“We were trying to be as quiet as we could, Blackie and me. We didn’t wanna disturb you if we could help it.” He couldn’t resist teasing the old man.
Jim’s humor was lost on Newt. It was the second time in as many encounters with demon whiskey that he had no recollection of what had occurred during his drunken state. Could be that whiskey was turning on him in his later years. Maybe, he thought, it was time he went back to his Crow village and stayed away from men like Chambers and his rotgut. But he had drunk a riverful of whiskey in his life. It was probably just a bad batch.
* * *
The following morning saw a fully recovered Newt Plummer, one without so much as a grain of remorse for the trouble his drinking had triggered. As far as he could see, the world was a better place without the likes of Blackie, and he was more than a little puzzled with Jim’s concern over the disposal of the huge body. “Hell, the buzzards and the wolves will take care of it,” he said, unable to understand Jim’s need to justify his actions. “A man ain’t held to account for it when he kills a rattlesnake.”
Jim could understand that his concern was highly unusual in a land where every man was his own judge and jury. But he had never killed a man unless that man had tried to kill him, and he felt it his responsibility to inform the company of traders at Fort Pease of the circumstances of Blackie’s demise. Against Newt’s argument that it didn’t make a fart’s worth of difference in a tornado, Jim held that he wanted it clearly understood that Blackie had jumped them, and not the other way around. For that reason he deemed it necessary to deliver Blackie’s body back to Fort Pease and let Chambers know how the man had met his death—and why Jim now claimed Blackie’s horse and rifle. Jim reasoned that he needed both, and since the rifle had been used in an attempt to take his life, and the horse delivered his assailant, then the two rightfully belonged to him. Newt still thought it to be a waste of time. But he helped him heft the heavy corpse onto Blackie’s horse and dutifully followed him back toward Fort Pease, the arms and legs of the stiffened body protruding on either side like oars from a rowboat.
* * *
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Chambers murmured as he walked out the door. He didn’t have to be told that the stiffened body lying across the packhorse was that of the missing Blackie. “So that’s where he went.” Chambers strode out to meet the two riders.
No one had noticed when Blackie rode out the day before shortly after Jim and Newt had departed. And he wasn’t missed early this morning. The sullen giant had few friends among the men of the company, Daniel Larson being the only one who had much to do with him. The other men kept their distance from the two bullies as much as possible—Blackie because of his intimidating size and mean streak, Larson because of his lightning-fast gun and his eagerness to have a reason to pull it. Blackie always had a habit of being scarce when the morning chores were being done. It wasn’t until breakfast that his absence was discovered, for Blackie seldom missed a meal.
Since most of the men were away, cutting firewood for the coming winter, there were only half a dozen left to greet the two riders. Jim pulled up in the middle of the small courtyard and waited while Chambers and the others gathered around him. Newt held back a respectable distance with the packhorses just in case there might be trouble and he had to cover his partner’s back.
“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Chambers remarked casually while he moved past Jim to take a closer look at Blackie’s corpse. “Shot through the chest,” he said after a moment. Then he walked back to stand beside Jim’s stirrup and waited for the explanation. It did not escape his notice that Jim had exchanged his Indian saddle for Blackie’s. Chambers was a sensible man, and he had a fair idea of what had taken place. Blackie had obviously decided to take revenge, and it had cost him his life. It didn’t figure that Jim Culver would have brought the body back if it hadn’t happened that way, and he and Newt had lain in ambush for Blackie. Chambers couldn’t help but think he should thank Jim for taking care of a problem for him down the road.
“He jumped us and there wasn’t much choice but to shoot him,” Jim said. “I brought him back to let you know what happened, I reckon so you could bury him if you wanted to.” He sat there while Chambers’s men moved in closer to gawk at the body. “Anyway,” he continued, “we’ll be moving on now.” He pulled his horse around until he was beside Blackie’s horse. When he was even with the head, he reached over and shoved the body off of the horse’s back. Rigid in death, Blackie’s corpse landed on its feet and seemed to pause upright for a long moment, his evil scowl glaring unseeing, causing the few men closest to jump back, aghast. It was only for a second; then the massive body keeled over to land heavily, like a felled cottonwood. Jim touched his finger to his forehead in a casual salute to Chambers and started to leave. There was one, however, who was not ready to accept Jim’s explanation.
