London grinned. “No, I’m just twenty-nine, Betty Jane.” He hesitated a minute, and then said: “Betty Jane, you strike me as a mighty brave little girl. There when I first heard you, you made no more noise than a rabbit. Now do you think you can keep that up?”
“Yes.” It was a very small voice but it sounded sure.
“Good. Now listen, Betty Jane.” Quietly he told her where he had come from and where he was going. He did not mention her parents, and she did not ask about them. From that he decided she knew only too well what had happened to them and the others from the wagon train.
“There’s a canvas sack here, and I’ve got to look into it. Maybe there’s something we can use. We’re going to need food, Betty Jane, and a rifle. Later, we’re going to have to find horses and money.”
The sound of his voice, low though it was, seemed to give her confidence. She crawled nearer to him, and, when she felt the sack, she said: “That’s Daddy’s bag. He keeps his carbine in it and his best clothes.”
“Carbine?” London fumbled open the sack.
“Is a carbine like a rifle?”
He told her it was, and then found the gun. It was carefully wrapped, and by the feel of it London could tell the weapon was new or almost new. There was ammunition, another pistol, and a small canvas sack that chinked softly with gold coins. He stuffed this in his pocket. A careful check of the remaining wagons netted him nothing more, but he was not disturbed. The guns he had were good ones, and he had a little food and the canteen. Gravely he took Betty Jane’s hand and they started.
They walked for an hour before her steps began to drag, and then he picked her up and carried her. By the time the sky had grown gray, he figured they had come six or seven miles from the burned wagons. He found some solid ground among some reeds on the edge of a slough, and they settled down there for the day.
After making coffee with a handful found in one of the only partly burned wagons, London gave Betty Jane some of the jerky and a biscuit. Then for the first time he examined his carbine. His eyes brightened as he sized it up. It was a Ball & Lamson Repeating Carbine, a gun just on the market and of which this must have been one of the first sold. It was a seven-shot weapon carrying a .56-50 cartridge. It was almost thirty-eight inches in length and weighed a bit over seven pounds.
The pistols were also new, both Prescott Navy six-shooters, caliber .38 with rosewood grips. Betty Jane looked at them and tears welled into her eyes. He took her hand quickly.
“Don’t cry, honey. Your dad would want me to use the guns to take care of his girl. You’ve been mighty brave. Now keep it up.”
She looked up at him with woebegone eyes, but the tears stopped, and after a while she fell asleep.
There was little shade, and, as the reeds were not tall, he did not dare stand up. They kept close to the edge of the reeds and lay perfectly still. Once he heard a horse walking not far away and heard low, guttural voices and a hacking cough. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of one rider and hoped the Indians would not find their tracks.
When night came, they started on once more. He took his direction by the stars and he walked steadily, carrying Betty Jane most of the distance. Sometimes when she walked beside him, she talked. She rambled on endlessly about her home, her dolls, and her parents. Then on the third day she mentioned Hurlburt.
“He was a bad man. My papa told Mama he was a bad man. Papa said he was after Mister Ballard’s money.”
“Who was Hurlburt?” London asked, more to keep the child occupied than because he wanted to know.
“He tried to steal Daddy’s new carbine, and Mister Ballard said he was a thief. He told him so.”
Hurlburt. The child might be mispronouncing the name, but it sounded like that. There had been a man in Independence by that name. He had not been liked—a big, bearded man, very quarrelsome.
“Did he have a beard, Betty Jane? A big, black beard?”
She nodded eagerly. “At first, he did. But he didn’t have it when he came back with the Indians.”
“What?” He turned so sharply toward her that her eyes widened. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Did you say this Hurlburt came back with the Indians?”
Seriously she nodded. “I saw him. He was in back of them, but I saw him. He was the one who shot his gun at Mister Ballard.”
“You say he came back?” London asked. “You mean he went away from the wagons before the attack?”
She looked at him. “Oh, yes! He went away when we stopped by the big pool. Mister Ballard and Daddy caught him taking things again. They put ropes on him, on his hands and his feet. But when morning came, I went to see, and he was gone away. Daddy said he had left the wagons, and he hoped nothing would happen to him.”
