At daybreak he was up and taking off down through the forest before it was light. He left his fire burning behind him, but with a trench dug around so it could not spread. Nobody but a fool took chances with a fire in the forest.
He rode about fifteen miles through thick timber and emerged at last in the valley which he had been seeking. It was about seven or eight miles long, half as wide, and surrounded by high mountains, heavily timbered. A stream ran down the center in a northwestern direction, before disappearing down a tremendous canyon.
Within the valley itself the banks of the stream were low, and were skirted here and there with beautiful groves of cottonwood. Jethro crossed the stream and rode toward the point where they had camped those many years ago. At that time there had been a small party of Snake Indians living in the valley. Now as he rode he looked for sign, and found none.
Ten years or so back a lot of this country had been set aside to make a park—Yellowstone, they called it, after the river. Jethro was not sure if this valley was within the limits, but he suspected it was.
He made camp, staked out his mount and the pack horses and then scouted around a little to get the lay of the land. He found it all came back to him as he looked around. The big old pine they had used for a landmark was only half there…lightning-struck, some time in the past; and there was a blaze down the side of the mountain caused by a landslide that had happened in the meantime.
It pleased him to see there were beaver working, and he had made his camp with the beaver pond as protection on one side. It was a big pond, all of fifty yards across at this point, and quite a colony of beaver was working there. They were safe enough. He was through with trapping. Why had he come back, after all? Was it only because he remembered this as a place of beauty? He remembered how he and Russell had climbed the slope to look down upon it, taking in the hills around them…neither had ever seen anything quite so grand.
Well, he had stopped. Maybe now he would find out who was following him. Lots of thieves and renegades around, Harvey had said, but it was unlikely there would be any this far back in the mountains. And Zeke Ralls was somewhere off to the north. Whoever was out there, he didn’t want it to be Zeke.
If they’d followed him, it wasn’t because they’d nothing else to do, whoever they were. Chances were they wanted his outfit.
He went to his pack and got out a spare belt gun and cached it where he could put a hand on it without being suspected. Then he settled down to make camp.
He was planning to stay. This place of all others he had remembered. Here he would build a cabin, and he would settle down.
Sunlight danced on the waters of the creek, the grass out there was knee-high, and there were some fine stands of timber. He could cut logs and build a cabin and corrals here, buy some cattle from Harvey and drive them in here.…Or sheep. Sheep would be better in this country, and he could store up a sight of wool and pack it all out at once.
The sound of their horses came to him before he saw them, but his own horses had already warned him, for their heads had come up and they were watching closely.
When they rode into view, he saw that there were four of them.
He felt a tightness in his throat. Four was too many to watch. He was in trouble, in real trouble.
They came on, then drew up. “Hello, the fire! Can we come in?”
There was nothing he could do, so he said, “Ride in, if you’re peaceful.”
Only one of them was young; the others must be not very many years younger than he was himself. Their leader was a long, lanky man with a lean face, handsome in a sort of off-brand way. He wore a tied-down gun on the right side, and a gun in his left holster with the butt forward.
Jethro knew then who he was. He had heard of that fast left-hand draw Zeke Ralls could make…when everybody expected him to draw right-handed. It was a small advantage, but in a game that calls for split-second timing, that was enough.
It was more than enough for Jethro Stuart, who had never been a fast man, anyway—only a dead shot with any kind of gun.
“I’m Zeke Ralls.”
“Jethro Stuart.”
“You came on in here like you knew where you were going.”
“I’ve been here before, a long time back. I trapped this stream for fur.”
The others were getting down. One was a big, wide-shouldered man with red hair—not tall but thick and powerful; and there was a slim older man who chewed tobacco. The young one might have been twenty-five—thin, blond, and with too narrow eyes.
They were looking around, sizing up his equipment. A knowing man, Jethro decided they were on the dodge, needed more horses, food, and probably ammunition. The chances were they dared not approach any nearby town.
“Odd thing”—Jethro spoke his calculated words carefully—“us meeting here.”
“You’ve a lot of grub here,” the young one said. “Looks like you came to stay.”
“I did.”
“What do you mean,” Zeke asked, “an odd thing? What’s odd about it?”
“We being relatives, and all.”
He had their attention now. Most of all, he had Zeke’s attention. Jethro had used his trump card quickly, for he had an idea there was little nonsense about them, and that they had planned to kill him quickly and take what he had.
“Relatives?”
“Zebulon Rawlings married my daughter.”
“What’s that mean?” the red-haired one asked. “I never heard of him.”
“Shut up, Red.” Zeke was all attention now. “Tell us, Stuart. Who might Zebulon Rawlings be?”
“He’s a marshal down Arizona way, former United States cavalry officer. More’n that, he’s the son of Linus and Eve Rawlings.”
“That coffee hot?” Zeke said. “Maybe we should set up and talk.”
“Why waste time, Zeke?” The young one was itching for action. “Let’s get it over with.”
Zeke looked around irritably. “Damn it, Kid, I want to talk. That’s my family he’s speaking of. Now saddle down and set up to the fire.”
He squatted on his haunches and began to build a smoke. “So Linus and Eve had a family? More’n one?”
