Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (2 page)

“Good,” Marvin remarked, “'cause it was supposed to be my turn.” He yelled over to Duke on the other side of the fire, “Hey, Duke, Carson says he'll ride nighthawk with me tonight.”

“Is that so?” Duke called back. “He'll most likely do a better job than you. Maybe he'll stay awake.” He yelled to Carson then, “You're still a pig in a poke, so there better not be any of our cows missin' come mornin'.”

“I've rode night herd before,” Carson responded.

“All right, then, you've got the job tonight,” Duke said.

Jack got up to leave then, but made one more comment to the new man. “You'd best listen to what Duke told you. If there's any cows missin' in the mornin', he'll probably shoot you.” Then he laughed when he recalled Duke's comment. “Pig in a poke, that's a good name for you—Pig, that sounds better'n Carson.” He walked away then, laughing at the joke he had made.

“Don't pay no attention to that big blowhard,” Marvin said. “He just farts outta the wrong end.” He leaned over closer to Carson then as if what he was going to say next was confidential. “If you get hungry ridin' the herd tonight, sometimes you can sneak a cold biscuit outta that big drawer on this side of the chuck wagon. That's where Bad Eye keeps 'em when there's leftovers. He don't want nobody to get 'em, 'cause he mixes 'em up in the gravy in the mornin'. He sleeps right under that side of the tailgate, so make sure that eye patch is over his left eye. That's his good eye. He shifts the patch over it when he goes to bed.” He snickered then. “Hell, if you're quiet enough, you can sneak a hot biscuit when he's fixin' supper if you sneak up on his blind side. But you'll likely get a thump on the head with an iron skillet if he catches you.”

* * *

It turned out to be Carson's lot to be tested on his first night with the herd. He and Marvin rode in opposite directions around the herd, so as to pass each other frequently. The cattle were quiet enough in the small valley created by two low lines of hills. But low clouds had begun rolling over the hills on the east side of the valley not long after the camp had settled in for the night, causing Carson to unroll his rain slicker. He had seen enough thunderstorms over the prairie to know that one was coming.
They may have stuck me on nighthawk as a joke,
he thought,
but I ain't the only one who won't get any sleep tonight
. As if confirming the thought, a long, silent fork of lightning streaked through the distant clouds, and the breeze kicked up a notch. It did not go unnoticed by the cattle, and some of those on the outer edges of the herd began to get uneasy. Carson circled around the flanks, talking to them in a soothing voice, a little singsong tone that he had comforted cattle with before.

His and Marvin's efforts seemed to settle the more restless steers for a while, but it was not to last. Suddenly the wind kicked up again, this time stronger than a breeze, and the dark clouds that had drifted directly above the valley were suddenly split by a sudden flash of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder. It was repeated almost immediately, and was cause enough to terrify the cattle. Those on the lower end of the herd bolted in panic toward the divide through which they had been driven to the river earlier. The rest of the herd bolted after them in crazed abandon.

Carson sprang into action, knowing he had no time to wait for help from Marvin, who was on the opposite end of the herd. Behind him, the sleeping camp was awakened by that most dreaded alarm. “Stampede!” someone shouted, and the camp was in an immediate state of panic as every man rushed to get to his horse. Racing after the mob on his buckskin, Carson caught up with the leaders and, with the help of his six-gun, managed to turn them to the right. The rest of the frenzied herd followed as he continued to swing the leaders in a wide circle. Marvin soon caught up with him, and before long, some of the other men began to catch up, and seeing the direction Carson was turning them, they worked to keep the mass of bodies following the leaders. Gradually Carson turned the leaders in a smaller and smaller circle until they eventually wound up in a tight, slow-moving mass, milling restlessly but contained in the mouth of the valley. Soon the swiftly moving storm crossed over, and the men were able to quiet the cattle down again.

“Damn good job!” Duke exclaimed as he rode up beside Carson. “I reckon I'll pay you the thirty dollars.”

Duke was not alone in paying Carson compliments on his quick action to keep the herd contained. Almost to a man, they thanked him for keeping the cattle from scattering all across the prairie, the one exception being Jack Varner. For some reason that Carson had not figured out, Varner seemed to resent the attention being paid the new hand. “Yeah, Pig,” Jack commented, “you done the right thing, same as anybody else with a grain of sense woulda. You were lucky you had Marvin to back you up.”

Carson responded with a knowing smile, accustomed to seeing hazing in many forms on a cattle drive. It seemed likely that Varner was set on testing him, and the use of Pig as a nickname was meant to measure the young man's grit. He didn't like the nickname, but he decided not to respond to the big man's taunts. This was only his first day with the crew, and maybe Varner would forget about it in a day or two. “I expect you're right,” he said in answer to Varner's comment.

