“He killed a man,” Dutch protested. “He shot a man over west of here.”
“You damned right he did.” Em Talon’s voice was cold. “I know all about Benton Hayes, a dry-gulching, back-shootin’ murderer who has had it coming for years. If he hadn’t shot him, I might have.
“Now, Dutch, you turn your horses around and you ride out of here. You ever bother an Empty hand again and I’ll nail your hide to the fence.
“I recall when you first come into this country, Dutch, and I recall when you branded your first stock. You’ve become high an’ mighty here these past few years, but if you want to rake up the past, Dutch, I can tell some stories.”
Brannenburg’s face flushed. “Now, see here, Missus Talon, I - “
“You ride out of here, Dutch, or I’ll shoot you my ownself.”
Dutch was angry. He did not like being faced down by a woman, but he remembered this one, and she could be a holy terror when she got started.
“I want Logan,” Dutch insisted. “That man’s a thief. Why else did he run when chased?”
“You’d run from a lynch party, too, Dutch.” She looked down at him from the porch, and then suddenly she said, “Dutch, do you really want him? Do you just have to have Logan?”
Suddenly wary, Dutch peered at her, trying to read what was in her mind.
“That’s what we come for,” he said sullenly. “We come after him.”
“I’ve heard all about your lynching cow thieves, or them you thought were thieves, and I heard you set fire to a couple of them. All right, Dutch, you want Logan, I’ll give him to you.”
“What?” Dutch peered at her. “What’s that mean?”
“Logan Sackett,” she said quietly, “is kin of mine. We come of the same blood. I’m a Sackett, same as him, and I know my kinfolk. Now you boys believe in fair play, don’t you?” she spoke to Brannenburg’s riders.
“Yes, ma’am, we surely do. Yes, ma’am.”
“All right, Dutch. You want Logan Sackett. I hear tell you shape yourself around as something of a fighter. You been walking hard-heeled around this country for several years now because most of these folks hadn’t lived here long enough to know you when you walked almighty soft. You just get down off your horse, Dutch. You want Logan, you can have him. You can have him fist and skull right here in front of my stoop, and the first one of your boys who tries to help you will get a bullet through his brisket.”
Well, I just walked out on the porch and stopped on the steps. “How about it, Dutch? You want to take me, it’s like Em says. You got to do it yourself, with your own hands an’ without help.”
Chapter 9
Well, his face was a study, believe me. He was mad clean through but there just wasn’t anything he could do but fight. Dutch sat up there on his horse and he knew he had it to do. Em Talon had laid it out for him and there was no way out short of looking small before his men, and no ranch boss of a tough outfit dares do that.
He got down off his horse and trailed his reins. He taken off his gun belt and slung it around the horn, and then he hung his hat over it.
Meanwhile I’d unslung my gun and knife and come down off the porch. When he turned around I knew I was in for trouble. I was taller than him, but he was broad and thick and would outweigh me by fifteen pounds or so. He was shorter, but he was powerful and he moved in, hands working back and forth.
I moved out toward him, a little too confident maybe. He taken that out of me but quick. Suddenly he charged, and he was close in before he did, and he went low into a crouch, swinging both hands high. One of them crossed my left shoulder and connected like a thrown brick.
Right away I knew that whatever else Dutch was, he was a scrapper. Somewhere along the line of years behind him he’d learned how to fight. He came up inside, butting his head, then back-heeling me so I fell to the ground. I rolled over and he put the toe of a boot into my ribs before I could get up and raked me with his spur as his foot swung back from the kick. He raked back and he raked deep, ripping my shirt and leaving a trail of blood across my chest. I was up then, but he came at me, and I knew this wasn’t just a fight. He was out to kill me.
You think it can’t be done? I’ve seen a half dozen men killed in fights, and there was no mercy in Dutch, nor in any of his boys. Nor in Em Talon, for that matter.
