Raymond’s face did not hide his disgust at the captain’s statement. “A fair hearing, huh? A military hearing, you mean.” He looked up at the smirk on the lieutenant’s face, then back at Thompkins, who shook his head in a helpless gesture. He took one step backward and said, “I reckon you’ve stated your business.” He nodded toward the river. “There’s a shallow ford beyond that stand of oak trees. That’s the quickest way for you to get off my land.”
Approximately one hundred yards upriver from the stand of oaks that his father had pointed out, young Jim Culver knelt in a clump of wild myrtle, watching the confrontation at his father’s front gate. Too far away to determine what was being said, he could still guess how the meeting had concluded. He had seen that posture in his father many times when Raymond Culver was not pleased with something—taking a step backward and standing firmly in a wide stance as if ready to fight. It was easy to assume that the soldiers were not going to let it go. Jim had always felt responsible for his actions. For that reason, he had argued, although briefly, when his father had told him to leave that morning. Now he felt that he must take responsibility for the whipping he had given the lieutenant. He feared that the army might somehow seek to punish his father for something he had done. His mind made up, he backed out of the myrtle and walked back to his horse.
* * *
Captain Boyd leaned forward on his horse’s neck to stay in the saddle as the red roan scrambled up the riverbank. A moment later, he was obliged to rein his mount to a sudden stop as soon as it had gained level ground. Waiting on horseback squarely in the middle of the narrow path before him, was a young man with a Winchester cradled casually across his arms.
“Whoa!” Boyd called out as the sheriff and the others pushed up behind him. The thickness of the brush and saplings on either side of the path made it difficult to spread out, a fact that Boyd noted. He picked a good place to face us. They’re all jammed up behind me. The lieutenant and Sheriff Thompkins tried to force their mounts up as close to Boyd as they could manage, but the brush made it impossible to flank him.
“I guess you’d be looking for me,” Jim said. He looked beyond the captain and nodded his head. “Sheriff Thompkins,” he acknowledged.
“Howdy, Jim,” Thompkins answered, not waiting for Boyd to speak. “I reckon you know what we’re about.”
“I reckon,” Jim replied. Toby stamped nervously in the presence of the other horses.
“It would help if you’d back that horse up a little so we could all get outta the river,” Thompkins said.
Jim smiled. “Let’s talk a bit first.” He turned his attention back to Boyd. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
Boyd didn’t care for the position he found himself in. Jim might have found the one place where he could hold all seven of them at bay. He didn’t want to suggest this to Jim. He just hoped those behind him realized their vulnerability and refrained from doing anything foolish. He would be the first one to get a bullet from that Winchester cradled in Jim’s arms.
“Mr. Culver,” Boyd stated, “we’re obliged to take you in for questioning on the incident at the Virginia Hotel last evening.” He hastened to add, “At this point, it’s just for questioning, but there are charges against you that have to be addressed.”
Jim listened patiently while also keeping an eye on the lieutenant, who was struggling with his horse in an effort to push up to a better position behind Boyd. “Let’s address ’em right here,” Jim replied. “What are the charges?”
“You are charged with assaulting Lieutenant Ebersole.”
“All I did was keep that fancy-pants behind you from forcing himself on a lady. I’da been a poor excuse for a man if I hadn’t. As far as you taking me in, I ain’t going anywhere with you, now or any other time. You’ve got the truth of the matter now, and I consider it closed.” He started backing Toby slowly away while keeping a sharp eye on the captain.
Boyd was somewhat at a loss for words. He had not expected outright disobedience to a representative of the United States government. He was about to protest Jim’s stance on the issue, but the shot rang out before he could speak. The events that took place in the next few seconds would greatly alter the course of two lives and directly affect many more.
