Galloway (1970) (7 page)

"You be still," she said. "I'll get you some soup."

When she had gone, Rossiter hesitated a moment and then asked, "This man called Curly? Can you describe him?"

"Big, strong young feller, rosy color to his cheeks, brown wavy hair and he favors them big Mexican spurs. He was riding a handsome gray horse ... no cowhand's horse."

"Yes, that's Curly." Rossiter got up suddenly. "Damn it, man, don't ever try to raise a daughter in a country where men are scarce! I've heard talk about Curly Dunn. He's hard on his horses, and he's a quarrelsome man who's forever picking fights. Most people are afraid of him because of Rocker."

"Rocker Dunn?" I knew that name, as a good many did. Rocker Dunn was said to have ridden with Quantrill, and for a time he'd been a known man down in the Cherokee Nation and in East Texas. He was tough and strong and had the name of being a dead shot who would sooner be shooting than talking.

"That's the one. You know of him?"

"Yes, sir. I've heard the name."

"Sackett," Rossiter said, "I want you to stay on until you're strong again. When you're ready to go I'll outfit you. We don't have much, but we'll share what we have."

He pointed toward the closet. "There's a six-shooter in there if you should need it. It is an old gun but a good one and I trust you'll use it with judgment."

After he'd gone I lay there awhile, just a-thinking. Seems we Sacketts were never going to be shut of trouble. We had started for this wild, new country to build us a home, and it was country like nobody ever saw before. It was mountain country, which suited us, but the mountains were giants compared to what we'd been used to. Clingman's Dome was a mighty beautiful peak, but would be lost in the shadow of most of those around me.

Running water, lakes, aspen, pines, spruce, and so much fish and game the stuff fairly jumped at a man ... there was hay in the meadows, flowers on the slopes, and timber for the cutting. It was our kind of country, and here we Sacketts would stay.

I eased myself out of bed and started to stand up, but felt giddy of a sudden and sat down, my head all aswim. I'd have to take it easy. I'd have to wait it out. There was no place in this country for a man who couldn't walk tall down the trails or sit a saddle where the long wind blows.

The pistol was one of those made in Texas during the War Between the States. It was a Dance & Park percussion pistol, .44 calibre, that had been worked over to handle Colt cartridges. Somebody had worked on that gun who knew what he was doing. It had balance and felt right to a man's hand. The pistol was loaded and the loops in the belt were filled. I taken it down and hung it by the bed.

A good gun is a thing to have, and a body never knows when he'll need it.

There's a saying that when guns are outlawed, only the outlaws will have guns.

Chapter
VII

It was a mark of my weakness that I was almighty glad to get back into bed, and I dozed off after awhile and only awakened when Meg Rossiter came into my room with a tray to put on the bedside table.

Now this was a new thing for me. I'd never been waited on much. Not since Ma died. Or when I paid for it in some roadside eating place.

This here was something, to set up in bed with pillows propped behind, and good food there for you. "Ma'am, you could plumb spoil a man, doin' for him like this."

"You're sick," she said, and I figured there was a mite of edge to her tone. She didn't set so much store by me since I'd told what happened on the trail. But I'd no idea she was sweet on this Curly fellow ... and it was too bad. Any man who would do to me what he'd done had something rotten inside.

All right. He had no cause to help me, but he'd no cause to come back and knock me down, either. The first time might have been an accident, although I was no longer sure of that. The second time was not.

"I know you don't think much of me, ma'am, and as soon as I'm able I'll ride out of here. You'll be shut of me."

"But not what you said! You'll leave that behind! You'll leave it with Pa!"

"I only told the truth, ma'am, and when I spoke I had no idea you was sweet on him."

"I'm not! I'm not what you said! You probably think if Curly were out of the way I'd look at you!"

"No, ma'am," I said honestly, "I think nothing of the kind. I know I'm a homely man, ma'am, just a long tall mountain boy. Now Galloway ... he's my brother ... womenfolk pay him mind, but none of them ever looked twice at me, and I've come not to expect it."

She looked at me suddenly, as if seeing me for the first time. "You're not homely," she said. "Maybe you aren't handsome, but you're not homely, either."

"Thank you, ma'am. I reckon I decided long ago that I'd have to run in single harness. I like the high, lonesome country, so maybe it fits. Nobody ever wanted a home more than me, and nobody ever had one less, least it was Galloway. Gals like the high-spirited, high-headed kind, I've noticed. If they can break them to harness they aren't at all what the gal wanted in the beginning, and if she can't break them they usually break her. But that's the way of it."

She went back into the other room, wherever it was, and I ate my soup. It was good soup, and I thought how I'd lied in my voice if not in my heart. I did so think about her. When a big, homely man like me has a woman do for him it softens him up, and me being lonely like so much of the time, it was just natural I'd think of how fine it would be, but there's no harm in thinking, and I knew all the time it was impossible. Still, I wished it was somebody else than that Curly.

I wished it was anybody else than Curly.

After I'd eaten, I slept. What awakened me I don't know, but it must have been the sound of horses' hoofs in the ranch yard. Rising up on one elbow, I listened and heard voices.

Reaching over to that holster I drew out that Dance & Park pistol and brought it back into bed with me, taking it under the covers and alongside my right leg.

With a man like Curly Dunn you have no idea, and after what he'd done I had a hunch that had he met me out on the trail alone he would have killed me ... just for the hell of it.

With his friend along I guess he just didn't want to be that ornery. Nobody looks on cold-blooded killing with favor, not even those liable to do it themselves ... a body never knows when he'll be the victim with a man like that.

Anyway, it gave me a right comforting feeling to have that old six-shooter under my hand.

