Guns in Wyoming

by Lauran Paine

  He knew instinctively that he was not far distant from Union City’s northerly environs, but with night falling now he could not exactly place where he was. It did not matter. All that mattered was that he kept clear of others and kept moving.

  Where several log houses clustered close he went furtively afoot, leading the horse for extra silence. Clear of them he thudded over the endless range with a glow of star shine over his right shoulder. Far back, looming blacker than night, were the mountains; he kept them in position to set a course by.

  The world had never seemed so foreign a place to him as it did this night. The stars lacked warmth; they were too high and small for kinship, and when the moon finally rose it was curled inward in a sick way. Only the old horse beneath him was friendly.

  Then, believing himself well east of Union City, he quartered southerly meaning to ride until he dropped, and then ride some more until Wyoming was far behind him.

  He stopped several times, put his ear to the earth, and held his breath. The last time, he heard the beating of a solitary rider coming toward him from the west. He waited to hear others, too, but there was only that solitary pounding. A lone rider might mean anything or nothing. It might even mean Uriah or Zeke had escaped the attack, also. It might be just a traveler, or a messenger carrying tidings to Union City.

  For a time he sat like stone, waiting to hear the sound from horseback. Then restlessness seized him. Each second was precious. The horse fidgeted impatiently and he studied the flat dark world. He did not know which way to go. Finally he rode deep into a sage patch, dismounted, and squatted there, looking out, letting the moon gather strength to brighten the night. Eventually he saw pale ribbons of a roadway and concluded it must be the northern passage to Union City. The rider he had detected was probably riding it somewhere although he could not see him or hear him now. Perhaps he had passed by. Fear returned. If that was so, if the man had gone on southerly and was a messenger, he could rouse the cowmen athwart Lee’s withdrawal route, and at any dip or rise of the prairie he would meet a band of enemies.

  His fear was feeding upon itself, consuming him and contorting his thoughts. He had no inkling that he, like the others, was helpless and lost without Uriah. He got back onto the horse and sat there, motionless as an Indian, heeding the fear with his rope rein hanging, his mind aching, his body racked with the pain of stress, and his belly as empty as a wet sack. The sound of drowsy birds in the sage scolding him sounded as loud as pistol shots.

  Then a slow-growing clatter of horsemen came whisper soft from up the road, north, and he spun the horse, forcing it deeper into the brush. He sprang down again and laid a big hand across the beast’s nostrils. His heart was thudding. The sound grew stronger, went echoing down the roadway and out through the night with a rhythmic pounding insistence.

  Soldiers! They came into ghostly view, a long line of them riding in twos with a whipping bird-tailed pennant out ahead. He was not mistaken. No other body of men rode with that swinging sound, with that clash of metal scabbards, and that peculiar cadence.

  The fear returned overpoweringly. He cringed and his courage fled. There was no escape now to the south, in the direction the soldiers were taking. The way was blocked westerly toward the mountains. Northerly were the big ranches and easterly it was the same. Men were everywhere riding to the kill. The certainty of all this pressed in, making him light-headed. Even if any of them could escape, they would never cease to be hunted. There would be rewards, bounty hunters, eager guns everywhere seeking to snuff out his life. The full knowledge that this was immutably so cowed him.

  Beyond, the soldiers were swinging past in their long dark line. There were no words among them, no signs, just the rise and fall of men on big horses whose faces were hidden by hat-shadowing darkness and whose hands were skeletal in bone-white gauntlets. A winking of curved saber scabbards.

  He let out an unconscious cry, dug into the old horse cruelly, and burst out of the brush in a crazy run toward the roadway where dust curled lazily upward and hung poised in the stillness of night. He reined up sharply near the end of the column and threw up his arms.

  “Soldiers … soldiers! Hold up! Wait!”

  Their startled faces turned toward him. Puddled eyes stared out of deep shadows.

  “Hold up!”

