Sackett (1961) (16 page)

Lowering the sled away ahead of us, we made it down. One time the wind came around a shoulder of the mountain and lifted the sled, man and all, like it was a leaf, but set it down again before the rope tore from my hands. We both heard the Kid scream when the drop jolted his broken leg.

Bracing myself on great shattered rocks, I lowered him. Climbing after, lowering Ange, I lost all sense of time, and could not remember when it ever had been warm.

Below us was a huge old tree, ripped from the rock by its roots. It sprawled like a great spider, petrified in the moment of death, legs writhing. A little below it were some wind-tortured trees, and then the forest We could see the tops of the trees and, far off below, a white, white world of snow, with here and there a faint feather of smoke rising from some house.

Hugging that wind-torn mountainside, and looking down into those treetops, I could hardly believe there was a house with a fire burning in it, or Ma a-rocking in her old rocker, or Orrin a-singing. It was a world far away from the wind, the cold, and snow that drove at your face like sand.

But, easing the sled down a little farther, we got into the trees. From there to the bottom it was mostly a matter of guiding the sled, belaying the rope around a tree here and there to ease it, and working our way through. One time Ange almost dropped, and my own knees were buckling most of the way.

By the time we reached the path I'd cut to build a little fort above the camp, I had fallen down a couple of times, and I was so numb with cold and so exhausted I could scarce think. The draw rope over my shoulder, and one arm around Ange, I started through the tall pines toward the house.

The snow was deep under the trees, but there was a slow lift of smoke from the chimney, and a light in the window. Seemed like only a short time ago it was coming daylight, and now it was night-time again.

Then I fell, face down in the snow. Seemed to me I tried to get up ... seemed to get my hands under me and push. I could see that light in the window and I could hear myself talking. I hauled away and got to the door, where I couldn't make my fingers work the latch.

The door opened of a sudden and Cap was standing there with a six-gun in his hand, looking like he was the old Cap and ready to start shooting.

"It ain't worth the trouble, Cap. I think I'm dead already."

Joe Rugger was there, and between them they got Kid Newton off the sled and into the house. Ange, she just sat down and started to cry, and I knelt on the floor and put my arm around her and kept telling her everything was all right.

Kid Newton caught my sleeve. "By God," he said, "today I seen a man! I thought--"

"Get some sleep," I said. "Joe's going for the doctor."

"I seen a man," the Kid repeated. "Why, when I hung those guns on me I thought I was something, I thought--"

"Shut up," I said. And I reached my hands toward the fire a distance off. I could feel the million tiny needles starting to dance in my fingers as the cold began to leave them.

"Speaking of men"--I looked over at Newton-- "if you ever get down to Mora, I've got two brothers down there, Tyrel and Orrin. Now there's a couple of men!

"Always figured to make something of myself," I said, "but I guess I just ain't got in me."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I just let the heat soak into me, every muscle feeling stretched out and useless. Ange had quit her crying and dropped off to sleep there beside me, her face drawn, dark hollows under her eyes.

"You been through it," Cap said. He looked at Newton. "What did you bring him back for?"

"I got no better sense, Cap. I brought him down off that mountain because there was nobody else to do it."

"But he wanted to kill you!"

"Sure ... he had him a notion, that was all. I reckon since then he's had time to contemplate." Cap Rountree took his pipe out of his teeth and dumped coffee in the pot. "Then you take time to contemplate about this,"

he said, "There's another Bigelow down in town.

He's asking for you."

Chapter
XV

It wasn't in me to lie abed. Come daylight, I was on my feet, but I wasn't up to much. What I really got up for was vittles. Seemed like I hadn't been so hungry in years.

Ange was still sleeping in the other room, and Joe Rugger and his wife, just out from Ohio, had come out to the place.

That Bigelow worries me," Rugger said. "He's a man hunting trouble like you never saw."

Those Bigelows," I said, "they remind me of those little animals a Swede told me about one time. Called them lemmings or something like that. Seems as if all of a sudden they take out for the ocean . . . millions of them, and they run right into the ocean and drown. Those Bigelows seem bound and determined to get themselves killed just as fast as they can manage."

"Don't take him lightly, Tell," Rugger warned me. "He killed a man in Denver City, and another in Tascosa. Benson Bigelow, he's the oldest, biggest, and toughest of all of them."

"Heard of him," Cap said. "I didn't know he was kin."

"He's been asking questions about his brothers. They haven't come back out of the mountains, and he says you murdered them."

"Them and three more? That's quite a lot to take on. Believe me, they haven't come out of the mountains, and it will surprise me if they ever do."

The warmth of the room felt good and after a while I stretched out and slept some more.

When I opened my eyes Ange was fixing something at the stove. I got up and pulled on my boots. I spilled some water in the basin and washed my face and hands. The water felt good on my face, and I decided I needed a shave.

Cap was off somewhere, and just the two of us were there. The doctor had taken the Kid away. It was nice, shaving, with Ange fussing over something at the fire. Finally she called me to dinner and I was ready. Cap came in, stomping the snow from his boots on the stoop.

"Snowing," he said. "You were lucky. A few hours more, and you might never have made it."

Ange brought me a cup of coffee and I held it in my hands, thinking about those men up there. They brought it on themselves, and despite their ill feeling for me, I was wishing they would make it.

They never did.

Cap accepted coffee too, and he looked over at me. "That Benson Bigelow is telling it around that you're yellow, afraid to meet him."

Some folks are bound and determined to make fools of themselves.

All I wanted was a ranch of my own, some cattle, and a little land I could crop. Only when I looked up there at Ange I knew that wasn't all I wanted.

