Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (5 page)

Red Shirt quickly ejected the empty shell and chambered a second cartridge. There was plenty of time, however, for Bud Collins stood stunned, confused, and not sure what had just happened. He did not move until Moody's body rolled up against his boots. By that time, it was too late, for Red Shirt's second shot slammed into his chest before he could dive for cover.

As soon as Collins fell, Red Shirt sprang to his feet and screamed a loud war cry in triumph, for he was certain there was no one else in the camp but the prisoner. Before moving into the camp to finish his victims, he turned back toward the creek and yelled, “Come on! Bring the horses.”

In the blink of an eye, things had gone from bad to worse for the young man tied to the tree. Helpless, he watched the half-breed trot toward him, the carbine in his hand, and he could only guess when his turn would come. Unconcerned about any trouble from the prisoner, Red Shirt called again for his partners, then turned his attention toward the two men he had just shot. Both were still alive, although mortally wounded. Seeing that Moody was straining to pull himself out of the grave and trying to reach the rifle he had dropped upon being hit, Red Shirt went to him first and kicked the rifle away from his hand. He took a quick glance at Collins then to make sure he was not a threat before concentrating again on the deputy. “Hey, Moody,” he taunted, “remember me? You finally caught up with me, you fat ol' son of a bitch.” Whether Moody was too near death to respond was impossible to say, but he made no reply. Red Shirt waited a moment, then drew a long skinning knife from his belt and proceeded to take the deputy's scalp. This brought a scream of pain from the dying man, and brought a smile of satisfaction to Red Shirt's face. With his foot, he shoved Moody back into the grave. The deputy made no attempt to crawl out again.

For the two witnesses to the brutal scalping, there was the uncertainty of what was in store for the one tied to the tree, but the certainty of a second scalping for the wounded one in the grave was without question. Whimpering fearfully, with Moody's body pressing him against the side of the shallow hole he had dug, Collins tried to crawl out, knowing he was doomed. Still, in desperation, he tried to crawl toward the bushes by the creek, never thinking to try to pull his revolver from his holster. Red Shirt watched his struggles for a few moments, enjoying his obvious terror. Then he walked unhurriedly to overtake him, grab a handful of his hair, and lift the scalp.

Tice and Swann came up in time to hear Collins's screams of agony. “Damned if he ain't somethin',” Orville said when Red Shirt went into a short war dance, holding the two trophies up for them to see.

“Gawdam savage,” Tice replied, low enough to be sure no one but Swann could hear.

They stood there for a few minutes, surveying the scene to get an estimate of the spoils to be gained—the four bodies on the ground, one lying in a freshly dug hole; the horses by the creek; the man tied to the tree. After a moment, Tice commented, “Looks like you took care of everythin'.” Red Shirt grinned in response. “What about him?” Tice asked, with a nod of his head in Carson's direction.

“I ain't made up my mind yet,” Red Shirt replied. The question prompted him to walk over to stand before Carson. Swann and Tice followed him.

“He's kind of a young-lookin' pup,” Tice commented. “Reckon what they was gonna do with him?”

“That fat one over there is a marshal,” Red Shirt said, and pointed toward Moody's body. He directed a question at Carson then. “Where was he takin' you, boy? To the prison at Laramie?”

Carson could not see that he had much choice but to answer, so he replied, “That's right.”

“Why?” Tice asked. “What did you do?”

“Rustlin' and murder is what the court said,” Carson answered. “He was takin' me and this one to be hanged.” He nodded toward Varner's body lying close by.

“Cattle rustlin' and murder,” Swann crowed. “Hell, he's one of our kind, ain't he?”

Red Shirt was skeptical. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “He don't look so mean to me.” The facts were pretty obvious, however, that he had done something bad enough to be captured by Moody and hauled to Laramie City. “Who'd you kill?”

“They said I killed some cowhands and stole their cattle,” Carson answered. He made no attempt to acclaim his innocence of the charges. It didn't seem the prudent thing to do under the circumstances.

“I reckon it's your lucky day since we showed up, ain't it?” Swann said.

“Maybe,” Carson replied. “I can't say yet. I'm still tied to a tree right now.”

“Well, now,” Red Shirt commented with a chuckle, “that is a fact, ain't it?” He could not help being amused by the young man's indifferent attitude. He walked from one side of Carson to the other as if judging a horse for sale. “There ain't nothin' keepin' me from givin' you the same those two lawmen got.”

