Working swiftly, he moved the fire and scattered the few sticks and coals in his other fireplace. Then he brushed the ground with a branch. It would be a few minutes before they moved, and perhaps longer.
Crawling into the wolf den he next got some wolf hair, which he took back to his clothing. He put some of the hair in his shirt and some near his pants. A quick look down the draw showed no sign of an Indian, but that they had seen the wolf, he knew, and he could picture their surprise and puzzlement.
Hurrying to the spring, he dug from the bank near the water a large quantity of mud. This was an added touch, but one that might help. From the mud, he formed two roughly human figures. About the head of each he tied a blade of grass.
Hurrying to the parapet for a stolen look down the draw, he worked until six such figures were made. Then, using thorns and some old porcupine quills he found near a rock, he thrust one or more through each of the mud figures.
They stood in a neat row facing the parapet. Quickly, he hurried for one last look into the draw. An Indian had emerged. He stood there in plain sight, staring toward the place!
They would be cautious, Billy knew, and he chuckled to himself as he thought of what was to follow. Gathering up his rifle, the ammunition, a canteen, and a little food, he hurried to the wolf den and crawled back inside.
On his first trip he had ascertained that there were no cubs. At the end of the den there was room to sit up, topped by the stone of the shelving rock itself. To his right, a lighted match told him there was a smaller hole of some sort.
CAUTIOUSLY, BILLY CRAWLED back to the entrance, and careful to avoid the wolf tracks in the dust outside, he brushed out his own tracks and then retreated into the depths of the cave. From where he lay he could see the parapet.
Almost a half hour passed before the first head lifted above the poorly made wall. Black straight hair, a red headband, and the sharp, hard features of their leader.
Then other heads lifted beside him, and one by one the six Apaches stepped over the wall and into the pocket. They did not rush, but looked cautiously about, and their eyes were large, frightened. They looked all around, then at the clothing and then at the images. One of the Indians grunted and pointed.
They drew closer and then stopped in an awed line, staring at the mud figures. They knew too well what they meant. Those figures meant a witch doctor had put a death spell on each one of them.
One of the Indians drew back and looked at the clothing. Suddenly he gave a startled cry and pointed—at the wolf hair!
They gathered around, talking excitedly and then glancing over their shoulders fearfully.
They had trapped what they believed to be a white man, and knowing Apaches, Old Billy would have guessed they knew his height, weight, and approximate age. Those things they could tell from the length of his stride, the way he worked, the pressure of a footprint in softer ground.
They had trapped a white man, and a wolf had escaped! Now they found his clothing lying here, and on the clothing, the hair of a wolf!
All Indians knew of wolf-men, those weird creatures who changed at will from wolf to man and back again, creatures that could tear the throat from a man while he slept and could mark his children with the wolf blood.
The day had waned, and as he lay there, Old Billy Dunbar could see that while he had worked the sun had neared the horizon. The Indians looked around uneasily. This was the den of a wolf-man, a powerful spirit who had put the death spell on each of them, who came as a man and went as a wolf.
Suddenly, out on the desert, a wolf howled!
The Apaches started as if struck, and then as a man they began to draw back. By the time they reached the parapet they were hurrying.
Old Billy stayed the night in the wolf hole, lying at its mouth, waiting for dawn. He saw the wolf come back, stare about uneasily, and then go away. When light came he crawled from the hole.
The burros were cropping grass and they looked at him. He started to pick up a pack saddle and then dropped it. “I'll be durned if I will!” he said.
Taking the old Sharps and the extra pan, he walked down to the wash and went to work. He kept a careful eye out, but saw no Apaches. The gold was panning out even better than he had dreamed would be possible. A few more days—suddenly, he looked up.
Two Indians stood in plain sight, facing him. The nearest one walked forward and placed something on a rock and then drew away. Crouched, waiting, Old Billy watched them go. Then he went to the rock. Wrapped in a piece of tanned buckskin was a haunch of venison!