  A voice came thinly over the clatter, others took it up, tossed it the length of the column, and finally the riders slowed, milled, and halted.

  “What is it … back there?”

  “Settler, sir. Hollered for us to halt.”

  Lee’s arms dropped. In the heavy silence he watched a thin, sparse man ride toward him down the side of the column. A monstrous upcurling mustache made the man’s face look fierce. He saw suspicion in the eyes and mercilessness in the tightly puckered mouth.

  “Who are you? What do you want, sir?”

  “I want to give up, mister. I’m Lee Gorman.”

  The officer drew up and sat still, gazing steadily ahead at the bareback scarecrow. He saw no weapons, which made his face cloud with doubt. “Is that so,” he said flatly. “You’re Lee Gorman, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is your father?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Don’t know?”

  “No, sir. We split up. I don’t know where he is. Or Zeke. Or the others.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why did you split up?”

  “We were jumped back in the mountains. I ran for it. So did the others. I don’t know where they went. I came down here … I got lost.”

  Stony silence. The soldiers were straining to hear. Lee was conscious of their blurred faces in the weak light.

  “You might be telling the truth. God knows you look like you are.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “But you must know what your father’s plans were.”

  “He had none. We did what he told us. He said life was how you found it. We didn’t know from hour to hour where he would take us.”

  The merciless cold face was without expression or movement. “I see. And how many of you are left?”

  “There were five of us left.”

  “It was reported that at least six of you escaped Union City last night.”

  “One died. Joseph Fawcett died, sir. He was shot through. He is buried under some rocks not far from Cottonwood Creek.”

  “Good. That is one less.” The officer turned only his head. “Corporal! Four-man escort for the prisoner!”

  He rode back toward the head of the column without another glance, and a large gloved hand closed over Lee’s arm.

  “In here, Gorman. There. Now don’t try to break out.”

  “I won’t. I surrender, sir.”

  The corporal was heavy-faced, solid and square in a shapeless but massively powerful way. He gazed steadily at Lee, then cleared his throat, spat, and held out some rock-hard biscuits.

  “Here, boy. You might as well eat some, too. Because of your old man we been riding near sixty miles on nothing else.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The column with Lee in its midst rode steadily for nearly an hour, neither slackening its pace nor stopping until it clattered into Union City where a few late lamps burned, casting enormously grotesque shadows behind where the ranks were wheeled into line and halted.

  There were a few men abroad, mostly sentinels with rifles told off to this duty by cow interests. They listened to the curt order that dismounted the soldiers and watched the tall, thin officer go down the line, plucking off his gauntlets. His orders were precise and impersonal; he was a man with a duty to perform. Nothing more and nothing less. The cowmen watched him from unfriendly faces, dour-looking and silent. It was their historic plaint that soldiers never arrived until the fighting was over. They were clearly thinking this now.r />
  Then one of them saw the prisoner and moved closer for a better look. He drew up erect and yelled in full throat: “They got one! They got the youngest Gorman!”

  There was a stir among those sparse spectators. Men moved closer, peering hard, then they, too, took up the cry. It echoed back and forth, filling the roadway until Union City rang with it. Men tumbled from saloons and houses. They filled the plank walks and the roadway. The thin officer watched this tumultuous eruption briefly, then he said: “Sergeant! Close up the ranks! Corporal! Detail horse holders and reinforce the prisoner guard!”

  Townsmen swarmed. They cried out for young Gorman, punctuating each demand with fierce profanity.

  The officer straightened his back against them. “Sabers!” he called out. “The flat of your sabers, men … no shooting.” He faced the largest mob of civilians, and although he raised his voice, it was still dispassionate-sounding. “Stay back!”

  A squat man, thick-thewed as a spruce tree stopped close to Lee’s guard detail. His legs were planted widely and he seemed silently undecided. Others bumped him, jostled him, but he scarcely moved. Yells burst over his head. Still he remained silent.

