Guns in Wyoming

by Lauran Paine

  Joseph Fawcett got up eventually and stalked beyond the perimeter of faint red light. He paused once and turned back. “Lee? Come here a minute, will you?”

  Lee went, followed Fawcett far out where the trees were thicker and the land began a slow outfall toward the prairie, south. There, he squatted when the older man did likewise. Joseph Fawcett was uneasy. He had to force the words out.

  “Lee, I got to say this. Your brother’s right. Listen … the countryside’s swarming with them. We’ll be hard put just to stay alive. If he leads us to Union City, we’ll all get killed. I don’t mean no disrespect to your daddy, boy … you know I rode with him to XIH and I’ve done everything he’s asked of me. But this … this riding to certain death … is no good.” Fawcett’s dull eyes lifted briefly to Lee’s face, then dropped swiftly away. “I’m leaving. I got to, Lee. But first I wanted the others to understand I’m not sneaking out like Harold Baker did. And I’m not going up against Uriah like Percy Bachelor, either. I’m just going … is all … You understand, Lee?”

  The swiftly falling Wyoming night was down fully now. There was a black-breathing stillness that lasted until the first crickets came out to chirp. Overhead, a scimitar moon rode serenely through a purple, curving vault. Lee’s face was pale. He was choking and for a time he could not speak. I’ll go with you, Fawcett. I’ll get my horse and ride with you. We’ll go by the Fosters’ place and get Ann, then we’ll ride by night and hide by day until we’re far south in Colorado.

  He stood up.

  Joseph Fawcett got to his feet, also.

  They looked long at one another before the older man half turned away with his face averted.

  “I got no bright ideals like your paw has, boy. I never been smart enough for things like that. I know sheep and I don’t mind herding them in the hills. I like the hills … they’re sort of protective … they sort of fold around a man and cradle him. You know?”

  Lee spoke swiftly, finally. He had to speak that way for the words to be steady. “Go on, Fawcett. I won’t say anything until Paw asks. That’ll give you a fair start.”

  “Tell Zeke good bye for me … Take care, Lee.”

  “Good bye.”

  Chapter Nine

  Uriah did not reappear until 10:00 p.m. He noticed at once the absence of Joseph Fawcett, but, before he spoke of it, he went out where the horses stood drowsing, gutted-up on grass, and gassy. Then he stormed back to the quiet ring of men around the dead fire.

  “Where’s Fawcett?” he demanded. “His horse is gone.”

  “Gone,” Kant U’Ren answered, at the same time jerking his head sideways at Lee. “Ask him.”

  “Lee …?”

  “He’s gone, Paw. He said Zeke was right. He said he thought you’d get us all killed.”

  Uriah choked on his wrath. “The sniveling coward,” he ground out in bitterness and scorn. “The yellow-bellied scum!”

  From farther back in the darkness Zeke said: “He rode with us to XIH. He went foraging and he never hung back about anything.”

  Uriah seemed to grow taller, drawing himself up. He stood a long moment in total silence, then spun away toward the horses. “Come on. We’re still ten strong.”

  The others got to their feet in blind obedience. One of the last to arise was Lee. He did not move out with the others right away but watched his brother heading Uriah off just short of their mounts.

  Zeke’s hand was on his father’s arm. “Paw … don’t. You’ll make it worse.”

  “Take your hand off me!”

  “Then quit this craziness, Paw.”

  Uriah’s free arm swung swiftly. Twice the bony fist cracked against Zeke’s jaw. Then Uriah wrenched free. “You damned whelp!” he bellowed. “You ungrateful coward!”

  With a fearful roar that drowned Uriah’s words, Zeke lunged. The old man sprang back, as much in surprise as in defense. He recovered swiftly and a scraggly fist swirled up and out, crashing squarely into Zeke’s unprotected face. It would have downed a lesser man; it only jarred Zeke and it did not stop his rush. Then Uriah side-stepped like a cat, his face gone livid, and fired his other fist. Zeke saw this one coming and went in under it, big arms reaching, fingers crooked. There was a flung-back trickle of blood along one cheek from the torn corner of his mouth.