He chuckled suddenly. He was big medicine now. He was a wolf-man. The venison was a peace offering, and he would take it. He knew now he could come and pan as much gold as he liked in Apache country.
A few days later he killed a wolf, skinned it, and then buried the carcass, but the head he made a cap to fit over the crown of his old felt hat, and wherever he went, he wore it.
A month later, walking into Fremont behind the switching tails of Jennie and Julie, he met Sally at the gate. She was talking with young Sid Barton.
“Hi,” Sid said, grinning at him. Then he looked quizzically at the wolfskin cap. “Better not wear that around here! Somebody might take you for a wolf!”
Old Billy chuckled. “I am!” he said. “Yuh're durned right, I am! Ask them Apaches!”
Author's Note
MAN FROM BATTLE FLAT
ONE OF THE unfortunate aspects of Western history is that too many people who have not taken the trouble to ascertain the facts are continually expressing themselves with assumed authority on what did or did not happen.
Often I hear the comment that Western men could not shoot accurately, that their guns were no good, and so on. Well, I know of several thousand men who are now dead who wish that were true.
Men did carry weapons as an habitual thing over most of the West, and they could shoot not only with skill but often with exceptional skill. For this there is unlimited documentary and eyewitness evidence. Here and there in the following historical notes I shall quote from various sources.
From the journal of William H. Brewer, of the Whitney Geological Survey of California: “Southern California is still unsettled. We all continually wear arms, each wears both a Bowie knife and a pistol [Navy Revolver] while we always have for game or otherwise, a Sharp's rifle, Sharp's carbine, and two double-barreled shotguns. Fifty or sixty murders a year have been common here in Los Angeles and some think it odd there has been no violent death in the two weeks we have been here . . . as I write this there are at least six heavy loaded revolvers in the tent, besides Bowie knives and other weapons, so we anticipate no danger.”
The time was 1860, the population of Los Angeles about 3,500 people.
THE MAN FROM
BATTLE FLAT
AT HALF-PAST FOUR Krag Moran rode in from the canyon trail, and within ten minutes half the town knew that Ryerson's top gunhand was sitting in front of the Palace.
Nobody needed to ask why he was there. It was to be a showdown between Ryerson and the Squaw Creek nesters, and the showdown was to begin with Bush Leason.
The Squaw Creek matter had divided the town, yet there was no division where Bush Leason was concerned. The big nester had brought his trouble on himself and if he got what was coming to him nobody would be sorry. That he had killed five or six men was a known fact.
Krag Moran was a lean, wide-shouldered young man with smoky eyes and a still, Indian-dark face. Some said he had been a Texas Ranger, but all the town knew about him for sure was that he had got back some of Ryerson's horses that had been run off. How he would stack up against a sure-thing killer like Bush Leason was anybody's guess.
Bush Leason was sitting on a cot in his shack when they brought him the news that Moran was in town. Leason was a huge man, thick through the waist and with a wide, flat, cruel face. When they told him, he said nothing at all, just continued to clean his double-barreled shotgun. It was the gun that had killed Shorty Grimes.
Shorty
Grimes had ridden for Tim Ryerson, and between them cattleman Ryerson and rancher Chet Lee had sewed up all the range on Battle Flat. Neither of them drifted cattle on Squaw Creek, but for four years they had been cutting hay from its grass-rich meadows, until the nesters had moved in.
Ryerson and Lee ordered them to leave. They replied the land was government land open to filing. Hedrow talked for the nesters, but it was Bush Leason who wanted to talk, and Bush was a troublemaker. Ryerson gave them a week and, when they didn't move, tore down fences and burned a barn or two.
IN ALL OF this Shorty Grimes and Krag Moran had no part. They had been repping on Carol Duchin's place at the time. Grimes had ridden into town alone and stopped at the Palace for a drink. Leason started trouble, but the other nesters stopped him. Then Leason turned at the door. “Ryerson gave us a week to leave the country. I'm giving you just thirty minutes to get out of town! Then I come a-shooting!”