During the discussion between Jim and Captain Boyd, Lieutenant Ebersole had slowly eased his revolver from its holster. When Jim started backing away, Ebersole saw his chance. He suddenly shoved Boyd aside and fired at Jim. The shot caught Jim in the left shoulder. The impact almost knocked him off his horse but did not prevent him from returning fire. It was Jim’s shot that Barney Thompkins would talk about afterward. In the brief second that Captain Boyd was trying to recover from Ebersole’s shove to the side, Jim ripped a .45 slug from his Winchester under Boyd’s outstretched arm and into Ebersole’s heart. The brash lieutenant was dead before his body crumpled to the ground.
Startled by the sudden shots, the horses bolted, dumping two of the troopers back into the river. The others fought with their mounts to keep from joining them. The tight confines of the thicket made it difficult to keep the horses off each other. Seeing his chance to escape, Jim kept pulling Toby back until the brush gave way to a cleaner riverbank. Once he had room to turn, he set the big horse off at a gallop.
Fighting with his horse to keep from trampling Ebersole’s body, Boyd finally managed to get his mount under control. By the time he did, Jim had a sizable lead. Barney Thompkins spurred his horse up behind the captain. Looking down at the body, he lamented, “Oh Lord, it shouldn’t have come to this. There’ll be hell to pay now.”
“You’re right about that,” Boyd said as he tried to get his men organized to go after the fugitive.
“You might as well save your breath,” Thompkins advised. “He’s got a pretty big head start, and that horse knows these woods.”
The captain deemed it his duty to go in pursuit, anyway, but the sheriff proved to be a credible prophet. After an hour of chasing around in the timber, they were forced to admit they had lost him. Captain Boyd pulled up beside the sheriff. “I guess you’d better go back to the Culver place and tell the old man that his son has twenty-four hours to turn himself in. After that, there’ll be army patrols looking for him.”
Thompkins cocked an eye at the captain. “I’ll tell him,” he replied. “But as you saw for yourself, Jim Culver probably ain’t likely to cotton to that suggestion.”
Boyd was not impressed. “Well, he’d better. There’ll have to be a hearing. First he bullwhips an officer, then he kills him. I think a military court will want to look into this.”
“It was self-defense, pure and simple,” Thompkins protested. “The lieutenant shot him first.”
“Maybe so,” Boyd allowed, “but I believe that young firebrand pushed him to do it. At any rate, my duty is clear. Any time a civilian kills an officer of the U.S. Army, a military court will need to look into it.” Having stated his intentions, Boyd wheeled his horse and headed back to escort Ebersole’s body.
* * *
Jim Culver sat on the dark riverbank, his back against an old oak tree as he gazed up into a deep black sky that seemed overburdened with stars. The familiar night sounds of frogs and insects surrounded him with their symphony for the rising moon. Jim sat up straight and listened when the serenade suddenly stopped. In a few moments, he heard the sound of a night bird. Smiling, he returned the call and got to his feet.
“I figured you’d know where I was,” Jim said as he went to meet his brother. Since they were small children, he and his brothers had considered this spot on the river their private swimming hole. A piece of rotten rope still hung halfway down from a large limb of the old oak, never replaced after it had broken with Stephen in midswing and landed him unceremoniously on his backside some ten feet short of the water.
“Figured you might be hungry,” John said as he dropped down off his horse. “I brought you a piece of cornbread.”
“Much obliged. You coulda brought a piece of h
am with it,” Jim joked.
John grunted, then replied, “I ate that on the way up here.” He laughed, then became serious. “Barney Thompkins came back to the house. He said you killed that soldier.”
“It was self-defense, John. The lowdown son of a bitch threw down on me without any warning. I didn’t have much time to think it over. I wasn’t gonna wait for him to shoot me again. His aim might have got better the second time.”
“I know. Barney said it was self-defense. Are you hurt bad? Ma’s worried about you, ’fraid you were off in the woods somewhere dying. You don’t look too bad to me. Where’d he get you?”
“Shoulder,” Jim replied, placing his right hand over the wound. “It ain’t bad. I think the bullet went right on through. At least, it don’t feel like it’s in there.”
