Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

  Hours later, when the house was still and dark, he got up, sat on the edge of the bed, and smoked a cigarette, then he deliberately got dressed, carried his boots into the kitchen before putting them on, drank some dregs of coffee, took Otto’s carbine from a moonlit corner, and went outside.

  At the barn the horses snorted at him. It was dark inside where the saddles hung. He saddled and bridled the wise old bay, swung up, and rode off. The sway of his pistol felt good on his hip, for once its dragging weight wasn’t annoying.

  He rode due north but paralleling the road, not out upon it. The lariat on Otto’s saddle made a handy place to carry the carbine. He had no clear idea what he was going to do. He hoped the Blessings would be at his place, maybe skulking around, getting ready to fire the barn again. But they weren’t.

  Moonlight flooded the yard by the cabin. He sat out a ways, watching the haunted stillness for a long time, then he struck out north again. Beyond the farthest land swell was Blessing range. He’d never seen the home ranch buildings but knew approximately where they were. He rode steadily until he topped out over the last thin fingering of a ridge and saw the dark, square shapes that were buildings. Face to face with the need to make a decision, he couldn’t. The house was warped and set amid a profusion of shaggy little trees and scrub flowers. Beyond was the low, large barn. It was a disappointment to see that it was mud and log construction. Even if he fired it, it wouldn’t burn enough to hurt.

  While he sat there, wondering and watching, a coyote yelped. The cry ended in a high, drawn-out and choked-off sort of howl. Several dogs answered from the yard down below and Shan knew he could never get close enough to fire the barn or the house, either, without the dogs discovering him, raising an alarm.

  He turned and rode back toward his own place. Halfway down the far slope he saw a little band of drowsing cattle. A few were standing up, but mostly they were lying upon the ground, sleeping or chewing cuds. There were several blurs close by the cows that would be calves. A young Durham bull, much better bred than the cows, leaped up at sight of the horse and rider and made a thumping sound. He didn’t have much horn, but he dropped his head threateningly and shook what he did have. The cows were shaggy, rangy, slab-sided, and bucket-hipped. Shan rode as close as he dared and stopped. He thought they might be O’Brien cattle until the little bull swung broadside and he saw the new pink scar along the ribs in a large letter B. Then an idea came to him. The Blessings had undoubtedly paid a lot of money for that highbred young bull. He would be something they prized very highly. He knew that roping that wild young bull and roping calves in Otto’s corral were altogether different things. Well, this was about what he wanted. It wouldn’t cripple the Blessings like burning his barn had crippled him, but for the time being it would suffice. He eased down the rope and started the big bay horse forward, chased the little bull a full three quarters of a mile before he made a good cast. By then he was a long way southward and Otto’s big bay horse was winded. The other cattle had scattered like birds.

  Otto’s big horse could hold the bull but Shan had no idea how he was going to throw him, let alone tie his legs. There was a stripling fir tree close by, which he rode around twice, then dismounted, and made the rope fast to. He left the bay horse to watch and started down the rope, then he stopped. Even if he could get hold of the bull without being trampled in a charge, he couldn’t throw him without a second lariat, which he did not have.

  Then the little bull choked himself down fighting the rope, fell over on his side, eyes rolling back and tongue lolling. The sound of his shallow breathing was painful to hear. Shan picked up a large rock and walked forward. The bull didn’t move; his eyes were rolled back under the lids and bloodshot. He began to quiver and shake, then he got rigid for a moment and went limp all over. Shan dropped the rock and bent over him, tugged at the taut rope until he got enough slack for air to pass the beast’s throat, enter his windpipe. The animal was unconscious. Shan grabbed his knife and went to work. He tied off the cords with two twisted hairs yanked from the bull’s tail, removed the lariat, coiled it as he went toward Otto’s horse, mounted, secured the rope, and made a cigarette. His hands were as steady as lead. The exertion more than the deed made him feel better. He saw the bull raise his head and let it fall back several times, until finally he held it up, then Shan turned and rode back the way he had come. When he arrived back at the barn, he put the bay horse up, went inside to his room, and lay on the bed fully clothed. He fell asleep almost instantly.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning Otto had all the chores done by the time Shan got out to the barn. When Shan stepped through the door, he saw Otto leaning on a pitchfork, staring at his bay horse. He turned and looked slit-eyed at Shan.

