“We’re from Missouri,” she said. “We’re going west and I guess we’ll stop when we feel like it. We’ve got fourteen young ’uns and are hoping to establish a farm.”
Eight or nine of the young ones were riding in the wagon. They stared at Roscoe and Janey, as silent as owls.
Several times they met soldiers going east toward Fort Smith. The soldiers were a taciturn lot and passed without much talk. Roscoe attempted to inquire about July, but the soldiers made it clear that they had better things to do than keep a lookout for Arkansas sheriffs.
Janey was shy of people. She had keen eyesight and would usually see other travelers before Roscoe did. Often when she saw one she disappeared, darting off the trail and hiding in weeds and tall grass until the stranger passed.
“What are you hiding for?” Roscoe asked. “Them soldiers ain’t after you.”
“Bill might be with them,” Janey said.
“Bill who?”
“Bill,” she repeated. “He gave me to old Sam. I ain’t going with Bill again.”
She continued to hide at the approach of strangers, and once in a while Roscoe had to admit that it was well she did. There were some rough customers traveling the trail. One day they met two dirty-looking men with greasy beards and six or seven guns between them. Roscoe had an anxious moment, for the men stopped him and asked to borrow tobacco. The fact that he was traveling without any didn’t sit well with them, and they looked as if they might contest the issue.
“I reckon you’re lying,” one said. He was a small fellow but had mean little eyes and was generally more frightening than his companion, a man the size of an ox, who seemed to take no interest in the conversation.
“Why would a man travel without nothing to smoke?” the little one asked.
“It never agreed with me,” Roscoe explained. “I had to give it up.”
“If you was more dried up I guess we could smoke you,” the little one said, with mean intent.
But the men rode on, and Roscoe soon forgot about them and began to feel drowsy. The day was muggy, and occasionally he would see lightning flicker in the west.
After a while it struck him that something was missing, and he figured out that it was Janey. Usually, once the travelers were out of sight, she reappeared. Memphis had come to trust her and would follow her like a pet goat.
Only this time she wasn’t there to follow. Roscoe looked all around and there wasn’t a soul in sight, though the plain stretched out and he could see for miles. He was alone, and by no means sure of his direction. It scared him. He had come to depend on the girl, even though she was a loud sleeper. He yelled a time or two, but got no response. The fact that he could see so far scared him a little. He had been raised in a land of trees and was not used to country that looked so long and empty. How he could have lost Janey in such an open place was a mystery to him. He sat still for a while, hoping she would pop up, but she didn’t, and finally he rode on at a slow walk.
An hour passed, and then another, and Roscoe was forced to consider the possibility that he might have lost the girl. One of the snakes she took so little notice of could have bitten her. She could be dying somewhere back along the trail.
If she wasn’t going to reappear it was his duty to go back and find her, and, as sunset was not far off, and it looked like thunderstorms were on the way, he had better hurry.
He turned and started back at a trot, but had not gone twenty paces before Janey popped up from behind a bush and jumped right up on Memphis.
“They’re followin’,” she said. “I been watching. I guess they want to kill you.”
“Well, they won’t find no tobacco, even if they do,” Roscoe said.
Still, the little one had had a bad pair of eyes, and he could easily believe they meant to harm him. He wheeled the horse around and started to put him into a run, but Janey jerked on the reins.
“They’re in front of us,” she said. “They got around you while you was poking along.”
Roscoe had never felt so at a loss. There was not so much as a tree in sight, and it was a long way back to Fort Smith. He didn’t see how the men could expect to ambush him in the open plain.
“Dern,” he said, feeling hopeless. “I can’t figure which way to run.”
Janey pointed north. “Up that way,” she said. “There’s a gully.”
Roscoe couldn’t see what good a gully would do but he took her advice, and they set off north at a dead run. Memphis was shocked to be spurred into a run, but once he got started he ran with a will.
Once again, Janey was right. They had only been running half a mile when they struck a big gully. Roscoe stopped and looked around. Not a soul was in sight, which made him feel silly. What were they to do next?
