Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (21 page)

“Not as bad as the whuppin' I'm fixin' to give him,” Pruett promised. Back to the man still lying in his bunk, he ordered, “I told you to get up from there.”

“You'd best leave me alone,” Carson replied, “and just forget about it.”

Pruett was not to be denied his revenge. He reached down and pulled the blanket off Carson, only to find himself staring at the muzzle of Carson's Colt .44. “Whoa!” he blurted involuntarily, and backed away, almost stumbling over his own feet. With the pistol still aimed at Pruett, Carson sat up and pulled the hammer back. The click of the cocking weapon seemed to shatter the silence of the moment before. Pruett backed away in panic, falling over one of the empty bunks in the process.

Deadly calm, Carson shifted his feet over on the floor and stood up, all the while holding the .44 on Pruett. He moved around the empty bunk to stand directly over him. “What am I gonna do with you?” he pondered aloud. “Am I gonna have to shoot you to have any peace?”

Never taking his eyes off the pistol covering him, Pruett rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. “All right,” he muttered reluctantly, “it's over. I ain't gonna cause no more trouble. Just let me get to my feet and I'm ready to turn in.”

No one in the bunkhouse believed him, especially Carson, but he said, “Go ahead, then.” He stepped back to give him room and released the hammer on his .44. Pruett pushed himself up on one knee, then paused there for a few moments, waiting for his opportunity. When Carson lowered his pistol to hang casually by his thigh, Pruett made his move. He lunged to his feet, lowered his head, and charged like a runaway train. Expecting such a move, Carson stepped deftly aside, avoiding the mass of angry muscle and sinew, and administered a solid blow against Pruett's temple with the barrel of his Colt. He took another step back as the huge man crashed to the bunkhouse floor, where he lay motionless for a couple of minutes. Carson hoped that the bully had had enough, but that was not to be the end of it. The massive man began to stir eventually, and when his head cleared enough, he got to his feet, looking around him, trying to locate Carson, who was standing right in front of him. He emitted one great roar and launched himself in Carson's direction. Carson had hoped it would not come to this, but unable to think of anything else to get the peace he desired, he raised his pistol and fired.

The bullet caught Pruett in the leg, causing him to crash to the floor once more, finally stopped as he lay there moaning and holding his leg. “You shot me, you bastard!” Pruett cried out in pain.

“I reckon I did,” Carson replied calmly. “You damn fool, if you'da just let it alone, I wouldn't have had to shoot you.” He turned then and returned to his bunk, but instead of climbing back in bed, he put the pistol back in its holster and pulled on his pants and shirt. He was just pulling his boots on when Mathew Cain, Justin, and Frank rushed in the door, having heard the gunshot.

“What was that shot?” Mathew demanded.

Carson answered as he stood up to start packing his belongings in his war bag, “That was me sayin' good-bye,” he said without emotion.

“What the hell . . . ?” Justin exclaimed when he saw Pruett lying on the floor holding his leg, with Clem trying to help him up. He turned back to Carson then, looking for an explanation, but Carson offered none. He just continued with his packing.

“Looks to me like Pruett picked the wrong man to ride herd on,” Mathew Cain remarked after he had taken in the scene. He had pretty much had a hunch that John Carson was not the kind of man to be bullied. “How bad is he hurt, Clem?”

“Well, he's got shot in the leg,” Clem replied. “Coulda been a lot worse if John's aim hadda been a little higher.”

“I got an idea that John's aim was right on the money,” Mathew said. He turned to Shorty then. “What happened here, Shorty?”

Shorty told him that Carson had tried to avoid fighting Pruett, but Pruett kept after him. “John warned him to leave him alone, but Pruett tried to jump him anyway, so he shot him in the leg to put a stop to it.”

“I figured somethin' like that musta happened,” Cain said. “Mule, take a look at that wound and see if you can fix him up.” He bent over Pruett then, who was grimacing with the pain in his thigh. “Don't look like he hit you in a serious place. Mule's gonna take care of it. You might be hobblin' around for a few days, but you'll be all right.” With Pruett taken care of, he turned his attention toward Carson. “What are you aimin' to do?”

Carson picked up his sack and his rifle. “I reckon I'll head out tonight, instead of waitin' till mornin',” he said.

“I think that's a good idea, son,” Cain said. “Justin and I'll help you saddle up.”

“Me, too,” Frank volunteered. “I'll help.” More than anyone else, he knew that he probably owed Carson his and Nancy's life.