“Hell,” Marvin saw fit to comment, “he didn't get much help from me. By the time I got there, he already had the herd turned.”

“Huh,” Varner grunted scornfully, and walked away.

Chapter 2

Ordinarily they would have started out at three or four o'clock in the morning, but Duke chose not to make a river crossing in the dark, thinking it difficult enough in the light of day with the small number of men he had. So at first light, Rufus Jones led the first cattle into the river at the spot Carson had suggested. The crossing went well, with no real trouble, aside from the usual reluctance of the animals to take to the water. It was well up into the morning before the last of the disinclined steers were forced into the water and the drive got under way again. Duke Slayton rode out ahead of them to scout out the trail for water and good grass. Near the head of the herd, and a little to the upwind side to avoid the dust, Bad Eye drove the chuck wagon. Rufus and Johnny rode point, Varner and Marvin rode swing, with Shifty and Carson behind them on the flanks. The major complaint came from Lute Wilson. He had been riding drag, so he naturally thought he should be relieved of that post since Carson had just joined them. Lute looked to be as old as Duke, or maybe older, and he was quick to inform the trail boss that he didn't see why he should be bringing up the rear and eating all the dust behind the herd. Duke was just as quick to remind him that he wasn't an experienced drover in the first place, and Carson obviously was. A man who never seemed to complain about anything, Skinny Willis would have been the logical one to complain, since he brought up the rear of the entire procession with the remuda. This job was ordinarily given to a new man, or one with little experience as a drover. But he was happy with his job as wrangler, and seemed to accept the fact that he didn't know much about driving cattle.

Carson was glad it worked out the way it did. He didn't want to drive the spare horses, or to be saddled with the job of riding drag. Shifty welcomed him as a partner on the swing positions. All the stations on a herd were normally worked in pairs of two men, and Shifty had been riding one-sided at swing before Carson came along. In Carson's opinion, however, they were still undermanned for a herd that size. He felt especially sorry for the old man riding drag. He needed help trying to keep the stragglers and ornery strays up with the main herd, and Duke was right, Lute was ill-suited for the job. When he thought about it, he had to believe that the whole crew was perhaps the worst he had seen when it came to driving cattle, but he wasn't planning on staying with them for long, anyway. When they got to Montana, he would most likely be heading his separate way.

* * *

A little past noon, Bad Eye drove the chuck wagon on ahead of the herd, expecting to find Duke waiting for them, since it was nearing the time to stop for the noon meal and let the cattle drink and graze. About a mile farther on, they drove the herd through a grassy draw and found Duke and Bad Eye waiting on the bank of a creek. Rufus signaled where he wanted to settle the herd, and the men drove them in that direction. As the rear of the herd caught up, Rufus rode back along the line. When he came to Carson, he pulled up and said, “I thought we could let 'em graze here. Whaddaya think?”

Surprised that he asked his opinion, Carson replied, “Looks like as good a place as any.” Then he turned to look behind him where there were still a lot of cattle strung out. “Maybe I'll go back and give Lute a hand,” he suggested.

“Yeah,” Rufus said, “that'd be a good idea. Help the old man out. Ain't no tellin' how many head we've lost.”

Riding a bay gelding from his string of horses, Carson rode back to find Lute trying to drive a group of about a dozen cows back to the herd. Circling around to head the reluctant steers off, Carson turned them back toward Lute and together they moved them toward the creek to join the others. Carson sighted a few more mavericks trailing off toward the line of hills to the west, so he told Lute that he would go after them and catch up with him.

Once the herd was bunched and settled, Duke picked the men who would eat first while the others rode the perimeter to keep the cows contained. By the time Carson returned, the second shift of drovers was eating, so he joined them. Carrying his plate of beans and bacon and his cup of hot coffee, he settled himself down beside Lute to eat. “There were four of 'em headin' up in the hills,” he told the old man. “I didn't see any more.”

“Much obliged,” Lute said. He knew full well that they would have been four lost head were it not for Carson's help. “I 'preciate it, young feller. I had my hands full.”

“Weren't no trouble,” Carson replied.

Sitting cross-legged several yards away, Jack Varner was becoming more irritated with each compliment he heard paid to Carson. Rufus and Johnny were the point men, but it seemed to Jack that they ran everything by him for his opinion. “Yeah, Pig,” he blurted, “you and ol' Lute make up about one good man between you. I wonder how many head we really lost.”

“Maybe Duke oughta put you to ridin' drag, Varner, so we wouldn't lose no more,” Lute came back. “You're such a top cowpuncher.”