“Let me have a look,” John said, turning his younger brother around in an effort to see by the light of the rising moon. “Hard to see, but I think you might be right. There didn’t seem to be much bleeding.”
Jim questioned his brother while John examined his wound. “So, if Thompkins said it was self-defense, then I guess that’s the end of it. Right?”
“‘Fraid not. He said the army’s giving you twenty-four hours to turn yourself in. If you don’t, they’re coming looking for you.”
Jim didn’t reply at once, thinking it over. His initial reaction was not to trust the army’s intentions. It was cut-and-dried as far as he was concerned; the lieutenant shot him, and he shot back. If he willingly surrendered to a bunch of army officers, there was no telling how they might turn the incident around before it was over. His mind made up, he said, “I don’t reckon I’ll be turning myself in to no damn military court.”
“That’s what I figured you’d say,” John said. He knew his brother well. “What are you gonna do? You can’t hide out here in the woods forever.”
“I guess I’m gonna do what I’ve been thinking about doing for a while now. There ain’t no reason for me to stay around here anymore, and there’s damn good reason to leave. I’m heading for Montana territory. Clay’s out there somewhere. I’m gonna find him.” When his brother did not respond at once, Jim went on to apologize. “I hate to leave the farm work on you and Stephen. I know Pa ain’t been able to do much to help. But, dammit John, I just don’t have farming in my blood.”
John smiled. “I know it, Jim. Frankly, I’ve been expecting you to take off before now. Don’t worry about the farm. Stephen and I can handle it just fine.” He paused. Giving his younger brother a little pat on the back, he couldn’t resist teasing. “Besides, me and Stephen were getting tired of planting in those crooked rows you plow.” He laughed and took up his horse’s reins again. “Come on. Let’s go back to the house and see about scraping up some possibles for you. We need to take a look at that wound, too. There ain’t no soldiers here now, but they might be coming back in the morning.” He didn’t express it, but he also wanted Jim to say good-bye to their mother and father. He knew it was likely to be the last time they saw him.
* * *
Raymond Culver watched silently as his wife applied a clean bandage to the shoulder of their youngest son. Rachael Culver solemnly went about her task, her eyes devoid of tears in spite of the knowledge that Jim was preparing to follow in his older brother’s footsteps. She never let the boys see her cry, saving her tears for the deep hours of the night when she thought no one would know, not even her husband. They had known other young men, and some women, who had left Virginia to go west. No one ever came back. They might as well be dead. There were messages from time to time from her eldest son, Clay, but it was still like hearing from someone who had passed on. She held no hope that she would ever see his face again. And now, Jim.
She looked up at him and smiled, indicating that the bandaging was complete. His ready smile could always warm her heart, even on this occasion. She followed his every move as he got up from the kitchen table and pulled on a clean shirt. Jim, the baby, was her favorite. She admitted that to herself. It was only natural that a mother always favored her youngest. She glanced at her husband and realized by his smile that she had been caught admiring her son. She didn’t care.
Raymond watched as Stephen and John helped Jim pack some clothes in a bedroll. He couldn’t help but admire his sons, all tall and strong. Jim had turned out to be the biggest of the three—as big as Clay, as best Raymond could remember, his eldest having been away these many years. He had watched Jim fill out during the last two years—strong as a mule but with no love for the land. Well, he thought, I got no love for the land myself, but I never had much choice.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Jim said, looking around to see if he had forgotten anything.
“Mighty slim provisions to start out to Oregon on, especially this late in the season,” Raymond Culver commented as he watched Jim hitch up the string on one of the bags he planned to carry behind the saddle.
“I don’t need a whole lot,” Jim replied, smiling. “I’ve got my rifle and plenty of ammunition. I reckon I’ll eat.”
Raymond shook his head in mild exasperation. “The Good Lord is supposed to take care of fools and young men. I’ll leave it up to Him to decide which one you’ll be.” Seeing that Jim was ready to walk out the door, he stepped up, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “You take care of yourself, Son.”
