Chapter 10
Grant Holloway liked to say that the fun ended when the shot was fired. From there on it was just cleaning, lugging, and cooking. By the time a man got to eating, Holloway claimed, it had been so long and he was so worn out, someone had to remind him what kind of meat he was chewing.
It wasn't so with Tommy Bell's antelope. They went down to admire their trophy, and Tucker made a lot out of it. They studied how the .45 caliber bullet had entered close behind the shoulder and exited on the other side. Tucker claimed it was a perfect shot because an antelope usually ran a distance before falling over.
Tucker decided to give such a noble animal its last bite, and he put some grass in its mouth. The last bite, he explained was an old hunters' tradition and showed respect for the downed game.
Then they walked back to their shooting stand, and Tucker made Tommy repeat the shot, aiming his rifle and saying, "Bang," so he would remember just how it had been.
To make a perfect trophy, skinning out had to be expert. Tucker decided they would bring in the whole animal. That meant Tommy Bell had to guard the carcass against wolves while Tucker went for Paul Laban's wagon.
While Tuck rode out, Tommy sat on his great trophy's flank and admired the size of the horns. He held Tucker's Joseph Smith rifle across his lap, feeling the wind, astonishingly aware of everything around him. His lungs pulled as easily as they ever had, and Tom Bell was certain he was happier than any time he could remember. He was thankful, oh how he was thankful, and he guessed he ought to say so, like Tucker did sometimes.
Tommy knew how Tucker and Grant Holloway did it. He'd seen them both drop to a knee and thank the Lord, or maybe ask for guidance, without hesitation or embarrassment. Some of the men snickered and nudged each other, but they did it carefully because Holloway wasn't one to make fun of. The fact was, the ones laughing weren't anything compared to Mister Holloway and Tucker Morgan. Tommy Bell figured those two were more likely to have it right than were the nudgers.
No one could see him, but Tommy felt self-conscious slipping to his knees and looking up into the perfect blue of a cloudless sky. He decided to begin as Tucker did, so he cleared his throat and just let the words come.
"Heavenly Father, I've never tried talking to you like this, but I am so happy that I want to tell you. I have many things to be grateful for, but right now I thank you for my Uncle James and for Mister Holloway, but mostly for Tucker Morgan. I wish that Tucker could be my brother, and that we could travel together the rest of our lives. I will never forget all that has happened here. For me, this day has been truly special."
The boy did not expect an answer and did not listen for one, but speaking his feelings left him warmed and somehow comforted.
Tucker's stories about the gift of the rifle and its use on countless hunts came to him. Joseph Smith, what an ordinary name, the boy thought. Yet, Tucker and Mister Holloway believed him a prophet of God. By their own fire, they read from his book. Then they talked. He hadn't felt sure enough to go across to listen in, but letting him have this shot proved that Tuck had faith in him, so Tucker probably wouldn't mind him listening to his reading. Tommy slid his hands along the rifle's smooth maple and fingered the angles of the browned octagon barrel. He guessed he would drop by Tucker's fire of a night and listen to some of what their Book of Mormon had to say.
When James Payne-Weston saw the giant antelope draped over their hide wagon he said, "Great Jehosaphat!"
Grant Holloway bent easily from his saddle and hoisted the skinned out skull and horns to eye level. His hat nodded a little as he placed the trophy on the wagon seat and turned to Tucker and a wriggly Tommy Bell perched on the wagon tongue.
"Never thought they'd grow a goat the size of that one, Tuck. Where'd you find him?"
"Out a mile or two, near where Mister Laban was painting." Tucker was casual.
Holloway could play that game easily enough. He said, "Expect the meat'll be tougher than buffalo tripe."
Tucker nodded as though hardly interested. "Uh-huh, tongue'll be tender, though."
Payne-Weston was horrified. "Why on earth are you two talking about meat? By Caesar's wreath, Tucker's surely taken the biggest antelope in the entire universe."
Tucker appeared surprised. "Oh, I didn't shoot him, Mister Weston, Tommy did."
'Tommy—what?" Payne-Weston seemed about to lose his seat.
