Guns in Wyoming

by Lauran Paine

  A darkness bowed him under and rode his spirit. “I do what I know is best,” he told George Dobkins. “I am not new at this.”

  Lee, listening, felt his father’s words ring in his heart—heavy words, as heavy as stone. He was tense all over, taut as a bowstring.

  “Sit down, boy,” his brother said from the ground. “Leave ’em be.”

  But Lee did not relax until Dobkins and another man went out to look to the horses and Uriah took out his case knife and worried off big mouthfuls of dripping deer meat. Then he sank back down. Beside him Zeke was already asleep, his breath a rhythmic bubbling in the damp stillness.

  Uriah did not rouse them again until the shimmer of breaking day whirled the mist. Then he ordered them to saddle up. “We dassn’t stay long in one place,” he said. They moved. Their legs dragged and their fingers were clumsy with cinches, with bits and headstalls and blankets. He led them cautiously across the open slope toward the creek, then through the unfamiliar green screening of willows and tules close by the water. An uneasy wind strode down the land behind them shredding the mist, then it died and the only sound was of hoofs sucking up loudly from the mud.

  Lee smelled the air. A hot day was ahead, a good summer day. For a moment a droplet of hope enlivened his spirit; he liked the heat, the sun, the strong heavy air of Wyoming summer days. He loved summer the best. It had unrestrained color. The tang of wind at dawn, the savor of richness, of growth and fecundity …

  Uriah made for a little land swell and halted there to peer out under the lifting mist. “Look there,” he said with sudden sharpness, his face darkening, turning evil and hating again.

  Lee tugged back to stop, brought harshly back to reality with a start by the thinness of his father’s tone.

  Little parties of horsemen, bunched up and scattered out not more than ten to a band, were criss-crossing the land. Like soldiers, thought Lee. There’s some kind of a plan behind the way they’re doing that. He watched several clutches of the riders cross the creek far north of them at spaced intervals. Not a tree or willow clump was left unscrutinized.

  A cadaverous raider with a bony face and deep-sunken eyes spoke beside him. “Like old times,” he said, watching ahead. “Skirmish order.”

  George Dobkins, sitting his saddle like a statue, nodded. “Ander was a soldier. I’ve heard that said many times.”

  Uriah announced: “We’d best get moving. Westerly now, boys, and take care. They are a long way off but there’ll be others and maybe closer. Keep to cover.”

  Lee twisted his head. Keep to cover? How? Where? When they left the creek, they also left the cover. There was too much open country around them now and with the fog lifting they could not go far undetected. His throat tightened and his mouth became dry.

  Uriah led them back to the creek and along it for a mile, then, where the crumbling banks swerved easterly toward Union City, he paused only for a moment then pushed on.

  Lee looked longingly toward the mountains, westerly. They knew every cranny of those hills, every hideout and dark cañon. The cowmen were there, yes, but they did not know the mountains well. He straightened in the saddle. Beside him Pete Amaya’s raffish grin shone with bright confidence.

  “Your Paw’s crazy like a fox,” the Mexican said. He lifted an arm and flagged easterly with it. “Who will think to look for us at Union City?”

  Lee’s sweeping glance showed him instantly that they were indeed heading toward Union City. In a strangling voice he said: “You fool …”

  “No, no, amigo. He’s right. You are young. You are inexperienced. You do not know about these things. Look, there are men all over the range looking for us.” Amaya’s black eyes danced. “They have stripped their settlement bare to chase outlaws. Amigo, they will not expect us to get behind them.”

  “We can’t,” Lee said sharply. “We can’t get behind them, you fool. Didn’t you see the way they’re combing the prairie? Besides, we got no friends at Union City. If we get there, we’ll never be able to get away again.”

  But Pedro Amaya had blind allegiance. It was perhaps all he had besides inherent cruelty but it was enough. He did not believe Uriah could be beaten, let alone outthought. He urged his horse away from Lee’s side, still wearing his solid smile.