“Well, there ain't much I can do about it, unless you wanna untie me and we have a go at it man to man. But I don't hardly think that's gonna happen. So I reckon you're gonna do what you're gonna do. One way or the other, it don't matter too much. I was on my way to a hangin', anyway.”

“What would you do if I was to cut you loose?” Red Shirt asked, still enjoying the predicament the young stranger was in.

“I'd get me a cup of coffee outta that pot on the fire,” Carson replied unemotionally. “Mine got spilled when the shootin' started.”

Red Shirt threw his head back and laughed. “Whaddaya say, boys, think we oughta let him loose and let him get him some coffee?”

“Don't make no difference to me,” Tice replied. Carson had nothing of value—at least nothing that Tice would kill to take from him, so he was honest in his reply.

“Me, neither,” Swann said, since Tice had not objected, and there was no reason to suspect Carson of attempting any form of retaliation for the killing of the men who were taking him to be hanged.

Red Shirt took the knife he had just used to scalp Moody and his posse man, and cut Carson's bonds. “All right, go get your coffee. And while you're at it, make a new pot and we'll all have some.”

“Fair enough,” Carson said, and proceeded to do just that while the three outlaws searched the bodies for anything of value.

Chapter 4

Out of the frying pan, into the fire—it appeared that Carson Ryan's summer was fated to land him in one tight situation after another. He now found himself seated beside the campfire that Orville Swann had built, eating more of the beans and bacon he had cooked. Across from him the two men who had come up after Red Shirt killed Moody and Collins were noisily gulping their dinner while the half-breed was still inspecting the horses recently gained. The conversation was predominantly an interrogation of the man they had freed. Carson patiently answered their questions, telling them where and how he had been taken prisoner, making his answers as short and vague as possible. He knew it was in his best interest to let them think he rode the same trail as they, and not proclaim his innocence of the charges made against him.

“Hell, it's a good thing we run across you,” Tice said. “We could use another man.” This was not what Carson wanted to hear. He had hoped they would leave him a horse and weapons and go their separate ways. “Course, it'll have to be all right with Red Shirt,” Tice continued. “He's kinda particular about a lot of things.”

“Ha,” Swann grunted. “What Ed means is Red Shirt calls all the shots, but I think he must like you. Hell, if he didn't, he'da most likely left you tied up to that tree.”

“Yeah,” Tice remarked, “and maybe with your throat cut.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Red Shirt came back to the fire to join them. “Pretty good horses,” he commented as he poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Bring a good price from that ol' son of a bitch on the Cheyenne,” he said, referring to a trading post on the Cheyenne River. He grinned at Carson then and said, “I bet you got one of them horses picked out for yourself.” When Carson didn't answer, but only shrugged indifferently, Red Shirt informed him, “You can pick out any of 'em you want except that black one. I'm keepin' him for myself.” Carson nodded. “Same thing for the guns,” Red Shirt went on. “You get yourself a rifle and a handgun, and some cartridges for 'em, but not that marshal's rifle. I want that one for myself.” He paused, then remembered. “And that old bastard's badge is mine. I want it. I'll pin it on my scalp stick with his hair.”

“I 'preciate it,” Carson said. “They took my rifle and six-shooter back at Fort Laramie.” He regretted the loss of his father's Henry rifle, but Moody and both of his posse men had been carrying Winchester rifles, so he had hopes of acquiring one of the two left after Red Shirt claimed his. With that in mind, he took note of the weapons carried by his new partners. Red Shirt had carried a Spencer carbine, but both Orville Swann and Ed Tice were armed with Winchesters. So his prospects of getting a Winchester for himself were pretty good. As far as the handgun was concerned, he didn't care that much. Just about anything would do. If he had a choice, of course, he would take a Colt, but a good rifle was the most important requirement. When it came to horses, he was satisfied to keep the bay gelding he had ridden from Fort Laramie. It seemed as stout a horse as those ridden by Moody, Summer, and Collins, and he and the horse seemed to get along fine.

With avoiding a discussion in mind, Carson picked up his saddle and threw it on the bay's back, causing Tice to comment, “You didn't waste much time takin' your pick. We ain't had time to look 'em over ourselves.”

“They're all about the same,” Carson told him, “and this is the one I rode here on.”

“Seems to me we was the ones that took them horses, so we oughta get first pick before he does,” Swann complained.

“Like he said, ain't none of 'em much better'n the others,” Red Shirt said. “Let him take any horse he wants, long as it ain't that black one there.” Like that of a stern father with his children, Red Shirt's word was not disputed. Carson suspected they seriously feared their savage partner, and he could readily understand. Red Shirt was a powerfully built man with wide shoulders and large hands that looked strong enough to crush a man's throat.