“Hold on!” Larson called out, and grabbed hold of Jim’s bridle. “You’ve got a heap more explaining to do, mister. You can’t just come riding in here with poor Blackie’s body and some tall tale about him jumping you. Blackie was a pretty stout man. I’d say you’da had to shoot him in the back. Might be that you and that old rumhead there murdered him for his horse and rifle.” He glanced around him to see if his argument was garnering support from the others. There was no evidence of commitment to his cause. Most of the men felt it good riddance to be done with the sullen bully.
Jim took a moment to take stock of this new threat. He noted the pistol carried in a holster that rode just about even with the man’s right hand. The leather was oiled and polished. He addressed Larson’s accusations then in a calm and even tone. “Any fool can see he was shot in the chest. It happened like I said, and now I’m done with it.” He attempted to pull his pony’s muzzle away from Larson’s grasp, but Larson held on, obviously working himself up for a confrontation.
“Let it go, Larson,” Chambers commanded. “Blackie made a mistake and paid for it. It was gonna happen sooner or later, anyway.”
Larson was reluctant. “Dammit, Chambers,” he whined, “you’re lettin’ a man get away with murder here.” Turning his hostile glare to Jim again, he challenged, “I’ll just take that there rifle you stole, and that horse, too.”
Jim was already tired of Larson’s complaints, but he maintained his calm. “I’m claiming the horse and the rifle as payment for these two holes in my shirt.” For emphasis, he cocked the rifle. “I’ll ask you to let go of that bridle unless you wanna lose that hand.”
Larson flared angrily and briefly considered reaching for his pistol. The sound of Newt cocking his rifle behind him was enough to give him pause, however, and he realized the foolishness of trying to make a move. Reluctantly he released Jim’s bridle and stepped back, but he wasn’t finished. Just as Jim had looked him over, Larson had pretty much sized Jim up as well. The tall man in buckskins might be handy with a rifle, and even with the bow he wore across his back. But Larson figured Jim, like most mountain men, had little use for his pistol. Added to that, the pistol was new, and Jim had not even had enough sense to load it right away, pulling an empty gun on Blackie the day before. Larson almost smiled at the thought. Men the likes of Jim Culver were just what he was looking for. A man could build a reputation on men like Jim Culver. After all, he had killed Blackie, as mean a son of a bitch as ever lived.
“Mister,” Larson said, “you’re mighty damn brave when you’ve got a rifle on a man, and another’n behind him.” He took a couple more steps back to give himself room, pulling his coat back from his holster. “Now I’m callin’ you out, you back-shootin’ son of a bitch. You’ve got a pistol. Step down off’n that horse, and let’s see if you’re man enough to use it.” He glanced back at Newt. “And keep that old fart out of it. This ain’t none of his affair.”
Being the sensible man that he was, Chambers was quick to step in. “Now hold on, Larson; there ain’t no call for this. You know Blackie better than most of us. You know he was spoiling fo
r a fight.”
“Stay out of it, Chambers,” Larson ordered. “This is between me and this murdering son of a bitch. I’m callin’ him out fair and square, man to man.” He turned back to Jim. “How ’bout it, back-shooter? You either throw that rifle down and hightail it outta here on that Injun pony, or stand up to me like a man.”
Chambers wasn’t willing to see what he knew would amount to murder. He pleaded with Jim. “Turn around and ride out of here, son. It ain’t a fair fight. Larson’s as fast as greased lightning with that pistol. He practices with it all the time. There won’t be any shame in riding out.”
Jim, silent to Larson’s challenge up to that point, smiled at Chambers and said, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be happy to accommodate this jackass.” Taking his time to dismount, he glanced over at Newt. “It’ll be all right, Newt. No need to take part in this. You just hold my horse over there. I don’t wanna take a chance on this jackass hitting him with a stray bullet.” His remark was met with a snide smile from Larson as he squared himself and got ready to draw.