  Uriah led them craftily back and forth in a way that kept them hidden by rolls of land or fingerlings of timber and brush until they were less than three miles from Union City. Behind them, still visible on their flank, was the creek. Then he stopped and let them all cluster up before he pointed ahead with a rigid arm. Lee had to move his horse around Kant U’Ren, sitting stiffly in the saddle, rifle athwart his thighs, to see.

  There was a strung-out blue line of soldiers moving at a brisk trot toward the village. Bright sunlight winked off shiny accoutrements and along the burning edge of drawn sabers.

  U’Ren grunted. “It’s like we was already in the damned town,” he said. “What in hell d’you expect they’re up to?”

  It was Zeke who told them. “Look north of town there,” he said, “and you’ll see plain enough even from here. That’s a freshly made scaffolding there.”

  Lee looked as did the others. The distance was great but not too great. New lumber bone-white in the sparkling brightness stood out where a gibbet had been constructed. It was long, long enough to hang four men at a time.

  Said a hoarse voice: “They got Fawcett and Bachelor and …”

  “Be quiet!” Uriah ordered, his face turned ironlike, acid-etched, and bleak. “They likely got nobody. They’re just praying they might.”

  “That prayer’ll likely get answered, too,” U’Ren said.

  Uriah turned a flinty stare on him, but U’Ren did not notice. He was staring far ahead, his dark, lean face gone hard and impassive, his thin lips lying relaxed and closed in thoughtfulness. “Well,” he finally added, “no sense in going closer now.”

  Uriah concurred but not right away. He continued to stare at the gibbet as unaware as the rest of them that horsemen had appeared on a far-off knoll, had drawn up suddenly, and were studying them from a distance.

  Not until a fluting cry quivered like quicksilver in the fresh warmth did Uriah jerk around. Then he saw them spurring down from the knob, guns bared and horses plunging on loose reins.

  “Come on, boys!” he called, and spun his mount downslope toward the creek. They drew weapons and followed him in a rush. Lee was the last man. He sat a moment, staring. One of the posse’s leaders was familiar to him. It was Lew Foster, Ann’s father. Then he fled after the others and overtook Zeke who was hanging back, waiting for him.

  They heard the crackle of gunfire coming from the swale behind but were protected from pursuit by the land swell. Zeke craned for a backward look. He was worried. Gunfire this day would be heard a long way off. As far as Union City probably since the air was that clear and conductive.

  At the creek’s bank Uriah swung on his excited horse. His awry beard jutted and his flaming eyes burned with excitement he made no attempt to control. “Across!” he cried. “Across and ambush ’em on the far side.”

  They plunged into the water, got across, and followed the old man’s example of dismounting. After the horse holders led the animals away there were only six of them.

  From the creekbank, Zeke called out: “Twelve by my count! That’s Lew Foster’s buckskin in the lead.”

  “Come here, Zeke. The rest of you spread out. Let ’em get into the water before you shoot. Lee … you owe Foster something. Kill him.” Uriah’s mouth hung slack in long silence while he glared at his youngest. “Kill him, boy!”

  They scattered into the willows, flattened in low places, and pushed their rifles out with sweaty hands. They could plainly see the bunched-up riders advancing from the northeast toward the creek. They came sweeping down the slow-depending slope and suddenly opened fire.

  “Hold,” Uriah comm
anded sternly, his voice calm now and low. “Don’t shoot yet … not till they’re in the water. Then aim low, boys … belly-low, and don’t miss ’em, the murderers!”

  The riders broke and scattered. A burly man astride a magnificent black gelding flung up an arm, and shouted: “They ain’t beyond the creek! Be careful now …”

  As well try to stem a flood. The posse men had been long at this search. They were not to be stopped now. Four of them let off keening Indian yells and raced recklessly for the silver roll of water.

  On Lee’s right Kant U’Ren snugged back his rifle, traced out the shifting shape of a rider down his barrel, and squeezed off a shot. Horse and man went down in a crashing tumult. Behind them three others screamed at their mounts and sought to check the headlong rush. As they were fighting around, U’Ren levered up another bullet and raised his head. He was smiling. He had no intention of firing again.