The boy could hold no longer. "Oh, I did, Uncle James! We got down behind some high grass, and Tucker gave me his rifle and told me just how to do it. Down he went, Uncle James, just like Tucker said he would!"
Tommy fairly bounced with glee, hanging to his uncle's stirrup his eyes dancing.
Payne-Weston's voice choked a little as he stepped down and raised his nephew in a sweeping bear hug.
Holloway walked his horse away, and as he passed he said, "That shines, Tuck, it surely does."
Tucker felt the last of his hungers to have taken the great animal dissolve. Holloway understood and approved. That made it right for Tucker Morgan.
Chapter 11
Their antelope camp lay along the bank of a creek east of the North Loup River. Holloway and Payne-Weston had been hunting toward the Elkhorn. Vast antelope bands roamed there, and Holloway had expected to find examples to look over. Tommy Bell's giant buck made the rest simple. At their evening fire Payne-Weston spoke about it.
"We will use the buck's coloration and marking in selecting the rest of an antelope display, Grant."
Holloway gave thought before speaking. "Fact is, Weston, bucks don't hang around to make family groups. Animals aren't like humans, and showing them with father, mother, and little ones isn't accurate."
"You are right, of course, but how else can we do it?"
"Best way would be to have the buck separate."
Payne-Weston could agree, but he said, "Museums tend to do as they like, however we will at least point out what you are saying."
When Holloway and Tucker rose to tend their own fire, Tommy Bell went along. James Payne-Weston's lips pursed in mild amusement. Tom's defection to Tucker's fire was to be expected. Payne-Weston watched the three. Holloway, Morgan, and his nephew, stair stepped in height, matched (as best the boy could manage) to Holloway's light footed stride, all three with hats tipped low over their foreheads. The uncle smiled more broadly. The boy had been sent west to save his life. His chances appeared bright, and if Tommy Bell's season continued as it had begun, Holloway, Morgan, and he might astonish the Bells by returning to them a vigorous young man.
Before the trio vanished in the dark, Payne-Weston thought that the only mismatch was Tommy's straw hat. They would have to locate a proper American plainsman's double beaver for him.
At the guide's fire, Holloway and Tommy Bell rested against saddles and looked into the flames. Tucker leaned on an elbow, and tipped his Book of Mormon away so light would strike the printing. By firelight the reader had to get close to make out the letters. Tucker wasn't at his best when reading, but it didn't matter much because he read only a few lines before they talked about meanings.
When Tom had first come with them, neither Holloway nor Tucker had spoken up. Holloway waved him to Tuck's saddle and handed him a straw to chew on. Tucker got his book from a saddlebag and opened to a page marked by a bit of leather thong. Tommy got lost almost immediately because the language was a lot like the Bible with bunches of strange sounding names.
They had only been going a little while before Tucker closed his book and sat up stretching and looking around. Holloway might have been surprised, but the guide almost never let his feelings show, so the boy could not be sure.
Tucker said, "You aren't getting much of anything out of what we're reading, are you, Tom?"
Holloway cut in, "There's no way he could without knowin' what went on before."
Tucker nodded acceptance, and Tommy didn't have to answer. "Well, if you're interested, Tommy, the best way for you to catch up would be for us to just tell it all like a story, which it is, of cou
rse. A true history.
"Are you interested in what we're working at, or would you rather let it just drift on by?"
Hoping he wasn't getting into something he'd not enjoy, Tommy Bell nodded. "If you and Mister Holloway think it is interesting, I'd like to learn about it, Tucker."
Tucker accepted that. "All right, but the Book of Mormon isn't medicine. Any time you've had enough, don't wait on saying so. There's other things to talk about while you're at our fire."
Holloway said, "I'd begin with Joseph Smith's story, Tuck. That's the natural order."
Tucker began. "Well, everything that has to do with our Book of Mormon and our church began with a boy named Joseph Smith, who lived in New York. Same Joseph Smith that we think owned this rifle you used on your antelope.
"Now Joseph grew up poor but hard working on his father's farm, about like most country boys do, I reckon. But, where religion was concerned, Joseph was a questioning boy. The older he got and the closer he looked, the less right the local churches and preaching sounded. So, Joseph began studying and praying about which one was right and. . .
