Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (6 page)

Sarah proved to be an adequate cook, nothing special, but filling, with the standard fare Carson expected in a place like Crazy Jack's—beans cooked in a pot with slices of sowbelly, mixed up with small chunks of meat that Carson suspected was muskrat—and something that looked like wild turnips. To round it out, she brought out a loaf of sourdough bread, baked fresh that morning. It was washed down with the always necessary black coffee. It was the best meal that Carson had had in quite some time, so he made it a point to compliment her and thank her for it. She said nothing in return, but stared at him as if he had said something degrading. Carson's compliment caught Red Shirt's attention as well, and he paused in his eating to study the young man intently. After a moment, he shrugged and continued eating his beans, using a slice of bread as his spoon.

After the table was cleared, Jack brought out a bottle, and the drinking began. Several rounds were downed before he produced a deck of cards, so old and worn that Carson imagined that the gruff old man probably knew each card by touch. He declined the invitation to sit in a game of poker with the excuse that he didn't have anything he could afford to lose, so he sat at the end of the table and watched. As he had figured, Jack seemed to have the luck that night, so much so that Carson wondered when the violence would begin. It never did, however, even after Jack won hand after hand. All of the other players complained and cursed the cards, but no one challenged Jack's luck. This caused Carson to speculate on the reason. After giving it some thought, he decided Jack's was the only place Red Shirt could go to trade and play cards. Jack was, no doubt, aware of this and played it to his advantage. There was no telling how much stolen merchandise had passed through Jack's business to be traded with the Indians.

As the night wore on, Carson became tired of watching the poker game and announced that he was going to turn in. Swann promptly threw his hand in and said he was going to bed, too. “That damn crooked old man ain't gonna let nobody have a fair hand. I might as well go with Carson before I lose every cent I got.” He got up from the table and followed Carson out the door. Carson couldn't help wondering if Swann's decision might in actuality have been an effort to keep an eye on him. True, Carson had considered the opportunity to possibly ride out while his three companions were deep into their whiskey and cards. He might have given it serious thought if Swann had remained in the game. To add to his suspicions, when they bade each other a good night, Swann picked up his bedroll and moved it over by the horses. Coincidence or just happenstance? Carson couldn't say for sure, but he decided tonight was not the night to make good his escape. There were bound to be better opportunities. He picked up his blankets and moved closer to the river.

He had barely settled in to go to sleep when he heard a soft footfall on the sunbaked ground above his head. Without thinking, he immediately rolled over on his belly, snatching his Colt revolver up as he did, ready to fire at the dark form standing over him. “Don't shoot,” a soft voice whispered. “It's just me, Sarah.”

Fairly astonished, Carson put the pistol back where it had lain beside his blanket. “Well, I'm sorry, ma'am,” he sputtered, purely bewildered by her appearance at his bedside, “but I swear, I almost shot you.”

Sarah knelt down beside him. “I brought you a couple slices of bread. A young boy sometimes gets hungry during the night, and this will soak up some of the whiskey you drank. Still puzzled, he started to thank her, but she interrupted. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” he told her as he began to have uneasy feelings about the clandestine visit from the older woman.

“Seventeen,” she repeated, “about what I woulda guessed.” He could see her nodding in the darkness. “How long have you been riding with this gang of murderers?”

“Just a few days, ma'am,” he answered.

“How many men have you killed?”

“I've not shot anyone,” he replied.

“Good,” she said at once, “then you still have a chance to make something better out of your life than riding with scum like Red Shirt and the others. I knew I saw something decent in you right from the first. But you need to run as far away from those three as you can.”

Feeling somewhat relieved now, he said, “I am, ma'am. I'm plannin' on runnin' first chance I get, but I'm waitin' for a time when I can get a good head start. I think they've been keepin' a pretty close eye on me 'cause I saw Red Shirt kill a U.S. marshal.”