  Across the creek posse men stopped beyond range and milled around. Closer, a solitary horseman sat motionlessly, staring at the willow tangle. To Lee’s eyes he was elusively familiar.

  “Who is that feller off by himself, there?” he called to Zeke.

  The older brother answered without taking his eyes off the milling men beyond. “Garner. That US marshal from Denver. I recognize his horse.”

  Uriah’s voice rose in scorn. “They’re sending back for help. Two to one, and they’re going for help.”

  It was true. A doubled-over rider was spurring rapidly back over the land swell in the direction of Union City.

  Lee watched him a moment, cocked a glance at the sun overhead, and got up on to one knee. “He’ll bring back the soldiers, Paw. Let’s get out of here.”

  Bullets drove him flat again and Uriah did not answer. The posse men were afoot now and advancing in a zigzag run toward the east bank of the creek. They had detailed horse holders to take their animals farther up the slope and out of harm’s way.

  “Now!” Uriah cried sharply. “Now! Before they get to the willows!”

  The sudden fire brought down two posse men. One fell like a lightning-struck tree and did not move again. The second man writhed upon the tender grass and screamed. His companions wilted under the steady volleys. They looked right and left for leadership, then broke and fled back the way they had come. Lee saw Burt Garner running after them loosely and slowly, as though ashamed. Halfway up the slope was the unmistakable figure of Lew Foster. He was well in the lead now, as he had also been far back during the earlier charge.

  “Hold your fire!” Uriah commanded. He had to repeat it twice, louder each time before Pete Amaya pushed his rifle aside to peer through the willows at their routed foemen. He probably never did hear Uriah’s order. He was grinning happily.

  “Bring up the horses!”

  The men got to their feet and waited. When the animals appeared, Uriah made no move toward them. He was standing erectly with his rifle butt down and gazing up the far slope. “Like quail,” he said, in the first soft voice those around him had heard him use in days. “Like quail, boys.” He did not smile at them but there were no longer shadows in his gaze. “If that’s how they took this country from the Indians, then the Indians must’ve been pretty sorry fighting men.”

  No one looked at Kant U’Ren. They had forgotten the half-blood. But it did not matter. U’Ren was openly smiling.

  Zeke studied the distant posse men through slitted lids. His face was composed, too, but thoughtfully so. “Now where?” he asked of his father.

  “Don’t worry. Just mount up and follow me. There’s a sight more to this than just running all the time.”

  “Yes,” said Amaya. “We win each time we meet them.” He turned a guileless eye on Lee. “You see?”

  Lee made no reply. He got astride and followed the others away from the willow bank, rode half turned in the saddle to watch their enemies.

  There was no pursuit.

  Kant U’Ren rode beside Zeke. “They’re watching. They won’t try to stop us,” he said.

  Zeke lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “I thought you were smarter than Amaya, U’Ren. I figured you for a man who’s seen things like this before.”

  “I have.”

  “Then why don’t you use your damned head. They’re not scared of us.”

  “No? Then why’re they letting us ride off ’thout even trying to stop us?”

  “Because,” answered Zeke, “they’re waiting for the Army. When the soldiers come up, they’ll come after us ten to one and maybe more. By this time tomorrow I think you might get a chance to see whether we’ve whipped ’em or not. Whether they’re scared of us or not.”

  Chapter Eleven

  But Zeke had calculated without the craftiness of his father. Wild in the head, old Uriah might be but he was no fool. He led them straight for the hills until the sun dipped and sank far off, then he slowed and they ambled along with the blue east behind them, making them vague and shadowy and dim to the eye, and after full dusk fell he turned around without a word and headed back for the creek.

  There was a ripple of fear among them, a murmur of doubt, but they followed. Uriah’s hold was on them all, even the disillusioned, the ones like Lee who rode now without speaking or even looking at his companions. He was sick with fatigue. There was a numb, oblivious look in his eyes as if he no longer cared. Behind him came big Zeke, chewing venison and staring at his father’s back. Behind Zeke rode U’Ren. It mattered very little to him, either. He was shrewd without being intelligent and that made him a fatalist. Even Pete Amaya, farther back still, knew fear at first, but as always with him, blind allegiance triumphed. He, too, was chewing deer meat as he slumped along.

