A Century of Great Western Stories

by A Century of Great Western Stories (retail) (epub)

  How much food could a hungry Indian eat? She made a liberal estimate of what a normal man with a healthy appetite could do away with at one sitting and tripled it, just to be on the safe side. She took special care that there should be more apple pie than her guests could possibly consume.

  After putting a quantity of dried apples to soak for several hours, she prepared two dozen pie shells. When the apples had soaked sufficiently, she filled the shells, covered them with thin strips of dough, coated them with brown sugar and baked them until they were almost done. One of her most precious culinary treasures was a square tin of grated cheese flakes, which time and the dry western air had long since drawn all moisture from, but which, when sprinkled generously over the top of an apple pie and heated for a few minutes, melted and blended with the sugar to give the pie a delightful flavor. The tin was kept in a wooden chest in the wagon, along with her spices, extracts, and family medical supplies. She asked Mike to get it for her.

  Climbing into the wagon, he rummaged around, then called, “Is it the red tin?”

  “No, the blue one. Hurry, Mike!”

  He clambered out of the wagon and handed her the tin. Taking a tablespoon, she hurriedly ladled a liberal layer of powdery flakes over the top of each pie, set them back in the Dutch ovens to bake and turned her attention to other tasks. Some minutes later she was exasperated to find Mike, whom she had told to return the tin to the chest, curiously staring down at what remained of its contents.

  “Mike, will you please quite dawdling and put that away?”

  “How come you sprinkled this stuff on the pies?”

  “Because it’s cheese, you idiot!”

  “Don’t smell like cheese.” He dipped finger and thumb into the tin, took a tiny pinch, sampled it. “Don’t taste like cheese either.”

  She stared at the tin in horror. It wasn’t blue. It was green. And pasted on its side was a faded label. She read it and suddenly felt faint. “Oh, my goodness!”

  She ran to one of the Dutch ovens, opened it and snatched out a pie. Heedless of scorched fingers, she tried a tiny sample of the browned, delicious-looking crust. Mike did the same. He made a face.

  “You going to feed these pies to the Indians?”

  She closed her eyes and tried to think. The stuff wouldn’t kill them, of that she was sure. It was too late to bake more pies, certainly, for even now the guests were arriving. Dressed in their finest, followed at a respectful distance by a horde of curious squaws, children, and uninvited braves, Chief Broken Horn and his subchiefs had dismounted from their horses and were walking into camp. Worn-out and nerve-ragged after her long afternoon of work, Mary felt like dropping to the ground and giving way to tears. Instead she got mad. She got so mad that she didn’t care a hang what happened, just so long as those pies didn’t go to waste. Opening her eyes, she gave her brother a grim look.

  “I certainly am. Get me the sugar, Mike. Indians will eat anything if it’s sweet enough.”

  Judging from the amount of food consumed and the rapidity with which it vanished, the feast was a huge success. The Indians were vastly fascinated by the plates, dishes, and silverware, though they used their bare hands more than they did the knives, forks, and spoons. The cold tea, liberally sugared, was a great hit, too, disappearing as fast as Mike could fill the glasses. And the pie brought forth approving grunts from all.

  Mary had given her own menfolk strict orders not to partake of the pie, telling them that she feared there might not be enough to go round; but as the Indians one by one lapsed into glassy-eyed satiety, with half a dozen still uneaten pies before them, Dave gazed longingly at the beautiful creation on the tablecloth between himself and Chief Broken Horn. He smiled up at Mary.

  “Sure does look like fine pie. Can’t I have a piece?”

  “No,” Mary said sharply.

  “Not even a little one?” he persisted, picking up the pie. “Why, if you knew how long it’s been since I tasted—”

  “I said ‘no,’” Mary cut in, rudely snatching the pie out of his hand. Pretending that she’d done it for the sake of her guests, she turned to Chief Broken Horn and smiled. “More pie, Mr. Broken Horn?”

  The Indian made a sign indicating he was full up to his chin. As he looked her over from head to toe, a greedy, acquisitive light came into his black eyes. He turned and grunted something to Dave. Dave laughed and winked at Mary.