Shorty Grimes had been ready to leave, but after that he had decided to stay. A half hour later there was a challenging yell from the dark street out front. Grimes put down his glass and started for the door, gun in hand. He had just reached the street door when Bush Leason stepped through the back door and ran forward, three light, quick steps.
Bush Leason stopped them, still unseen. “Shorty!” he called softly.
Pistol lowered, unsuspecting, Shorty Grimes had turned, and Bush Leason had emptied both barrels of the shotgun into his chest.
One of the first men into the saloon after the shooting was Dan Riggs, editor of The Bradshaw Journal. He knew what this meant, knew it and did not like it, for he was a man who hated violence and felt that no good could come of it. Nor had he any liking for Bush Leason. He had warned the nester leader, Hedrow, about him only a few days before.
Nobody liked the killing but everybody was afraid of Bush. They had all heard Bush make his brags and the way to win was to stay alive. . . .
Now Dan Riggs heard that Krag Moran was in town, and he got up from his desk and took off his eye-shade. It was no more than ninety feet from the front of the print shop to the Palace and Dan walked over. He stopped there in front of Krag. Dan was a slender, middle-aged man with thin hands and a quiet face. He said:
“Don't do it, son. You mount up and ride home. If you kill Leason that will just be the beginning.”
“There's been a beginning. Leason started it.”
“Now, look here—” Riggs protested, but Krag interrupted him.
“You better move,” he said, in that slow Texas drawl of his. “Leason might show up any time.”
“We've got a town here,” Riggs replied determinedly. “We've got women and homes and decent folks. We don't want the town shot up and we don't want a lot of drunken killings. If you riders can't behave yourselves, stay away from town! Those farmers have a right to live, and they are good, God-fearing people!”
Krag Moran just sat there. “I haven't killed anybody,” he said reasonably, his face a little solemn. “I'm just a-sittin' here.”
Riggs started to speak, then with a wave of exasperated hands he turned and hurried off. And then he saw Carol Duchin.
Carol Duchin was several things. By inheritance, from her father, she owned a ranch that would make two of Ryerson's. She was twenty-two years old, single, and she knew cattle as well as any man. Chet Lee had proposed to her three times and had been flatly refused three times. She both knew and liked Dan Riggs and his wife, and she often stopped over night at the Riggs' home when in town. Despite that, she was cattle, all the way.
Dan Riggs went at once to Carol Duchin and spoke his piece. Right away she shook her head. “I won't interfere,” she replied. “I knew Shorty Grimes and he was a good man.”
“That he was,” Riggs agreed sincerely, “I only wish they were all as good. That was a dastardly murder and I mean to say so in the next issue of my paper. But another killing won't help things any, no matter who gets killed.”
Carol asked him: “Have you talked to Bush Leason?”
Riggs nodded. “He won't listen either. I tried to get him to ride over to Flagg until things cooled off a little. He laughed at me.”
SHE EYED HIM curiously.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to Krag. For you, he'll leave.”
“I scarcely know him.” Carol Duchin was not planning to tell anyone how much she did know about Krag Moran, nor how interested in the tall rider she had become. During his period of repping with her roundup he had not spoken three words to her, but she had noticed him, watched him, and listened to her riders talk about him among themselves.
“Talk to him. He respects you. All of them do.”
Yes, Carol reflected bitterly, he probably does. And he probably never thinks of me as a woman.
She should have known better. She was the sort of girl no man could ever think of in any other way. Her figure was superb, and she very narrowly escaped genuine beauty. Only her very coolness and her position as owner had kept more than one cowhand from speaking to her. So far only Chet Lee had found the courage. But Chet never lacked for that.
She walked across the street toward the Palace, her heart pounding, her mouth suddenly dry. Now that she was going to speak to Krag, face to face, she was suddenly frightened as a child. He got to his feet as she came up to him. She was tall for a girl, but he was still taller. His mouth was firm, his jaw strong and clean boned. She met his eyes and found them smoky green and her heart fluttered.