“Good for you, boy. You take leave of these bastards before they get you mixed up in some of their evil doings.” She got up then, apparently satisfied that she had accomplished what she had come to do, and left Carson staring at her dark figure as it vanished in the dark. Thinking he was too wide awake at this point to ever get to sleep, he lay back and stared up into the starless night. It seemed like a year since he had bade Mr. Patterson farewell in Ogallala and started out on the first leg of a journey that he figured would find him in Montana. In actuality, it had been only a few weeks.

He had no idea when he drifted off to sleep, but he awoke in the morning to find the sun already sending its fingers probing the shadows in the trees by the river. After breakfast inside, most of the morning was wasted away while Jack and Red Shirt argued over the value of the horses. Carson sat on the ground with Tice and Swann beside a small fire Swann built in a corner of the yard and waited for the trading to be finished. Leaning on one elbow, absentmindedly feeding the fire with small twigs, Swann finally sought to satisfy his curiosity. “What was goin' on between you and Jack's wife last night?” he asked Carson. “I saw her talkin' to you after we turned in.”

Not surprised that Swann had seen them, Carson replied, “She brought me some leftover bread, thought I might get hungry, so she offered it to me before throwin' it to the hogs.”

“Huh,” Swann grunted, “she coulda throwed some of it my way.” He sat back, apparently satisfied with Carson's answer. “Probably thinkin' about her boy,” he said.

“She's got a son?” Carson asked.

“Did have,” Swann said. “He's dead now, got shot down by a part-time sheriff on a bank robbery that went bad—up at Deadwood. I reckon he was about your age, just a young feller.”

His comment caused Carson to turn to look at the solemn woman who came out of the cabin just then to throw the breakfast dishwater out in the yard. He understood now why she had come to talk to him last night. She met his gaze for a moment before turning away to return to her kitchen, giving no response by her expression. It was easier to understand the woman's concern for him now, and he hoped that he had convinced her that he had no intention of falling to the same fate.

It was late in the morning before Red Shirt and Jack reached final agreement on the trading. As usual, according to Tice, Jack got the better side of the trade. “I reckon we can saddle up now.” His guess was confirmed moments later when Red Shirt stalked past them on his way to the horses, cursing Crazy Jack for a cheating skinflint, and telling the three lounging men to get saddled. Less than an hour later, they were on their way, the one packhorse they kept loaded with supplies and cartridges Red Shirt had traded for the extra horses. Crossing over the fork of the Cheyenne, they continued north. According to Red Shirt's reckoning, they could anticipate striking the Beaver River in half a day.

Feeling as much a prisoner as he had felt while in the custody of Deputy Marshal Luther Moody, Carson rode silently, his thoughts of escape interrupted frequently by bantering between Tice and Swann. There was plenty of time to consider the two outlaws who followed their savage boss's whims without protest, riding along behind him like brainless servants. The two men were as different as night and day. Tice seemed to always have something eating away at his insides that caused him to be constantly irritated. He was a tough, wiry man, whose face seemed to never have experienced a smile. Swann, on the other hand, wore a foolish grin for most of the time, seeming to be amused by most everything that happened. The trait the two men had in common was a callous disregard for human life and sympathy for no one.
Fine lot I'm riding with,
Carson thought, recalling Sarah's words. Then it occurred to him that he would hate to have his grandmother see him riding with such evil vermin.

It was the first time he had thought about his grandmother in many years. He didn't recall very much about the woman who gave him birth, for he was only four years old when his mother died trying to give him a younger brother. The baby, a girl actually, didn't make it, either. His father was hit pretty hard by the loss of his wife and, finding it too much to bear, left his four-year-old son with his grandmother and went back to work herding cattle. So Grandma Ryan raised the boy until she passed away when he was fourteen. With no reason to stay, Carson followed his father into the business of punching cattle. In the three years since he had gone to work for Mr. Bob Patterson, he never crossed paths with his father.