  “He says you’re a better cook than his own squaw is.”

  “That’s very kind of him.”

  “He wants to know if your pa will sell you. He says he’d pay a fancy price.”

  Mary was too tired to have much of a sense of humor right then. From the way Jed’s face froze, he wasn’t in a joking mood either. “I won’t stand for that kind of talk in front of Mary.”

  “He didn’t mean it as an insult,” Dave said. “He meant it as a—”

  Chief Broken Horn showed exactly how he had meant it by reaching up, seizing Mary’s left wrist and pulling her toward him. Livid-faced, Jed leaped to his feet. Dave swore and reached for the pistol in his belt. Charley drew his knife. Mike ran and grabbed up his rifle. But Mary was too angry to wait for help from her menfolk. Quick as a wink, she drew back her right arm and plastered Chief Broken Horn full in the face with the apple pie.

  For a moment there wasn’t a sound. The Indians were all staring at their chief, who lay flat on his back—pawing pie out of his eyes, kicking his heels in the air in a most unchieftainlike manner.

  Getting his feet under him, Chief Broken Horn gave Mary a stunned, horrified glance, then wheeled and ran for his horse as if all the hounds of hell were after him. The other Indians wasted no time in following.

  Mary took a long, deep breath. Turning to look at Jed, she said in a voice filled with shame, “I’m sorry, Pa.”

  “Don’t be,” Dave said, and his nice gray eyes were hard as flint. “If you hadn’t done what you did, I’d have killed him where he sat.”

  A body does queer things in time of stress. Suddenly becoming aware of the way her menfolk were staring at her, their weapons in their hands, their eyes filled with amazement, relief and admiration, she began to laugh. She laughed till tears ran out of her eyes, but for the life of her she couldn’t stop. Dave put an arm around her shoulders and said gently, “Easy, Mary—easy.”

  She sighed and quietly fainted.

  As dark came on and the fires burned low, they sat huddled together, their backs against a wagon for safety’s sake, listening to the drums in the Indian village. Mary was frightened now, but looking around, seeing the grim looks on the faces of her menfolk as they balanced their rifles across their knees, she was sure of one thing—her men would act like men if the need arose, and she was proud of them all.

  “What do you think they’ll do?” Jed said.

  “Hard to tell,” Dave answered. “Broken Horn has lost considerable face, being made a fool of by a woman in public. If there’s going to be an attack, it will likely come at dawn. He’ll spend the night stirring up the young bucks. The war drums are going already.”

  Charley, who had been listening intently to the sounds coming from the village, interrupted, “Quiet, boy!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Them drums. They don’t sound like war drums to me. Sound more like medicine drums.”

  “What’s the difference?” Mary asked.

  Patiently Dave explained that when Bannocks prepared for battle, the drums were pounded in one fashion; but when there was sickness in the tribe and the medicine man was called in to recite his chants and attempt to heal the ill person, the drums were beaten in another manner. “But Charley’s wrong,” he added. “Chief Broken Horn isn’t going to let his medicine man fool around curing sick people tonight.”

  “Maybe he’s sick. Eating all that food—”

  “He’s got the stomach of a wolf. No, they’re war drums, no question about that,” Dave insisted.

  In the faint glow of the dying fires Mary saw
a bulky figure appear on the far side of camp. Dave called out a challenge in the Bannock tongue and was quickly answered by an Indian woman. He told her to approach the wagon, and she did so—her hesitant pace showing how frightened she was. She was fat, wrinkled and middle-aged. Dave asked her who she was and what she wanted. As she spoke, he translated.

  “She says she’s Broken Horn’s squaw.”

  “Is he going to attack?” Jed said.

  “She says no.”

  “So he’s going to stick to his bargain after all?”

  “But the young bucks might, she says, if they can work up nerve enough. They’re arguing it out now.”

  “Can’t he keep them in line?”

  Mary saw Dave frown as the squaw spoke. “She says he ain’t interested in anything right now except the mess of bad spirits that have crawled into his belly. She says he’s sick as a dog—and so are all the other chiefs that ate with us.” Dave turned and gave Mary a sharp look. “She thinks you poisoned ’em.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “How come they all took sick, then?”