Hurlburt. He had gone away and then had come back with the Indians. A renegade, then. What had they said of him in Independence? He had been over the trail several times. Maybe he was working with the Indians.
Betty Jane went to sleep on the grass he had pulled for her to lie on, and Jim London made a careful reconnaissance of the area, and then returned and lay down himself. After a long time he dozed, dreaming of Jane. He awakened feeling discouraged, with the last of their food gone. He had not tried the rifle, although twice they had seen antelope. There was too much chance of being heard by Indians.
Betty Jane was noticeably thinner, and her face looked wan as she slept. Suddenly he heard a sound and looked up, almost too late. Not a dozen feet away a Comanche looked over the reeds and aimed a rifle at him! Hurling himself to one side, he jerked out one of the Navy pistols. The Comanche’s rifle bellowed, and then Jim fired. The Indian threw up his rifle and fell over backward and lay still.
Carefully London looked around. The rim of the hills was unbroken, and there was no other Indian in sight. The Indian’s spotted pony cropped grass not far away. Gun in hand, London walked to the Indian. The bullet from the pistol had struck him under the chin and, tearing out the back, had broken the man’s neck. A scarcely dry scalp was affixed to his rawhide belt, and the rifle he carried was new.
He walked toward the horse. The animal shied back. “Take it easy, boy,” London said softly. “You’re all right.” Surprisingly the horse perked up both ears and stared at him.
“Understand English, do you?” he said softly. “Well, maybe you’re a white man’s horse. We’ll see.”
He caught the reins and held out a hand to the horse. It hesitated, and then snuffed of his fingers. He moved up the reins to it and touched a palm to the animal’s back. The bridle was a white man’s, too. There was no saddle, however, only a blanket.
Betty Jane was crying softly when he reached her, obviously frightened by the guns. He picked her up, and then the rifle, and started back toward the horse. “Don’t cry, honey. We’ve got a horse now.”
She slept in his arms that night, and he did not stop riding. He rode all through the night until the little horse began to stumble, and then he dismounted and led the horse while Betty Jane rode. Just before daylight they rested.
Two days later, tired, unshaven, and bedraggled, Jim London rode down the dusty street of Cimarron toward the Maxwell House. It was bright in the afternoon sunlight, and the sun glistened on the flanks and shoulders of the saddled horses at the hitch rail. Drawing up before the house, London slid from the saddle. Maxwell was standing on the wide porch, staring down at him, and beside him was Tom Boggs, who London remembered from Missouri as the grandson of Daniel Boone.
“You look plumb tuckered, stranger, and that looks like an Injun rig on the horse. Or part of it.”
“It is. The Indian’s dead.” He looked at Maxwell. “Is there a woman around here? This kid’s nigh dead for rest and comfort.”
“Sure!” Maxwell exclaimed heartily. “Lots of women around. My wife’s inside.” He took the sleeping child and called to his wife. As he did so, the child’s eyes opened and stared, and then the corners of her mouth drew down and she screamed. All three men turned to where she looked.
Hurlburt was standing there, gaping at the child as if the earth had opened before him.
“What is it?” Maxwell looked perplexed. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s the man who killed Mister Ballard! I saw him!”
Hurlburt’s face paled. “Aw, the kid’s mistook me for somebody else,” he scoffed. “I never seen her before.” He turned to Jim London. “Where’d you find that youngster?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
Jim London did not immediately reply. He was facing Hurlburt and suddenly all his anger and irritation at the trail, the Indians, the awful butchery around the wagons returned to him and boiled down to this man. A child without parents because of this man.
“I picked that child up on the ground near a burned-out, Indian-raided wagon train,” he said. “The same train you left Missouri with.”
Hurlburt’s face darkened with angry blood.
“You lie,” he declared viciously. “You lie!”
Jim did not draw. He stared at Hurlburt, his eyes unwavering. “How’d you get here, then? You were in Independence when I left there. No wagons passed us. You had to be with that Ballard train.”