He came at me, boring in, punching, driving, stomping on my insteps when he got close, raking my shins with the sides of his boots or his spurs. And it taken me a moment to get started.
He was a bull. He had great powerful shoulders under that shirt, and he slammed in close, butting me under the chin with his head. I threw him off and he charged right back. I managed to slam a right into his ribs as he came close, but he knew where he had to win that fight, and that was in close where I couldn’t use my longer arms.
He slammed away at my belly, and I taken a few wicked punches. Then I slammed him on the side of the face with an elbow smash that cut to the bone. When that blood started to show, Dutch went berserk. It was like roping a cyclone. He slammed at me and every punch hurt. He was fighting to kill, but I shoved him off, stiffened a fist into his face, then caught him with a right as he came on in.
It stopped his rush, shook him to his heels. I landed a left and then, as he crouched, swung a right to that split cheekbone that ripped the cut wider.
He hit me twice in the ribs, charged on in, head under my chin, and I tripped and went down. He came down on top of me, grabbing for my throat. I reached across one of his arms, grabbed the other, and jerked. He rolled over and I got to my feet first. I started for him as he started to roll and he lashed out at me with both spurred heels. I jumped back just in time to get a wicked slash across one wrist. Then he came up and I hit him in the mouth.
It smashed his lips back into his teeth. He came at me again and I split his ear with a left hook, turning him half around. He grabbed my arm and tried to throw me with a flying mare but I went with it and put both knees into his back. He went down hard, me on top. Grinding his face into the dust, I had him half smothered before I suddenly let go and jumped back. I wanted to whip him, not kill him.
He came up from the ground, staggered, located me and rushed. I put a left jab to his mouth, and as he came close caught him under the chin with the butt of my palm and slammed his head back.
There was no quit in him, I’ll give him that. He was bull-strong and iron-hard and his punching away at my belly was doing me no good. I shoved him off, hit him with a stunning right as he tried to come in again, and then I let him come, but turned a little as he came in and threw him over his hip with a rolling hip lock. He came down hard in the dust.
“Dutch,” I said, “you know damn well I never stole any stock of yours. An’ you know I didn’t know those two who did.”
Paying me no mind, he got up on his hands and knees, then threw himself in a long dive at my legs. My knee smashed him in the face as he came in, and he fell, but he rolled over and came up again.
“You fight pretty good, Dutch,” I said, “but it takes more than owning a lot of cows to make a big man. Hanging anybody you can find or anybody you don’t like makes you nothing but a murderer, lower than any of the men you chase.”
He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve and stared at me. His cheek was cut to the bone, his lips were in shreds. One eye had a gray lump over it, but he stood there, his big hands opening and closing, the hatred in his eyes an ugly thing.
“You want some more, Dutch,” I said, “you come an’ get it.”
“Next time,” he said, “it’ll be with a gun.”
He wasn’t stopped. I’d beaten him, but he wasn’t through. He liked too much what he thought he’d become. He liked the feeling of power, liked walking hard-heeled down the boardwalks of the towns, liked being followed by a lot of tough riders, with people stepping out of the way.
Most of them were just being polite in spite of his rudeness, but he thought they were afraid. He liked bullying people, liked
shoving them around. And he wasn’t going to give it up because he’d lost a fist fight.
One of his riders spoke up. “When he comes, Sackett, he won’t be alone. We’ll all come with him. And we’ll bring a rope.”
“You do that,” I said, “he’ll need all the help he can get.”
They turned their horses and rode away. At the gate one of them got down and opened the gate, then fastened it again. That was cattle country … nobody left a gate down when it was there to close.
“Thanks, Em,” I said. “That could have been rough.”
“It was rough. But it ain’t the first time. It used to be Injuns when pa was away.”
“Logan?” Pennywell tugged at my sleeve. “Let me fix up your face.”
My face was bruised and battered some, although I’d no bad cuts. Dutch had been a lot more of a fighter than I figured him for and he’d battered my ribs something awful. I never said nothing even when Pennywell hurt my face, fixing it up.