I had no idea how to put it, and hated to risk it, knowing how little I had to offer. Here I was a grown man, just learning to read proper, and although I'd found some gold there was no telling how deep that vein would run. In fact, it acted to me like a pocket. That was why as soon as spring came I was going to light out for Mora to see the boys.

I said as much to Cap.

"You needn't worry," he said. "Tyrel and Orrin, they're riding up here. Them and Ollie Shaddock."

Ollie was from the Cumberland too. Sheriff back there one time, and some kin of ours. He was the one who got Orrin into politics, although Tennessee boys take to politics like they do to coon hunting.

"When do you expect them?"

"Tonight or tomorrow, if all goes well. They heard you were fetching trouble and they sent word they were coming up."

They would ride into town and, unknown to them, that Bigelow would be there, and he might hear one of them called Sackett and just open up and start shooting.

If he faced them, I wasn't worried. Tyrel now, Tyrel was hell on wheels with a pistol.

I finished my coffee and got up. Then I took down my gun belt and slung it around my hips and took down my coat and hat. "Riding up to town," I said. "A little fresh air."

"Kind of stuffy in here," Cap Rountree said. "Mind if I ride along?"

Ange had turned from the fire with a big spoon in her hand.

"What about supper? After I've gone to all this trouble?"

"We'll be back," I said. "You keep it warm, Ange."

I shrugged into my coat and put on my hat. I was going to have to get me a coonskin for this weather. "Anyway," I said, "the way I figure, I shouldn't get used to your cooking, nohow. A man can form a habit."

She was looking me right in the eye, her face flushed a mite from the fire, looking pretty as all get-out.

"Trouble is, no woman in her right mind would marry a fool, and I'm certainly one."

"A lot you know about women!" she scoffed. "Did you ever see a fool who didn't have a wife?"

Come to that, I hadn't.

"Keep it warm," I said.

She didn't say a word about shooting or Benson Bigelow. She just said, "You come back, Tell Sackett, I won't have my supper wasted. Not after all this trouble."

It was cool in the outside air, and Cap led the horses out. He had them saddled. "Figured you wouldn't want the boys to come up against it, unexpected," he said.

The saloon was hot and crowded, and up at the bar a big man was standing. He had a broad, hard-boned face and it took only one look to see this was no ordinary Bigelow, this was the Old Man of the Woods, right from Bitter Creek, tough and mean and not all talk.

He turned around and looked at me and I walked over and leaned on the bar alongside him.

You never saw a saloon lose customers so fast. Must have been fifty, sixty men in there when I leaned on that bar, and a half-minute later there weren't but five or six, the kind who just have to stay and see what happens, men determined to be innocent bystanders.

This Bigelow sized me up and I looked back at him kind of mild and round-eyed, and I said, "Nice mustache you have there, Mr. Bigelow."

"What's wrong with my mustache?"

"Why, nothing ... exactly."

"What's that mean?"

"Buy you a drink?"

"What's wrong with my mustache? No, I'll buy my own drinks!"

For the first time he realized the crowd was gone. The skin under his eyes seemed to tighten.

Outside I thought I could hear horses coming. It was late for travel in this weather, which made me wonder if it wasn't Tyrel and Orrin.

Those brothers of mine . . . ride hundreds of miles--well, maybe a couple hundred--through rough country because they figured I was standing alone against trouble.

"Are you Tell Sackett?"

"That brother of yours, Wes, he never was no hand with cards. Nor a pistol, either."

"What happened to Tom and Ira?"

"You look long enough, you'll find them in the spring," I told him. "They had no more sense than to come chasing me back into the hills, with winter coming on and snow in the air."

"Did you see them?"

"They tried to kill me a couple of times. They weren't any better shots than Wes. Tom, he lost his gun up there."

Bigelow was quiet, and I could see him studying things out in his mind.

"Hear you came up here hunting me," I said mildly. "It's a long ride for the trouble."

He couldn't quite make me out. Nothing I had said showed I was troubled about anything, just talking like to any passer-by.

"You know something, Bigelow? You better just straddle your horse and ride out of here. What happened to your brothers was brought on them by their own actions."

"Maybe you're right," he said. I'll buy the drink."

So we had a drink together, and then I ordered one. When I got rid of that I drew back. "Well, I've got a good supper waiting for me. See you around, Bigelow."

Turning, I started for the door and then he said, "Sackett

His gun cocked when it cleared leather and a sound like that is plain to hear in an empty room. I drew as I turned and his first bullet whiffed by my ear. Steadying down, I shot him through the belly, and it slammed him against the bar. But he caught the edge with his left hand and pulled himself around. I did not hear the report, but I felt the slug take me low and hard. I braced myself and shot him again.

He did not go down ... .44 or not, you have to hit a man right through the heart, through the head, or on a big bone to stop him if he's mad, and Bigelow was killing mad. He was a big bear of a man and he looked tough as a winter on the cap-rock of west Texas.

For what seemed like minutes he stood there, and I could see the blood soaking his shirt front and pants, and then great red drops of it began to hit the floor between his feet.

He lifted his gun, taking his time, his left hand still clinging to the bar, and he took dead aim at me. He started to cock the gun, and I shot him again. He jolted the bar when he slammed against it. A bottle tipped over and rolled down the bar, spilling whiskey. He reached over and took up the bottle and drank out of it, holding it in his left hand, never taking his eyes off me.

He put the bottle down, and I said, "That drink was on me."

"I made a mistake," he said. "I guess you shot them honest."

"Only Wes ... the cold got the others."