  “There he is … in there!”

  “Drag the murderer out. Take him to the gibbet.”

  “Come on, boys, they won’t use them swords.”

  Close to Lee the corporal said: “Steady. Steady now. No running through … Here, you damned scum … back off or I’ll lay your skull open. Back now, damn you …”

  The soldiers tightened their circle. Lee could see their white faces, could feel the quiver of their tightly strung bodies, and beyond them was a surging sea of wrathful faces. Huge words stood starkly in his mind. They want to lynch me. This is crazy. They’re going to attack the soldiers.

  Then the squat man roared: “Stop! Leave off that shoving. Settle down a minute. They got him.”

  “Yes,” swore a young blond giant, waving a Dragoon pistol. “They got him and we aim to take him.”

  Others supported the big youth with their cries.

  “He’ll get his … wait and see if he don’t!”

  “There’ll be a trial!” cried the squat man.

  “Trial, hell! He’ll hang right now … tonight. Damned if he won’t. No bluebellies going to keep us from it.”

  “Hey, blacksmith, you gone yellow? Get outta the way then, an’ let some men handle this!”

  “Quit that kind of talk,” the squat man said, turning toward the mob. “Dammit, shut up, will you?”

  The blond giant muscled closer to the squat man. Lee could plainly see his face. It was round and flat and splotchy with excited dark blood. “Shut up yourself, blacksmith!” he bellowed. “Who’n hell you think you are anyway? You and your yellow talk.” From within the circle Lee watched them. The squat man faced fully toward the huge youth, whose corn-silk hair was awry and tumbling and who still waved his big pistol. He thought they would fight, and, thought if they did, the madness would erupt and would fill the roadway with terrible violence.

  “Been eleven of us killed by them goddamned sheepmen!”

  The wild anger beat upon the night air. Fisted hands shook and weapons waved aloft.

  The officer apparently thought as Lee did, for he opened a way toward the bristling opponents with his saber. Its burning glow went past the squat man and stopped only inches from the giant’s belly. “Get back and shut up,” said the officer, leaning slightly forward so that his saber tip lay against the youth’s shirt. “I mean that. Get back or I’ll gut rip you!”

  The youth sucked back and looked up the saber’s curved length of bright steel. “Put it down and I’ll thrash you till you beg.”

  The officer’s impersonal coldness was both a contrast and a significant thing. He meant what he said and those around him knew it.

  The squat man moved away from him toward the youth. He reached for the boy’s belt. “Don’t force him, lad. Come on, forget it.”

  “No, by Lord A’mighty, I’ll kill ’em both!”

  The officer moved his wrist. The youth’s mouth snapped closed and a pinpoint of blood appeared on his shirt.

  “I’ll run you through!”

  The squat man had the youth’s belt now. He gave a powerful tug and drew the boy away.

  That was the high point of the night. Afterward the crowd drew back a little. Its roar diminished and its eyes followed the thin officer as he moved back a little, saber still gripped hard but down now. And when next he spoke in that expressionless voice, he had won his victory.

  “Draw pistols! Ready! Aim …”

  There remained but one word to say. He did not say it but the crowd knew that he would. They gave way, those in front pushing toward the rear, their defiant clamorings turned now to quick demands for passage through.

  Lee felt the burly corporal’s body go loose beside him. He heard the belly-deep sigh. Then the officer was speaking again.

  “Corporal! Your detail is detached. Take the prisoner to the jailhouse, lock him up, and post sentinels with orders to shoot.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  They led him away, four soiled soldiers with resolute faces and hating eyes. Behind them were the blue ranks ready to fire upon any who interfered with them. None did. The crowd was melting away. It watched Lee pass in hard silence.

