it was going to be the ultimate penalty for the one who came in second. They slowly circled for a few moments, Red Shirt still grinning with confidence while Carson waited warily, not sure if he was a match for the savage half-breed, but determined to make it costly for him either way.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, Red Shirt made the first move, lunging at Carson and grabbing the wrist of Carson's knife hand while slashing at his belly with his knife. It was quick, so quick that Carson was unable to block him entirely, but succeeded in protecting his gut and taking the blow on his arm. He felt the bite of the blade on his forearm. Unable to free his knife hand from the viselike grip that held him, he sought to disable Red Shirt's knife hand as well. He suffered another slash across his forearm before he was able to clamp down on the powerful wrist, and the two combatants strained against each other in a contest of strength. Neither man could gain an advantage as he pushed and pulled in an effort to free a hand. It evolved into a sheer test of physical dominance that would seem likely to go to the sturdy half-breed. The knee-deep water close to the bank negated the use of feet as weapons, which might have played a part if the battle had taken place on dry land, but Carson knew it was to be decided by upper-body strength, and he was not sure but that he might have met his match. He strained against the sneering outlaw in desperate determination, knowing he could not allow himself to weaken under this supreme test, but there was no indication that Red Shirt was weakening, either. He realized at that moment that his fate might lie in the next few seconds in his life, for he was beginning to feel his strength draining. He suddenly felt his brain spinning in his head as he reached deep down inside his body for more strength, and he heard a sudden explosion in his head. Not sure what it had been, he then felt a weakening of Red Shirt's grip on his wrists. He stared into the half-breed's eyes and discovered a look of surprise and despair, and he realized then that the explosion he had heard was the crack of a rifle shot.

His strength failing rapidly, Red Shirt tried to fight on, even though blood began to spread on his shirt from the hole in his side. Knowing he was seriously wounded, he jerked his wrists free from Carson's exhausted hands and staggered back toward the center of the creek, where he collapsed in the deeper water. His strength nearly spent, Carson still tried to go after him, but he was not quick enough to reach him before the hated half-breed's body was carried away by the current to disappear in the darkness. With the last ounce of his strength gone, Carson waded back to the bank and crawled out to drop on the ground.

It was done. The ominous cloud that had followed the three travelers was at last dispersed. A dozen yards upstream, Frank and Nancy Thompson stood shaken and staring in disbelief of the deadly struggle just witnessed. Frank still held the rifle in his hand, having been afraid to shoot a second time, lest he might hit Carson. Frozen for the moment before, but free now, they hurried to the bank to help him. “John!” Nancy cried. “Are you all right?”

Slowly, he got up on his hands and knees and crawled up the bank. “I reckon,” he replied. “I ain't sure. I ain't ever been this tired before, though. I know that for a fact.” He rolled over on his back and lay there for a few moments. “I don't know how it woulda turned out if you hadn't shot that son of a bitch—pardon me, ma'am.”

“Frank shot him,” Nancy said, proudly now that the danger was past.

“I'd have shot him again, but I wasn't sure I wouldn't have hit you,” Frank said.

“You're bleeding,” Nancy exclaimed, just then noticing the blood on Carson's sleeve. She knelt down at once to look at his arm. “You've got a couple of bad-looking cuts on your arm I'll need to take care of.”

“I ain't worried about that right now,” Carson said. “First, I've gotta find my rifle. It's on the bottom of this creek somewhere.”

Carson waded around in the knee-deep water for several minutes, but he had no luck in finding his rifle. It was too dark to see the bottom, and he wasn't really sure exactly where it might have flown when Red Shirt lunged at him. “Doggone,” he commented. “I didn't notice the water was this cold when I was tryin' to keep him from cuttin' my throat.”

“I reckon I can understand why,” Frank said, and prepared to wade in. “I'll help you look.”

Carson stopped him. “No use you freezin' your feet off, too,” he said. “I'll just wait till daylight and maybe we can see it. It can't get no wetter than it is now.” He waded back over to the shore. “It sure ain't gonna do it any good.” Then he remembered. “I've still got a good one, though.” He walked a few feet down the bank and picked up the Winchester Red Shirt had tossed there, a Winchester '73, with the letters
L. Moody
carved on the stock.

“What are you gonna do about the body?” Nancy asked, thinking Red Shirt's corpse might somehow contaminate the water, picturing it snagged on a root or a rock a few feet downstream. It was a little too close to their camp to suit her.

“John and I can look for him in the morning,” Frank said. “It's too dark tonight. Besides, he's downstream from our camp.”

“Good,” she said. “Then you can sit by the fire and get dry while I look at John's arm. I've got some old shirts I've been keeping for bandages.” She started back toward the fire, then stopped to exclaim, “I declare, I can't believe we can stop worrying about that devil chasing us.” She paused again to pose another question. “How could he have caught up with us so quickly?”