  Mary flushed. “Maybe it was the beans and all that cold tea they drank.”

  “It was the apple pie, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t let us eat any of it, but you made sure they stuffed themselves with it. What did you put in that pie, Mary?”

  Defiantly Mary looked at Dave. “Epsom salts.”

  “What?”

  “It won’t hurt them. In fact, they made such pigs of themselves, it might even do them some good. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised but what they all dream real nice dreams—when they finally get to sleep. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  Dave looked shaken. In fact, all her menfolk were staring at her, awe and respect in their eyes. Suddenly the squaw started gabbling furiously, pointing an accusing finger at Mary. Dave listened for a time, then he silenced her with a gesture.

  “She says either you poisoned her man or cast an evil spell on him because he grabbed hold of you. Whichever it was you did, she’s begging you to make him well. What shall I tell her?”

  Mary smiled. “Tell her I cast a spell.”

  “Now, look here!”

  “Tell her, please. Tell her that all white women have the power to cast spells over men when they get angry with them.”

  Reluctantly Dave spoke to the Indian woman. Her black eyes grew wide with fright as she stared at Mary, then she grunted a question. Dave said, “She wants to know how long the spell will last.”

  “Tell her two days. Tell her if her husband and the other sick chiefs lie quietly for two days and nights, thinking nothing but peaceful thoughts, they will get well. But if they let their people attack us, they will die.”

  An admiring grin spread over Dave’s face. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  As he spoke to the squaw, Mary saw the frightened look fade from the woman’s face. The squaw nodded vigorously, turned to go, hesitated; then shyly walked up to Mary, touched Mary’s breast, then her own, grunted something and ran off into the darkness. Mary looked at Dave.

  “What did that mean?”

  Dave didn’t answer for a moment. Then, an uneasy light coming into his nice gray eyes, as if he were looking into the future, he answered, “She says you know how to handle men and she’s glad you hit her husband with that pie. She’s been wanting to sock the old fool for years.”

  Donald Hamilton is best known as the creator of the Matt Helm books, which many believe is the best espionage series ever written by an American. But early in his career, Hamilton wrote a number of excellent traditional Westerns as well, including such titles as Smoky Valley, The Big Country, Mad River, and The Two-Shoot Gun. He also edited one of the seminal anthologies of the Western genre, the Western Writers of America’s Iron Men and Silver Spurs.

  The Guns of William Longley

  Donald Hamilton

  We’d been up north delivering a herd for Old Man Butcher the summer I’m telling about. I was nineteen at the time. I was young and big, and I was plenty tough, or thought I was, which amounts to the same thing up to a point. Maybe I was making up for all the years of being that nice Anderson boy, back in Willow Fork, Texas. When your dad wears a badge, you’re kind of obliged to behave yourself around home so as not to shame him. But Pop was dead now, and this wasn’t Texas.

  Anyway, I was tough enough that we had to leave Dodge City in something of a hurry after I got into an argument with a fellow who, it turned out, wasn’t nearly as handy with a gun as he claimed to be. I’d never killed a man before. It made me feel kind of funny for a couple of days, but like I say, I was young and tough then, and I’d seen men I really cared for trampled in stampedes and drowned in rivers on the way north. I wasn’t going to grieve long over one belligerent stranger.

  It was on the long trail home that I first saw the guns one evening by the fire. We had a blanket spread on the ground, and we were playing cards for what was left of our pay—what we hadn’t already spent on girls and liquor and general hell-raising. My luck was in, and one by one the others dropped out, all but Waco Smith, who got stubborn and went over to his bedroll and hauled out the guns.

  “I got them in Dodge,” he said. “Pretty, ain’t they? Fellow I bought them from claimed they belonged to Bill Longley.”

  “Is that a fact?” I said, like I wasn’t much impressed. “Who’s Longley?”