  No one spoke; no one scarcely breathed. It had happened too suddenly, this abrupt bursting into flames of a smoldering antagonism. Lee rushed forward, but George Dobkins stopped him with an upflung arm as hard as iron.

  “No, boy,” Dobkins said with swift urgency. “Let ’em get the poison out. Leave ’em be.”

  Lee subsided, stood rocklike with the others, watching.

  Uriah’s neck was scarlet. His face was darkened by the blood that roared in his head now, as it had roared through fifty years of fighting. He was long of tooth at this game and back-stepped away from Zeke’s rush at the same time throwing looping blows that Zeke made no attempt to avoid. It was as though the elder son wanted to be struck, wanted to absorb all that Uriah could punish him with as he bored in.

  Then Uriah tripped over a flung down saddle and fell. Zeke bent low, feeling for him. Uriah scrambled frantically to free himself of the leather, but Zeke’s hooked fingers found him, closed like iron around his legs and yanked him free, pulled him flat on his back through the rising black dust.

  Uriah twisted and wrenched and tore this way and that, seeking to break free. He knew what was coming and fought, panther-like, to avoid it. Then Zeke’s hands went up along the writhing body, lifted his father bodily, braced against the frantic scrabbling, and locked behind Uriah’s back. Zeke lowered his head, pushed it hard into Uriah’s body to save his eyes from clawing fingers. Then he began to squeeze slowly, inexorably, crushed inward until his muscles leaped and quivered snakelike while Uriah’s breath whistled out and a rain of futile blows landed upon Zeke’s head. He continued to crush until his father’s eyes bulged and his mouth sprang open, all pink and wet with snags of discolored teeth showing. Uriah’s lips turned blue and his cheeks mottled, but his flailing fists scarcely slackened although their power to hurt was gone.

  Then Kant U’Ren stepped up behind Zeke and brought his pistol barrel overhand against the eldest son’s skull. It was the only sound.

  Zeke collapsed, his arms fell away, and Uriah lay writhing upon the ground, still conscious but only dimly so. Then U’Ren faced around toward Lee. It was the only quarter from which he expected trouble.

  George Dobkins and Pete Amaya went to Uriah and supported him in a sitting position. Another man brought a tin cup of water.

  Lee kneeled beside his brother, who was moaning. U’Ren had not struck hard, only hard enough. “Water,” the youngest son said. Another man came forward with a cup.

  When Uriah could focus his eyes, he looked over where his sons were. “I’ll kill him,” he cried huskily. “By God, I’ll kill him.”

  Kant U’Ren stepped forward, put a hand under Uriah’s arm, and lifted. “No need for that,” he said. “Just leave him here. The cowmen’ll do it for you. Ain’t no sheepman going to live more’n a day or two now, by himself.”

  “His own father,” Uriah gasped, his head full of dizziness and his rib cage burning with pain. “To his own flesh and blood …” He blinked wetly. There were winking specks of color before his eyes. He let off a long rattling breath and shook free of supporting arms. “Now come on. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  Lee was left alone with his brother.

  Zeke stirred, opened wide his eyes, and looked hazily upward through pools of pain. “You …?” he said to Lee.

  “No, it wasn’t me. It doesn’t matter who did it, anyway. Here … drink this water.”

  Zeke drank. Then he explored the sticky welt at the back of his head and Lee got him unsteadily to his feet.

  “We don’t have any whiskey, Zeke.”

 
His brother’s voice got strong quick. “It doesn’t matter, boy.” He started forward toward the dead fire. George Dobkins materialized suddenly, leading three horses. Zeke blinked at him and waited, saying nothing.

  “You coming, Zeke?” Dobkins asked, pushing forward the reins to Zeke’s saddled horse.

  “What do you care whether I come or not?” Zeke demanded, studying the older man’s face.

  Dobkins’ reply was both toneless and practical. “Ten guns are better’n eight, Zeke. We’ll need you … both of you.” He pushed the reins into Zeke’s hand.