  When they had covered nearly a mile there came to them a feeling, a quivering in the night stillness that, communicating itself to them, passed along the column. They sensed danger from the very darkness that was their ally—a sudden alarm in the atmosphere some way. Uriah drew up, sniffing and listening, a shaggy old sheepdog of a man gauntly straining. Then all their minds merged into one thought and there was a general stir of bodies—pursuit.

  North of them a ways came the faint but growing rumble of a large mounted force moving swiftly to the west. They listened with held breath, with stilled jaws and widened eyes. The clatter grew louder, louder, then it began to diminish, to flee away from them toward the mountains, and in the gut of each outlaw the knots lessened, leaving behind a thoroughly drained and weakened feeling. Only Uriah seemed unaffected. Without a word he shortened his reins, turned his back on them, and pushed on to the creek.

  They splashed across in a bunch as silent as only tense men can be. Then Uriah swung northward a little and after a while Lee’s head came up. He turned from an orienting study of the landfall to an equally as puzzled study of his father’s back. A rider edged up and bumped stirrups with him. It was Zeke. His face held an irony; there was no puzzlement. He was too like Uriah. He knew where they were going. He thought he knew why, too.

  When they topped out on the gravelly ridge Uriah stopped. Below them, lying square and soft-limned by moonlight, lay the Foster place. The men crowded up close. Like Uriah they knew whose ranch this was. They also remembered with vividness Lew Foster leading the cowmen against them at the creek.

  “Zeke, you and the rest stay here and watch.” Uriah’s shadowed eyes swept past Lee to Kant U’Ren and Pete Amaya. “You boys come with me.”

  “Paw!”

  Uriah ignored the quick cry of his youngest. He looked hard at Zeke. “See that he stays with you.”

  That was all.

  Amaya and U’Ren rode forward. They followed Uriah down the hill.

  In Lee the forces of desperation and horror came up strong. “He’ll kill ’em, Zeke. Listen, I got to go.”

  “You stay, boy.”

  “But, Zeke!”

  A hard headshake. “No, he won’t kill her. No
matter what he thinks … he won’t kill a woman.”

  “He’ll kill Lew. He killed that officer, Zeke.”

  The older brother looked broodingly down the hill. There was nothing to see, no sound or movement anywhere. He thought it very likely that Uriah would kill Lew Foster, but in searching his mind he could find no sorry feeling for that.

  “Zeke …!”

  “No! You stay!”

  Zeke did not look at Lee. It was George Dobkins’ voice that came next, soft but sharp in the gloom. “Hold it, Lee. Think …”

  Dobkins’ hand was holding fast to the younger man’s gun hand, forcing it down, down, away from the weapon Lee had clutched.

  “One shot’ll bring the whole damned countryside down on us, boy. Think …”

  From the pinched-down little valley below there came lamplight but that was all. There was no shot. Dobkins’ fingers loosened and finally drew away, but the man kept his eyes turned fully on the brothers. A lantern came from the house. It bobbed toward the barn. From the hilltop it was impossible to see who carried it, or if he was alone or with others.

  Zeke dismounted and stamped his feet. Several others did the same. Dobkins did not turn away from Lee, and the youngest Gorman stared toward the lighted barn without moving until the lantern went out and shortly afterward the sound of horses moving uphill came scratchily through the silence.

  They were all mounted and ready when Uriah herded his new hostages among them. Lew Foster’s hip holster was empty; his arms were bound behind him. He was sweating and badly frightened. Most of the sheepmen looked away from his face. They were embarrassed for him. Neither Paxton Clement nor Charles Simpson had shown fear, once.

  Kant U’Ren and Pete Amaya herded the second hostage toward Lee. They were both smiling, Amaya the widest, as though bringing Ann to her lover was his exclusive notion, his contribution to a companero’s happiness.