“I've been thinkin' about that myself,” Carson replied. “And the way I figure it, he knows the country, and he figured we were headin' for the Yellowstone. So while we were roamin' around in the mountains tryin' to lose him, he rode straight up the valley and got ahead of us. It pays to know the country.”

Although they had already had their supper, Nancy decided a fresh pot of coffee was called for to celebrate their freedom from pursuit. They stayed by the fire later than usual that night, talking about what the future held for them when they reached Nancy's father's ranch in Big Timber. It was a topic that had not been discussed on recent nights because of the threat hanging over their heads. After Carson's boots had dried out a little, and his arm was freshly bandaged, he made a search in the trees to find the black horse Red Shirt had ridden. He found it tied to a bush some fifty yards from the camp.

They started out again a little later the next morning, since they had stayed up so long the night before. Carson walked almost a quarter of a mile downstream, looking for Red Shirt's body, but it was nowhere to be found. It was enough to worry him some. He would have felt better had he been able to confirm the kill, but there was no sign anywhere along the banks that would tell him the savage killer had pulled himself out of the creek. Recalling the instant the night before when Frank's shot had slammed into Red Shirt's side, he remembered the look in the half-breed's eyes. It had been the stare of a man looking into the eyes of death. If he was not dead at that moment, then he surely was by now. Carson stood there by a turn of the creek where the water formed a little pond before continuing out to the prairie. Thinking of the powerful hands that had trapped his wrists seconds before the fatal shot, he reached down and picked up a sizable piece of a dead limb and tossed it into the water. It swirled around for a few moments before the current took it away downstream. Satisfied, he returned to the scene of the fight to look for the rifle he had dropped in the water.

He searched for his rifle for quite some time before giving it up for lost. It confounded him that he couldn't find it in the clear-running creek. He knew it sure as hell didn't float away like Red Shirt's corpse, but it had somehow vanished, so he finally gave up and rode away with Luther Moody's Winchester rifle and his blue roan gelding—his own rifle snagged on a root under the bank, right where he had started to pull himself out of the creek when Red Shirt attacked him.

Chapter 8

It took a full day to find their way out of the mountains. Referring to the rough map that Jonah had brought with them was not helpful, for they had no known point to start from. With nothing more to count on, they followed the valley to its end, which left them with still more mountains to find their way around, trying always to keep a northern heading. Striking a river that snaked its way out into the rolling hills and plains, they consulted Jonah's map again and decided that it might be the Little Big Horn, so they decided to follow it. The river took so many turns Carson soon decided it would take them until Christmas if they stuck strictly by the banks, so he picked out points in the distance and rode straight toward them. It seemed that the river always came back to them. Without the strain of having to always hurry, they allowed themselves to take a day of rest when Carson spotted a herd of antelope and was fortunate enough to get a shot at one as they crossed the river. They camped one night at the confluence of the river they had been following with a larger river. Carson decided to call it the Big Horn, whether it was or not, and he felt sure that whatever river it was, it more than likely would eventually lead them to the Yellowstone. His assumption turned out to be accurate, for they finally struck the Yellowstone one afternoon about three hours before dusk.

They were sure the wide river they came to was none other than the Yellowstone, if only by its size. The river they had been following emptied into it at what appeared to be the beginnings of a small settlement. It had the same effect on the weary travelers as if it had been a metropolis. There was a small trading post of some kind and a sawmill, plus a couple of cabins and a blacksmith shop, all on the south bank of the river. Gazing across the river at the rough bluffs, one could guess why no one was looking to settle on that side. Carson's horse, as well as the blue roan Red Shirt had ridden, was in need of shoeing, but with supplies running short, they decided to go to the trading post first.

“Well, howdy, folks,” the proprietor sang out cheerfully when they pulled up before his store. “The name's Gabe Loomis. Welcome. Where are you folks headin'?”

“Howdy,” Frank returned. “We're on our way to a place called Big Timber. You ever heard of it?”

“Well, sure,” Gabe replied. “I've heard of it—'bout a hundred and fifty miles from here, I reckon, give or take a few miles. That's a far piece to go yet, and you folks look like you're a little tuckered out. Where'd you start out from?”

“The Black Hills,” Frank said.

“My stars,” Gabe commented, as if impressed. “You folks come on inside.” He turned to Nancy. “Would you like a cup of water, ma'am? Ridin' that country between here and the Dakotas must be hard on a lady. I've got a jar of nice cool water settin' in the spring box.” He sent a towheaded youngster down to the spring to fetch a drink for the three of them. Nancy graciously accepted and took the opportunity to sit down in a real chair to enjoy it. Getting down to business then, Gabe asked, “What can I do for you folks?”

“We need to buy some supplies,” Frank told him, and proceeded to call out the items needed.