“I will, Pa.” He turned to his mother and tried to smile. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, knowing there was no way he could guarantee it. He kissed her on the cheek and hugged her.
Stephen led Toby up to the porch as Jim walked out. “You might wanna check that girth yourself,” he advised. “I don’t know how you tolerate this hard-headed cuss. He blowed on me twice, trying to keep me from drawing it up tight.”
Jim laughed. “I’ll check it.” Toby didn’t like anybody saddling him but Jim. The horse did have some cantankerous ways, but he and Jim always understood each other.
Never fond of drawn-out good-byes, Jim stepped up on Toby, nodding to John and Stephen. He paused briefly to fix one last image of his parents in his mind. Then he wheeled Toby and headed west.
Chapter 3
Monk Grissom guided his dingy gray mare through the thick belt of pines that ringed the mountains guarding the northern end of the valley the reverend had named Canyon Creek. He had taken to riding the mare a lot more in recent months. Her gait was considerably more gentle than the buckskin’s, making it much easier on his rheumatism after a day in the saddle.
It would be good to get home to the valley and off a horse for a while, a fact that irritated him more than a little. For most of his life, it had been the other way around. He was feeling old age gaining on him more and more as each summer ended, a fact Monk didn’t share with anyone. He was too proud to admit that his wild days were not only behind him but too far back to remember clearly. Sometimes he got confused when trying to recall something that had happened in the past. He didn’t consider it serious, but still aggravating—like just that past week, when he couldn’t remember if his old partner, Browney Hawkins, had died at the last rendezvous on the Green River or during the year of the big storm at Popo Agie. Katie Mashburn probably noticed that Monk was showing signs of wearing out, but if she did, she didn’t let on. Katie didn’t miss much.
Dammit! he thought. I just peed not more than thirty minutes ago, and I’ve got to go again. Gittin’ old is a first-class pain in the ass. He reined the mare to a stop at the edge of the pines. Stiff and aching in his joints, he slowly threw a leg over and stepped down. “Damn!” he uttered when the persistent pain shot through his groin as he untied his buckskin britches. “Just hold your horses!” Fumbling furiously with the rawhide strings, he just made it before his insistent flow released on its own. After a few short seconds, he was done. “Is that all?” he snarled at the offending organ. “I just about bust a gut over a few little ol’ drops?” Thoroughly disgusted with his obvious state of deterioration, he tied his trousers again.
Mon
k had roamed the mountains and prairies for most of his life, free and wild. He had been a free trapper, a scout, and a guide—and his strength and toughness had been his pride. Old age was a bitter pill to swallow, and Monk had been fighting it for the past five years. The medicine man in Chief Washakie’s village had told him to chew on raw camas roots to help his bladder problem, but they didn’t seem to give him any relief. He sometimes wondered if Browney was the lucky one, getting killed before he got too old to live in the mountains.
“Don’t do no good to complain about it,” he sighed and climbed up in the saddle again. Home was less than an hour away. His thoughts were distracted by the cry of a red-tailed hawk high overhead, and he paused to squint up into the clear blue sky. The sight of the winged hunter automatically reminded him again of his younger days, when he had felt as free as a hawk with the whole Rocky Mountains to range in. Ornery as a grizzly and cunning as a fox, he had kept his topnotch for a heap of years. In those days, it had never occurred to him that he would ever grow old. He figured that when his number came up, it would be delivered in the form of a Blackfoot arrow or an angry squaw’s knife.
Starting down through the last of the trees, Monk caught something that seemed out of place out of the corner of his eye. A thin column of smoke was threading its way up toward the mountains. He stopped to get a bearing on the location. It appeared to be coming from Jed Springer’s old place on the river. Now, that’s mighty curious, he thought. Best have a little looksee at that. Keeping an eye on the smoke, he continued down the slope toward the valley floor.
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