They walked out of the bunkhouse, leaving Mule to doctor Pruett's wound. Several of the other men left their bunks to help catch Carson's horses, and Mathew sent Lucas to the smokehouse to get a side of bacon for Carson to take with him. Carson was somewhat mystified by the going-away party. By the time the bay was saddled, and Luther Moody's blue roan was loaded, everyone at the house was aware of the unscheduled departure. Nancy and Millie walked down to the barn in their robes to see Carson off.

When everything was packed, he slid his Winchester in the saddle scabbard and prepared to step up in the saddle. There were a few wishes of “good luck” from the men, and a hard handshake from Shorty. Frank stepped up then and offered his hand, and Nancy gave him a hug and thanked him for all he had done for them. Millie remained in the background, watching Carson's reactions to the farewells, and wondering why she was troubled by the high regard Nancy seemed to have for one she decided was a no-good drifter. She told herself that she wouldn't give John Carson, or whatever his name was, another thought after this night.

The good-byes over, he stepped up on the bay and rode straight out to the north, a bright moon behind his right shoulder, and a chilly wind on his face. Although disappointed that things had not worked out for him on the M/C, he was not discouraged, for he was confident that he was on the path he was destined to ride and he would deal with wherever it led.

Chapter 11

Carson decided to put more than a few miles behind him before making a camp. His only goal at this time was to simply find a place to get a peaceful night's sleep without having to worry about Pruett Little recovering enough to pay him another visit. With a full moon rising higher now to light the prairie before him, he felt no risk of crippling his horses, even though the route he had chosen took him over some rough terrain with the Crazy Mountains only a few miles to the east of him. His planned course of travel would take him north of the steep, rugged peaks of the mountains towering ghostlike above the moonlit prairie. He recalled Shorty telling him of the sharp ridges and peaks and the howling winds that whipped around them, inspiring the name given the range by the Indians. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would reach the northern tip of the range and then he would turn to the west toward Helena. There were no lingering feelings of regret, for he decided that his failure to stay on at the M/C was balanced by the opportunity to explore the mountains to the west, his initial reason for leaving Bob Patterson at Ogallala.

He estimated he had ridden about ten miles, and was still on M/C range, when he came upon a healthy stream coming out of the mountains to his left. It looked to be as good a campsite as any he was likely to find, so he guided his horses to a grassy bank bordered by pines and clumps of laurel. Here he made his camp. After his horses were taken care of, he built a small fire for warmth, since he had already eaten supper back in the bunkhouse. He spread his blanket over a bed of pine needles and settled in for the night, unconcerned for any further problems to interrupt his sleep. He didn't think it likely that Pruett would hobble after him on his bad leg. He drifted off with thoughts of the Rocky Mountains before him and the many possible trails a young man might choose to follow. It was a good feeling, although he had to admit that he would miss the opportunity to see how big Mathew Cain's ranch would grow. He saw the potential for the M/C to become the biggest outfit in the territory. Justin Cain was a capable foreman, and Lucas was already a steady ranch hand. With Frank and Nancy to help out, and of course Millie. The thought of Nancy's younger sister caused him to pause there to consider the strange mannerisms of the girl who acted as if she ran the place. He shook his head then as if to clear away thoughts of Millie. The good Lord had not seen fit to give him the gift of understanding women, but he had really had no need for it—up to now.

* * *

A day and a half's ride brought him to another range of mountains he would later learn to call the Big Belt Mountains. The call of the mountains was too much to resist, so he followed a busy stream back up a narrow canyon as far as his horses could comfortably manage and made his camp. He planned to go on with the idea of finding Helena, where he intended to trade his extra weapons for supplies he would need to see him through the coming winter. But the plentiful sign of elk in the lower foothills caused him to remain there for almost a week. It was a good week, and gave him the chance to satisfy his natural curiosity about the country he had always imagined when still a boy. From the tops of the mountains, he discovered that he could see a town of good size in the valley to the west. He figured that it had to be Helena. It could wait, he decided, until he had smoke-dried his fresh-killed elk to pack on his extra horse. There were more mountains farther west, beyond Helena, that he could also see from the mountaintop, waiting for him to explore. He knew then that he would spend no more time in the town of Helena than necessary to complete his business.

He awoke one morning to find a light powdering of snow spread across his camp. It served to remind him that a hard winter might not be far behind, and there were things he needed to be ready for it. So he packed up his camp and rode out of the mountains toward Helena.