While the cheerful merchant fetched the items requested, he continued to question the strangers. “What's in Big Timber that pulls you folks up that way?” He went on before Frank had a chance to answer. “If you're lookin' for a place to put down some roots, you oughta think about staying right here. We're fixin' to build us a nice little town. There's good land for crops on this side of the river that ain't been claimed yet, and there ain't been no Injun trouble for some time now.” He set a sack of flour on the counter and tied it with a string. “What's in Big Timber that's got you ridin' all that way?” He repeated the question.

“My father-in-law's in the cattle business up there, and we're on our way to join him,” Frank replied. “Otherwise, we might have been interested in looking over your little town.”

“Oh well,” Gabe said. “Couldn't hurt to ask. We're hopin' to attract families that are lookin' to settle down here and help us build a town. What about the young feller with you? Kin of yours?”

“No, that's John Carson. He's a friend of ours.” Then remembering his manners, he said, “I'm Frank Thompson, and this is my wife, Nancy.”

“Glad to know you,” Gabe said. Nodding in Carson's direction, he commented, “He don't say an awful lot, does he?”

Frank laughed. “Oh, he can talk, but I guess he doesn't waste words at that.”

Carson had not been paying much attention to the conversation between Gabe and Frank. He had been thinking about something else. Frank was restocking supplies for him as well as the two of them, and he couldn't help feeling guilty about not paying his fair share. The problem was he didn't have any money, so he paid attention when Gabe totaled up the cost of Frank's supplies and rounded it off to twenty-seven dollars. He didn't remember much of the long division he was taught in the few years of schooling he had received, but he was pretty sure one-third of that sum was nine dollars. Since there were three of them, he thought that was fair, so he filed that away in his mind to take care of at the first opportunity. He was not without means. He had things to trade: a fine horse, an extra Winchester rifle, a Spencer carbine, two Colt revolvers, a good saddle. The ammunition he would keep. You couldn't have too many cartridges.

When the supplies were loaded, they bade Gabe Loomis farewell and rode over to the blacksmith, since Carson's horses were in bad need of new shoes. Nancy and Frank waited by the gatepost while Carson talked to Aaron Cox, the smithy. Their horses had been shod before they left the Black Hills. Carson and Cox came out of the shop in a few minutes and after a respectful nod to the man and woman at his gatepost, the blacksmith looked at the hooves of the two horses. “Yes, sir,” Cox said, “they need shoein', all right.” He dropped the bay's hoof and straightened up. “You want me to shoe 'em?”

“I ain't got any money right now, but if you're willin' to trade, we can do some business. I've got a fine-workin' Colt .45 handgun here I'll let you have if you shoe these two horses and give me nine dollars cash to boot. Whaddaya say?”

Cox had to pause to think about it. He took the gun belt and drew the revolver to examine it. “It is in good shape,” he said, “but I've got a pretty good pistol already. I'll tell you what, since you say you're short on cash, I'll take it off your hands for the shoes and two dollars cash.”

Carson shook his head. “Nope, I've got to have nine dollars.”

“Five dollars?” Cox countered.

“Nine,” Carson replied.

“You drive a hard bargain, mister, but I reckon the gun is worth it. All right, I'll do it.”

By the time the blacksmith finished shoeing the two horses, it was getting late enough in the afternoon to begin thinking about finding a place to camp. They rode down the river a short distance until they came to a stream that emptied into it, and decided it was as good a place as any. After the horses were taken care of and Nancy was cooking their supper over a cheerful fire, Carson sought to pay for his share of the supplies. Handing Frank the nine dollars he got from Cox, he said, “Here's money to cover my share of the supplies you bought back there. I think that's fair. Tell me if you think it ain't.”

Frank was taken by surprise. Busy over her kettle, Nancy paused to hear the exchange between them. “My goodness, John,” Frank said, “I didn't expect you to pay anything for the food.”

“Well, I'm sure as hell eatin' my share of it, and there'd be a whole lot more for you and Nancy if I wasn't with you.”

Nancy commented at that point, “If you hadn't been with us, I doubt Frank and I would still be alive to eat it. Don't take his money, Frank.” Looking directly at Carson then, she said, “I don't recall you charging us anything for that antelope we just finished.”

The bantering went on for about ten minutes longer, before they agreed to accept two dollars as Carson's part in the food bill. Once that was agreed upon, they settled down to eat and celebrate their arrival at the Yellowstone River, having survived the more risky portion of their journey. They would start out in the morning, riding west along the river. Aaron Cox had recommended following the trail on the south bank, and figured the distance to be more like one hundred and thirty-five miles, instead of the hundred and fifty Gabe had estimated. “You'll strike Coulson in about two days,” he had said, “and that's more than halfway to Big Timber. You'll recognize it when you get there. There's already a good-sized town started, right on the river, and if you ain't crossed over to the other side by then, Coulson's a good place to do it.”