“I had a packhorse when they arrested me,” Carson said, figuring he might as well try.

Red Shirt gazed at him with a raised brow. “Is that a fact? Well, you ain't got one no more,” he informed him. “You'll be ridin' with us, so we'll make up some packs and put 'em on a couple of horses. That oughta do for all of us.”

“Right,” Carson said, “whatever you say.” Tice and Swann both grinned at him as if he had been accepted into a highly desirable society. He wasn't given any choice about joining them, so Carson's hopes of leaving them right away became suddenly dim.

The issue was settled, as far as Red Shirt was concerned, so he turned his mind to other things. “We might as well camp right here tonight. It's gettin' along toward evenin', so it don't make no sense to start out, then set right down and make camp again.”

“How 'bout all them dead bodies?” Tice asked. “They'll be gettin' to stinkin' and bringin' a flock of buzzards down here, maybe coyotes, too.”

“We ain't gonna be here that long,” Red Shirt told him. “We'll be leavin' in the mornin'. They ain't gonna start stinkin' that quick.” When he saw Tice wrinkle his nose as if he already smelled the bodies, he said, “Drag 'em off in the bushes yonder if it turns your belly that much, you damn woman.” He turned to Carson then. “What about you . . .” He paused, then asked, “What the hell is your name?”

“Carson,” he replied.

“Carson, huh? Well, what about you, Carson? Does the smell of dead bodies turn your belly?” His question was punctuated by a contemptuous smile.

It was obvious the half-breed was looking to amuse himself, and maybe test the fiber of the new member of his little gang of cutthroats. Carson labored to hide the feeling of disgust he felt, one caused by the savage disregard for human life demonstrated by this squat, broad-shouldered murderer more so than the bodies lying about. “I reckon not,” he finally answered. “Like you said, they ain't hardly had time to get ripe yet.” His answer caused Red Shirt to laugh again, obviously pleased with Carson's attitude.

“Maybe you can help ol' Tice drag those bodies into the bushes,” Red Shirt suggested.

“All right,” Carson responded, got to his feet, and signaled to the sour-faced Tice. “Come on, partner, and we'll get rid of 'em.”

“I ain't your partner yet,” Tice immediately replied, “not till I see how good you are when the shootin' starts.” He followed him to Varner's body, however, and the two of them cleared the camp area of the dead.

Once they settled down for the day, Carson spent a great deal of thought trying to evaluate his chances of ridding himself of the three outlaws. He had no doubt that any attempt to part company peacefully was out of the question. Red Shirt would never permit anyone who had witnessed his murder of a U.S. deputy marshal to ride off alive. No, he decided, he had no choice but to go along with them and hope they didn't put him in a position where he was unable to fake his participation. Before long, he was bound to get an opportunity to slip away and head for Montana, as had been his original intent. In the meantime, he would let them think he was a willing participant in whatever crimes they were planning.

The evening was spent sitting around the fire, consuming much of the provisions that Luther Moody had brought, and talking about which direction to head when morning came. Carson learned that their destination had been the Black Hills before they happened upon the deputy marshal. Red Shirt held that there was no reason to change his mind. There were more miners staking out claims now that the Indians were not as big a threat. And small camps of one, two, or more men could be found on every little stream that emptied out of the hills into the prairie. These little camps were easy pickings, and it was unlikely anyone would ever find the bodies. “We'll get rid of some of these horses at Crazy Jack's,” Red Shirt said. He knew the old man who ran a trading post on the Cheyenne River had no use for horses, but he would trade for them because he knew they would be cheap. Red Shirt did not want to be bothered with driving extra horses. Crazy Jack knew that, and Red Shirt knew he knew it, so the trading of horses usually went fast.

When Carson asked Swann who Crazy Jack was, Swann told him the origin of the man's name. “Damned old fool built him a tradin' post up on the upper end of the Cheyenne River, back up in the hill country. It ain't no place for a white man in the middle of all that Injun country, and nobody but a crazy man woulda done it. The Injuns knowed he was teched in the head, so they never bothered him. Jack says they'll come around once in a while to trade some skins or somethin', mostly three or four at a time, and he'll give 'em a biscuit or a piece of peppermint. Then they go on off and leave him be. I expect that's who he trades the horses to.”

When it came time to turn in, Carson rolled out his blanket a good way back from the fire with the thought in mind that he might take a chance on departing during the night. As he spread his blanket, he glanced up to find Red Shirt watching him. “Don't pay no mind to ol' Swann there,” Red Shirt told him. “He don't sleep so good. He gets up all night to piss.”