“It don't take much to beat you and ol' Pig there,” Varner said.

“Why don't you two knock it off?” Marvin complained. He nodded toward Carson then. “You done a good job, Carson.”

“Yeah, you done a good job, Pig,” Varner commented sarcastically.

“I expect you're about done with that.” The calm statement, without emotion, interrupted the banter. “My name's Carson Ryan. I'll answer to either Carson or Ryan. That ought not be too hard for a body to remember, even you.”

Suddenly a dead silence fell over the circle of cowpunchers. It lasted for only a few moments, however, before Varner replied, “What the hell did you say?”

Marvin, tickled by the young man's show of backbone, answered for him. “You heard what he said, Varner. I know I heard him.” He turned to Rufus sitting close by. “Didn't you hear what he said, Rufus?” He turned back to Varner then. “He said you better not call him Pig no more.”

“Is that so?” Varner responded angrily, incensed that Marvin appeared to be taking Carson's side of it. “Well, Pig might as well learn that I'll call him anythin' I damn well please.” He pointed his finger at Carson and demanded, “What the hell are you gonna do about it? We can settle it quick enough—fists, knives, guns, any way you want it.”

“Ah, hell,” Marvin said, “why don't you back off? You're twice his size. It won't be no fair fight.”

A belligerent smile crossed Varner's face. “Well, he don't have to fight if he ain't man enough to back up his mouth. But he's gonna have to apologize to me and tell me he likes being called Pig.”

Still baffled by Varner's apparent irritation with him, Carson realized that, whatever the reason, it was going to have to be settled, and the sooner the better. “I don't know what I did that stuck in your craw, but it looks like you ain't gonna be satisfied till we go at it. Since you're givin' me a choice of weapons, I'll pick tree limbs.”

His selection took everyone by surprise. “What the hell are you talkin' about?” Varner demanded. “Tree limbs?”

“Tree limbs,” Carson repeated.

“I ain't never heard of such a thing,” Varner snorted. “You're just tryin' to wriggle out of a good ass kickin'.”

“You know, Varner, you're a dumb son of a bitch, but you oughta be able to figure this out.” Carson glanced over at the trees on the creek bank. “We'll both get us a limb offa one of those trees.” When Varner started to question again, Carson cut him off. “Any size limb you think you can handle,” he said. “Then we just beat the hell outta each other with 'em till one of us has had enough. Is that simple enough?”

That brought a grin to Varner's face. “Fair enough,” he said. “Let's get at it.” With the size and strength advantage he knew he held over the younger man, he felt sure he could make short work of it. “If that's the way you wanna get your ass busted, hell, fine by me.”

By this time, the whole crew was aware of the confrontation building up between the camp strongman and the new hand, so they followed the two adversaries to the trees on the bank. Even those watching the herd were staying close to the creek, hoping not to miss what promised to be a short and brutal beating. Rufus brought a hand ax with him for each man to use to cut his weapon, and Varner eagerly grabbed it and went to work on a cottonwood limb about the size of his upper arm. When it crashed to the ground, he chopped it off to a length of about five feet. Satisfied with his choice, he tossed the ax over to land at Carson's feet, then hefted the sturdy section of limb confidently.

“Damn, Varner,” Marvin remarked facetiously. “You reckon that's big enough? You coulda saved yourself some trouble and picked up that log lyin' over yonder.”

Marvin's remark pleased the gloating bully. “I reckon I coulda handled it, but I didn't need it for this little job.” He turned to Carson then and goaded, “Hurry up, Pig. I ain't got all day.”

Ignoring Varner's taunting, Carson picked up the ax and fashioned his weapon from the same limb. Moving out toward the smaller end, he chopped off a section that was about the thickness of a broom handle at the butt end and tapered off to the size of a pencil after a length of around eight feet. He trimmed off the smaller branches, then tested the feel of it. Satisfied, he said he was ready to start.

Varner laughed at the size of Carson's weapon and asked, “You sure you can lift that?”

“What about the rules?” Rufus asked. “I ain't never heard of a tree limb fight.”

“Rules?” Varner roared. “We don't need no rules. When he can't get up no more, then it's over. That's all the rules we need.”

“That all right with you, Carson?” Rufus asked.

“I reckon,” he replied. “Just stand back a little and give us room.” The few men standing around them backed up a little. Carson knew he needed room to move. Varner was big and powerful, but Carson was sure he was quicker than the lumbering bully, and he knew that was his best defense against him. He had counted on Varner to pick a sizable length of timber, and the big man had not disappointed him. His plan was to wear him down to the point where the heavy limb became too cumbersome to wield with any degree of effectiveness.