  “Was it you hit me, George?”

  “No, it wasn’t me,” Dobkins answered. Then, thinking as Lee had thought, also, he added: “It don’t matter who it was, Zeke. Come on … they won’t wait for us.”

  Lee got his horse from Dobkins. They mounted and shuffled out where the others were getting astride. Many level glances were turned toward them but not a single face showed anything. Each man was thinking his own thoughts and hiding them behind impassivity and silence.

  Uriah led them, stiff in the saddle and pain-racked but unwilling for others to see him like that. Behind him rode Kant U’Ren. The others trailed after, single file and soundless. The last two riders were Zeke and Lee Gorman.

  Lee could tell from his brother’s expression that Zeke regretted what he had done, and he understood that. Not too long before he himself had considered rebelling, but in a less open manner. Remembering made shame redden his face. But there was consolation in knowing that loyal Zeke, more like the old man than anyone else, had also set himself against what they were now riding to do.

  As they rode Lee closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, and bobbed along in time with his grulla mount. There were whispering voices within him. It was hard to disassociate them from the muttered huskings of Pete Amaya and the shapeless silhouette swaying along just ahead of the Mexican. Only by opening his eyes could Lee disseminate the voices.

  “I never met a man like the jefe before,” Amaya was saying. “He is like iron … like an Apache. He does not change his purpose.”

  “I hope I never meet another like him,” the other man said softly, thinking he would not be heard.

  “He is like a fox.”

  “More like a wolf, Pete.”

  “Yes, more like a wolf.”

  “A rabid one. You know he’ll get us all shot or hung, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t know that,” the Mexican retorted. Then added: “It is the risk we take.” Thin shoulders rose fatalistically and fell. “We have no better leader … besides, it is as he says … one does better to die on one’s feet than live on one’s knees.”

  The swaying shape twisted. For a moment a white face showed, then the rider straightened around and fell silent. Lee and Zeke saw this, and they were both confident that Amaya missed the purpose of that brief, incredulous stare. Zeke reined closer to his brother, his voice dropped.

  “He’s always been right. Ever since I can remember Paw’s always been right.”

  “Now you don’t think he is.”

  “It’s more’n that, Lee. It’s something else as well, boy. He’s changed. Since we went to XIH … maybe even before that, I don’t know, but he’s changed since this thing has started.”

  “Zeke, I would have run away with Ann that time.”

  Zeke wagged his head softly. “No, you wouldn’t have, Lee. Now you would … but not then you wouldn’t have. Now you won’t get the chance, but that’s all right. I guess a man’s got to come to know something some time or another. I guess if I’d fully believed in what I was doing tonight I’d have killed him.”

  “You didn’t believe what you said to him?”

  “I believed it. I still believe it. Going to Union City’s the craziest thing he’s ever done. But that’s not it. It’s blood being thicker’n water, Lee. I guess with me it’s always been even thicker’n with you. I can’t remember when I haven’t been getting between you and Maw and Paw. I’m like him, that’s why, only I haven’t lived his life so I can still see things different.” Zeke straightened up in his saddle. “Look at him sitting up there like Lord Almighty. That’s what he’s been to us all our lives, Lee. Me even more’n you. That’s why I’m riding along behind him when I know a cussed sight better.” Zeke’s green eyes, so like Uriah’s eyes, turned fully on Lee. “That’s why you’re riding after him … you and these other damned fools. He’s a sort of symbol to you.” Zeke’s chapped lips drew downward. “We aren’t the first idiots to follow a crazy man into the grave and I reckon we won’t be the last.”

  His brother’s words had a profound effect upon Lee. It was their grim sound of certain defeat more than their meaning that pierced him through and left him shaken. He could fight, yes, but he didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live and grow things, to watch sunlight fade in the west, to feel Ann’s sweat-hot flesh against his flesh. And what Zeke had said back at the knoll had been starkly true. The old man was doing this crazy thing because of some reason other than bargaining with their enemies. He had some secret purpose in mind. Something within him had to be satisfied with bravado and it probably would get some of them killed.