  “Did you go for a ride last night?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Yes,” Shan said candidly.

  “What did you do?” Otto’s grip on the pitchfork was painfully tight.

  “Rode up by Blessing place.”

  “The barn, Shan?”

  “No, they’ve got a pack of hounds up there. I found a pure bred bull …”

  “You cut him?”

  “Yes.”

  Otto’s hands relaxed a little. “Did you tie off the cords? I’ve seen that little bull. He’ll die if you didn’t tie them off. He’s too old for Barlow-knife cutting.”

  “I did it like you showed me on the big calves.”

  Otto turned away, hung the pitchfork up, took down the full milk bucket, and started for the house. Shan hastened to catch up. “You understand, don’t you, Otto?”

  “Yes, I understand, but it’s going to be the start of things, too. They’ll find him today, probably ride down here when they don’t find you up there.” Otto stopped stockstill. “We das’n’t go down to Tico today for Sarahlee.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I expect Georgia and Mary can go. Why not? Because, like I just said, they’ll come looking for you. If no one’s around, they’ll burn us both out. You can’t do something like that, then go away, Shan.” Otto started forward again. “You didn’t think, Shan. You should have waited a few days. No, maybe not, maybe it’s better to have it now than after Sarahlee’s up there with you.”

  “Sarahlee won’t like it, me not meeting her.”

  “I expect she won’t,” Otto said dryly, “but she’d like it a lot less coming home to no cabin and no barn.” They were close to the back of the house. “Don’t say anything to Georgia about last night. I’ll say we have to take a jag of hay up to your place so we can drive the heifers up tomorrow. That way she won’t think it’s strange you not going down to Tico.”

  Mrs. Muller seemed disappointed when Otto explained what he and Shan had talked of, but she didn’t stay depressed long, the prospect of seeing the bride, of delivering her to Shan in person, brightened her spirits again.

  After breakfast Otto and Shan hitched the team to the wagon and watched Mrs. Muller and Mary drive out of the yard. The Indian girl’s face was a sharp contrast to Otto’s wife’s expression.

  Shan and Otto immediately saddled up and struck out for the cabin. Otto had his rifle and a pistol. Shan had only the belt gun; his carbine was at the cabin. Otto did not speak until Shan said: “They might not find that bull for a week.”

  Otto looked grim. Up on his big bay horse, wide, massive shoulders squared into the north, face frozen in a mask of wary unpleasantness, his appearance made a better answer than his words. “I heard from Will O’Brien the Blessings bought two fine imported Durham bulls. They’ll be watching over them like hawks. They’ll find him all right, if not today, then tomorrow, but no later than that.”

  “Maybe they’ll think the O’Briens cut him.”

  “The O’Briens have no reason, Shan, you have. Even if they thought you believed what you said about those Indians firing the barn, they’ll remember you talked hard to them. No, I don’t thi
nk they’ll waste much time figuring who to pay back.”

  They swung east off the road with the sun working up a head of heat, crossed Shan’s yard, and put their horses in the barn. Otto stood outside afterward studying the distant slope of land.

  “They’ll be along today,” he said, “or I’ll give you a fat steer.”

  They went to the cabin and for lack of something to do made a pot of coffee. Shan lit his pipe and sat on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t relax or stay down long. It was like waiting for a bugler to blow you out of some woods, or call you up in the darkness to repel a cavalry attack. He smoked until his tongue was tender, then put the pipe out, went to the door, and stood in the opening, looking up toward the slope. Otto watched him for a while, then said: “Go water the horses, if you got to be moving around. Maybe they’re out there watching … it’ll give them a chance.”

  Shan studied the close-in country and nodded. “I wish they’d show themselves if they’re out there.”

  “Walk outside, then,” Otto said a little sharper. “Here, take your carbine along.”

  “I got my pistol.”

  Otto’s voice crackled. “You take this carbine. What the hell good is a pistol at carbine range?”