“Can you shoot?” Janey asked, jumping down.
“Well, I have shot,” Roscoe said. “There ain’t been nobody much to shoot at in Fort Smith. Sometimes July and I shoot at pumpkins, or bottles and things. July’s a good shot, but I’m just fair. I expect I could hit that big fellow but I don’t know about the little one.”
“Gimme the pistol, I’ll shoot ’em for you,” Janey said.
“What’d you ever shoot?” he asked, surprised.
“Give it to me,” Janey said, and when he slowly handed it over, she hopped off the horse, climbed out of the gully and disappeared.
Five minutes later, before he could even untie his tarp, it began to rain. Lightning started hitting the ground, and it rained torrents. Roscoe got totally soaked. In ten minutes there was a little river running down the middle of the gully, though the gully had been bone-dry when they rode up. The thunder crashed and it grew dark.
Roscoe felt that he had never hated travel so much, not even when the pigs chased him. He was alone and likely either to be drowned or shot before the night was over, or even well begun.
He remembered how snug and secure the jail was, back in Fort Smith, how nice it was to come in slightly drunk and have a comfortable couch to lie on. It was a life he fervently wished he had never left.
The rain increased until it seemed to Roscoe it was raining as hard as it could possibly rain. He didn’t try to seek shelter, for there was none. It was uncomfortable to be so soaked, but since the water was probably all that was keeping him from being murdered by the little man with the mean eyes, it was silly to complain. Roscoe just sat, hoping that the little creek that filled the gully wouldn’t rise enough to drown him.
The storm turned out to be just a heavy shower. In ten minutes the rain lightened, and soon it was barely sprinkling. The sun had set, but to the west there was a clear band of sky under the clouds, and the clouds were thinning. The band of sky became red with afterglow. Above it, as the clouds thinned, there was a band of white, and then a deep blue, with the evening star in it. Roscoe dismounted and stood there dripping, aware that he ought to be planning some form of defense but unable to think of any. It seemed to him the storm might have discouraged the two men—maybe one of them had even been struck by lightning.
Before he could draw much comfort from that line of speculation he heard his own gun go off. A second or two later it went off again, and then again. The sound came from just north of the gully. As he could not be any wetter, and could not stand the suspense of not knowing what was going on, he waded the little creek and climbed the bank, only to look and see the barrels of a shotgun not a yard from his face. The ox of a man held the shotgun; in his big hands it looked tiny, though the barrels in Roscoe’s face seemed as big as cannons.
“Clamber on up here, traveler,” the big man said.
July had told him never to argue with a loaded gun, and Roscoe had no intention of disobeying his instructions. He climbed up the muddy bank and saw that Janey was involved in a tussle with the little outlaw. He had her down and was astraddle of her and was trying to tie her, but Janey was wiggling desperately. She was covered with mud, and in the wet, slick grass was proving hard to subdue. The man cuffed her twice, but the blows had
no effect that Roscoe could see.
The big man with the shotgun seemed to find the tussle amusing. He walked over for a closer look, though he continued to keep the shotgun pointed at Roscoe.
“Why don’t you just shoot her?” he asked the little man. “She was willing to shoot you.”
The little man didn’t answer. He was breathing hard but he continued to try and tie Janey’s wrists.
Roscoe had to admire Janey’s spunk. The situation looked hopeless, but she kept struggling, twisting around and scratching at the man when she could. Finally the big man stepped in and planted a muddy boot on one of her arms, enabling his companion to tie her wrists. The little man cuffed her again for good measure, and sat back to get his breath. He looked around at Roscoe, his eyes as bad as ever.
“Where’d you get this feisty rabbit?” he asked. “She dern near shot me and she nicked Hutto.”
“We’re from Arkansas,” Roscoe said. He felt foolish for having given Janey the pistol. After all, he was the deputy. On the other hand, if they had seen him shoot, the men might have shot back.
“Let’s just shoot them and take the horse,” Hutto, the big man said. “We could have done it this afternoon and saved all this time.”
