"What do we do, Horace?" Rusty rode up beside the foreman. He worked to draw his six-shooter. The movement was awkward because the iron rode so high on his hip. For the first time I realized why cavalry officers wore their holstered pistols with the butt forward and other drovers preferred to have their six-shooters slung in cross-draw holsters. Getting the piece out and into action was easier because they didn't have to go through the acrobatics Rusty performed.
I closed my fingers around the butt of the Colt shoved into my sash. Even this was a quicker draw than Rusty struggled to perform. The cold steel slid from its warm berth between my sash and my skin and weighed down my right hand. I was a decent enough shot, having practiced. I had never fired a six-gun at another man, and that turned me to quaking jelly inside.
"They won't hesitate to ventilate you, men," Horace said. He worked to draw a Henry rifle from his saddle sheath. "You got to get the drop on them. Gun 'em down if you have to. It's legal 'cuz they're stealing OH cattle."
The words did nothing to soothe my rising panic. Turning Monte around and hightailing it would be a cowardly thing to do. Leaving my friends to shoot it out with the rustlers would brand me as a craven for all time, so riding off wasn't in the cards. I worried if I could pull back on the trigger with another man in the sights.
Then Horace let out a rebel cry, put his heels to his horse's flanks and rocketed away. The others took off alongside. For a moment, I wondered why they weren't getting anywhere, then realized I was galloping with them, racing headlong through the darkness into a fight where I might die — or take a life.
Chapter Two
It was darker than the inside of a coal sack so that made the pistol flash all the more blinding. As fate would have it, I was staring straight ahead, trying to make sense out of the noise all around when the six-shooter fired. The foot-long tongue of orange and yellow flame leaping from the muzzle caused dancing spots that robbed me of any vision. The spectacular colors were something I might have used in a painting, had this been my only concern. The whine of a bullet inches from my head caused me to twist violently, as if this avoided any menace, now long past.
The sudden movement and the echoing reports spooked Monte. Even the gentlest of horses would have reared. He did, showing his wild side by pawing at the air and throwing me. I landed hard enough to cause me to fire off a round. Luckily it went into the dirt and not one of the OH hands whooping and hollering and wildly firing their own six-guns. Some of the ruckus could be laid to the feet of the rustlers, but blinking away tears and fighting to see through the colorful dots doing their do-si-do in front of my eyes, trying to regain control of the six-shooter and simply sitting up to do all this occupied me fully.
Worse than this predicament came memory of another time I had been so isolated and in the dark. Skipping Sunday school hadn't been much of a decision to make. Going to the coal mine a half mile away from church, maybe two miles from my house and a dozen from St. Louis proper, was. The mine foreman had a keen eye and always chased kids like me away when we wanted to see what went on in the mine. The plumes of black coal dust billowing out of the mine's mouth like some tremendous explosion of bad breath fascinated all of us. The grinding machinery, the occasional explosion as they blasted through rock to follow the veins of coal, the gritty feel of the sulfurous air all drew us kids like a magnet pulls iron. Most of all, the elevator cage that took miners down was a miracle beyond anything short of Moses parting the Red Sea.
But we only heard sermons about that. Riding down on that open platform was real.
It took a few minutes to realize the foreman had skedaddled. Maybe he was in church where I belonged, too, but the point was I had a chance to ride that elevator down. It took better than five minutes to cross the coal-dust-darkened plain around the mine's mouth. I left footprints going toward the mine. The last shift of miners had left tracks, too, but all were leaving as was sensible for a Saturday evening. A trail of evidence to my trespass was the last thing on my mind when I got to the steam engine that powered the elevator. It was a cold mountain of metal waiting to be stirred to life — but the elevator was all the way down in the mineshaft.
Why this was puzzled me, but without the steam engine snorting and coughing, there wasn't any way to lower the elevator with me in it. But there was a way to get down. I'd rubbed my hands on my Sunday best pants, then taken a leap of faith that ended up with me clutching the chain fastened to the elevator below. I hung there a few seconds, enjoying the odd freedom of not having any ground under me. The pit yawned wide and blacker than any midnight.
