"Jack, the boy says you told his pap you'd wait at th e springs."
"He lies!" McGarry said angrily. "The boy lies. I tol d him nothing of the kind."
"You did so." I put my hand on my Shawk & McLanahan. "You say I lie and I'll shoot you sure."
The man in the buckskins shook his head at me. "Si t quiet, boy. We'll get the straight of this." He turned bac k to McGarry. "I never did understand why we passed u p the sweetest water in a hundred miles. It was early to stop , but with that wagon left behind . . .?"
"I told him no such thing! What would I do that for?"
"Because Pap wasn't afeared of you. And because yo u were shinin' up to Mary Tatum."
That man hated me. I could see it in his hard littl e eyes. "Boy, you shet that mouth! You shet up or I'll bliste r your hide!"
"You'll blister no hides, McGarry. You've a question o r two to answer." The man in buckskins turned and looke d at Mary Tatum. "Ma'am, I reckon we all know McGarry's been wantin' to court you. You been talkin' with him some.
Did you set out with him so much when Tyler was wit h us?"
Mary was a right pretty girl and she had spunk. I knowe d Pap set a sight of store by her, and he had asked me onc e what I'd think of her as a mother. I told him that seein g as how my own ma was buried back East, there was nobody I'd like better.
Now she lifted her chin and said quietly, "I was thinkin g a lot about Mr. Tyler. He was a good man and an hones t man. I believe he was in love with me."
"I know he was," I said.
She looked at me, her gray eyes wide and full. The n she said quietly, "I am a single girl and I want a husband.
I hoped to marry Ralph Tyler. I have never even considered marrying Jack McGarry, and will not now."
McGarry's face went red, then white. He started t o speak.
The man in buckskins interrupted. "We don't know th e straight of this, and I reckon we'll never know exactly. I f you told him we'd wait at the springs, we should hav e waited. We should have stopped there, anyway. I wondere d why we didn't. I think you're guilty."
I expected McGarry to grab for his gun, but he didn't.
There was something about that slender man that didn't look very safe.
A solidly built man in a black coat and flat black ha t spoke up. "We'll be having an election. We'll be wantin g a new captain."
Big Jack McGarry looked over at me and there wa s nothing nice in his eyes. He looked mighty mean.
Mary Tatum saw it, and she walked over to my horse.
"Rye," she said gently, "I'm very sorry about Ralph. Wil l you ride with us now?"
"No, ma'am," I said, "but I thank you. I don't figure t o stay with this outfit." I looked over at Bagley. "There's some folks here won't feel right as long as I'm about."
"But, Rye, you're only a boy!" she protested.
"I killed me three Indians," I said. "I've come acros s the plains these last days all by myself. I'll go on b y myself."
She smiled at me. "All right, Rye, but will you eat wit h us this night?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll be obliged."
It was mighty good, setting up to a civilized meal again.
Mary Tatum was a wonderful cook, and she even manage d some cookies, and most of them she gave to me. Nigh t came, and when I got my buffalo robe she brought m e blankets from her own wagon.
"Ma'am," I said, "I'd have liked it, having you for a ma."
She put her hand on my head then and pulled it agains t her, and I guess I cried,' though I ain't much to bra g on that.
That shamed me, the crying did. When I got to my fee t I was some taller than Mary, and I brushed those tear s away, and felt worse about crying than anything else.
So I took my blankets and went away to the edge of th e circle and started to spread them out.
Something moved out there in the dark, and I took ou t my Shawk & McLanahan, for those two weeks had put m e on edge. Whoever was out there went away.
The next morning when I was saddling up, Big Jac k McGarry. came by. He looked down at me and his eye s were mighty mean. "Figure you're a big man now, don't you? I'll slap some of that out of you!"
Right then I was some scared, but the pistol was in m y belt and I knew if he started for me I'd pull iron. I didn't want to, but I would.
"You got my pap killed," I told hint, "just like yo u figured on. If he was here you'd not talk about whuppin' m e. I notice you never tried to come it over him."