“Yeah, and the dern soldiers would have found them,” the other said. “You can’t just leave bodies lying right in the road no more. Somebody’s apt to take an interest.”
“Jim, you’re too nervous,” Hutto said. “Anyway, this ain’t a road, and we ain’t far from the Territory. Let’s shoot ’em and take what they got.”
“What have they got, by God?” Jim asked. “Go bring the horse.”
Hutto brought Memphis and the two amused themselves for a few minutes by going through the bedroll and the saddlebags. One kept Roscoe covered with the shotgun while the other emptied the contents of the saddlebags carelessly on the wet grass. What they saw was very disappointing to them.
“All right, Jim, I told you they looked like a waste of time,” Hutto said.
“Well, there’s a horse, at least,” Jim said. Then he gave Roscoe a mean look.
“Strip off them duds,” he said.
“What?” Roscoe asked.
“Strip off them duds,” the man repeated. He picked up Roscoe’s pistol, which had fallen in the grass, and pointed it at him.
“Why must I?” Roscoe asked.
“Well, your underwear might fit me,” Jim suggested. “You ain’t got much else to offer.”
Roscoe was forced to take off every bit of clothing. He felt miserable taking off his boots, for he knew that wet as they were he’d be lucky to get them back on. But then, if he was dead it wouldn’t matter. When he got down to his long johns he became embarrassed, for after all Janey was sitting there watching. She was wet and muddy, and hadn’t said a word.
The man seemed to think he might have money sewed in his long johns, and insisted he take them off. Hutto poked him with the barrels of the shotgun, something he couldn’t ignore. He took them off and stood there naked, hoping Janey wouldn’t look.
Of course the men found the thirty dollars he was carrying in his old wallet—it represented a month’s wages, and was all he had to finish the trip with. But they had found that before they made him strip. They seemed reluctant to believe it was all the money he had, and casually proceeded to pick his clothes apart with their knives.
“The thirty dollars is all I got,” he said several times.
“I guess you wouldn’t be the first man to lie,” Jim said, picking at the seams of his pants to see if he had any greenbacks sewed in them.
Roscoe was appalled, for the clothes that were being destroyed were the only ones he owned. Then he remembered that he was going to be killed anyway and felt a little better. It was very embarrassing to him to have to stand there naked.
The men weren’t watching Janey—they were too intent on trying to find money in his saddlebags. While they were all ignoring her she had been quietly scooting backwards on the slick grass. Jim had his back to her and Hutto was winding Roscoe’s old pocket watch. Roscoe happened to look and saw that Janey was quietly creeping away; they had tied her hands but had neglected her feet. Suddenly she began to run. It was deep dusk and in a second she had got into the tall grass north of the gully. She made no sound, but Hutto must have sensed something, for he whirled and let go a blast with the shotgun. Roscoe flinched. Hutto fired the other barrel, and Jim turned and shot three times with Roscoe’s own pistol, which he had stuck in his belt.
Roscoe peered into the dusk, but there was no sign of Janey. The bandits looked too, with no better luck.
“Reckon we hit her?” Jim asked.
“Nope,” Hutto said. “She got in that tall grass.”
“Well, she could be hit,” Jim said.
“I could be General Lee, only I ain’t,” Hutto remarked, looking disgusted. “Why didn’t you tie her feet?”
“Why didn’t you?” Jim retorted.
“I wasn’t sitting on her,” Hutto said.
“You watch this one and I’ll go catch her,” Jim said. “I bet once I do she won’t get away for a while.”
“Why, Jim, you can’t catch her,” Hutto said. “In this dark? Remember how she ambushed us? If she was a better shot we’d both be corpses, and if she’s got a rifle hid out there somewhere we may be corpses yet.”
“I ain’t scared of her,” Jim said. “Dern her, I should have cracked her with a gun barrel a time or two.”
“You should have shot her,” Hutto said. “I know you expected to amuse yourself, but look how it turned out. The girl got away and the deputy only had thirty dollars and some dirty underwear.”
“She can’t be far,” Jim said. “Let’s camp and look for her in the morning.”