It was then that something went wrong. The coal dust that constantly spewed from the mine to dye the ground also covered the chain. Like it had been slathered with bear grease, that chain proved about the slipperiest thing I ever did touch including the greased piglet at the county fair the summer before. My grip didn't fail. I just started slipping down the chain toward the bottom of the mine.
The darkness welled up around me as I fought to keep from sliding any lower until the mine's mouth was hardly more than a silver dollar sized opening far over my head. When I fetched up against the elevator brace where the chain fastened in, it startled me enough so that I let go and tumbled to the elevator floor. On my back, I stared at the distant opening. It might as well have been the moon it was so far away. In my daze, I reflected on how it was about the same size as the full moon at night.
The air hadn't been knocked out of my lungs and except for my smarting hands, now starting to cramp up, I was in good shape. Still, laying there staring up gave me another treat I had not expected. The sun was past being directly overhead and the narrow mine shaft cut off light entering at an angle. I saw the stars winking feebly in a sky turned to twilight in spite of it only being late afternoon. When I tired of trying to figure out any of the constellations, my field of viewing being so limited, I got up, dusted myself off and explored a little.
If it had been dark before, it turned to pitch black within a couple paces. I found a lantern but didn't have a match to light it. A rock shelf with miner's candles were equally worthless for exploring. I had landed in a spot where my only light came straight down the shaft.
I climbed up to the elevator's railing and grasped the chain again. Sliding down had been unexpected, but climbing like a monkey was a specialty of mine. I got almost to the top when my strength gave out. Back to the bottom. It took close to fifteen minutes to recover, but I tried again. And again.
Only when I started yelling for help did the mine foreman hear my shrieks, who had come back on his day off for who knows what reason. He fired up the engine and pulled me up on the elevator. That was the best thing that happened to me for the rest of the week since Pa whupped me for leaving church and Ma gave me a tongue lashing for getting my best clothes so filthy.
That experience told me what to do now that I was sitting on the ground in utter darkness with a hand hardly able to curl around the butt of the borrowed Colt.
I shouted for help.
"Where're you at, Charlie?"
"Here, Rusty, over here!"
Horse's hooves thundered in my direction. By the time Rusty reached my side, the spots vanished and the muscle spasm in my gun hand was a memory.
"Wondered what happened to you when Monte came trotting past me." Rusty tossed me Monte's reins.
Mounted again made me king of all I surveyed, though the inky night restricted this to a small patch around me. That seemed about right, considering how little I had accomplished so far.
"Stop wavin' that there smoke wagon around. You're makin' me nervous."
"Sorry. Did Horace catch the rustlers?"
"Some hightailed it, but that don't matter. They couldn't steal our cows, not this night, at least."
"Glad to hear that," I said. Carefully lowering the hammer on the Colt and tucking it back into my sash, I pointed to the outline of several cattle on a ridge. The sporadic starlight poking through the clouds turned them into silhouettes that rea
ssured me I hadn't gone totally blind.
"You git them beeves and drive 'em back. Horace and me and the boys will keep after the cattle thieves," Rusty said.
That suited me just fine when I heard distant gunfire. The fight heated up something fierce, even if echoes added to the loudness. It still sounded like deadly thunder and something to avoid at all costs. I rode slowly toward the ridge where a half dozen head of longhorns milled about, unsure what was going on. They likely wouldn't be this confused again until the day they were put into a chute at a slaughterhouse. For the moment, I was fine with the notion of returning them to their pasture away from outlaws willing to shoot anyone trying to stop their thieving.
Lariat coming free from the leather thong holding it to the saddle, I circled, "hay-yupped" and used the end of the rope on bovine back ends to get them moving reluctantly toward their home. No rustlers were getting these beeves, no sir, not while Charles Russell punched cattle. The half dozen steaks-on-the-hoof slid down the far side of the ridge into a broad, level stretch where herding them proved easier, even in the dark. A quick look up convinced me we'd get a nasty cold rain before morning. The clouds closed in again, coming fast from over the mountains. I wanted to be safely under the bunkhouse roof before I got wet.
