Jim had already turned back to face Chambers when he heard the thud of the empty whiskey jug as it collided with the log wall of the store and bounced unbroken to the floor. He quickly turned back to discover the old man standing now, although none too steadily. His face a twisted mask of rage, apparently because the jug had failed to shatter, he pulled his pistol from his belt and started shooting at the offending vessel. In the close confinement of the store, the shots sounded like cannon fire. Chambers dived for cover behind the rough plank counter as Newt’s slugs slammed into the log walls, each one wildly missing the jug. Chambers’s men came running from all directions, and as soon as Newt’s firing pin clicked on an empty cylinder, they descended upon him, pinning him to the floor. Cursing and flailing like a captured mountain lion, Newt struggled against his captors until he ran out of steam. Subdued at last, he settled unresisting on the floor.
Jim, completely stunned by the wild display that had caught him by surprise, watched in fascination as his friend was restrained. He looked at Chambers, astonished. “Happens every time,” Chambers replied to Jim’s unspoken question. “The man just can’t handle his liquor.” He nodded toward a heavyset man with a bushy black beard who was presently sitting astraddle Newt’s chest. “Broke Blackie’s nose when he was in here a couple of months ago, caught him square in the face with his rifle barrel. Blackie was ready to kill him right then and there, and I reckon he would have if I hadn’t stopped him.”
Jim looked at the man called Blackie. He was a good bit younger than Newt and looked to be three times as big. Then he looked again at Newt. The old man’s eyes were glazed as he stared up helplessly, his arms and legs pinned to the floor with Blackie on top of him. He was spent.
“Are you all right, Newt?” Jim asked. Newt didn’t reply, but blinked a couple of times, then continued to stare at the ceiling. Jim couldn’t help but be reminded of the dazed look of an animal caught in a trap. “Looks to me like it’s all over,” he said to Chambers.
“Not yet it ain’t,” Blackie remarked. His heavy beard was parted now by a wide, surly grin. “I reckon it’s time to teach the old bastard how to behave—time to pay for breakin’ my nose.” He drew his fist back.
“I reckon not,” Jim softly stated. In a flash like a striking rattler, his hand clamped onto Blackie’s wrist, stopping the punch in midair. “Let him up,” he ordered.
Blackie, unaccustomed to being challenged by any man, was startled at first. Then, angry, he strained against Jim’s grip, but found the lean young man’s arm unyielding. Enraged and shamed to find he was unable to overpower this unexpected adversary, he started to reach for a large skinning knife in his belt. With reactions a step faster, Jim drew his newly purchased pistol with his free hand and had the muzzle against Blackie’s ear before the big man cleared his knife from his belt.
Slow to react before, the men holding Newt’s arms and legs suddenly came alive at the sight of the drawn pistol. Quickly now, they scrambled up and stepped back. One of them gave brief consideration to pulling his own pistol, but a warning glance and a slow shake of Jim’s head convinced him it would be folly to try.
Blackie, frozen with his hand still on the handle of his knife, the hard, cool barrel of the pistol bumping his ear, burned inside with anger and humiliation. But he was in no position to resist. Chambers, an astonished spectator up to that point, finally spoke. “Let him up, Blackie.” He then turned to Jim. “No harm done, I reckon, if you’ll just get him the hell outta here before he goes crazy again.”
Jim nodded, still keeping his eye on Blackie. “We’re already on our way.” He took a couple of steps back, the pistol still trained on the big man.
“You’re lucky Chambers is here,” Blackie mumbled in a feeble attempt to save face at having been bested in the standoff. “He’s the boss, so I reckon he saved your ass this time.” He slowly removed his bulky frame from Newt’s chest and got to his feet, his eyes now glowing black coals of hatred.