  I knew who Bill Longley was, all right, but a man’s got a right to dicker a bit, and besides, I couldn’t help deviling Waco now and then. I liked him all right, but he was one of those cocky little fellows who ask for it. You know the kind. They always know everything.

  I sat there while he told me about Bill Longley, the giant from Texas with thirty-two killings to his credit, the man who was hanged twice. A bunch of vigilantes strung him up once for horse-stealing he hadn’t done, but the rope broke after they’d ridden off and he dropped to the ground, kind of short of breath but alive and kicking.

  Then he was tried and hanged for a murder he had done, some years later in Giddings, Texas. He was so big that the rope gave way again and he landed on his feet under the trap, making six-inch deep footprints in the hard ground—they’re still there in Giddings to be seen, Waco said, Bill Longley’s footprints—but it broke his neck this time and they buried him nearby. At least a funeral service was held, but some say there’s just an empty coffin in the grave.

  I said, “This Longley gent can’t have been so much, to let folks keep stringing him up that way.”

  That set Waco off again, while I toyed with the guns. They were pretty, all right, in a big carved belt with two carved holsters, but I wasn’t much interested in leatherwork. It was the weapons themselves that took my fancy. They’d been used but someone had looked after them well. They were handsome pieces, smooth-working, and they had a good feel to them. You know how it is when a firearm feels just right. A fellow with hands the size of mine doesn’t often find guns to fit him like that.

  “How much do you figure they’re worth?” I asked, when Waco stopped for breath.

  “Well, now,” he said, getting a sharp look on his face, and I came home to Willow Fork with the Longley guns strapped around me. If that’s what they were.

  I got a room and cleaned up at the hotel. I didn’t much feel like riding clear out to the ranch and seeing what it looked like with Ma and Pa gone two years and nobody looking after things. Well, I’d put the place on its feet again one of these days, as soon as I’d had a little fun and saved a little money. I’d buckle right down to it, I told myself, as soon as Junellen set the date, which I’d been after her to do since before my folks died. She couldn’t keep saying forever we were too young.

  I got into my good clothes and went to see her. I won’t say she’d been on my mind all the way up the trail and back again, because it wouldn’t be true. A lot of the time I’d been too busy or tired for dreaming, and in Dodge City I’d done my best not to think of her, if you know what I mean. It did seem like a young fellow
engaged to a beautiful girl like Junellen Barr could have behaved himself better up there, but it had been a long dusty drive and you know how it is.

  But now I was home and it seemed like I’d been missing Junellen every minute since I left, and I couldn’t wait to see her. I walked along the street in the hot sunshine feeling light and happy. Maybe my leaving my guns at the hotel had something to do with the light feeling, but the happiness was all for Junellen, and I ran up the steps to the house and knocked on the door. She’d have heard we were back and she’d be waiting to greet me, I was sure.

  I knocked again and the door opened and I stepped forward eagerly. “Junellen—” I said, and stopped foolishly.

  “Come in, Jim,” said her father, a little turkey of a man who owned the drygoods store in town. He went on smoothly: “I understand you had quite an eventful journey. We were waiting to hear all about it.”

  He was being sarcastic, but that was his way, and I couldn’t be bothered with trying to figure what he was driving at. I’d already stepped into the room, and there was Junellen with her mother standing close as if to protect her, which seemed kind of funny. There was a man in the room, too, Mr. Carmichael from the bank, who’d fought with Pa in the war. He was tall and handsome as always, a little heavy nowadays but still dressed like a fashion plate. I couldn’t figure what he was doing there.

  It wasn’t going at all the way I’d hoped, my reunion with Junellen, and I stopped, looking at her.

  “So you’re back, Jim,” she said. “I heard you had a real exciting time. Dodge City must be quite a place.”

  There was a funny hard note in her voice. She held herself very straight, standing there by her mother, in a blue-flowered dress that matched her eyes. She was a real little lady, Junellen. She made kind of a point of it, in fact, and Martha Butcher, Old Man Butcher’s kid, used to say about Junellen Barr that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but that always seemed like a silly saying to me, and who was Martha Butcher anyway, just because her daddy owned a lot of cows?