  Then, back a ways, the officer’s unmistakable voice said: “Sergeant! Detach a squad. Arrest that big blond man and jail him.” Over the sound of booted feet grinding through the roadway’s dust in cadence, the same voice continued to speak. “The rest of you … listen. This town is under martial law. There will be no public assembly … overt acts against soldiers will be considered rebellion … under the Articles of War I am entitled to enforce the law. I am also entitled to use firing squads to do it. I will use them. Now disperse … go to your homes, do not assemble, and stay quiet.”

  At the jailhouse Lee turned for a glimpse backward. The men were moving off, splintering off in ones and twos, and pacing homeward through the night. The corporal pushed him roughly. “Go on, boy.” He stumbled into the lighted office with its empty gun rack and halted.

  There were two men with badges inside. Lee recognized neither of them. They wore impassive looks and ignored him in favor of the corporal. In spite of himself he sought the chair where Lew Foster had sat, and the spot beside it where Ann had stood.

  “Lock him up,” said the corporal, and after this had been done, he held out his hand for the keys. The deputies did not comply immediately. “Listen, boys,” the burly soldier said complainingly, “Union City’s under martial law. Maybe you were the law, but you ain’t now. Gimme those keys.” He got them. “Thanks. Now get out of here.”

  “Wait a minute, soldier. Just …”

  “You want me to write it for you? Union City is under martial law. You understand what that means?”

  “Well …?”

  “Then I’ll tell you. Civil law … which is you … is suspended. The Army’s running your town. You got no authority. Keep your badges and your guns … just walk out of here quiet-like. Don’t make no fuss, boys, or I’ll throw your goddamned butts in jail. Get out of here!”

  The corporal’s voice had been steadily rising. His last four words were loudly snarled. The deputies left, and the corporal looked around the room. His men were leaning along the wall; they were dog-tired and uncomfortable.

  “Must be a coffee pot around here some place,” said the corporal. “See can we find it, boys.”

  The men were moving off when their officer appeared in the doorway. Behind him lurked a shapely shadow.

  “Corporal!”

  “Sir?”

  “This lady has my permission to see the prisoner.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  This was a surprising thing. Old Ice-Water-for-Blood lived by the book. Why was he allowing a civilia
n to see the prisoner—and of all things a girl? He watched her come into the room. She was big-busted and handsome. The corporal’s temples beat with hot blood. Her face was expressionless, her eyes steady and troubled. She was the stuff from which the strong common life came. He had not seen such a woman in weeks.

  “Corporal!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He led her past the gawking men and rattled the keys at Lee’s door. Beyond the strap steel his prisoner looked outward with burning intensity.

  “Ann!” The name went past his lips with forced breath.

  The corporal got the door open and stood back to let her pass. Then he closed the door, locked it, and said: “Call when you want out, ma’am.”

  They waited until he was gone, then she faced him. “What happened, Lee?”

  He told her while moving toward a straw pallet. She followed him at first only with her eyes, but, when he sank down, she went over and kneeled by him, listening and seeing how gaunt and old he had become.

  “Did they get your father?”

  “No … I don’t know. We parted and I don’t know what happened to Paw or Zeke or the others.”

  “Are you hurt, Lee?”

  “No. Just worn out I guess. Tired plumb through.” He closed his eyes and tossed gently on the pallet.

  “Lie still.” She fell silent. He felt her cool, gentle hands moving over him slowly, healingly. He wanted terribly to sleep, to let her hands draw away the tension so that he could turn all loose and soft, but there was a nagging in his head.

  “Fawcett’s dead and buried, Ann.”

  “All right, Lee. Rest quiet now.”

  “What happened to you … to your paw?”

  “Nothing. After you got away, they came to the jailhouse and cut Paw loose.”

  “I want to remember something, Ann.”

  “Never mind. It’s all over now, I think.” Her hands grew still upon his chest. Lay there without pressure.

  “Sleep, Lee.”

  “No. I remember what it was. You. When they caught us together and you fainted one of them said you were with child. He said he had five daughters and he knew it for a fact.” His eyes sprang wide open.