“Krag,” her voice was natural, at least, “don't stay here. You'll either be killed or you'll kill Bush. In either case it will be just one more step and will just lead to more killing.”
His voice sounded amused, yet respectful, too. “You've been talking to Dan Riggs. He's an old woman.”
“No,” suddenly she was sure of herself, “no, he's telling the truth, Krag. Those people have a right to that grass, and this isn't just a feud between you and Leason. It means good men are going to be killed, homes destroyed, crops ruined, and the work of months wiped out. You can't do this thing.”
“You want me to quit?” He was incredulous. “You know this country. I couldn't live in it, nor anywhere the story traveled.”
She looked straight into his eyes. “It often takes a braver man not to fight.”
He thought about that, his smoky eyes growing somber. Then he nodded. “I never gave it any thought,” he said seriously, “but I reckon you're right. Only I'm not that brave.”
“Listen to Dan!” she pleaded. “He's an intelligent man! He's an editor! His newspaper means something in this country and will mean more. What he says is important.”
“Him?” Krag chuckled. “Why, ma'am, that little varmint's just a-fussin'. He don't mean nothing, and nobody pays much attention to him. He's just a little man with ink on his fingers!”
“You don't understand!” Carol protested.
Bush Leason was across the street. During the time Krag Moran had been seated in front of the Palace, Bush had been doing considerable serious thinking. How good Krag was, Bush had no idea, nor did he intend to find out, yet a showdown was coming and from Krag's lack of action he evidently intended for Bush to force the issue.
Bush was not hesitant to begin it, but the more he considered the situation the less he liked it. The wall of the Palace was stone, so he could not shoot through it. There was no chance to approach Krag from right or left without being seen for some time before his shotgun would be within range. Krag had chosen his position well, and the only approach was from behind the building across the street.
THIS BUILDING WAS empty, and Bush had gotten inside and was lying there watching the street when the girl came up. Instantly, he perceived his advantage. As the girl left, Krag's eyes would involuntarily follow her. In that instant he would step from the door and shoot Krag down. It was simple and it was foolproof.
“You'd better go, ma'am,” Krag said. “It ain't safe here. I'm staying right where I am until Leason shows.”
&nb
sp; She dropped her hands helplessly and turned away from him. In that instant, Bush Leason stepped from the door across the street and jerked his shotgun to his shoulder. As he did so, he yelled.
Carol Duchin was too close. Krag shoved her hard with his left hand and stepped quickly right, drawing as he stepped and firing as his right foot touched the walk.
Afterward, men who saw it said there had never been anything like it before. Leason whipped up his shotgun and yelled, and in the incredibly brief instant, as the butt settled against Leason's shoulder, Krag pushed the girl, stepped away from her, and drew. And he fired as his gun came level.
It was split-second timing and the fastest draw that anybody had ever seen in Bradshaw; the .45 slug slammed into Bush Leason's chest just as he squeezed off his shot, and the buckshot whapped through the air, only beginning to scatter and at least a foot and a half over Krag Moran's head. And Krag stood there flatfooted and shot Bush again as he stood leaning back against the building. The big man turned sideways and fell into the dust off the edge of the walk.
As suddenly as that it was done. And then Carol Duchin got to her feet, her face and clothes dusty. She brushed her clothes with quick, impatient hands, and then turned sharply and looked at Krag Moran. “I never want to see you again!” she flared. “Don't put a foot on my place! Not for any reason whatever!”
Krag Moran looked after her helplessly, took an involuntary step after her, and then stopped. He glanced once at the body of Bush Leason and the men gathered around it. Then he walked to his horse. Dan Riggs was standing there, his face shadowed with worry. “You've played hell!” he said.
“What about Grimes?”
“I know, I know! Bush was vicious. He deserved killing, and if ever I saw murder it was his killing of Grimes, but that doesn't change this. He had friends, and all of the nesters will be sore. They'll never let it alone.”
Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0) Page 11