It was not in me to complain of what had happened. A man shares his days with hunger, thirst and cold, with the good times and the bad, and the first part of being a man is to understand that. Leastways, I had two hands, two feet and two eyes, and there were some that lacked these things. The trouble was that I wasn’t feeling quite right … I’d a sense of things being unreal, and of sickness coming on, and that scared me something awful. To be sick, alone, and in the woods, with the weather damp and cold … it was not a thing to favor the mind.
Of a sudden I was sweating, out there in the cold and rain, I was sweating where a short time before I’d been chilled and shaking. I burrowed down into the pine needles and leaves, and fortunate it was that here where I’d stopped the carpet was thick.
I’d stick out a hand from time to time to put something on the fire, scared of the time when it would be used up around me and I’d have to get out and go to hunting. There were willows near, and I peeled back the bark to get at the inner bark, which was good for fevers, and chewed some.
Along in there somewhere I sort of passed out. There was a time when I put a stick or two on the fire, added some leaves for lack of anything else.
Once I thought I heard a horse coming, and it was in my mind that somebody called out to me, but I don’t know if I answered. My head felt light and my mouth was dry, and I was cold … cold.
I’ve heard folks say that if you’re down in a dark hole and you look up you can see the stars, even by day. Well, I looked up and saw a face looking into mine with wide eyes and lips parted, and it was like looking up out of that hole and seeing a star. Anyway, it was the last I saw for some time.
We never had much in the mountains. The fixings around the house were such as Ma contrived, or Pa when he was not too tired from work. Nothing fancy, just a few little things like curtains at the window, and flowers on the table, and Ma when she swept the floor and could keep us boys off it for awhile, she traced patterns in the dirt floor like you’d find on the finest carpets. Ma was good at that, and she liked things nice.
About the best we could manage was to keep them clean. You don’t make much on a sidehill farm in Tennessee. The country is right beautiful, and that is where you have to find what beauty there is, there, and in the singing. Most mountain folks sing. They sing songs learned from their grandfathers or other elders, and sometimes they change the tunes to fit the day, and change the words even more.
You get a hankering for nice things if there’s much to you. It seems to me that first a man tries to get shelter and food to eat, but as soon as he has that he tries to find beauty, something to warm the heart and the mind, something to ease the thoughts and make pleasurable the sitting in the evening. About all we had was the open fire. It was the thing we set store by. Ma, she was too busy knitting and sewing just to keep us covered to have much time for fixing.
Opening my eyes like I done, in that bedroom with lacy curtains to the windows and a handsome patchwork quilt over me, I thought I’d sure come to in the house of some rich folks, or in heaven mostly, although I never did rightly know whether they’d have patchwork quilts. She set store by them, and she was always a saving of odds and ends she might use toward one. She never did get to make it. Pneumonia came too soon, and pneumonia to mountain folk far from doctors is nothing to feel good about.
There I lay, a long tall mountain boy in such a bed as I’d never seen, looking up at a painted plank ceiling … well, maybe it was whitewashed.
I turned my head and saw a dresser set against the wall with a mirror over it, and there was a small table with a pitcher and a washbasin. In a dish alongside the basin was a bar of soap. These here were surely well-to-do folks.
When I tried to set up I felt giddy, but the first thing I saw was that I was wearing a flannel nightshirt. I’d had a nightshirt one time, quite a while back, but they were scarce. I was seventeen years old before I owned a pair of socks.
We boys just shoved our feet down into boots.
We never had much, Galloway and me. First big money we made was on the buffalo range. We were shooters, me and him, and mostly we hit what we shot at. Back in the high-up hills a body didn’t have enough ammunition to go a-wasting of it.
When you shot at something you’d better hit it. Which led to our being good at stalking and tracking because we had to get close up before we chanced a shot.
And if the animal was wounded and ran off, we had to track it down, for the needing of the meat and not wishing to leave any crittur to suffer in the woods.
That money we made on the buffalo range, that went to squaring Pa’s debts, of which he’d left a few with men who trusted him. We never taken a trust lightly.
It was a matter of deep honor, and a debt owed was a debt to be paid.
I lay there in that big bed, just a-staring up at the white ceiling and wondering how come I was here in this place.
There was a door opening to a sort of closet and in it I could see women’s fixings and some man’s shirts and pants. I could also see a holster with a gun in it. Gave me a comfort to have it near.
Footsteps were coming down the hall and then the door opened and a man came in.
He was a square-shouldered man with a mustache and wearing a white shut. He looked down at me.
“Awake are you? You’ve had a bad time of it, man.”
“I reckon. How long have I been here?”
“Six … seven days. My daughter found you. How she got you on her horse I will never know.”
I was tired. I closed my eyes a minute, thinking how lucky I was.
“You had pneumonia,” he said. “We didn’t think we could pull you through. At least, I didn’t. Maighdlin, she never did give up.”
“Where is this place?”
“It’s on Cherry Creek, about six or seven miles from where you were picked up.”
He sat down in the chair he pulled up. “I am John Rossiter. What happened to you?”
It took me a couple of minutes to think that over, and then I explained about us hunting land, the Jicarillas, and my escape. I also told the part about the rider who wouldn’t lend me a hand. “They called him Curly.”
Just as I said that a mighty pretty girl stepped into the room, her face flushed and angry. “I don’t believe that!” she said sharply. “You must have been out of your head.”
“Could be, ma’am,” I said politely, not being one to argue with a lady. “Only that horse surely hit me a wallop to be part of something imaginary. And they sure enough called him Curly.”
“Did you see any tracks, Meg?”
She hesitated, her eyes bright and angry. Reluctantly, she said, “Yes, I did.
There were some tracks. Two horses, I think. Possibly three. But it wasn’t Curly Dunn! It couldn’t have been!”
“Maybe I was wrong,” I said. “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings, ma’am.”
“If I were you, Meg,” Rossiter said, “I’d give that a good deal of thought.
There’s a lot of talk about Curly, and not much of it is good.”
“They’re jealous!” she said pertly. “Jealous of him because he’s so handsome, and of the Dunns because they’ve taken so much land. I don’t believe any of it.”
“Mr. Rossiter,” I said, “if you could lend me some clothes, a horse and a gun, I’ll be on my way. I don’t like to saddle myself on you folks.”
“Don’t be silly!” Meg said sharply. “You’re not well enough to travel. Why, you look half-starved!”
“I can make out, ma’am. I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.”
“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 go
t 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.”
“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.
Galloway (1970) Page 5