He started his horse at me and raised his quirt, an d just about that time a gun clicked behind me and I hear d a voice say, "Go ahead, hit him. This wagon train can wai t long enough to bury a man."
McGarry sat there with his quirt raised up and had th e look of a fool.
It was that slim man in the buckskin shirt. He had a six-shooter in his hand and he was not fooling. "McGarry," h e said, "if anything happens to that boy while I'm wit h this wagon train, even if it's an out-and-out accident. I'l l kill you."
McGarry lowered his quirt and rode off to the hea d of the column. Only he was not there officially any more.
They had voted him out of the captain's job.
The man in the buckskin shirt walked over to me an d looked at me thoughtfully. "Boy," he said, "you're might y young to be packin' a gun, but you'd better keep it handy."
All right, sir."
"My name is Logan Pollard." He studied me a minute.
"Tell me what happened back there. When your fathe r was killed."
So for the first time I told the whole story.
He questioned me right sharp, then he knocked out hi s pipe and told me, quiet-like, "You'll do, boy. But don't us e that gun unless you have to."
He went away then, and the next morning when th e column moved out he came by on horseback. He motione d me to follow and I went with him and we rode out awa y from the wagons.
It wasn't until we were over the hill that he said, "We'l l get an antelope or two, and we'll start your educatio n same time."
"I can read. I been to school."
"Not that kind of education." He looked at me fro m that narrow brown face that never seemed to smile. "Th e kind you'll need. I'm going to teach you how to rea d sign, how to tell an Indian's tribe from his moccasins, an d where to find game. Also, how to use that gun. I'm goin g to teach you things you need to know. So don't think o f riding off by yourself just yet."
We rode on a ways farther, and then he drew up, indicating a plant about four feet high. It had a prickly look , with sort of white flowers shading off to violet.
"Indian thistle," he said, "and the roots will keep a man alive if there's nothing else to eat. Don't forget it."
He rode on, leading the way, pointing out things as w e rode. Toward evening we circled back and we had tw o antelope.
"Back home," he said, "we had almost two thousan d books. I read most of them. But this," he swept his ar m wide to take in the country, "this is the book I like best.
You can always learn. There's always something ne w on the page."
When he left me, he said, "Don't despise the Indian.
He's lived here a long time, lived well. Learn from him."
Chapter 3
THE SECOND DAY it was different. That morning h e came for me right after the wagons started, but we rod e fast, rode on ahead. As we rode, he told me things. The y were things to remember, and Pollard did no aimless talking.
"Stalking a deer," he said, "you remember you ca n move as long as he hai his head down, feeding. Just before he looks up he'll start to switch his tail. Stop movin g then and stand right still, or sink down and wait unti l he starts to feed again.
"Indians often smoke their bodies in sage to kill bod y odor when going on a hunt. Mint will do the same thing , or any grass or plant that smells."
We were several miles ahead of the wagon train an d far off to one side when we drew up in a grove of aspen.
Ever seen aspen growing? Most times they grow in thic k clumps, grow straight up, their tru
nks almost all of a size.
Logan Pollard swung down and I followed him. The n he paced about fifty feet from an aspen about four inche s in diameter. "Take out your gun," he said, "and hold i t down by your side."
He faced the slim young aspen and drew his own gun.
"Now," he said, "lift your gun in line with that aspe n trunk. Just keep lifting it at arm's length until your gu n is shoulder high."
When I had done that a few times he had me take th e shells from my gun. For over an hour we worked. He kep t me at it, lifting that six-shooter and sighting along th e barrel. Lifting it straight up from the base of the tre e trunk until it was at eye level, always sighting along th e barrel and keeping it in line with the trunk. Not until I'd been at it a few minutes longer did he start me mappin g the gun when it reached shooting position.
"Every day," he said, "you'll practice that. Every da y we'll ride out here."
"Will you teach me to draw real fast?" I asked him.
That was something I wanted to know. I'd heard talk o f Jack Slade and others who were mighty good that way.
"Not yet." He squatted on his heels. "First you lear n how to use a gun. The draw isn't so important as it is t o hit what you shoot at. Learn to make that first shot count.