“Two…the other one’s still farming back on the Ohio place. Zeb fought through the war, then came west.”
“You know Lilith? What ever happened to her? Somebody said she was a dance-hall girl.”
“An actress and singer, which is a whole sight different. She was good, too. Then she married Cleve Van Valen.”
“Who?” Red almost shouted the word. “Why, that’s the dirty—! He put a reward on us.”
Jethro leaned back. His right hand was just above the hidden gun. “Well, he’s your brother-in-law, Zeke. Or was.”
Zeke poured a cup of coffee and Red walked back to his mount and began to unsaddle. The others followed.
Jethro was thinking back. The first time anybody heard of Zeke was when he showed up at Placerville…killed a man there in a saloon fight. There had been a second killing that same year at Whiskey Flat. Zeke would be about fifty-two now—close to that—with a dozen known killings behind him. And a thoroughly bad man.
“If you were here a long time back, trapping around, you must have been a mountain man.”
“That’s where I met Linus.”
“Linus!” Zeke spat. “Eve sure cottoned to him, but I never did. He was too damned sure of himself.”
The older man brought a grub sack and a frying pan to the fire. Squatting beside the fire, he began to prepare a meal.
As the talk continued, Jethro found himself almost amused. Zeke was obviously eager for news, as eager as the rest were to kill him. Jethro had a fairly good idea that he could take one of them with him, and perhaps two. The question was, which one or two? The Kid was the most anxious to get on with the killing, but which was the more determined?
Jethro knew that many an anxious one lost his ambition when the shooting started or he got a piece of lead into him. The determined k
ind, they would soak up punishment and still keep shooting, and that was the man he wanted out of there first.
He found himself puzzling about Zeke. Here was a man from a pioneer family of good stock, and by all accounts the rest of them had done what had to be done in an honest, straightforward way. Zeke alone had been a bad apple.
As far as Jethro could recall, he’d never heard of Zeke Ralls doing an honest day’s work in his life. He was not only a killer, but at times a particularly vicious one. A curiously lucky one, too. He had ducked out and left the gang he had worked with along the Overland stage route where he’d been raiding stations, holding up stages, and stealing horses.
He had pulled out just as Jack Slade started the clean-up that resulted in twenty-odd dead thieves, most of them men who had been running with Zeke Ralls.
He had worked out of Virginia City with Henry Plummer, and left the country just as the vigilantes started the hanging spree that resulted in twenty-six dead outlaws.
Jethro Stuart sat up and poked sticks into the fire. “Sure is nice, runnin’ into you this way, Zeke,” he said blandly. “Not often a man comes up against a relation in this out-of-the-way country. Lilith was living out San Francisco way the last I heard.”
“Linus?”
Briefly, Jethro explained about the war and Linus, and related as much as Zeb had told him of how he died, and of Zeb returning to find his mother—that was Eve—dead.
“I’d another brother, too,” Zeke said; “just older than me. His name was Sam.”
“Name rings a bell. Prescott? Was that it? Sam Prescott? I’d no call to know the names of Zeb’s family. He married my daughter after I pulled out. Ran into a man in Miles City told me of it.”
The Kid was sitting there looking sour, and the redhead was lying on his back looking up through the leaves. No telling what that redhead was thinking…a tough man, too.
The wind stirred the leaves overhead, and the flames fluttered. Zeke stared moodily into the fire, and Jethro held his silence.
One of the horses snorted and Jethro started to get up, but Red was already on his feet. “You set still,” he said. “I’ll have a look.”
After a few minutes he came back. “Mighty skittish. Must be a varmint around, or something.”
“Maybe we ought to go look,” Jethro said mildly. “Every man ought to see the varmint.”
Zeke chuckled, then grinned at him. “You’re kin, all right.”
As the evening drew on, the men ate, and several times they threw glances toward Zeke which he ignored. The older man paid them no attention, nor did he have anything to say to Jethro. He minded his own affairs. This was an old outlaw, and a wise one, Jethro decided.
“You know this country?” Zeke said suddenly.
“Used to…it comes back to me.”
“Is there a way out of here into Montana?”
“Sure…a knowing man could find a way out to Yellowstone Lake. From there on there’s a sort of trail.”
“You want to show us the way?”
“Draw you a map,” Jethro said. “I’m staying right here.”
“Here?”
“Always aimed to come back. This here’s about the most beautiful spot I ever did see.”
Jethro was listening to the night. The horses were restless. Something was moving around out there, something that frightened them. Lion, maybe. Or a bear…that big, old silver-tip Harvey had mentioned was some place back in this country.
The wind off the snow-covered peaks was cold. He added sticks to the fire. The older man had gone off in the shadows and bedded down for the night. He was no fool. Whatever happened, he was going to be out of it…more than likely that was how he came to be so old.
Jethro was tired, but he dared not sleep. Zeke nursed a cup of coffee in his hands and said nothing. Red was dozing, and the Kid finally got up and got his blankets. He threw them angrily on the ground and rolled up and appeared to sleep.
“Stay out of Arizona,” Jethro suggested suddenly. “Zeb Rawlings is a marshal down there, and you’d not want to mix up with your own nephew.”