“I ain’t been in Independence for two years,” Hurlburt blustered. “You’re crazy and so’s that blasted kid.”
“Seems kind of funny,” Maxwell suggested, his eyes cold. “You sold two rifles after you got here, and you had gold money. There’s a train due in, the boys tell me. Maybe we better hold you until we ask them if you were in Independence.”
“Like hell!” Hurlburt said furiously. “I ain’t no renegade, and nobody holds me in no jail!”
Jim London took an easy step forward. “These guns I’m wearing, Hurlburt, belonged to Jones. I reckon he’d be glad to see this done. You led those Indians against those wagons. They found out you were a thief and faced you with it. I got it from Betty Jane, and the kid wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. She told me all about it before we got here. So you don’t get to go to jail. You don’t get to wait. You get a chance to reach for a gun, and that’s all.”
Hurlburt’s face was ugly. Desperately he glanced right and left. A crowd had gathered, but nobody spoke for him. He was up against it and he knew it. Suddenly he grabbed for his guns. Jim London’s Prescott Navies leaped from their holsters, and the right one barked, a hard sharp report. Hurlburt backed up two steps, and then fell facedown, a blue hole over his eye.
“Good work,” Boggs said grimly. “I’ve had my doubts about that hombre. He never does nothing, but he always has money.”
“Staying around?” Maxwell asked, looking at London.
“No,” Jim said quietly. “My wife’s waiting for me. I ain’t seen her since ‘sixty-one.”
“Since ‘sixty-one?” Boggs was incredulous. “You heard from her?”
“She didn’t know where I was. Anyway, she never learned to write none.” He flushed slightly. “I can’t, neither. Only my name.”
Lucian Maxwell looked away, clearing his throat. Then he said very carefully: “Better not rush any, son. That’s a long time. It’ll soon be five years.”
“She’ll be waiting.” He looked at them, one to the other. “It was the war. They took me in the Army, and I fought all through.”
“What about the kid?” Boggs asked.
“Come morning she’ll be ready, I reckon. I’ll take her with me. She’ll need a home, and I sort of owe her something for this here rifle and the guns. Also”—he looked at them calmly—“I got nine hundred dollars in gold and bills here in my pocket. It’s hers. I found it in her daddy’s duffel.” He cleared his throat. “I reckon that’ll buy her a piece of any place we got and give her a home with us for life. We wanted a little girl, and while my wife…she was expecting…I don’t know if anything come of it.”
Both men were silent, and finally Maxwell said: “See here, London, your wife may be dead. She may have married again. Anyway, she couldn’t have stayed on that ranch alone. Man, you’d better leave the child here with us. Take the money. You earned it, packing her here, but let her stay until you find out.”
London shook his head patiently. “You don’t understand,” he said, “that’s my Jane who’s waiting. She told me she’d wait for me, and she don’t say things light. Not her.”
“Where is she?” Maxwell asked curiously.
“We got us a place up on North Fork. Good grass, water, and timber. The wife likes trees. I built us a cabin there, and a lean-to. We aimed to put about forty acres to wheat and maybe set us up a mill.” He looked up at them, smiling a little. “Pa was a miller, and he always said to me that folks need bread wherever they are. ‘Make a good loaf,’ he said, ‘and you’ll always have a good living.’ He had him a mill up Oregon way.”
“North Fork?” Boggs and Maxwell exchanged glances. “Man, that country was run over by Injuns two years ago. Some folks went back up there, but one o’ them is Bill Ketchum. He’s got a bunch running with him no bettern’n he is. Hoss thieves, folks reckon. Most anything to get the ’coon.”
When he rounded the bend below the creek and saw the old bridge ahead of him, his mouth got dry and his heart began to pound. He walked his horse, with the child sitting before him and the carbine in its scabbard. At the creek he drew up for just a moment, looking down at the bridge. He had built it with his own hands. Then his eyes saw the hand rail on the right. It was cut from a young poplar. He had used cedar. Somebody had worked on that bridge recently.