You may," he added dryly, "never get another."
He taught me to look where I was shooting and not a t the gun, and to shoot as a man points a finger, an d how to hang my holster so my palm came to the gun but t naturally. "No man," he said, "ever uses a gun unless h e has to. Don't hunt trouble. Sooner or later you'll alway s find more than you want. A gun is a tool, mighty hand y when you need it, and to be left alone until you do nee d it."
Beyond the shining mountains" there was desert, an d at its edge we left the wagon train.
"We'll be in California, Rye," Mary Tatum said. "I f you want to come, you're welcome."
"Another time, ma'am. I'm riding south with Pollard."
She looked past me at Logan, who sat slim and straigh t on the black horse he rode. "Take care of him, Logan. He might have been my son."
"You're a child yourself, Mary. Too young to have ha d this boy. Maybe when he comes, I'll come with him."
She looked up at him and her cheeks were a littl e pinkish under the tan. "Come, then, Logan Pollard.
There's a welcome for you, too."
So we watched them start off toward the Salt Lake an d the distant Pilot Butte, beyond the horizon. "If she couldn't marry Pap," I said, "I'd rather it would be you."
Pollard looked at me, but he did not smile. Only hi s eyes were friendly-like. "Rye," he said, "that was a nic e thing you said."
South we rode then, and he showed me Brown's Hole , where the trappers used to rendezvous, and we rod e through the rugged country and down to Santa Fe. Onl y it wasn't all riding, and it wasn't all easy. Every day h e drilled me with the gun, and somehow I began to ge t the feel of it. My hands had always had a feel for a gu n butt, and the big six-shooter began to handle easier. I c ould draw fast and shoot straight.
We lived off the country. Logan Pollard showed m e how to rig snares and traps for small game, how to mak e a moose call, and what to use for bait when fishing. He showed me how to make a pot out of birch bark in whic h a man could boil water as long as the flame was kept below the water-level in the pot. He showed me how to buil d fires and he taught me to use wood ashes for bakin g powder in making biscuits.
Sometimes we would split up and travel alone all day , meeting only at night, and then I would have to rustl e my own grub, and often as not track him to where we wer e to meet.
When he would ride on ahead and have me track hi m down, I would practice with the gun while waiting to star t out. It had a natural, easy feel in my hand. I tried drawing and turning to fire as I drew. But Logan Pollard tol d me to respect a gun, too.
"They make them to kill," he said, "and you can kil l yourself or somebody you love just as easy as an enemy.
Every gun you haven't personally unloaded that minut e should be treated as a loaded gun. Guns aren't suppose d to be empty."
Santa Fe was a big town to me, the biggest since th e wagon train left Missouri, and bigger than any town I'd seen up to then, except St. Louis.
There in Santa Fe I took a job herding a small bunc h of cattle for a man, keeping them inside the boundar y creek and out of the canyon. It was lazy, easy work mos t of the time. He paid me ten dollars a month, and afte r two months of it Logan Pollard came around to see me.
"You need some boots," he said, "and a new shirt."
He bought them for me from a pocketful of gold coins , and then we went to a Mexican place he knew and ate a good Mexican meal, chicken with rice and black beans.
Only he made me tuck my gun down inside my pants, an d I wore it like that when I was in Santa Fe.
One day when I was with the cattle he rode out t o see me and he took a book out of his saddlebags.
"Read it," he said. "Read it five times. You'll like i t better each time. It's some stories about great men, an d more great men have read this book than any other."
"Who wrote it?"
"Plutarch," he said, "and you can read it in the saddle."
It was warm and pleasant in the sunshine those days , and I read while I sat the saddle, or loafed under a tre e sometimes, making an occasional circle to hold the stoc k in. And then one day two Mexicans rode up with a mea n look in their eyes, and they fretted me some looking ove r the cattle like they did.
One of them rode out and started to bunch the cattle , so I put Plutarch in the saddlebag and got up on Old Blue.
He walked out there mighty slow. I figure Old Blu e knew more than me, and he could smell trouble making u p before it hit.