“Go to it,” Rufus signaled.

As Carson expected, Varner immediately charged like an angry bull, the heavy limb raised in both hands over his head. Carson held his ground until Varner was almost upon him, and then he easily sidestepped him and popped him across his cheek with his cottonwood whip, leaving a stinging welt. Varner yelped in surprise, almost dropping his cumbersome weapon when he grabbed his cheek with one of his hands. He yelped again when seconds later Carson popped him several times around his head and neck while he was groping to regain a position to attack again. Like a man fighting a grizzly, Carson backed slowly in the face of Varner's advance. With his longer whiplike weapon, he was able to deliver a steady series of stinging blows while moving quickly enough to frustrate Varner's efforts to get in close enough to use his bludgeon. Varner tried to grab the stinging whip, but he found that he could not effectively hold up his heavy weapon whenever he took one hand off. And even though out of range, he continued to try to swing his limb, hoping Carson would slip and he would land a blow. He figured that one solid strike with the heavy limb would be enough to stop Carson in his tracks. The rest would be easy. So he swung away, wincing with each blow that Carson landed.

To those watching the contest, Carson's seemed a hopeless defense, serving only to delay the certain outcome when Varner would eventually land one of his blows and likely crush the young man's skull. Fiercely determined to end the swarm of painful welts that were accumulating all over his face and neck, Varner swung his heavy club again and again, only to have his target shifting out of the way from side to side, and darting in to administer a sharp rap with the butt of his whip. On one such attack, the bully recoiled when he felt a blow across the bridge of his nose and heard the crack that told him it was broken.

Consumed by a blind fury then, Varner lunged after a slowly retreating adversary, swinging the huge limb as hard and as fast as he could until, exhausted, he was forced to pause to catch his breath and regain his strength. Each time he did so, he paid a painful price as Carson would close in and deliver a series of sharp raps with the butt of the cottonwood limb. Finally Varner's arms became so weary he could barely raise his club to strike, now resembling a buffalo beset upon by a pack of wolves. Unsteady because of the constant rain of blows about his head coupled with his fatigue, he staggered drunkenly while trying to protect himself from more abuse. The obvious fact that Carson, although wet with perspiration, was as quick and in control as in the beginning caused further despair.

It was clear to the spectators then that the fight was over, although Varner was doggedly lumbering after the quicker man, still absorbing blow after blow, each one more telling now as Carson could afford to be less concerned for retaliation. It was Rufus who finally spoke. “Hell, Varner, he's done whipped you. Call it off before he beats you to death.”

Carson stepped back to allow Varner's response. The beaten man, bloodied and bruised, stood unresponsive for a long moment, his brain scrambled by the blows he had taken. Then without a word, he suddenly dropped to his knees and remained there for a few more seconds before falling face forward in the sand of the creek bank. Nobody said anything for a moment or two, stunned by the outcome of a fight in which they expected to see the young man destroyed by the overbearing bully. Marvin uttered the words that summed up the altercation. “I reckon he don't wanna be called Pig.”

* * *

The cattle drive continued north for the next two days, causing Carson to question Duke's line of travel, if indeed he was still planning to go to Montana. He was not that familiar with the country north of the Platte, but his reasoning told him that it would make more sense to head in a more northwest direction. If they continued on in the direction they were now heading, they would wind up in Dakota Territory. He didn't express his opinion to anyone, satisfied to continue on to Dakota if they didn't change course in the next few days. As far as Varner was concerned, there had been nothing more from the beaten man. Carson became wary of the sullen man, however. He didn't seem the kind to consider the incident ended. There wasn't much Carson could do to prevent a vengeful attack if that's what Varner had in mind, so he slept with his rifle and handgun close to him. Varner never called him Pig again. In fact, he never spoke to him at all. But sometimes Carson would turn to find Varner looking at him, then quickly turning away rather than meeting Carson's gaze. What Carson didn't understand was, like a big dog that's had his tail cut off, Varner was humiliated by the loss of his bluster. When it came to the rest of the crew, Carson was treated fairly enough, but he still felt like an outsider. It was almost as if they shared Varner's humiliation. Maybe, he thought, it was because they had started out on the cattle drive together. So Varner was one of their own, and he was not. After all, he allowed, Duke said they all owned shares in the herd, so he wasn't really one of them. The one exception was Marvin Snead. He seemed to have taken a liking to Carson. Carson appreciated that, but he had already made up his mind that he was saying good-bye to them when he got to Montana, so he didn't spend much time worrying about his place with the crew.