Holloway listened to Tucker's telling with quiet appreciation. Of course the Joseph Smith story was powerful and inspiring, but beyond that, Tuck was becoming a good speaker. Holloway liked his intensity and the way he captured their eyes with his. Like every good talker, Tucker used his hands and body to give life to his words. Tuck held young Tommy Bell enthralled. Holloway doubted the boy blinked, and if you'd stuck a corn cob in his open mouth, he wouldn't have noticed.
Tucker did not go on too long. He shut down with Martin Harris mortgaging his land to publish the first edition of the Book of Mormon. Holloway judged the timing about right. Ending with big happenings just ahead would keep Tommy Bell anxious to hear more.
"That was good telling, Tucker."
Holloway's compliments were always welcome, and Tuck was pleased by the boy's obvious agreement.
Tucker said, "It's a grand story, and I like telling it as much as I do listening to someone else. Anyway, we can go some more at our next fire. Don't worry, Tom, Joseph Smith's life gets more interesting as it goes along.
Of course there were other stories around Tucker's fire. Tommy's presence seemed to inspire yarning. Even the often silent Holloway joined in. The guide shared lore and sometimes spoke of past adventures. They had to watch him, though. Every once in a while, when they were least expecting it, Holloway would toss in one of the old mountain man windies. Bold-faced lies, they were hard to detect until a listener had been tricked into believing it was straight talk. Then they would groan or laugh, as the occasion demanded.
Holloway was filling his horns with James Weston's fine English gunpowder when he started one story, just as serious sounding as could be, with everybody in camp listening in.
"One winter old Tom Wadson and me were holed up in a cave backed into the Bitterroot Range. Havin' little to do, old Tom decided to make gunpowder. He'd planned ahead and had already traded for a whole flask of niter. Saltpeter, some call it. Old Tom mixed the niter with charcoal and some things he wouldn't let me see 'cause this powder was going to be his secret and maybe be so powerful it'd make him rich.
"Now old Tom mixed under water, so everything wouldn't blow up, but I did see him dump in some black pepper and sneak in some whiskey he kept handy for medicinal purposes. Seems as though he spit tobacco juice in there as well, best I can remember.
"Anyway, when his mix dried he crumbled it into grains with his hands and got ready to shoot. By then it was spring so we came down for antelope, which'd give his powder a good testing.
"When he touched off, Tom's old Hawken kicked about straight up, and we both figured he had a winner—till we noticed his gun barrel was an inch shorter. Sure enough, every time old Tom fired, that Hawken lost an inch. Last time I saw that rifle, old Tom was carrying it as a pistol."
The story provoked assorted groans of disgust and disbelief. Holloway smiled a little before he turned serious again.
"Now I'll admit that last part was just make up. Fact is though, that powder did seem extra powerful, only Tom couldn't put any game down with it. The animals looked kind of startled and ran off.
"Well, one day I nailed a big elk old Tom had just shot at with his special powder. When we got to lookin' we finally found the answer. The honest, unfailing truth is that Tom Wadson's gunpowder pushed his bullets so fast that when they went through an animal the heat cauterized the wound, and the game trotted off not even hurt bad."
This time there wasn't even a groan. His audience sat in stunned and bemused quiet. Holloway accepted the discouraged silence as the ultimate tribute to a good frontier yam—which it was.
After a minute, James Payne-Weston rose from his camp chair with a sigh. While Mister Jones folded the seat, Payne-Weston examined the other listeners. Then he said "I suppose you are all too numbed to depart, but I shall retire before our guide remembers another Tom Wadson incident."
Payne-Weston strode away, grinning in the dark.
He heard Holloway say, just loud enough for him to notice, "Reckon Weston liked that story. Maybe I should go over and spin him another a'fore he drops off to sleep."
Chapter 12
By June, Grant Holloway had them on the middle fork of the Loup River. Their way was west by north, following the Loup's windings.
The guide dung to the river because animals came there. Grass grew deepest near the water, and even antelope, that Holloway claimed could live without drinking, came to graze.
Payne-Weston's interest in antelope was nearly finished. The hide wagon held enough horns and antelope skins to satisfy all of England's museums. Now when they took antelope, it was usually for camp meat, and Tucker Morgan often drew that task.