* * *

He slow-walked his horses down the main street of Helena, a street that roughly followed the gulch and was aptly named Last Chance Gulch. The real boom times of the earlier gold strikes were past, but there was still plenty of mining activity, as witnessed by the busy street, the various businesses and the many saloons. When Carson came to a business that advertised on a big sign in front that it dealt in dry goods and hardware, he pulled over and tied his horses at the rail.

“Howdy.” Elmer Green greeted him when he walked in the door. “What can I do for you?” He eyed the young stranger up and down. “You new in town?”

“I reckon I am,” Carson replied, and stood there for a few moments, looking around at the merchandise on the counters and the shelves behind them. His gaze fell on a glass-top cabinet with several firearms displayed. Thinking then that he was in the right place, he asked, “Might you be interested in buyin' some fine weapons?”

Elmer shrugged indifferently. “That depends,” he replied. “I'm in the business of selling new weapons. I don't do much buying of used guns.” He waited for a moment while Carson thought that over, then asked, “What are you trying to sell?”

“I've got a good Spencer cavalry carbine, a Winchester, and a couple of Colt handguns,” Carson replied.

“What are you looking to get for them?”

“As much as I can, cash money,” Carson said, “or maybe trade for some things I need.” He knew he couldn't ask for top price. The carbine was in good shape, but the blacksmith back at the Big Horn had taken the best Colt revolver as payment for shoeing his horses.

“Like I said,” Elmer responded, “I don't do much buying of used guns. I'll take a look at what you've got, though.” He followed Carson outside to inspect the weapons. After testing the action on the pistols, he looked the carbine over. “I'm afraid I couldn't give you much for the lot of 'em,” he finally said. “Maybe somebody else might give you a better deal, but I guess I could let you have twenty dollars in trade if you want.”

Carson was disappointed. He had thought he might get a little more than that, but he decided to accept the offer so he could be done with it. But twenty dollars' worth of goods, combined with the seven dollars he still had, wasn't going to take him very far.

Back inside, Elmer studied the young man as Carson carefully selected the items he needed the most desperately for his camp. “You thinking about doing some placer mining?” he asked, thinking Carson was out here for the same reason most men were.

“No, sir,” Carson replied. “I don't know nothin' about huntin' for gold. I ain't ever done anything but work with cattle. I'm hopin' maybe I can sign on with somebody in that business. Right now I'm just lookin' to get by till somethin' comes along.”

Elmer continued to study Carson intently before making a suggestion. “If you're hard up for money, young fellow, I know where you can hire on for decent wages. That is, if you don't mind a little hard work.”

“Where might that be?” Carson asked.

“Fellow name of Jim Saylor runs a sawmill up at the upper end of the gulch. Jim's a friend of mine and I know for a fact that one of the men that cuts timber and snakes the logs out of the mountains west of town for him just up and quit last week. You're a pretty strong-looking young fellow. You might wanna talk to Jim. It's not like finding gold, but it'll give you some spending money.”

Carson's first thought was not one of interest, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it would help him get through the winter. Then he almost smiled when he recalled that he could claim his status as a champion woodchopper on the M/C. “What the hell?” he replied. “It wouldn't hurt to talk to your friend. What was his name?”

“Jim Saylor,” Elmer said. “Tell him I sent you.”

“Much obliged,” Carson said.

* * *

Rena Saylor came from the mill office carrying the dinner pail that her husband had just emptied in time to hear Jim talking to a tall young man who had just ridden up. “Elmer sent you, huh?” she heard him ask the stranger, so she paused to find out what he was about. “Pannin' for gold didn't turn up much color, I reckon,” Jim guessed aloud.

“Might have,” Carson replied. “I ain't ever tried pannin' for gold.” He paused to speak to the woman standing behind Jim now. “Ma'am.” She nodded.

“What have you been doin'?” Jim asked.

“Drivin' cattle, mostly.”

Saylor studied him for a few moments more before asking his next question. If what Carson said was true, that he wasn't hoping to find gold, then maybe he wouldn't be off to the next strike right away. “Are you wanted by the law?” He preferred that Carson was not, but he wasn't overly concerned, because back in the mountains where he would be working, he wasn't likely to run into any lawmen.

Carson answered the question without hesitation. “I ain't ever done nothin' against the law,” he said, answering truthfully. It seemed to satisfy Saylor.