“Just a little misunderstanding,” Chambers said, directing his words toward his own men. “We don’t want any bloodshed here. When all’s said and done, nobody got killed.” Chambers was a fair man, and he could understand that Jim was doing what he had to. He moved over to stand beside Jim while the young man helped Newt to his feet. “You’ll be all right, young fellow. Nobody’s gonna take a shot at you.” He looked again at Newt, standing reeling and exhausted. “Some people just can’t handle whiskey,” he said. “Mostly it’s the Injuns that go crazy with it. Maybe old Newt’s been living with them Crows too long. You’re welcome back here anytime.” He smiled. “But I don’t reckon I’ll sell Newt any more firewater.”
“Much obliged,” Jim replied, but continued to hold the pistol in his hand. “Come on, Newt,” he said, leading a subdued and confused old man toward the door.
Chambers instructed his men to stay put until Jim and Newt were out of the stockade and on their way. Blackie paced back and forth across the floor, his face twisted and scowling with anger. Finally he stopped and confronted his employer. “We could have jumped that son of a bitch and settled his hash before he got to the door.”
“I told you, that ain’t the way I do things. It was just a little misunderstanding that almost got out of hand—wasn’t worth somebody getting shot over. I don’t want the word spreading that we’re a bunch of outlaws and murderers. We’ll have folks afraid to come trade with us.”
Blackie’s pride was not satisfied by the explanation. “I was just gonna fix the old coot’s nose the way he done mine,” he grumbled. “But I’da kilt that young feller for pulling a gun on me. He was just lucky he sneaked it out on me.”
Chambers laughed. He couldn’t resist chiding his angry employee. “If you’d have been in here when he packed up his plunder, you mighta noticed he hadn’t opened up that box of forty-five cartridges yet. His pistol wasn’t even loaded.”
It was the same as if Chambers had hit him in the head with a limb. Blackie’s face flushed scarlet behind his whiskers, and for a long moment he was speechless. Glaring at the men standing around, he silently dared anyone to make a comment. Knowing his temper, none were foolish enough to remark. Finally words came to him. “You knew that?” he demanded of Chambers.
“I knew,” Chambers calmly replied. “Now let’s everybody get back to their own business.” He stood there watching his men disperse, a sharp eye on the brooding monster who gave him a long, hard stare before turning to do as he was told. The simpleminded brute was going to give him trouble one day. Chambers could feel it in the insolent stare. That may have been a big mistake, he thought. That and that gun-happy Larson—I should have never hired those two. Out of a total complement of just under fifty men, when everybody was in camp, two bad apples were probably nothing to complain about.
* * *
Jim held to a steady pace after leaving Fort Pease behind them. Chambers seemed to be a sensible and coolheaded man, and Jim was convinced that he was sincere in his efforts to preserve peace. Still, there was no sense in taking any chances. Some of his crew didn’t look to be as forgiving as their boss, especially the one called Blackie. For that reason, Jim had planned to keep riding until almost dark before making camp, and he would have, had it not been for Newt.
Still in a daze when Jim helped him climb onto his horse, Newt was fairly wobbling in the saddle, not really fit to ride. Jim had never seen a man so drunk. He was unable to hold the reins, so Jim led his horse and trailed the packhorse behind Newt’s. Before passing through the gates of the stockade, Newt had keeled over forward, lying on his horse’s neck. He seemed secure there, so Jim let him be. Newt rode that way for almost seven miles before sliding over sideways and landing in a heap on the hard, rocky ground. Jim dismounted and walked back to pick him up. A disgusting sight, the old man lay crumpled, sick as a dog. His gray whiskers were streaked with vomit, mixed with red flecks of blood. Glancing up at his horse, Jim saw a long reddish-green trail down the side of the animal’s neck where Newt had v
omited before falling off. The poor old man was literally poisoning himself with rotgut whiskey. Jim shook his head sadly at the sight. Too many years of drinking bad whiskey, he supposed.
“Newt,” Jim asked, “can you stand up?” There was no answer from the old trapper. He just lay there as though he were dead. For a moment Jim feared that he was. But then Newt uttered a low moan, and his eyes flickered briefly. “Can you stand up?” Jim asked again. When there was still no response, Jim shrugged and sighed. “All right, then; this is as good a place to camp as any, I reckon.” He reached down and rolled Newt over onto his back. Taking his wrists, he pulled him up on his feet. Then, crouching, he let Newt fall across his shoulder. When he straightened up with the drunken man on his shoulder, the pressure against Newt’s belly caused the poor man to lose the rest of the whiskey down the middle of Jim’s back.