“I can't help it,” Swann spoke up. “Somethin's wrong with my pee bag. It don't hold the water no more.”

“That's cause he's gettin' too old to be worth a damn for anything,” Red Shirt said scornfully.

“Now, you know that ain't so,” Swann replied in his own defense. “I ain't slowed down a hair.”

His immediate response seemed to amuse Red Shirt. It seemed a pointless conversation to Carson. Unless, he thought, it was a hint from Red Shirt that someone would be watching him during the night. Looking at the smirking half-breed, Carson could well imagine that to be his intent. He decided then that he might have to wait until they became comfortable with him before he made an attempt to desert.

The next morning, they ate a breakfast of more of the late Luther Moody's food supply, then saddled up and headed north, following the same trail Carson had ridden south the day before. Instead of following the Laramie River to its confluence with the Platte, however, they veered to the west far enough to stay well clear of Fort Laramie before crossing the North Platte and heading north again. They were in the saddle three and a half days before striking the Cheyenne River. The journey was time enough to allow Red Shirt and his partners to feel more comfortable with Carson. By the time they approached the rough log structure that was Crazy Jack's trading post, they were convinced that he was a willing recruit, and equally intent upon victimizing any poor soul who crossed their path.

It was almost nightfall when they rode into the clearing where Jack's cabin sat near the bank of the river. Leading the extra horses, they rode right up to his front door before hauling back hard on the reins and dismounting amid the cloud of dust their arrival had created. Their abrupt arrival was enough to bring Jack storming out the door, shotgun in hand, expecting a cavalry raid. His reaction pleased Red Shirt, who favored him with a contemptuous sneer.

“Red Shirt!” Jack blurted, matching the half-breed's look of contempt. “You're damn lucky I didn't blow a hole in you, charging in here like that.”

“You old fool,” Red Shirt responded, “you couldn't hit nothin' with that damn shotgun if I gave you the first three shots.”

“There's a helluva lot of Injuns and half-breeds that made that mistake,” Jack shot back. “You wouldn't be the first to learn not to rile my patience.” He handed the shotgun to a woman standing just inside the door, and walked out to look over his visitors. “You picked up a new man,” he observed aloud. “Looks like you picked up some horses, too. I expect you're hopin' I'll take some of 'em off your hands.” He stepped up to take a closer look. “Mangy-lookin' bunch of crow baits, ain't they?”

“You don't know good horses when you see 'em,” Red Shirt countered. “I don't know if I'll even let you make an offer. I might take 'em to Spearfish—get top dollar there.”

“Yeah, you could do that, 'cept they'd arrest you on sight. There was a cavalry patrol come by here about a month ago lookin' for you and them two beauties you got ridin' with you. You'd best not go anywhere there's law or soldiers.” He walked all around the extra horses, looking them over, then paused when he came to Carson. Still directing his talk toward Red Shirt, he asked, “Where'd you get this fresh one?” Then not waiting for Red Shirt's answer, he aimed his comments at Carson. “You studyin' to be as big a backstabbin' cutthroat as these two beauties?”

Carson didn't answer, but Tice spoke up. “You got a mouth on you that's just beggin' for a bullet, old man.”

“From who?” Jack demanded. “You? Shit, my woman will cut you down before you clear leather.” The claim caused Carson to notice the cabin door standing ajar. He decided Crazy Jack wasn't just making noise. Tice scowled but did not push it further.

With the preliminary insults apparently over, the talk turned more to a civil tone. “Put them horses in my corral,” Jack said, turning again to Red Shirt. “We can talk trade in the mornin'. I'll have Sarah rustle you up some grub if you've got any money.”

“Tell her to get her ass movin',” Red Shirt said. “My belly's growlin' somethin' fierce while we're just standin' here jawin'.”

It seemed a strange way to conduct business. Aside from that, Carson found it surprising that Red Shirt even considered legitimate trade. It was Carson's impression that the savage simply robbed anything he needed and left bodies behind to tell no tales. Carson halfway expected Sarah to be an Indian woman, but she was, instead, a big-boned redhead who stood nearly as tall as her husband, and although she spoke with a heavy Irish accent, there was definitely no twinkle in her eye. In fact, Carson was reminded of the lifeless eye of a wolf when she fixed her gaze upon him. The .44 single-action Colt pistol she wore strapped around her waist seemed right at home as she worked at her stove.