“What he does is none of my business,” Zeke replied. “We might be figuring on Arizona. Besides, let him leave me alone.”
“He won’t. He’s a good man, Zeke, a very good man.”
The Kid sat up suddenly. “Damn it, Zeke! What you wastin’ time for? We need that outfit of his and his horses.”
“You hush up!” Zeke glared at the Kid. “This man’s a relative of mine.” His eyes went to Jethro. “We need fresh horses and we need your grub and ammunition. You see how it is.”
Something was in the brush behind them, something very big. Jethro could hear the sounds as it nosed about where his supplies had been stacked. If the others noticed, they showed no evidence of it.
“You’ll have to go without,” Jethro said. “I bought and paid for my outfit and came in here to stay. Riding out for fresh supplies is something I don’t care to do at my age.”
“That’s all right, old man,” the Kid said. “You won’t be going back. You aren’t about to need those supplies, either.”
Zeke said nothing at all, but Red sat up slowly. Jethro was sure Red held a pistol under the blanket. In his place, Jethro knew he would.
It was here now, and they all knew it, and there was no dodging the issue. Jethro put more fuel on the fire. “Why buy trouble you don’t need? You may get my supplies, but when I go I’ll take some of you with me. As it stands you’re all in one piece, but if it comes to a showdown, I’ll have my say.”
“You’ll have nothing to say, old man,” the Kid said. “You’ll just die!”
“We’ll go together, Kid,” Jethro said, and saw the boy’s eyes widen. “You always think of killing, never of being killed. Well, what happens in a showdown like this? You boys kill me, but I’m a cinch to get one of you, maybe two.
“Case like this”—he took a stick near the edge of his blanket and tossed it on the fire—“a man usually picks out who he’s going to take with him. I’ve picked out two…even when a man is dyin’ he can shoot, and I might get more.
“Years I’ve spent in the mountains makes a man tough. He soaks up injury. So you boys can figure we’re going to have ourselves a ball.”
That faint rustle again. The stuff he had taken from his pack horses was stacked against a big boulder, and to get at it that bear had come in close. Chances were he was within fifty feet of them right now, either his back or side toward the fire, and he would be some place in line with that big pine.
Supposing they were distracted? The idea, when it came, seemed a small hope, perhaps a foolish one, but the odds against him were such that nothing could make them worse. He could get two, he was confident of that; to get all four was out of reason—although such things had happened.
“You don’t scare me,” the Kid said. “You’re already dead. How would you expect to even get hold of a gun with the four of us here? Seated the way you are, your gun butt canted back, you’d take too much time.”
Jethro picked up a stick at the edge of his blanket. It was just a small stick, such as he had been throwing on the fire all evening.
“I could do it, all right, Kid,” Jethro said. He let his eyes swing to Zeke. “You’re going to let this happen?”
“You’re no blood kin,” Zeke said. “Sorry, but we do need that grub and what all.”
“You know how it is,” Red added.
“Sure,” Jethro said, and picked up another stick—only it was not a stick this time, it was the gun from the folds of the blanket. He tossed a stick on the fire with his left hand, then shot the Kid through the ribs with the gun held in his right.
No sudden moves, just a repetition of what he had been doing all evening, and the thrown stick to draw their attention. If they had expected a gun it was from the holster, and when it came it was too late.
He shot the Kid through the ribs, then took a wild gamble and fired into the shadows near his stacked supplies.
Jethro’s shot at Red was a clear miss, but Red lunged up from his blankets straight in the path of the grizzly.
Jethro, the only one who knew what was coming—or what he hoped was coming—rolled over and scrambled for the woods. He felt the burn of a bullet, then something else hit him and he fell, but he dragged himself on, farther into the woods. Behind him were shots and screams, and the hoarse, choking snarls of the grizzly.
He crawled on; then, getting hold of a tree trunk, he pulled himself up. He felt curiously weak, but he managed to walk out of the trees to where the horses had been picketed. They were gone. He had a sudden realization that with them had gone his last chance.
No rifle…The gun he held had two loads remaining; the other gun was fully loaded and he still had his cartridge belt. In all, approximately fifty rounds.
His brain felt hazy, and he knew he must have been hurt worse than he’d realized. First, he must find a place to hole up, so he stopped close against the bole of a tree where he would be almost invisible, and tried to think back.
Where could he hide?
Some of them would survive…or would they? He was sure he had killed the Kid—which he had coming.
Now there was no more shooting behind him, no more snarls. He walked on a little farther, and then remembered a big dead-fall he had seen earlier that day. Going to it, he crawled under it and lay down.
But he knew he couldn’t stay there. He must get back, find out what had happened, and get food. And he would need to build a fire somewhere, get warm water, and wash his wound. The bullet burn was one thing, but that second shot—that had really hit him. His back felt wet as he lay there.
He must have passed out, for sometime later he opened his eyes and the sky was faintly gray. It was not yet daybreak, but was working up to it. Lying on his back had evidently helped to stop the flow of blood, but he must move with care.
Novel 1963 - How The West Was Won (v5.0) Page 22