“Damn!” Jim yelped, and came very close to dumping the old man back on the ground. Realizing the damage was already done, however, he told himself that Newt couldn’t help it. So he grabbed his horse’s reins and started walking toward the edge of the river, cursing Newt, and Chambers and his rotgut whiskey.
Selecting a spot among some willows, Jim dropped the reins and started to lower Newt to the ground. He hesitated for a few moments, looking now at the shallow water a few feet away. The foul stench of Newt’s stomach contents served to help him make up his mind. Moving down to the water, he stepped in up to his knees before rolling Newt off his shoulder and dropping him in the current. Newt’s limp body flopped with a loud splash and immediately sank to the bottom. Jim waited for a few seconds, but Newt failed to bob up to the surface. Afraid now that he had drowned the old man, Jim scrambled to pull him up again.
At last showing signs of life, Newt started sputtering and spitting as Jim dragged him up on the bank. “What happened?” Newt asked, his mind in a state of complete confusion.
“You fell in the river,” Jim immediately answered.
“Oh,” Newt replied, bewildered by it all. He rolled over on his side and coughed up some of the river water he had consumed, still fighting a need to vomit again. “Well, much obliged for pulling me out,” he mumbled, and sank back against the cool sand of the bank.
“Anytime,” Jim said with a smile, amazed that the old man had no idea how he happened to land in the river, and seemed not to care one way or the other.
While Newt lay there on the side of the river, apparently having passed out again, Jim peeled off the deerskin shirt that White Feather had made for him and scrubbed the remnants of Newt’s stomach contents from it. When it was as clean as he could get it, he hung it on a willow, spreading the arms to help it dry faster. That done, he glanced again at Newt to make sure the old-timer was still breathing before going about the business of building a fire and scaring up something to eat.
* * *
“They didn’t git far.” Blackie chuckled to himself when he caught sight of a flame in the fading light, flickering through a stand of willows along the riverbank. He drew up on the reins and listened. There was no sound that would indicate that the horses in the camp had discovered his presence. He decided it best to leave his horse there and make his way on foot from that point. Sliding his rifle out of the sling, he stepped down from the saddle and carefully moved through a sparse line of cottonwoods that bordered the willows.
Making his way through the brush as quietly as a man his size could, he stopped suddenly when he spotted something in the trees beside the campfire. It took a few moments before he realized what he was seeing. When it hit him, he grinned, for he recognized the buckskins that Jim Culver was wearing, still new and bright. It was too good a target to pass up. Culver seemed to be standing in front of the fire, his arms spread to each side as if telling some wild story to the man on the ground. Blackie couldn’t have asked for better. He could take care of Culver before the old man could even start to get out of his blankets. Then it would be a pleasure to settle Newt’s hash.
Jim studied the new tin coffee cup in his hand without really turning his mind to it. Sitting with his back to a V-shaped willow trunk, he slowly chewed the last bite of salt pork and let his mind wander to the cabin on the banks of Canyon Creek and a certain young lady who dwelled there. It was the first time in a while that he had allowed his mind to linger in that recess. He had been gone now for much longer than he had planned. He wondered if Lettie might have decided he had left for good. The thought worried his mind, for he realized that he would very much like to see her again. What would stop him from heading out for Canyon Creek the very next day? He glanced over at Newt, still sleeping soundly—only now there was no question that he was alive, unless dead men snored like a bull elk in rutting season. He could see that Newt got back to the village safely, then start out for Canyon Creek. But then thoughts of Johnny Malotte crept into his mind, and he knew he couldn’t go back without Toby and his Winchester. Just the name Johnny Malotte was enough to make his muscles tense, and he knew there was no question where his priorities lay. Further thought on the subject was interrupted by the sudden report of a rifle and the distinct snap of a bullet passing close overhead.