Talking to Chambers, Jim said, “First, we’ve gotta set some rules.”
“Rules?” Larson exclaimed. “We don’t need no rules except you go for your gun and I’ll go for mine.”
“When you call a man out, I figure you mean to have a face-off, fair and square. I believe that’s what you said, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Larson replied, anxious to get on with it, “fair and square.”
“All right then,” Jim went on. “I see you don’t carry a bow. I’m pretty damn handy with a bow, so it wouldn’t be a fair fight if I insisted on bows and arrows. Same thing with pistols. I don’t practice shooting a pistol, and according to what Chambers just told me, you practice all the time.”
“What is this shit?” Larson interrupted, thinking Jim was trying to talk his way out of fighting him. “You ain’t gittin’ outta this now. You’ve done run your mouth off about standin’ up to me.”
“Oh, we’re gonna fight,” Jim assured him. “We’re just gonna have a fair fight, that’s all.” He looked at Chambers. “You can be the judge. “We’re both right-handed. So the only fair way to do it is to take some rope and tie our right arms behind us. Then we’ll both draw left-handed.”
Chambers almost laughed out loud. “By God, that’s fair enough, all right.” He turned to the men gathered around watching the drama. “Boys, somebody get me some rope.” There was an immediate scramble as several started to run toward the corral at the same time, anxious to comply. There was no one among them who had any use for Larson, and this fight had the makings for a promising outcome.
Standing dumbfounded for a moment, Larson finally found his voice. “What the hell . . . Wait a damn minute! I ain’t drawing left-handed.”
Newt chimed in. “What’s the matter, Larson? Seems fair to me. You’ve got just as good a chance as Jim has. Be a good time to find out what kinda guts you’ve got.”
Larson had no immediate reply. His brain was in a total state of confusion, and he began to fidget, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. In no time at all, one of the men was back with a couple of coils of rope. Jim’s confident smile, as he stepped forward and placed his arm behind him, didn’t serve to bolster Larson’s confidence. Jim’s arm was already in the process of being tied by the time one of the other men approached Larson and reached for his right arm.
“I’ll be damned,” Larson muttered, and jerked away from him. Shoving the man aside, he went for his gun. He was fast, but his pistol had not cleared the holster when Newt’s rifle ball smashed into his breastbone, knocking him backward. Flat on his back, Larson strained to raise his pistol. A second shot from Newt’s rifle split his forehead, and the belligerent bully lay still.
In the confusion that followed, Jim quickly freed his right arm and drew his pistol, ready to meet any counterattack toward Newt. There was none, the men gathered there having been shocked into stunned paralysis by the sudden gunfire. After a few moments, it became apparent that there was no thought of retribution. Such was the level of contempt the men of the company held for the late Daniel Larson.
“I reckon we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Newt remarked softly as Jim stepped up in the saddle.
Jim immediately turned his pony and slowly backed it toward the gate, keeping a wary eye on the handful of men watching him. While Jim led Blackie’s horse toward the entrance, Newt moved over to the gate and stood covering him.
“I’ve got no quarrel with you, Chambers,” Jim said in parting. “But if another one of your men comes after us, I ain’t gonna take the time to bring him back—just so you know.”
“I know,” Chambers answered. “We’ve got no quarrel.” He looked around him at the rest of his men. “I don’t think anybody here can say that Larson didn’t bring it on himself.”
When they had cleared the stockade, Newt reined his horse back and waited for Jim to come alongside. “I reckon you must be pretty good with your left hand to come up with a slick stunt like that.”
“Hell, no,” Jim replied. “I’d have probably shot myself in the foot.”