“Well, you can, but I’m going,” Hutto said. “A girl that size ain’t worth tracking.”
Just as he said it, a good-sized rock came flying through the air and hit him right in the mouth. He was so surprised he slipped and sat down. The rock had smashed his lips; blood poured down his chin. A second later another hit Jim in the ribs. Jim drew a pistol and fired several times in the direction the rocks came from.
“Oh, stop wasting shells,” Hutto said. He spat out a mouthful of blood.
Two more rocks came flying in, both aimed at Jim. One hit him right in the elbow, causing him to double over in pain. The other flew over his head.
Hutto seemed to think the whole thing was funny. He sat on the muddy ground, laughing and spitting great mouthfuls of blood. Jim crouched down, pistol drawn, watching for rocks.
“This beats all I ever heard of,” Hutto said. “Here we are in a rock fight with a girl no bigger than a minute, and she’s winning. If news of this gets out we’ll have to retire.”
He looked at Roscoe, who was standing stock-still. One of the rocks had just missed him—he didn’t want to move and risk interfering with Janey’s aim.
“By God, when I get her she’ll wish she’d kept a-running,” Jim said, cocking his gun. A second later a rock hit him on the shoulder and the gun went off. Furious, he fired into the darkness until the pistol was empty.
“Well, we’ll sure have to kill this deputy now,” Hutto remarked. He wiggled a loose tooth with a bloody finger. “If he was to tell about this, our reputation as desperados would be ruint forever.”
“Then why don’t you get up and help me rush her?” Jim said angrily.
“Oh, I think we should just sit and let her chunk us to death,” Hutto said. “I think it serves us right for being idiots. You was scared of this deputy, when he ain’t no more dangerous than a chicken. Maybe next time you’ll be content to shoot when I want to shoot.”
Jim opened his pistol. He was trying to reload and watch for rocks, too, squinting into the darkness. Another rock came in low and he managed to turn and take it on his thigh, but it caused him to drop three bullets.
Roscoe was beginning to feel more hopeful. He was remembering all the varmints Janey had brought into
camp—probably she had used them to sharpen her aim. His hope was she’d start throwing for the head before the men got around to killing him.
Hutto was calmer than Jim. He reached over, got his shotgun and broke the breach.
“I’ll tell you, Jim,” he said, “you just keep sitting there drawing her fire. I’ll load up with some buckshot. Maybe if she don’t brain you before the moon rises, I can catch the angle and shoot her. Or at least chase her out of chunkin’ range.”
He reached into the pocket of his buckskin coat for some shells, and as he did, a miracle happened—for in Roscoe’s mind a miracle it was. He stood there, naked and wet, sure to be murdered within a few minutes unless a slip of a girl, armed only with rocks, could defeat two grown men armed with guns. He himself was so sure of being killed that he felt rather detached from what was happening, and invested only faint hope in Janey’s chances of saving him.
Nobody saw July come. Hutto was reaching in his pocket for shells and Jim was trying to fish those he had dropped out of the mud. Roscoe was watching Jim, whom he liked least. He was hoping to see a big rock hit Jim right between the eyes, perhaps cracking his skull. It wouldn’t stop Hutto from killing him, but it would be some consolation if Jim got his skull cracked first.
Then, at the same moment, Jim, Hutto, and he himself all became aware that someone was there who hadn’t been. It was July Johnson, standing behind Jim with his pistol drawn and cocked.
“You won’t need them shells,” July said quietly. “Just leave ’em lie.”
“Well, you son of a bitch,” Jim said, “what gives you the right to pull a gun on me?”
Jim looked up, and just as he did, the rock Roscoe had been hoping for sailed in and hit him right in the throat. He dropped his gun and fell over backwards. He lay there clutching his throat and trying desperately to draw breath.
Hutto had two shotgun shells in his hand but he didn’t try to shove them in the shotgun. “I’ve had bad luck before, but nothing to top this,” he said, ignoring July and looking at Roscoe. “Can’t you at least make that gal stop throwing rocks?”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 175