Late that night, stretched on my bed, I swore softly. As if Em Talon hadn’t enough trouble! I’d brought more upon her in the shape of Brannenburg. He was a vindictive man, and those who rode for him were a rougher crowd then you’d usually find on a cow outfit. Cowhands could be almighty rough, but this bunch were trouble hunters. Many of them had taken a turn at being outlaws, gun hands and whatever the occasion demanded … like me.
The trouble was, I’d brought them down on Em Talon.
I never was no hand for figurin’. I’ve seen folks set down an’ ponder on things until they saw their way clear, but me, I was never no hand at that. I’m strong and mean, but I never found no way of doing things except to walk right out and take the bull by the horns. Settin’ an’ waitin’ rankled. I wasn’t geared for it. I needed a problem where I could walk out swinging both fists. Nolan was more inclined to study on things. Me, it was always root hog or die, and that was what I needed right now.
Troubles were bunching around us. Everywhere I looked I could see it shaping up like thunderheads gathering over the high peaks. Jake Flanner was cooking up something, and now Dutch would be also.
It was right about then that I decided I’d better go right after them instead of settin’, waitin’, and finally getting clobbered.
Some folks take to running. Some folks hope that by backing up far enough they’ll not have trouble, but it surely doesn’t work. I’d ridden all over the Rio Grande, Mogollon, Mimbres, La Plata, and Mesa Verde country and what I saw was a lesson.
The Indians there were good Indians, planting Indians. For a long time they lived in peace and bothered nobody, and then Navajo-Apache tribes came migrating down the east side of the Rockies. They found a way west without climbing over mountains. Those nice, peaceful tribes along the Rio Grande were shoved right off the map. Some were killed, some fled to western lands and built cliff houses, but you couldn’t escape by running. The Navajo followed them right along, killing and destroying. Had they banded together under a good leader and waited they might have held the Navajo off, but when danger showed, a family or group of families would slip away to avoid trouble, and those left would be too few to hold off the enemy.
Finally most of them were killed, the cliff houses fell into ruins, the irrigation projects they’d started fell apart. The wild tribes from out of the wilderness had again won a battle over the planting peoples … so it had always been.
I’d ridden through that country, I’d seen the broken pottery and the deserted villages. Farther west I’d find more of the pottery and more ruins. Sometimes you’d find where groups of Indians had merged, but it was always the same. They’d pull out rather than make a stand, and they saw all they’d built fall apart, saw their people cut down, saw their world fall apart.
A couple of times hiding out in canyons I’d come on some of those cliff dwellings. I never told nobody about them because I wouldn’t have been believed. To most white men all Indians were blanket Indians. Several times I’d holed up in a cliff dwelling, drinking water from their springs, sometimes finding remnants of their corn fields where volunteer corn stalks had grown up after constant reseeding of itself.
I had a warm feeling for those folks, and sometimes of a night I’d lie there where they slept. One night I awakened filled with terror. I got up and looked out the window over the moonlit canyons and I fancied I could hear them coming, hear the wild Navajo coming out of the wilderness to attack the peaceful villages. The terror I felt was the terror they must have felt, even when they moved on they’d know it was only a matter of time.
Sometimes only a few warriors would come filtering through the canyons, killing a farmer at work or shooting his wife off a ladder where she climbed with her child. A few would come, but they’d wait around until more came, and more. Up in the cliff dwellings the people would wait, looking down, seeing their crops reaped by others or destroyed, seeing them gather there, knowing someday they would come in sufficient numbers and the floors of the cliff houses would be dark with blood. Some of the people would climb out over the tops of the cliffs and escape, some would try and be killed in the process.
It was like Em Talon. Her husband had been murdered, her hands killed or driven off. Little by little they had gone until she had stood alone against them, a tall old woman, alone in her bleak mansion, waiting for the day when she could no longer lift the Sharps or see to fire it.