With dying gunfire at my back, I moved the cattle at a decent clip. When they came out onto a stretch leading onto the OH ranch, not far from a tributary to the Judith River, hoofbeats sounded behind. A glance over my shoulder located a solitary rider coming fast.
"You damned fool, you're headin' the wrong way!"
I drew rein, studied the land before me for a few seconds and shook my head. Working to draw pictures gives me a memory for detail, no matter if it is hidden in shadow or brought out in blazing daylight. This was the proper trail back to the OH, and I said as much.
"You got turned around, what with them shootin' at you?" I turned half around in the saddle, expecting to see Horace or Rusty or one of the other wranglers.
The rider was a complete stranger.
He pushed his hat back, and I got a clear look at his face when a lightning bolt lit up the sky. Which of us was more startled was a matter to be discussed around campfires for a long, long time. We both went for our six-shooters at the same instant. Mine dragged free of the sash quicker because his iron rode high on his right hip, forcing him to twist all around to draw.
"Hands up! Grab some of them clouds!" My command went unheeded. The man fumbled out his six-gun as another flash of lightning filled the sky to overflowing. This time with the blinding light came cold rain that spattered against my forehead and trickled into my eyes.
If being astride a nervous horse in the dark didn't make shooting hard, the sudden blur caused by raindrops did. The shot went wild, spooked both our horses and caused the cattle to begin a small stampede. The only good thing was that the beeves went in the right direction. I didn't. The rustler didn't, either. He clung to his saddle horn with one hand as the reins slipped away from him. He waved his six-gun around and fired a couple more times before giving up on ventilating me. Bending low, he scooped up his reins and galloped away.
Monte refused to stand still, ruining a decent aim. Even if the pinto had stood stock-still, the shot in the dark and gathering storm would have been luckier than skillful. I tucked the Colt away again and stared after the fleeing cattle thief. He had mistaken me for one of his partners making off with OH branded beeves. That misapprehension on his part had kept a hunk of lead from getting lodged somewhere in my spine.
With the storm building so fast, and the outlaw riding ahead of the wind, the decision to get the cattle back where they belonged came real easy. With a loud shout and some proper cussing, I got the cattle back into the pasture where they belonged about the same time Horace and the others rode up, looking like drowned rats. They had ridden after the rustlers without proper rain gear. Their slickers were stored away with the rest of their gear in the bunkhouse, where I wanted to store myself before I got so wet I started to smell more like a mangy dog than I did already.
"They plumb got away from us," Horace said. "You wing any of 'em?"
A solemn shake of the head relayed my own failure in this pursuit. "Did tangle with one of them, though. Exchanged gunfire. He thought I was one of the gang leadin' the cattle astray."
Lightning sparked from one horizon to the other, emphasizing the words.
"You git a look at the varmint?" Horace rode closer. He was a terrible poker player, for no good reason I could tell, because he read a man like a book. Better in his case since he wasn't able to read or cipher. Lying was out of the question.
"Plain as day, if the day's all lit up with God's wrath." Another lightning bolt hinted that God's wrath would fall on the lot of us if we didn't get out of the rain.
After putting the horses into the barn, tending them and then adding a bit of saddle soap to our gear, we finally trudged through the rain to the bunkhouse where Mr. Phillips was deep in conversation with Horace about the rustling attempt.
"You men done good tonight," Mr. Phillips said. "Them rustlers tried to make off with close to a hundred head. From what Horace tells me, they mighta got away with half that."
"Or not," the foreman spoke up. "When the storm breaks, we might find stragglers all over the hills. Charlie here kept one of them thieves from getting six head."
"Thanks, Charlie, and thanks to all of you. Your loyalty's a thing to behold, and I am proud to call you my crew."
Mr. Phillips shook our hands each in turn, then left. Horace had wrung out his shirt and hung it up near the stove to dry by this time. Seeing the boss gone, he came over to me, grabbed hold of the Colt's butt and yanked it out. Like some ugly bloodhound he sniffed at the muzzle, then nodded.
