The warrior's eyes turned to Vallian, measuring him with care, then to Duncan McKaskel, who had lowered his Bible to his side. He stood close to the wagon, and there was a rifle there, ready at hand.
"We are hungry," the warrior spoke harshly. "What you have, we will take!"
"Our wagon is small," Vallian said, "and not worth the warriors who must die to take it. If you wish to come, then come, but sing your death-songs before you do, for many will die."
He lowered his hat, and in his hand he held a gun.
"Mac," he said quietly, "put the book on the tailgate of the wagon and take up your rifle. Keep your eyes on 'em, but do it slow.
"Tom?" he spoke a little louder. "Show 'em your piece. Just show 'em ... don't shoot."
The muzzle of the gun came through the drawstrings at the rear of the wagon.
"We come in peace. We do not stop in your land, but we have little food, less than we need to get where we go, and the Arapaho are hunters, great hunters."
The warrior waved a hand over the country. "There is no game. We have killed nothing. We are hungry. Our papooses are hungry."
Vallian spoke again. "You have young ones? How many are they?"
"Nine?" The warrior held up nine fingers, hesitantly.
"Mrs. McKaskel, go to your wagon and get out twenty pounds of flour, as near as you can get to it, and put out a little salt, some sugar, and that haunch of antelope."
"It is starting to spoil," she protested.
"Makes no mind. You lay it out. Half the meat they eat is spoilin'."
She did so, working swiftly. She brought the meat, flour, sugar, and salt to the Indians and placed the packages on the ground.
"We have no war with the Arapaho, who are brave men and great warriors. We cannot feed warriors, but we will not see your children grow thin and cry in the night for hunger.
"Take this for your children, and go with God. Walk with the Great Spirit upon the good grass, and be not worried."
Duncan McKaskel spoke suddenly. "Be not worried," he repeated, "the buffalo will come, and the antelope. You will hunger no more."
The Indians dismounted, took up the food, and wheeled and dashed off, leaving only dust behind. They raced away, vanishing over a low line of hills, and Duncan McKaskel turned and stared at Susanna.
Her face was white, and she was trembling. She looked at Con Vallian. "Would they have killed us?"
"Likely. Like I said, Indians are notional. Stand up to 'em and they like you, knuckle under and you're beneath contempt, lower than a dog's belly."
"That was kind of you, to think of their children."
Vallian shrugged. "Kind, hell! I was thinkin' of my scalp. Injuns think a sight of their young uns, and offerin' to feed them taken us off the hook."
"I didn't know you had that gun."
"Out here you better have a gun, and a gun in the wagon ain't good for nothin'. I believe what the old Quaker said, 'Trust in the Lord, but keep your powder dry.'"
Swiftly, they harnessed the team and moved out on the plains. Before them, not over a mile away, they saw a wooded creek.
Vallian pointed. "Stop there an' load up with wood. You'll be needin' it. Your next stop is Lost Spring, sixteen, seventeen miles west, an' there's nothing there, nothing but a few buffalo chips, far out on the prairie. Everything close by has been used."
"What about the Indians?"
"If they want you, they'll find you. I say load up with fuel. From here on you'd better sling a canvas underneath your wagon. Let your wife an' boy walk behind an' pick up buffalo chips—"
"Pick them up? With our hands?"
"Yes, ma'am. They're dry ... if you're careful which ones you pick, an' they'll be the only fuel you'll have for miles. You sling that canvas underneath and when they pick up the chips they can toss them into the canvas along with any sticks they can find. You'll be needin' fuel."
The sun was up now, although just above the horizon. The sky had hazed over and a wind kicked sudden gusts that flapped their canvas top and blew the horses' manes.
Duncan McKaskel walked beside his mules, and Vallian rode close to the wagon seat, near Susanna. "That was a good thought, he had," Vallian commented, "telling them the buffalo would come. Injuns set store by medicine men. Him carrying on with the Bible like that ... they'll think he's a preacher."
"And if the buffalo do not come?"
Vallian chuckled. "Now, ma'am, that never unsettled no medicine man, nor preacher, either! He can just say it was their fault, that there was sin in their village, that there was no faith."