* * *

Upon reaching the Beaver, they decided it was still a little too early to camp for the night, so they stopped for a short while to rest the horses before continuing on. “We'll just follow the river a ways yet,” Red Shirt decided. “We've got a good two hours of daylight left, so if we stay with the river, we'll have a camp with plenty of water and grass.” They had not gone on for more than a couple of miles, however, before striking a fresh trail where a small party had crossed the river. Red Shirt immediately dismounted to study the tracks in the soft sand at the water's edge. “Five horses,” the half-breed decided, “or four horses and a mule, maybe.” He stood up and looked to the east and the dark mountains called the Black Hills. “They came from the hills, headin' west. Maybe some prospectors headin' west with some gold.” His eyes narrowed, hiding the gleam that always came with the thought of a potential victim. “Maybe something to gain,” he announced.

“More likely some damn jackass that finally gave up and is headin' for home with his pockets empty,” Tice remarked.

“Tice is probably right,” Carson quickly commented, alarmed that he might find himself involved in an attack upon some innocent prospectors. “Most likely a waste of our time.”

Mildly surprised that Carson had offered an opinion, Red Shirt cocked an eyebrow as he gave the young man a sharp eye. “Won't hurt to take a look,” he said. “Maybe something to gain.”

There was no point in trying to argue, so there was nothing Carson could do but hope the party was long gone. This hope was crippled when Red Shirt said the tracks weren't but a few hours old. It gave him a sick feeling inside to think that he might be a part of a robbery, but he resigned himself to the inevitable. It was a waste of time lamenting the fact that he had not made a run for it while they were still camped at Crazy Jack's.

The trail appeared to be a commonly traveled one and led them across a low hill, thick with pines. Soon the sun dropped behind the trees, leaving the forest around them to begin to close in as they made their way carefully now. Suddenly Red Shirt held up his hand, directing them to stop and dismount. When the three behind him caught up, he pointed to a glow filtering through the trees ahead. “It looks like a stream up ahead,” Red Shirt said softly. “You stay here. I'll go take a look.”

He was gone for about twenty minutes before reappearing out of the darkness. “Two men and a woman,” he reported. “They look like prospectors, maybe. Don't know what else they'd be, comin' outta the hills. I don't know if they'll amount to much of a payday, but maybe something to gain.” He checked his rifle to make sure it had a full magazine. “We'll ride in peaceful-like. It'll be like shootin' fish in a barrel. They don't look like they could give us much trouble.”

“Well, let's get at it, then,” Tice said, checking his own rifle.

“What did the woman look like?” Swann wanted to know.

“Let's give 'em time to settle down for the night,” Red Shirt said. “Might as well make it easy on ourselves.” He turned his gaze to settle on Carson then and studied the young man for a moment. “No,” he said then, “we'll leave the horses here and walk into their camp and hit 'em before they know what's what.”

“What did the woman look like?” Swann repeated. “She old, young, or what?”

“Whaddaya care?” Tice scoffed. “When did you get so picky?”

“Damn it, I just asked,” Swann came back, his hackles up.

“I couldn't tell,” Red Shirt finally told him, “just a woman.” Unlike Swann, he was not interested in the woman, only the possibility of acquiring the party's possessions. “After we take care of the two men, then you can worry about the woman.”

The bickering over for the moment, they sat down to wait and to anticipate the attack to come, eager to see if their intended victims might be some of the fortunate ones who had found gold in the mountain streams—all except one. Carson was almost frantic inside, caught in the evil web of Red Shirt's intentions. He could not blindly go along with the savage half-breed's raid on an innocent party. As he sat waiting with them, he glanced from one face to another, seeing the eager anticipation in both Tice and Swann, and the patient countenance of the calculating half-breed. It almost made him sick inside to know what was planned for the party of prospectors, and the fact that he didn't know how he could prevent it. He knew that he could not stop all three of them, even if he decided to attack them. But he also knew he had to do something to stop a conscienceless massacre. When it was time to move on the camp, he was handed another setback that he had not expected.

“All right,” Red Shirt said, “it's time to go get 'em.” When they all rose to their feet, he caught Carson by the arm. “You stay here with the horses. When the shootin' starts, we don't want 'em runnin' all over hell and back.” From the beginning, Red Shirt had questioned the resolve he read in the young man's eyes, and he decided it best not to take a chance on Carson doing something crazy in the heat of a gunfight.