* * *

Their journey along the Yellowstone was as uneventful as they had hoped, and Cox's estimate of the distance to Coulson was accurate, for they arrived at the new settlement at the end of their second day from Gabe Loomis's trading post. At a rate of ten cents each, they crossed to the north bank of the Yellowstone on a ferry just west of the town. Although not in existence for a great length of time, Coulson was a thriving town, already boasting a two-story hotel, several saloons, a post office, and a few other stores. They did not linger in the town, but camped on the river a few hundred yards west of the ferry and continued their journey early the next morning.

Another day and a half on a well-traveled trail found them at last in the settlement of Big Timber, located where the Boulder River flowed into the Yellowstone. With the Absaroka and Beartooth mountains to the south, the Crazy Mountains to the northwest, and the beginning of an endless prairie stretching northward, Carson was convinced that this was the country he had a yearning for.

They were not home yet, however, for there was still the task of finding Mathew Cain's ranch. Jonah's map was not very detailed at this point, showing the ranch somewhere north of the confluence of the Boulder and the Yellowstone. Frank reasoned that the most likely place to get directions would be in the general store, so they tied the horses up there and went in. They were greeted by Albert Smith, the proprietor. “Mathew Cain? Sure, I know him. He buys most of his supplies from me.” He favored Nancy with a warm smile and said, “So you're Mr. Cain's daughter. He said he had a daughter back East somewhere. I'm right pleased to meet you, ma'am.” After all the introductions were made, Smith told them the best way to find the ranch house. “There's a lot of prairie out there, so I think the way for you folks to find it is to go back east about eight miles till you come to a good-sized creek that empties into the river. That's Sweet Grass Creek. Just follow that creek about seventeen or eighteen miles, and you can't miss your daddy's house. It's right on Sweet Grass Creek. There ain't no sign or gatepost, nothin' but the brand, M/C, carved on a tree.”

“Much obliged,” Frank said.

Outside, they decided there was not enough daylight left to make the entire trip, but they would ride the eight miles back to find Sweet Grass Creek, then follow it as far as they could before having to stop to rest the horses. As Carson suspected, the horses gave out before the daylight did, so they picked a spot where a pair of cottonwood trees stood guard on either side of the creek and made camp there.

It was difficult for Nancy to contain her excitement during the evening, being so close to seeing her family again. It had been six years since the rest of her family had left Omaha to follow her father's dream of breeding cattle. Nancy had remained in Omaha with an aunt on her mother's side, planning to join her family when she had completed her schooling. She had been delayed in coming west when she met a friend of her father, Jonah Thompson, who had helped her father drive a small herd of cattle up into Montana. More importantly, she met Jonah's younger brother, Frank. The two were attracted to each other right from the start, and after a short courtship, they decided to marry. They built a small house in Omaha where Frank worked in a hardware store. Times were hard for the young couple, so when Jonah received a letter from Mathew Cain telling him that he had prospered in Montana and inviting him to come back out to help him expand his business, Jonah didn't hesitate to accept. When he announced his plans to Frank and Nancy, they decided to go with him. Now, finally, they had reached Montana, but, sadly, without Jonah.

It was a difficult night for Nancy to sleep. She would see her family again tomorrow. They would meet her husband. She wondered how much everyone had changed. Would she even recognize her younger sister, Millie? She had been only ten when Nancy last saw her. And her brother, Lucas, was only eight years old when she saw him waving to her from the back of her father's wagon. They were both grown up now. Then a distressing thought occurred.
Will I look so old to them now?
She looked over at Frank, already asleep.
Oh well, not much I can do to make myself look younger.
She turned on her side and tried to go to sleep.

She was up earlier than usual the next morning, and was the first to revive the dying fire. Eager to get started, she roused Frank from his blankets and sang out to Carson, “If you two want to eat before we get started, you'd better get out of those blankets.”

“Damn, honey,” Frank replied, “it ain't even daylight yet.”

“I don't care. I've come all this way to see my family and I don't plan to lie around here waiting for the sun to come up. Now get yourself up!”

Not waiting for her to start on him, Carson rolled out of his blankets and pulled his boots on. “I'll start saddlin' up the horses right after I walk down the creek a ways to see if everything's all right behind those bushes.”

“Me, too,” Frank said, and fell in behind Carson as he slipped between the bushes and headed down the creek. Less modest than Carson, he stopped to do his business right outside the circle of firelight while Carson continued on to find more privacy. By the time he returned to the campfire, Frank was in the process of saddling up, with Nancy badgering him to hurry. Breakfast was already on the plates and coffee poured. Frank glanced up at Carson and winked. “You'd best not drag your feet today, John. Nancy's ready to see her pa, and she ain't likely to spare the whip.”