"You are a cynic."
"No, ma'am, but when a miracle doesn't come off you don't just expect to set by, do you? You got to have a reason. Sin's the reason they'll buy ... you can just bet, ma'am, that somebody was doing something he shouldn't have, so they'll blame him, not the prophet."
"Why did they charge us like that?"
"Scarin' you. Seein' if you had backbone. They weren't a war party ... just travelin' with their folks. You got to judge them according to their lights, ma'am. Injuns think different than us, but that doesn't say they are wrong ... just different."
"It would have taken all we had to feed them! Why, there must have been a dozen of them!"
"No, ma'am, there was eight, but when it comes to Injuns that's too many. They'd have taken all you had, then searched your wagon. If you'd let 'em have it all, they'd have taken it all and everything else they wanted, but when we stood fast and showed our guns, they were willin' to talk. They're good folks, ma'am, but they just don't think like we do. You got to allow for that."
Twice they stopped to rest the mules. At their nooning, Duncan said, "Susanna, I think you and Tom had better walk some more. The mules are making hard work of it."
"Throw out that chest," Vallian said, "or the dresser. You're going to kill them mules."
"I will do no such thing!" Susanna said sharply. "Why, the very idea! My grandmother owned that dresser! She had it from her husband's mother. Why, it's been in our family for years and years!"
"Maybe," Vallian commented dryly, "but it sure won't pull your wagon when those mules are played out, and the way you're usin' 'em those mules won't last another week ... maybe ten days. And in ten days, ma'am, you just aren't going to be anywhere. Not anywhere at all!"
Lost Spring was nowhere. It was bald prairie all around, not a stick of wood, not even a buffalo chip. There was not a bush or a tree anywhere within sight. During the night the wind blew hard and before daylight it began to rain. It was a spitting, doubtful rain at first, then after an interlude, a brisk but brief shower.
Duncan led the mules to water, then the horses. Tom helped to make camp. It was not easy in the rain. Vallian scooped out a small hollow in the earth, gathered a few stones, and using dry wood from the tarp slung under the wagon, he got a fire going.
With a canvas over the fire they broiled some antelope steaks and ate their small meal and drank coffee standing in the rain.
"How far to the next camp?" Tom asked.
"Sixteen miles ... maybe a shade less. There's wood there, and grass. It's a good camp."
"Well, that will be a help. At least, we can pick up some more wood tomorrow."
"Not you."
They turned their heads to stare at him. Vallian returned the look. "You ain't goin' to be there tomorrow. Maybe not the next day."
"What do you mean?" Susanna demanded sharply.
"Your mules are tuckered. They just made it to here, and when you come in it was dry. Tomorrow those wheels will be cuttin' into mud. With luck you'll make that camp on Cottonwood Creek in three days."
"Three days! For sixteen miles?"
"Maybe not even then. Maybe not at all." Tom's face was white, and for a moment Susanna thought she would cry. Duncan stared then looked at the ground, feeling empty and sick.
"I don't believe that," he said, "we'll make it."
"If the mules die," Vallian said, "you can always ride out on the horses. Of course
, you can't carry much. An' you surely can't carry that dresser."
He emptied his cup. "See that hill yonder? Tomorrow you'll start fresh. You'll roll down the slope pretty well, then you'll start up. If you make it to the top, that's where you'll camp tomorrow night."
"That's ridiculous! Why, that's no more than six or seven hundred yards!"
"That's right. And maybe you won't even get out of the valley. I told you, mister, you're fixin' to kill them mules."
Vallian walked to his horse. "You'll be needin' meat to ride out."
"Mr. Vallian?" Tom asked suddenly. "Can I come with you? I can shoot."
"I've got no time for youngsters. You stay with your ma."
Susanna spoke quickly. "Mr. Vallian, my son must learn to hunt. Won't you teach him?"
He started to refuse, a foot in the stirrup. Then he swung into the saddle. "All right ... saddle up."
"Thank you, Mr. Vallian," Susanna said.
"Don't thank me. If he can't keep up, he'll get lost. If he comes back with meat it'll be his doin', not mine."