We were halfway out there before they saw us, an d they hesitated a moment, and then, getting a better look , they laughed.
"Nih-o," he said, and kept bunching the cows. And a s I drew nearer they started them moving away from me , toward the creek.
"Leave those cows," I said. "Get away from here!"
They paid me no mind and I was getting scared. I'd been set to watch those cows, and if anything happened t o them it would be my fault. They were driving them toward the creek when I raced Old Blue ahead and turne d them back.
The big Mexican with the scar on his face swore at m e in Spanish and raced at me with a quirt. He raced up an d I pulled Old Blue over and he swung, lashing at me. He struck me across the face, and I pulled the Shawk & McLanahan out of my pants.
His eyes got very big, and me, I was shaking all over , but that gun was as big in my fist as his.
He began to talk at me in Spanish and back off a little , and then the other Mexican rode over to see what wa s happening. When he saw the gun he stopped and looke d very serious, and then he turned away from me as if to rid e off, but when he turned he suddenly swung backhande d with his rope and the gun was torn from my hand an d sent flying. Then he came at me, and he hit me acros s the face with the rope, and then lashed me with it ove r the back, and the half-coiled rope struck like a club an d knocked me from my horse.
Then he spat on me and laughed and they drove off th e cows, taking Old Blue along with them, and I lay ther e on the ground and could do nothing at all.
When I could get up I was very stiff and there wa s blood on me, but I walked to where the Shawk & McLanahan lay and picked it up.
It was ten miles back to town, but I walked it, and aske d around for Pollard. When I found him he was playin g cards. He waved at me and said, "Later, Rye. I'm bus y now."
The place was crowded with men and some of the m stared at my bloody face and the dirt on me, and I wa s ashamed. They would laugh at me if I told them I'd bee n knocked off my horse and had my cattle run off. So I wen t and borrowed a horse and took out after those Mexicans.
It was not only the cows; my mother's picture was i n the saddlebags, and the Plutarch. And the Joslyn carbin e was in the boot on Old Blue.
That night I didn't come
up with them, or the next , but the third night I did.
They were around a water hole where there wer e some cottonwoods. It was the only water around and I wa s almighty thirsty, but I looked for Old Blue and saw hi m picketed off to one side.
It was dark and I was hungry, and they had a fire goin g and some grub, and I shucked the old Shawk & McLanahan out of my pants and cocked her.
The click of that gun cocking sounded loud in the night , and I said, not too loud, "You sit mighty still. I've com e for my horse and cows."
"El niiio," the scarred Mexican said.
I stepped into the light with the gun cocked.
"Kill him," the scarred Mexican said. "Kill him an d they will think he took the cattle himself. Kill him an d bury him here."
The other Mexican was sneaking a hand toward a gu n "Stop!" I said it loud, and I guess my voice sounde d shrill.
He just dived at the gun, and I shot, and the bulle t knocked him rolling. He sprawled out and the other Mexican lunged at me, and I tried to turn, but before I coul d shoot there was a shot from the edge of the brush, an d then another.
The Mexican diving at me fell face down, all sprawle d out, and then he rolled over and there was a blue hol e between his eyes, and the first Mexican, the one I shot, ha d another bullet that had torn off the side of his face after i t killed him.
Logan Pollard stood there with a gun in his hand, hi s face as still and cold as always.
"You should have told me, Rye. I didn't realize you'd had trouble until one of the men said you were bloody.
Then I started after you."
We walked over and looked down at the Mexican I h ad shot. My bullet was a little high .. . but not much.
Pollard looked at me strangely, then caught up Ol d Blue and we started the cows toward home.
The next day he told me to quit, and when I collecte d my money I had thirty-two dollars, all told. With that i n my pocket, and the money from my Pap, which I'd neve r touched yet, I felt rich. We started northwest into th e wild country around the San Juan, following the ol d Spanish Trail.
"We're going to California to see Mary Tatum," h e said, "and then maybe you can go to school. You're to o willing to use a gun."
to Tame a Land (1955) Page 2