Chapter 10
Jake Pascal had seen enough to convince him that the little trading post at Fort Pease would not long be a safe place for a white man. There had been too much talk about trouble with the Sioux lately. The word that had reached Chambers from Fort Ellis was that Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull continued to defy the army’s demands to report to the reservation. Chambers assured his men that they shouldn’t expect trouble from the Sioux, but Jake decided that Chambers refused to see the writing on the wall. Once the Sioux started raiding, no little outpost like Fort Pease would be spared. And after the episode a few days ago, there were two less men to defend the fort. Blackie had been a bully, and Jake had little doubt that the world was a better place without him. But if the Sioux decided to raid the trading post, Blackie and Larson would have provided added firepower.
So Jake had decided to git while the gittin’ was good. Chambers had tried his best to talk him out of leaving, but Jake had seen enough. He considered himself to be as adventurous as the next man, but he didn’t agree with Chambers’s confidence that the raiding Sioux would spare the little trading post. So he decided it was safer to get himself to a military post. After telling Chambers he was quitting, he had ridden out, heading for Fort Laramie two days after Larson was killed by Newt Plummer.
Crossing the mountains that separated the river valleys, he had made his way from the Bighorn, to the Tongue, then the Powder before finally cutting over to the Belle Fourche. He had been lucky in that there had been no sighting of Indians, although he had found plenty of sign that told him several bands were on the move. There was also evidence of movement of small bands moving west from the great Sioux reservation in the White River country. It served to strengthen his conviction that the Sioux were gathering somewhere, probably in Sitting Bull’s camp. And the last he had heard before deciding to leave Fort Pease was that Sitting Bull had moved his people halfway up the Powder River valley. Jake felt a good deal safer after leaving the Powder far behind, safe enough to make an early camp by the Belle Fourche and rest his horses for a spell. Fort Laramie was still about three days’ ride now, but Jake felt that most of the threat from hostiles was behind him.
* * *
Slocum stroked his beard thoughtfully as he studied the camp below him in the bluffs. White man, he thought, two horses. Looks like he’s fixin’ to rest up a spell. Wonder where his friends are? He looked in all directions around him, paying close attention to the banks up and down the river. After several minutes of watching, Slocum decided the man was alone. Feeling confident that there was no one else lurking about, he climbed into the saddle again and made his way down into the bluffs.
Evening shadows were already lengthening when Jake was suddenly jolted alert by a booming voice no more than seventy-five yards away. “Hallo, the camp,” Slocum yelled. “I’m comin’
in.”
Jake quickly rolled over on his belly, grabbing his rifle as he did. He searched frantically left and right, but could not spot his caller. Keeping low to the ground, he called back, “Who be you?”
“A white man,” Slocum answered. “Just a traveler headed for Fort Laramie. No need to git spooked. I mean you no harm.”
Jake was not ready to accept just any stranger’s word on that. What was a man doing alone in Indian territory, anyway? After thinking about it for a second, he had to wonder if maybe the stranger might be thinking the same thing. “Well, come on in, then,” he called out. It might not be a bad idea to have some company on the way to Laramie. He rose up on one knee, his rifle still handy, and awaited his guest. When Slocum suddenly walked his horse out of a patch of willows, Jake almost dropped his rifle in fright.
“Blackie!” Jake gasped, his voice almost choking. Thinking he was being visited by an apparition, he was too stunned to move a muscle. He believed in ghosts, but before this moment he had been blessed never to have seen one. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he moaned, undecided whether to take flight or beg for mercy.
Puzzled by the man’s strange behavior, Slocum continued to ride slowly up to Jake’s camp, wondering if he had come across a victim of prairie fever. He had heard of men—prospectors or trappers—who had roamed alone for too long, until they became tetched in the head. This might explain why the man traveled alone in Indian territory.
Keeping an eye on the seemingly terrified man, Slocum dismounted and walked up before Jake’s campfire. Jake began to shake all over. Slocum stared at him for a long minute before demanding, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Whaddaya want with me, Blackie? I never done you no harm,” Jake blubbered, cowering from the fearsome bully standing before him.
“Blackie?” Slocum replied. “So that’s what you called me when I started in. Hell, I ain’t Blackie. Blackie’s my brother.”
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