"You did swap lead with them. You're gonna make one fine wrangler some day, Charlie."
"That mean I don't have to ride night herd anymore?"
Horace laughed. He thrust the Colt into his belt. "You're 'bout the worst roper I ever did see. You get more tangled up tryin' to throw a Houlihan than any calf what's supposed to be on the receivin' end. You turn green applyin' a branding iron to the calves' hindquarters, and ain't nobody who rides night herd better 'n you."
Horace had a way of mating up insults with compliments so's the offspring was some weird half-breed. If he had applied himself to the Gospel, he would have made one fine hellfire preacher telling how we were all going straight to Hell and making us feel righteous about it at the same time. Worst of all, though, he was right. Keeping the cattle bedded down overnight was a sight easier for me than trying to keep them critters moving in a straight line.
"What I want you to do," he went on, "is to draw up the likeness of the rustler you saw. The marshal's got wanted posters on his jailhouse wall that ain't half as good as what you can whip out."
The suggestion caused a cold lump to form in my gut. It had been bad enough defending the cattle from the rustler, but doing anything to get the outlaw mad at me threw wood on a hateful fire. Passing around his portrait would bring him hunting me down like a mad dog. I knew that it would.
"He'll look better 'n all his ma's boasting on him," I said. Agreeing to do the picture had to be the stupidest thing I'd done since trying to shoot it out with the outlaw. This could only bring me grief.
I got out a sheet of paper that was mostly clean and my pencil and began sketching. The ugly so-and-so's face stared out lifelike at me a half hour later.
Chapter Three
"I ain't no nanny." Rusty Rawlins growled like a mad dog. Then he spat.
I watched the gobbet catch on the wind and curl back in his direction. Without paying any attention to the impending doom, he moved his head a fraction of an inch and let the spill sail past. Rusty prided himself on never getting a drop on his shirt when he chewed. If he had done this at the county fair, he would have walked away with the blue ribbon.
"You can go on back to the ranch." The warm sunlight against my face made me feel my oats. M
r. Phillips had sent him along to watch over me after finding out I not only saw the rustler but had sketched a picture of him.
Hand pressed against my heart, I felt the crinkly paper stuck down inside my shirt for safekeeping. Delivering it to Marshal Toms ought to be the work of a half day, but the road had turned into fetlock deep mud, and the wind carried more than a hint of a nasty winter to come. I pulled up my collar against the breeze and tugged down the brim of my hat to keep my face from being slashed with icy razors. The paper might get a bit soggy from sweat since my sheep's fleece-lined coat proved a bit heavy, even for this weather, but I wasn't about to shuck it off and wear only my duster against this cold.
Fresh from St. Louis, I had gotten a job as a shepherd. As a kid, hauling firebrick and working the wheat fields were things I knew. The ways of sheep proved a mystery, but with a good sheep dog I learned fast and spent two years following the woollies around, shearing them and finally appreciating a good lamb chop cooked with mint leaves. I had skinned a big ram for the body of the coat and a lamb's fleece had become the lining of about the warmest coat a man could want in the wilds of Montana.
"Ain't my place to tell the boss what I'll do and what I won't," Rusty said.
The cheerfulness in his tone told me he intended to head straight for Gus' Watering Hole or some other ginmill the minute we rode into town. Even if it took me only five minutes to turn over the sketch and convince Marshal Toms he needed to hunt for a gang of rustlers, Rusty's dry gullet could accept two or three shots of trade whiskey. If he got himself lubricated enough, he could convince me to join him for a beer. Dawdling in our return to the OH didn't rob Mr. Phillips of our paid services too much. This time of year the cattle were fattened up to get through the winter, no hay crops needed scything and baling, and the barn was creaking under the weight of the autumn's bounty to get the horses through the winter.
If we took a couple hours more before getting our behinds back to the ranch, nobody would much notice or care. The promise of a beer or two already made my mouth pucker a mite. Gus' beer wasn't the best in town, but it was the cheapest. With my debilitated poke, that meant more than any refined tastebuds lolling about on my tongue.
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 21