  Shan tucked the gun under his arm and walked across the yard and into the barn. There wasn’t a sound anywhere around all the time he was crossing the open places. Otto got off the chair in the cabin and went to a little window to peer out. He stood there for a long time with his cold pipe jutting from between his teeth.

  Shan was dunging out after he’d watered the horses when he heard a dog bark. For just a second his blood froze. He hung the fork up, took his carbine, and went to the little corral outside the barn facing north.

  Coming down the slope were two riders. They both had carbines across the saddle forks and were bending over, looking at the ground. Four or five dogs ran ahead of them, quartering in the tall grass. Shan wondered whether the dogs were following blood marks from the little Durham bull or the spoor of Otto’s bay horse. He moved away from the sunlight, stood motionlessly against the barn until they were close enough to recognize, then he sidled toward the barn door and waited there, watching.

  The Blessings turned away from the yard and rode down around the barn. Shan faded into the cool, dark interior, cocked the carbine, and waited but they went on by. He crept out and watched them ride south without going near the cabin. Clearly they were following the little bull’s sign, too intent upon it to bother right then with anything else.

  After they’d passed, he crossed to the cabin and met Otto in the doorway. There was glistening sweat on the older man’s face and the little pipe still jutted from his mouth, forgotten.

  “How far have they got to go before they find what they’re looking for?” he asked Shan.

  “A mile maybe. There’s a skinny fir tree where I did it.”

  “I know that tree,” Otto said. “Stands all by itself and has no limbs for about twenty feet up.”

  “That’s right.”

  Otto put his rifle down and walked toward the stove. Shan watched him pour a cup of coffee and drink it, put his pipe in a pocket without knocking out the dottle. “You got any whiskey up here?” he asked.

  Shan went to the bed, tossed his carbine upon it, and got down on the floor, squirmed half under the bed, and dragged out the crock of rye liquor. He had a crooked, mirthless smile on his face when he stood up and beat at the dust on the front of him.

  “I forget to drink when I’m up here. Guess I’m in the habit of drinking only at your place.”

  Otto drank, ran a sleeve over his mouth, and went to the little window again. The sun was almost directly overhead. Otto grew rigid for a moment, then he spoke without looking back. “Here they come.”

  “I’ll go back to the barn.”

  Otto nodded briskly. He was measuring the distance with his eye. “If they see you go down there, they’ll think you’re alone. Go on, and remember, Shan … they’re out to kill you any way they can. Don’t get heroic about that stand-up-and-fight bunk. It’s you and me … Art and Amos … first dog down and last dog hung, no quarter, no truce. Go on.”

  Shan had the carbine at his side when he went out. He didn’t look around until he was at the spring box, then he only shot one fast glance southward and hurried on. The dogs were racing to keep up and both Blessings were riding hard straight for the barn. He didn’t have to see more than the way they rode to know how furious they were. At the opening into the barn he halted again. The roll of running horses came muffled and distant but getting louder each second. He moved out of sight and waited.

  He wondered why he was willing to die over a little Durham bull, decided it wasn’t the bull, it was the bull’s owners he was willing to die fighting. He heard them split up. One rode around the barn to get between Shan and the cabin. He thought that normally that would have been wise strategy, but with Otto watching like an Indian from within the cabin it was anything but wise now. When the sounds of horses stopped, the yard was still as death. When he cocked the carbine, it sounded like a miniature hammer striking an anvil. There wasn’t even a little breeze outside, just stillness.

  “Hey, soldier, come out of the barn!”

  The voice was familiar, high and scratchy. It belonged to Art Blessing which meant Amos was the rider around in back of the barn, between Shan and the cabin.

  “Why don’t you come in here and get me?”

  “We found that bull, soldier. That was the biggest mistake you ever made in your whole damned life.”

  “As big as you burning my barn, Blessing?”

  The scratchy voice swore. “We’re going to kill you for that, soldier. We’re going to kill you and bury you in your own private graveyard.”

  “You talk too much!” Shan yelled. “I think you’re too yellow to come in here and try it. Come on. I’m waiting.”