Like a startled mountain cat, Jim was on his belly, his eyes searching the trees behind him, looking for the source of the attack. At first he could see no one, his vision obstructed by the willows between him and the cottonwoods. He glanced up to notice the neat hole through his buckskin shirt. “Damn,” he swore, then immediately returned his gaze to the trees behind him, his pistol ready. Within seconds another shot was fired, and he looked up to discover another hole in his shirt, this one close to the shoulder. “Dammit, that’s enough,” he muttered, his ire totally aroused now. He reached up and pulled the shirt down before their unknown assailant made a sieve out of it. Concerned now for Newt, he looked back to find his friend sleeping through the attack. With what happened in the next few seconds, Jim didn’t have time to alert Newt.
When Blackie saw the shirt disappear from the willows, he naturally assumed he had hit his target. He scrambled up from his position behind a tree and charged through the brush like a runaway moose, intent upon rushing the old man. A man of his immense proportions created a sizable racket as he crashed through the scrub before the river; even so, Jim determined that there was only one assailant, in spite of the noise. So he simply rolled out of his path and waited. His main concern at that point was that Newt might finally awaken and get in the way.
A triumphant grin stretching his thick black beard, Blackie burst into the small clearing, his rifle searching for a target. Seeing Newt still rolled up in his blanket, he brought his rifle to bear on the sleeping man. Before he could take aim to shoot, he heard his name called.
“Blackie!” Jim commanded.
Startled, Blackie jerked his head around to discover Jim lying almost at his feet. His expression of astonishment was forever frozen on his face when Jim pumped three slugs into his chest. Already dead, the huge man stood for a few long moments, his eyes staring but unseeing, before collapsing heavily to the ground. Jim had to roll out of the way to keep from being crushed by the falling body.
After the noisy confusion of the assault, everything was suddenly still, accented by the quiet gurgle of the river’s current. “Son of a bitch,” Jim uttered softly, amazed by the events of the prior few seconds. Hearing grunting sounds from Newt, he glanced over as the old trapper raised himself up on one elbow.
“What’s all the fuss?” Newt inquired, scratching his tangled gray hair. “I swear, whiskey gives a man a terrible thirst.” Paying no attention to the corpse sprawled on the ground no more than fifteen feet from his blanket, the old man crawled down to the edge of the river and dunked his head in the cool water. Jim was too astonished to speak.
“Who the hell’s that?” Newt wanted to know when he staggered back to the campfire.
“That’s what all the fuss was about,” Jim answered, amused that Newt seemingly had no idea what had taken place. “This is your friend Blackie, come
to call.”
“Blackie,” Newt replied, showing some concern for the first time. “He’s a mean one. Is he dead?”
“I reckon. He ain’t moved in a while.”
A little steadier on his feet now, Newt walked over to examine the body. He placed a toe in Blackie’s side and attempted to roll him over, but the huge man was too heavy, so he reached down and grabbed him with both hands. After the corpse was faceup, Newt stood over it, staring thoughtfully at the remains of the man he had so thoroughly disliked. “Yessir, he was a mean one. What’s he doin’ here, anyway? Why’d you shoot him?”
“’cause he was fixing to shoot you,” Jim replied. “He’d already put a couple of airholes in my new buckskin shirt.” He held it up for Newt to see.
“Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Newt marveled. He shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, he was a mean one. Some folks is just born with the devil in ’em—don’t know why he would have it in for me, though.”
Jim couldn’t suppress a smile. “Maybe ’cause you broke his nose.”
Newt paused and gave that some thought. “Yeah, maybe, but that was a while back. Just no accountin’ for some folks, I reckon.” He studied the three, holes in Blackie’s chest. “Three holes pretty close together—looks like that pistol you bought shoots pretty straight.”
“Hell, he was almost standing on me. It would have been pretty hard to miss.”
Newt nodded, thinking about the confrontation that took place practically on top of him. “No wonder I woke up,” he muttered to himself.
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