  It wasn’t simply equal range rights that motivated him. He didn’t have that much feeling for anything. He just plain didn’t. He’d grubbed in Tennessee and Alabama and Missouri. He’d turned his back on each of those places without a second glance or thought, and all the while this strangeness had been growing in his head until now, still lacking the feeling that should have been driving him to wage war for equality and survival, he was fighting instead for this secret thing, even though the men who followed him did not know it yet—all that is, except the sons who knew him this well.

  “What is it, Zeke?”

  Lee’s older brother turned back from gazing far out where an abandoned ranch lay soft-lit in their passing. “What is what? That old ranch? I’d say it’s a place that folks left until the trouble’s over.”

  “No, not that.”

  “What then?”

  “Oh, I guess nothing.” Lee turned his pale face away.

  The night continued darkly still. Beyond the sound of their passing there was only hushed silence. Uriah led them steadily ahead. He told them nothing, hadn’t spoken to any of them since he’d left the gravelly knoll far back. Out ahead like he was, none could see the tears that blurred his vision, the bitter working of his mouth from which fell no audible sound. He led them and they followed, and when a sprinkling of golden lamp glow showed far ahead winking down the miles, he swung south and westward and no one questioned his lead, although several of them looked perplexed. Zeke and Lee exchanged a puzzled look. He was not, as they had anticipated, going to lead them directly into Union City, but was instead making a circuitous reconnaissance. He was crafty they knew, and from this they took heart. They might survive after all.

  Then Uriah halted them below the town with a rigid arm and drew off alone to fade into the watery light cast by a thin moon. He didn’t return for a quarter of an hour and meanwhile they talked in hushed tones among themselves.

  Charley Simpson craned his neck toward Lee and Zeke. His face was wire tight and shadowed beneath his hat. “Listen to me,” he said sharply. “Don’t let him lead you in there.”

  Kant U’Ren growled: “Shut up, Simpson.”

  The cowman ignored it. “They won’t bargain with you, men. They’ll kill the lot of you and us with you.”

  U’Ren’s voice grew stronger. “That’ll be too bad for you, won’t it?”

  Simpson’s desperation made him speak louder. “Boys, believe me. I know what I’m talking about. They won’t agree to his terms.”

  “I said shut up!” U’Ren’s arm rose and fell, a quirt’s knobby thongs whistled through the air and thudded viciously against unprotected flesh. Charley Simpson was silent, only a groan got past
his locked teeth.

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” Dade said brokenly.

  U’Ren laughed. It was an explosive sound, harsh and scratchy. His arm went up lazily.

  Lee could see the heavy quirt poised for descent. “Don’t,” he called quickly. “Leave him be, Kant.”

  The half-breed looked back without checking his arm. Zeke seconded his brother. “You heard him, U’Ren. Leave ’em be.”

  That time the big half-breed heeded. His arm came down slowly. He looked away from the brothers out into the darkness. He was listening. They all heard it. An oncoming horse. It was Uriah. When he came among them he was smiling. He scarcely checked his mount before he motioned them to follow, and turned back. They went slowly, at a soft walk, and distantly a dog barked.

  There were other sounds in the town, even music. They heeded them not as Uriah led them past the tar-paper shacks at Union City’s southernmost extremity and on around to the east, where residences stood. Where he angled inwardly toward the rear of Main Street’s saloons and offices, with houses on each side and flanking them, Lee’s forehead grew crumpled with lines. His brows lowered and smoothed out in a puzzled straight line.

  He thought it dangerous and foolish to take them all beyond the twin rows of houses so that, in retreat, they could be raked by hot fire on both sides. He thought, too, of pushing up and correcting Uriah’s course. But in the end he shrank back and followed along. Even if Uriah didn’t scorn him with his sunken eyes, he’d have an answer. You couldn’t speak against him because he had a way of saying things with harsh zeal and soon you doubted if you’d ever been right. Or his towering silences …

  George Dobkins’ strong whisper came urgently beside Lee. “What the hell’s he doing up here?”

  “I don’t know, George.”