I’d come drifting along, a man with no good reputation behind him. I was one of the savages, one of the wanderers. I was no planting Indian, no planter at all. I was a drifter, a man who lived by the gun. But I’d dug in here and stayed … now the time had come to carry it to them.
I’d had enough of waiting. I wasn’t going to sit and let them bring death to me and to this old woman. I was going after them. I was going to root them out, throw them out, burn them out, or die trying. It just wasn’t in me to set and wait.
Like I said, I’m no hand at figuring. It’s my way to just bull in and let the chips fall where they will, but I did give thought to getting into the town unseen, and to getting away when it was over … if there was anything of me left.
Not even a mouse will trust himself to only one hole, so I sat back and recalled the town, thinking out where the buildings and the corrals were situated. Somewhere along the line, sleep fetched itself to me.
At breakfast Em was in a talking mood. She had been up shy of daylight, peering out through the shutters, studying out the land.
“You should have seen it when me an’ Talon came west,” she said. “There was nobody out thisaway, just nobody at all. Talon had been far up the Missouri before this, on a steamboat, and he’d been up the Platte as far as a boat could go. He’d seen his buffalo and killed a grizzly or two, and he’d lived and traveled among Injuns, and fit with them a time or two.
“We come west and he kept a-tellin’ me of this place, and me, I was ready for it. I was a mountain gal, raised back yonder in the hills, and all that flat land worried me, nothing moving but the grass before the wind and maybe an antelope far away or a herd of buffalo.
“Then we seen this place. We seen it from afar off, standing out on the grassland with the mountains behind. Talon had left four mountain men in a cabin on the land, but they weren’t needed.
“At first the Injuns just came to look, to stare at the three-story house looming above the country around. They called it the wooden tepee and sat their horses in astonishment, gaping at the house that had appeared like a miracle, for the Indians had been gone on the annual buffalo hunt when the house was built.
“When the Cheyennes rode up to see, Talon went out to meet them. He took them, four at a time, through the house, showing them everything, from the enormous stretch of country that could be seen from the railed walk atop the house to the loopholes from which shots could be fired while the shooter was safe within.
“He knew the story would be told, and he wanted them to know they could be seen a long time before they reached the house, and that an attacker could b
e fired upon from any place within the house.”
“But you’ve so much furniture!” Pennywell exclaimed. “How ever did you get it out here?”
“Talon made some of it. Like I said, he was handy. The rest of it we brought out. Talon had trapped for fur, and he kept on trapping. He found some gold here and yon in the mountain streams, and he ordered what he had a mind to. We brought us a whole wagon train of things out from the east, for Talon liked to live well, and that’s the sort of thing you break into mighty easy.”
Sittin’ back in that big hidebound chair I could see behind her words. Seeing the Indians filtering back from their hunt, riding through an area they probably only saw once or twice a year, anyway, to find this great house reared up, staring out over the plains with the great, empty eyes of its windows.
To them it must have been a kind of magic. It had been built quickly. Talon was a driving man, by all accounts, and the mountain men he had helping him were not the kind to stay in one place for long. How many he had to help Em never said, but there were four who had lived in a cabin on the place while Talon rode east to find his bride. There might have been more.
Probably Talon and Sackett had framed much of the structure before their help arrived, and certainly the plan must have been put together in his mind whilst working on the rivers or building for other men.
Sitting there, eyes half closed, listening to her tell it in that old Tennessee mountain tone of hers, I found myself getting restless again. Nobody had the right to take from them what they had built.
Me, I was never likely to build anything. A no-account drifter like me leaves no more mark behind him then you leave a hole in the water when you pull your finger out. Every man could leave something, or should.
Well, maybe it wasn’t in me to build much, but I surely could keep the work of other men from being destroyed.
I was going to ride into Siwash and open the place up. I was going in there and drive Len Spivey and his kind clear out of the country.
I’d go tonight.
Ride the Dark Trail (1972) Page 8