Susanna stared at him. "I do not think I like you, Mr. Vallian."
He smiled, slowly, exasperatmgly. "No, ma'am. I reckon not. But then it doesn't matter very much, does it?"
They rode away, and she stared after him, then stamped her foot. It made no sound on the wet grass and that made her even angrier.
Chapter VI
Con Vallian rode straight away from the wagon without turning to look back. His eyes swept the long grass levels, alert for movement or change in the grass. Tom McKaskel rode one of the sorrels, a larger, stronger horse than Vallian's mustang.
In the distance a rainstorm marched across the flat-land. There seemed no break in the vast level of the prairie. Thunder rumbled.
"Not a good time for hunting," Vallian commented. "Game holes up when it rains."
Tom was silent. They knew little of this man who had come so suddenly from nowhere, and who seemed to have no ties, no loyalty but to himself and what he believed. Yet there was a strength in him and an awareness that fascinated Tom.
"Buffalo can't hide, an' we're cuttin' sign in buffalo country."
"Will those men come back?"
"Likely."
"You don't think much of us, do you?"
"I don't think about you at all. You come out here loaded like you was going to a city market. You got enough on that wagon for four, five families. Your pa ought to have more sense."
"Pa knows what he's doing."
"Back east, maybe. What you learn in school cuts no ice out here. You started out to get across the plains. Well, you got no choice now. You're on your way an' the only way you're going to make it is by chucking half your load."
"Half/"
"Boy, you keepin' your eyes open?"
"Sure I am! Why—"
Tom felt guilty. To tell the truth he had been arguing and not paying attention. Now he looked quickly around.
"You got no time to study out here. You see, and you act. Only you don't shoot at movement. You never squeeze off your shot until you know exactly what you're shootin' at. Tenderfeet, they shoot at anything that moves. They kill cows, horses, dogs an' each other.
"Out here we kill just what we need to live, just like a wolf does, or a bear. Not to say they won't kill once in awhile just to be killin', but they're animals, boy, you're a man ... or about to be one.
"Look yonder ... see anything?"
"No, I ... well, there's something dark, right close to the ground."
"Them's buffalo, an' they ain't close to the ground, they're feedin' in a hollow or gully. But we ain't huntin' buffalo right now. Your pa'd try to carry the hide, and he ought. Trouble is buffalo bides weigh heavy, mighty heavy, an' you have more truck on that wagon than the Israelites fleein' Egypt."
Vallian reined his horse around, glancing at the grass. "Injuns," he said, "and the same ones."
Tom looked, but the plain before them was empty. Vallian pointed at the grass, some distance ahead.
"There! Where the grass has been pressed down. They passed by here, heading west."
Tom could see nothing but as they rode nearer he could distinguish a difference in the shade of the grass, and then he could see that some of the grass had been pressed down. The two lines left by the travels were clearly indicated.
Another travois had dragged along, almost in the same tracks as the first.
"Fifteen, anyway. We seen eight bucks an' there would be some women and kids."
"How can you tell?"
"Boy, anybody can see that. They passed after dew-fall. You got to keep your eyes open. You can't just ride along lookin' at pretty colors like your pa does."
"My pa's all right. You leave him out of this or say it to his face, and if you do, you'd better think twice. He was a boxer in school."
"I seen some o' them boxers. I whupped one down to Natchez one time. Your pa's all right, boy, only he's come west with a wife and child, and if he's wishful of keepin' them alive he's got to learn new ways. New ways of thinkin', mostly."
He led the way down the slope. "We ain't after buffalo, so we'll just amble along. We should fetch up some antelope soon." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I seen 'em come an' go. I been ridin' this land since I was half your size, fightin' Injuns an' huntin' with em—"
"You fight them and yet you're friendly with them?"
"Why not? Nobody fights all the time. We've fought a time or two, an' good fights they were, too. Sometimes we set over a fire and talk of the fool mistakes we made, or almost made. Not that you get a chance to make many mistakes when you're fightin' Injuns."
He pointed suddenly. "There! Pronghorns ... must be fifteen to twenty of them. Come on, we'll circle around and come up downwind of them ... but we got to stay out of sight, too, because they can see."