There was talk in the other rooms that I could hear vaguely, talk and laughter and some singing. Meg was playing a banjo and singing soft and low, so I could not hear the words. It would have been a good sound to go to sleep by, only I daren't. Soon or late she was going to tell him about the man she found alongside the trail, and he would come to look.

Suddenly I heard footsteps and then the door opened. Curly stood there, looking across the room at me. I was setting up.

"They were fools to take you in," he said. "They've no idea who you are."

"Neither do you," I said. "But they're good folks, who'd help a man who was hurt ... not ride him down."

He chuckled, but it was a mean kind of humor. "You looked funny," he said, "topplin' over thataway. Like a rag doll."

He started toward me, dropping his hand to his gun. "You're the kind who might commit suicide," he said thoughtfully, "a man as bad off as you are. It wouldn't surprise anybody."

"It would surprise my brother Galloway," I said, "and the rest of the Sacketts.

But don't you worry none. I'm not figurin' on it."

"But with a little help?"

He meant it, too. There was a cruel streak in the man, a mean, cruel streak. He taken another step toward me and then almost by accident his eyes fell on the empty holster hanging to the bedpost.

It stopped him.

That and my right hand under the covers. Did I have the gun? He didn't know, but I could see him begin to sweat. The beads just stepped out on his forehead like water had been thrown at him.

He looked at me, and toward the blanket where my right hand was hidden, and I could just see him wondering if I'd draw that gun from under the covers in time, so I said, "Now no man in his right mind draws a gun from under blankets when he can shoot right through them."

He looked at me, his eyes all hot and bright, the sweat still on him, his fear fighting with his greed to kill or maim. "You've got a gun?"

"Have I?" I grinned at him. "It's a good question, isn't it? I didn't have one out on the trail, bein' stark naked as I was, but Mr. Rossiter might have given me one."

"He wouldn't be such a fool. You might murder them all."

"Maybe he thinks they're in less danger from me than from you."

That hit him. He liked being what he was but he did not like having it known, or guessed.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Was it Rocker's name that got to you? You probably decided you could kill more men than he could ... only Rocker generally shoots them standing up. Or so I've heard."

He kind of drew back. He had decided he did not like the odds. He might have tried it, at that, and then tried to convince the Rossiters it had been suicide.

Such men often believe the impossible because it suits them to believe, or because they have big ideas of themselves.

Just then we heard the click of heels and then Meg was in the room, her pa right behind her. "Oh! Here you are! I went to put fudge on the dish and start some coffee and when I got back you were gone."

"He came back to pay his respects, ma'am," I said dryly. "It was the only polite thing to do."

She shot him a quick glance, then looked hard at me. Curly Dunn looked as bland and innocent as a newborn baby, but I expect that was how he always looked. Only when he glanced at me his eyes took on that greasy look.

When they had gone Rossiter remained behind. "What happened?" he demanded.

I shrugged. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Rossiter's eyes went to the empty holster, then to my right hand under the covers. "You're a careful man," he said.

"My grandpa," I said, "lived to be ninety-four. It was a caution to us all."

We talked the evening away, mostly of cows and ranching, Indians and the like, and all the while I was learning about this country, the prettiest I'd ever seen.

"In the country north of Shalako," he said, "there's high mountain parks the like of which you've never seen. Running streams everywhere, waterfalls, lost canyons, and good feed for stock. I've seen outcrops of coal, and there are stories that the old Spanish men mined for gold up there."

"I'll be riding out," I said, "but I'll be coming back ... with Galloway."

He glanced at me. "Curly says he's met your brother. That Galloway Sackett backed down from him."

"Galloway," I told him, "hasn't any back-up in him. He probably didn't figure it was the custom of the country to kill somebody that isn't dry behind the ears yet."

He left me finally, and I eased down into the bed and stretched out. It felt good, real good. I was warm, I had eaten, and I could rest. Yet I did not let myself fall asleep until I heard Curly Dunn ride off.

Rossiter had a small operation going for him, a herd of no more than three hundred head, mostly breeding stock, but he was a prosperous man and had come into the country with money. He had no need to sell stock, and could hold off and let the natural increase build his herd. Although I expect he had the notion of picking up a few head when buying was possible. A man with ready cash can often make some good buys of folks who just can't cut the mustard.

He had built a strong five-room house of logs with three good fireplaces, one of them big enough to warm two rooms and which could be fed from both. He had a weather-tight stable and some pole corrals, and he had a dozen head of good horses and two cowhands. In the house he had a Mexican woman for a cook who looked strong enough to handle both of the cowhands in a rough-and-tumble fight.

But she could really throw the grub together.

She brought me breakfast in the morning, and then she brought me some clothes.

The pants were a might short in the leg as I am two niches above six feet, and the shirt was short in the arm, but it felt good to have civilized clothes on again. They hadn't no spare boots but they did have hide, so I set to work and made myself a pair of moccasins.

Meg stopped by to watch. She set down on the porch beside me whilst I cut them out and shaped them to my feet. "You have done that before?"

"Often. I can make a fair pair of boots, too, given the time."

"Have you?"

"In the Sackett family if a boy wanted boots he made 'em himself. That is, if he was over twelve. Before that we mostly went barefooted. I was sixteen year old before I had me a pair of store-bought shoes. I saved 'em for dancin'."

She hugged her knees and looked at the line of trees beyond the ranchyard. "What were the dances like?"

"Well, most often they were at the schoolhouse. Sometimes they'd be in somebody's yard. The word would go out and folks would tell each other, and each would fix up a basket and go. Other times it would just be sort of on the spur, and they'd come from all over.