The cabin he had built topped a low rise in a clearing backed by a rocky overhang. He rode through the pines, trying to quiet himself. It might be like they said. Maybe she had sold out and gone away, or just gone. Maybe she had married somebody else, or maybe the Indians…
The voice he heard was coarse and amused. “Come off it!” the voice said. “From here on you’re my woman. I ain’t takin’ no more of this guff!”
Jim London did not stop his horse when it entered the clearing. He let it walk right along, but he lifted the child from in front of him and said: “Betty Jane, that lady over yonder is your new ma. You run to her now, an’ tell her your name is Jane. Hear me?”
He lowered the child to the ground and she scampered at once toward the slender woman with the wide gray eyes who stood on the step staring at the rider.
Bill Ketchum turned abruptly to see what her expression meant. The lean, raw-boned man on the horse had a narrow sun-browned face and a battered hat pulled low. The rider shoved it back now and rested his right hand on his thigh. Ketchum stared at him. Something in that steel-trap jaw and those hard eyes sent a chill through him.
“I take it,” London said gravely, “that you are Bill Ketchum. I heard what you said just now. I also heard down the line that you were a horse thief, maybe worse. You get off this place now, and don’t ever come back. You do and I’ll shoot you on sight. Now get!”
“You talk mighty big.” Ketchum stared at him, anger rising within him. Should he try this fellow? Who did he think he was, anyway?
“I’m big as I talk,” London said flatly. “I done killed a man yesterday down to Maxwell’s. Hombre name of Hurlburt. That’s all I figure to kill this week unless you want to make it two. Start moving now.”
Ketchum hesitated, then viciously reined his horse around and started down the trail. As he neared the edge of the woods, rage suddenly possessed him. He grabbed for his rifle and instantly a shot rang out and a heavy slug gouged the butt of his rifle and glanced off.
Beyond him the words were plain. “I put that one right where I wanted it. This here’s a seven-shot repeater, so if you want one through your heart, just try it again.”
London waited until the man had disappeared in the trees, and a minute more. Only then did he turn to his wife. She was down on the step with her arm around Betty Jane, who was sobbing happily against her breast.
“Jim,” she whispered. “Oh, Jim.”
He got down heavily. He started toward her, and then stopped. Around the corner came a boy of four or five, a husk
y youngster with a stick in his hand and his eyes blazing. When he saw Jim, he stopped abruptly. This stranger looked just like the old picture on his mother’s table. Only he had on a coat in the picture, a store-bought coat.
“Jim.” Jane was on her feet now, color coming back into her face. “This is Little Jim. This is your son.”
Jim London swallowed and his throat suddenly filled. He looked at his wife and started toward her. He felt awkward, clumsy. He took her by the elbows. “Been a long time, honey,” he said hoarsely, “a mighty long time.”
She drew back a little nervously. “Let’s…I’ve coffee on. We’ll…” She turned and hurried toward the door, and he followed.
It would take some time. A little time for both of them to get over feeling strange, and maybe more time for her. She was a woman, and women needed time to get used to things.
He turned his head and almost automatically his eyes went to that south forty. The field was green with a young crop. Wheat! He smiled.
She had filled his cup; he dropped into a seat, and she sat down opposite him. Little Jim looked awkwardly at Betty Jane, and she stared at him with round, curious eyes.
“There’s a big frog down by the bridge,” Little Jim said suddenly. “I bet I can make him hop.”
They ran outside into the sunlight, and across the table Jim London took his wife’s hand. It was good to be home. Mighty good.
Home in the Valley
Steve Mehan placed the folded newspaper beside his plate and watched the waiter pour his coffee. He was filled with that warm, expansive glow that comes only from a job well done, and he felt he had just cause to feel it.
Jake Hitson, the money-lending rancher from down at the end of Paiute Valley, had sneered when he heard of the attempt, and the ranchers had shaken their heads doubtfully when Steve first told them of his plan. They had agreed only because there was no alternative. He had proposed to drive a herd of cattle from the Nevada range to California in the dead of winter!
West of the Tularosa Page 8