He rode down the slope ahead of Tom, a tall man, easy in the saddle. The mustang was smaller than the sorrel, but quick. The horse moved easily, taking the opposite slope as if it were not there, riding across the back of the knoll where they had seen the antelope.
At the crest of the low ridge he drew up, and then edged his horse closer until he could see over the top of the hill. The antelope were no more than one hundred yards away. He backed off, dismounted, and edged forward. Lifting his rifle he held on his target for a long instant until Tom thought he would never fire. Suddenly the rifle leaped in his hands, but instantly he shifted his muzzle a few inches and fired again.
Before moving he extracted the two cartridges and fed two more into the rifle. Letting Tom lead his horse, he walked up to the crest of the rise. Both antelope were down, the rest of the herd disappearing in the distance.
"Keep your eyes open, boy," Vallian said sharply, "and don't do no moon-gazin'. If you see anything move, even the grass, you speak out, d'you hear?
"If you're goin' to live in this country you got to learn that you don't cover country by just settin' up on a horse. You keep your eyes open or some Injun'll be settin' on the horse and you'll be dead."
"Mr. Vallian? Couldn't you have gone around that knob yonder and come up closer to them? To the antelope, I mean?"
"Boy, you listen now. Once an antelope sees you, you've either got to shoot, or try movin' up right at him, straight and slow. If an antelope sees something, then sees it disappear, he'll be gone. When we'd have come out from behind that knob they'd be a mile off an' travelin'.
"An antelope has eyes like a field glass. He lives on these prairies and he knows 'em, his eyes are made for seeing long distances. He can hear, too. You can stalk a deer, but you don't get much chance with an antelope.
"They are all curious, almighty curious. You can lie up and toll 'em right up to you with a slow moving cloth on a ramrod or something that shines or sparkles. You can even get 'em close with a bare hand or foot, wiggling your fingers or toes."
"They make a track like a deer."
Vallian spat. "No more like a deer than mine's like yours. To a tende
rfoot, maybe. Antelope track is shorter than a deer track, broader and rounder at the heel, an' sharp at toe. You study 'em. You'll be able to tell the difference."
Tom's eyes kept turning, studying the prairie all around. Vallian was a hard man, and he did not want to draw his anger, for obviously he was impatient with ignorance and poor observation.
"Could you teach me to be a frontiersman?" he asked suddenly. "I'd like to learn."
"I ain't running no school. You keep your eyes open, watch what you're about and if you live long enough you'll learn, but you'll keep on learning. There's no end to it, boy. I've lived all my life on the frontier and I don't know the half of it.
"The trouble is, this here's a school where the Injuns conduct the examinations. Injuns or the wild country itself."
"You skinned only one antelope."
"That's right, boy. I'll shoot meat for 'em when they're in trouble, but I'll be damned if I'll skin it, too."
"Them?"
Vallian gave him a disgusted glance. "Injuns, boy. Them Injuns we seen the other night. Now you keep your rifle in your hands. Don't wave it around, just hold it easy-like."
"I don't see any—"
There were three of them, and they rode out of a hollow Tom had not even seen, and drew up, facing them. Vallian gestured at the antelope lying on the grass, then pointed with his forefinger, bent it and drew it to him as if hooking something in. "Means 'take' or 'catch,' " he said. "In the tribe Indians share their meat."
"Are we in their tribe now?" Tom asked.
"If they were a war party they'd kill you just as soon as they'd a chance. No, we ain't of their tribe, but they need meat. They'd share what they had with us, even though they might take our scalps after."
They rode slowly away, and Tom turned his head to stare back. The Indians were cutting up the meat, paying no attention to them. After a bit Vallian started to lope his horse.
Suddenly, Vallian said, "Boy, awhile back you stuck up for your pa. That's good. I like loyalty in a man."
"He's a good man," Tom said.
"I reckon he is, or your ma wouldn't have married him. Some women I'd not say that of, but your ma is a canny woman. You listen to your folks, boy. They'll learn you right. 'Cept about injuns and wild country. Then you listen to me."
The Quick And The Dead Page 4