  It wasn’t much of a gunfight. Amos was behind the barn. He crept up close and found a crack, stuck his carbine through it, and fired. The bullet sang overhead because Amos couldn’t see his front sight or Shan, either. The explosion reverberated within the barn and Shan dropped flat, twisted around, seeking Amos. When the second shot came, booming in a distant way, he saw movement. Amos’ rifle canted crazily upward and stayed like that. Something solid struck the back of the barn and slid down it. There was a hoarse cry of surprise from down by the spring box, then Shan heard Art yell.

  “Amos? Amos, are you all right? There’s someone in the cabin.” When there was no reply, Art called his brother’s name twice more before he grew silent.

  Shan belly-crawled to the door opening, pushed his chin low in the dust, and peered out. Art Blessing was partially visible behind the logged-up spring box. Shan edged his carbine out very carefully, caught the faded britches over the sights, snuggled down, froze for a second, and fired. Art gave a leap into the air and landed in a huddle. Shan heard him making noises. It sounded like he was moaning and cursing at the same time.

  Shan drew back, stood up, pressing against the inside wall of the barn with his heart slamming inside like it had broken loose. The muscle in the side of his neck jerked. There wasn’t a sound outside. The louder explosion of Otto’s rifle had died away, leaving a vacuum. Standing there, Shan thought with scorn of the Blessings’ stupidity; Amos particularly had been stupid riding up like he had, throwing himself down with his back to the cabin. Maybe they were fast men with guns like Otto had said, but they were just plain dumb other ways and wouldn’t have lasted ten days in the war—not two days.

  “Hey, Blessing,” he called out suddenly, “you had enough?”

  Profanity, sounding pointless and choked, came back. It made Shan feel good to hear it. His eyes were large and shiny with excitement.

  “I’m coming out, Blessing. If you want to fight, I’ll give you a chance.”

  Otto’s voice thun
dered from behind and off to one side of the cabin. “Stay in there, Shan! I can see him. I think he’s hit in the arm or leg. Stay where you are. Don’t get between me and him.”

  Shan yelled back: “Where’s the other one?”

  “He’s dead. He’s lying in plain sight at the back of the barn. You stay in there.”

  But Shan went around the door and out into plain sight like the army’d taught him to do on a skirmish, not standing straight up and walking, but doubled low over his gun and moving at an angle. He kept the spring box between him and Blessing, bent extra low so the logs shielded him from sight. Moving easterly he could see Art Blessing and he was badly hurt. He didn’t seem to have any fight left in him. There was a glistening splash of blood over the upper edge of the spring box on which the sun shone. Blessing was huddled up like he was ill.

  When Shan was close, straightening up with the carbine pointing down at the injured man, Blessing saw him. He made no move, only his head followed Shan, his eyes sharp and comprehending. Shan’s finger lay lightly around the carbine trigger as he went up and kicked Blessing’s carbine away, bent, caught his pistol in one hand, and tossed it out, skittering into the hot sunlight. Then he raised his head and looked up toward the cabin. Otto was standing like a statue in the doorway with his big rifle in front of him.

  “He couldn’t shoot if he wanted to. Come on down, Otto.”

  Otto crossed the yard warily. He was dark with sweat and looked more grim and squatty than ever. He stared at the wounded man for a moment, then leaned his rifle upon the logs, and knelt beside him without a word. Blessing’s face was the color of dirty silk, his eyes squeezed so tightly closed water was forced out of them at the edges.

  “Fetch some rags, Shan. He’ll bleed out.”

  “Let him.”

  “Get the rags!”

  Shan went toward the cabin. On his way back he detoured past the slumped body of Amos Blessing. Amos’ thin frame was doubled over his carbine so far it looked like he didn’t have a bone in his body. Shan bent, knocked Amos’ hat off, grasped the mat of hair, and pulled back. There was no doubt after one look at the face. He let go and straightened up. Amos had never known what hit him. Otto’s slug had caught him at the base of the skull and plowed upward. He went over to the spring box and handed Otto the rags. The older man began twisting them into a rope that he put around Art Blessing’s shoulder. While he worked, he nodded his head at the logs.