“You ever work with a team of six mules?” he asked. When Carson confessed that he had not, Saylor went on. “Well, don't matter, I guess. You'll be workin' with Bris Bannerman. He'll be drivin' the logs to the mill, anyway. I reckon you can handle one mule draggin' a log.”

“I reckon,” Carson said.

“You can leave your packhorse here in my corral if you want to,” Saylor suggested.

“All the same to you, I'll keep both my horses with me up in the mountains.”

Saylor shrugged. “Up to you,” he concluded. “Be back here at the sawmill first thing in the mornin' and we'll ride up to the camp. I've got a load of supplies to take up there.”

* * *

When Saylor arrived at his sawmill early the following morning, he found Carson waiting for him. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Since sunup,” Carson replied. “You said first thing.” His reply was enough to please Saylor. Maybe the young man really was accustomed to hard work.

It was a long half day's ride to the mountains west of town to Saylor's camp at the base of the hills. An old army squad tent was set up beside the corral, but there was no one about. Noticing two of the mules were missing, Saylor commented, “Bris is most likely up the mountain, snakin' logs down. I expect he'll show up directly.” By the time Carson took his horses to the small creek nearby and hobbled them to graze, they heard Bris coming down the mountain, driving a two-horse team and dragging a huge log.

“Ho, Jim,” Bris called out upon seeing them. “What brings you out here this mornin'?” He didn't stop for an answer, but gave the stranger standing beside his boss a good looking-over as he continued by them to deposit the log next to a pile near the corral. Saylor and Carson walked over to watch as Bris unhitched the mules and left them to stand while he talked to his boss.

“I thought you might oughta be runnin' short of bacon and beans,” Saylor said. “This here's John Carson. He's gonna be takin' Pete's place.”

“Is that a fact?” Bris responded, looking Carson up and down with a skeptical eye. “That's gonna take some doin'. Pete was a helluva worker.” He glanced at Saylor and commented, “He's a big feller, ain't he?” Looking Carson directly in the eye then, he asked, “Reckon you can stand up to the work, boy?”

“If I can't, I reckon you'll fire me,” Carson answered as he studied the man he would be working with. At this point, he wasn't sure how long that would be, but he anticipated it would be at least until spring. He could already guess what kind of man Bris was—short and wiry, it was hard to tell how old the man was, but a full set of whiskers was more gray than brown, and Carson couldn't help wondering if he might have been of average height had he not been so bowlegged. His speech was gruff in manner, but Carson noted a twinkle in the little man's eye that betrayed a more congenial nature.

Bris laughed at Carson's response to his question. “I reckon so,” he agreed. “That's fair enough, ain't it, Jim?” He turned his attention back to Saylor then. With expecting eyes, he asked, “You didn't happen to bring anythin' with you, did you, Jim?”

“In my saddlebag,” Saylor replied.

“Good man,” Bris said, his scruffy beard spread with a smile.

Saylor turned to Carson then. “Well, I've got to get back to town before dark, so I'll leave you two to sort it out between you.” He went to his saddlebag to get the bottle of whiskey he brought and handed it to Bris. “Bris can show you all you need to know, 'cause he knows what has to be done.” When the supplies were unloaded and put away in the tent, he stepped up on the sorrel and bade them good-bye.

“Thanks for the bottle,” Bris said. “And tell Rena I still love her, and one of these days I'll be comin' for her.”

“I'll tell her,” Saylor called back over his shoulder. Carson would learn later that Rena was Jim Saylor's wife, and this promise was a ritual practiced almost every time Saylor visited the lumber camp. In the spirit of the joke, Rena usually cooked Bris a fine meal whenever he brought a load of logs into town.

* * *

Carson and Bris got along right from the first day of their work together. The work was hard for just two men, but Carson found that the physical labor was something he needed at this time in his life. Wanted by the federal marshals, he decided it was a good time to be out of sight up in the mountains. The days were spent wielding an ax, trimming the limbs off the pine logs after riding one end of a crosscut saw, then snaking the logs down the mountain to be loaded on a log train that Bris had built for the purpose. Bris was easy to camp with. He insisted on doing all the cooking, and Carson appreciated the fact that he was a fair hand at it—a lot better than Bad Eye had been. That thought caused him to wonder if Bad Eye had escaped the pursuit of the lawmen. Other thoughts of his days with Duke Slayton's gang of outlaws were recurring less and less as winter moved into the hills.