If the hunt appeared short, Tucker might take the boy with him. James Payne-Weston approved, although he still considered his nephew too delicate to ride alone or to possess his own rifle.
Tucker didn't agree. If Tommy Bell could jounce along behind a saddle, he would surely do better sitting one. As far as a gun was concerned, Tucker figured young Bell was more than ready. Since shooting the great antelope, the boy had taken other shots with Tucker's Joseph Smith rifle. More importantly, he had listened to what Tucker had to say about shooting.
Tucker taught him to hold a rifle the way mountain men did, which was different than his uncle's style.
"Out here, we hold our left hand further out the stock, with our elbow pointed just a little left. Reason is that we get a lot of running shots, and a gun controls better with a hand out front. Most British guns don't have wood even halfway to the muzzle, so hunters using those kind of guns have to bend an elbow more and point it nearly straight down.
"A mountain man shoots quick and reloads faster. An empty gun isn't much use, and we don't have a man standing handy to pass us another, the way some Englanders do."
Tommy Bell downed his second antelope the day Tucker taught him flagging.
"Antelope are curious critters, Tom. They can't resist having a look at anything strange. Seeing they're the fastest animals around, they're not afraid of coming close.
"Now you'll take a good hiding place right here. Hunker way down and don't twitch a muscle till you raise up to shoot. I'll go back a half mile behind a ridge. Then I'll poke my ramrod over the top with a bit of red rag tied to it. Waving the rag'll draw antelope like honey does ants. They won't wind you till they're past." Tucker mounted and added a last thought. "Shoot something tender, Tommy. We aren't gathering horns."
This time, Tommy Bell was alone. Tucker would not be there to tell him how. Heart thumping heavy enough to move his shirt, Tommy waited for antelope. Tuck's rag began waving, but he could hardly see it. Their antelope were nearly a mile more distant. With disappointment, the boy decided that Tucker had misjudged. Even antelope couldn't see that far.
He was almost relaxed when the first animals appeared in his eye corners. They trotted past, a little too far for best shooting. Their n
oses twitched for scent, but their attention was on the strange object waving back and forth.
Tommy's hands got wet, and he discovered all sorts of places that needed scratching or weight shifting. He fought away the urges and waited mouse still.
He heard their feet before he saw them, a trio of does, dancing across the slope within fifty yards. Just right, his mind said. Tucker's Joseph Smith rifle rose in his hands, and he remembered to push the butt hard into his shoulder.
He guessed he sighted, and he must have squeezed because the rifle jolted and powder smoke obscured his vision. When it cleared, the antelope were running, but one slowed, then stopped as though puzzled. It knelt on its front legs and touched its nose to the ground. Then it fell over and only twitched once.
Tommy Bell was first to the downed antelope, but he could hear Tucker's horse coming. The antelope was beautiful, and Tommy wished that somehow it could get up and run as it had before.
When Tucker pulled up, Tommy was giving the dead doe a last bite, the way Tucker had the great trophy. Tucker caught the boy's mixed emotions because he often shared them. To take meat, it was necessary to kill an animal, but Tuck knew the wish that it need not be so. The animals were too handsome, too alive, too vibrant. Then, in the next instant, too dead and finished. Hunters could understand how the Indian would believe the bear an uncle or might name themselves after animals. It could be good to be called Running Deer or Strong Buffalo. Those names had to mean more than Carter, Roger, or Fred. Tucker hauled himself from his thoughts and dropped from his saddle.
He reloaded the rifle, watching the horizons as he dumped powder and pushed a patched ball tight on top of the charge. If Indians were about, shooting could draw them. It paid to keep both eyes peeled.
Tucker spoke well of Tom's shot, but he wasted no time dramatizing the hunt. This was camp business. There were nearly a dozen appetites to be satisfied, and the plains animals were their source of food. He rolled the antelope onto its belly and split the hide down the back. Pin Larkin's old knife separated the hide from the meat, and Tucker sliced away shoulder roasts and tender strips along the backbone. He also took the tongue because one of the men was willing to skin it and broil the laid-open length on a rod held over the fire. Tongue was always tasty, but it was extra work for small reward.
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith) Page 6