by Ron Schwab
As Jeb approached, Ethan nudged Patch toward him. "Razorback give you any trouble?" Ethan asked.
"Nothing but. That animal is one mean son of a bitch. He would have took a chunk out of my shoulder if I hadn't had my buckskin jacket on. You're the boss, but this horse wouldn't have been my pick for company."
"He likes the lady we're looking for . . . and she likes him."
"Well, I guess everybody needs to have somebody."
"They don't come any tougher. He's been practically resurrected from the dead. Some months back he was shot out from under Skye. I found him in the woods at night, stretched out with a bullet wound in his neck. I left him for dead. A week later, he staggered into the ranch yard. Doc Weintraub, our local medical doctor, was pressed into vet duties and removed the bullet. Two weeks later, the ornery devil was back in stud service." Ethan continued, "I'd like to get out of Lockwood mid-morning. I need to pick up something at the house, and then we'll swing by the sheriff's office before we head into the mountains."
Ethan quickly retrieved his papers at the ranch house while Running Fox watched silently. He wore his breechclout, although it served no function, since he had acquiesced to wearing a pair of blue denims and a plaid shirt Rachael had picked up at the general store. The moccasins were fine, Ethan thought, but with weather due to turn colder anytime, he did not want the boy running around half naked anymore.
As Ethan eased into the saddle, Running Fox stood on the porch with Rachael, his face sober. Ethan gave him a little wave. "I'll be back soon, Running Fox. You help Rachael while we're gone."
"May God go with thee," Rachael said.
"Good-bye, Puma," the boy added softly.
8
They stood on the boardwalk in front of Sheriff Bridges's office. "Ethan, you're a damned fool going after that small army with just the two of you."
"They'll hear us . . . or see us if we have too many riders. A posse would never get close enough . . . or they'd get too close and get ambushed."
"But what the hell do you do if you catch them?"
"We'll figure that out when we get there."
"I've got a thought, Ethan. I know somebody who would be a hell of a handy man for something this crazy."
Ethan eyed the Sheriff suspiciously. "And who might that be?"
"One Ball McLarty."
"One Ball? What kind of a name is that?"
"That's all anybody knows him by. He's an old mountain man, who came out here in the late twenties or early thirties, when all we had was beavers and other such critters. He got the name because three Arapahoe cornered him and got him down and sliced out his left nut, before he got pissed and killed the three of them. For years, he wore a necklace with six dried up balls strung on it around his neck. 'A ball for a ball,' he says. He's proud of his name and says the squaws love his one ball, and it works just fine."
Jeb said, "Sounds like one tough hombre to me."
"That's probably an understatement. Only thing is, I can't vouch for his honesty. Don't know him too good, but he may be a little short of scruples."
"Will, if he's been out here since the twenties, this guy's older than hell," Ethan said.
"I don't know. I suppose he could be in his seventies. I saw him a few months back, though, and I think he could still whip a grizzly bear in a fair fight. He can use a rifle better than any man alive . . . says he uses a Sharps these days. But the important thing to you is he knows northern Wyoming and southern Montana like the back of his hand. As I recollect, Ethan, your scouting days was spent in southern Wyoming and Colorado and Nebraska."
"Why do you think he'd help us?"
"Money. He ain't interested in charity work."
"Forget it. I can hardly meet expenses these days."
"Wait a minute." Bridges stepped away and went into his office, returning shortly with something in his hand. He extended the hand to Ethan and opened it.
"A double eagle. What's this for?"
"One Ball McLarty. He'll do anything for this kind of money."
"I can't take your money for this, Will."
"It's from my county contingency fund. I can spend it however I like. I think this is a good investment. You can pay it back someday if it bothers you."
"You really think the old guy's worth this?"
"He'll earn it in a fight. Just keep him on your side."
"Where do we find this great man?"
"You know where the Jack Rabbit Trail is?"
"Yes. You pick it up in the foothills, and it winds up into the mountains northwest. Steep, and a bit narrow at places for comfort."
"You'll find his cabin about two hours up the trail. It's not visible from the trail, but an old Army Scout like yourself will find the turnoff to your right."
"He doesn't sound like a social animal."
"Let's say he likes to pick his own company."
Ethan plucked the gold coin from the sheriff's palm. "We'll stop and have a chat with this gentleman. His place is pretty much on our way."
9
The turnoff to One Ball McLarty's cabin was over a rocky ridge that revealed no prints, horse or human, but as Ethan surveyed the surrounding forest, his eyes picked up a break in the trees that might be a serviceable passageway. They dismounted and let the horses blow and rest while they drank from their canteens.
"That was a hell of a climb, Boss," Jeb said. "I feel sort of guilty drinking in front of these horses. Always bothered me when I was out on the plains in Comanche country, too."
Ethan pointed to the break in the trees. "There will be water for the horses at the end of the path over there. A man wouldn't put up a cabin far from water." Ethan continued to study the landscape for a few minutes. "My guess is that this old codger already knows we're here. We'll just lead the horses through the trees, and sooner or later, he'll make himself known."
They headed toward the break, and, as suspected, they found a narrow path that allowed them to pass through the woods single-file, pushing back the scratchy pine branches from their necks and faces as they moved. Razorback resisted and planted his feet several times, so Ethan let loose of Patch's reins, knowing his horse would plod forward, and moved to the end of the pack string. He tied a strip of rawhide to Razorback's halter, and then, like a caboose at the end of a train, led the temperamental beast, without further rebellion, following the others.
The pungent scent of wood smoke drifted into the undergrowth, and Ethan hoped it was a sign of a fireplace doing its work. The smell grew stronger as they walked, so he figured they were moving in the right direction. After what he guessed to be a half mile of weaving through the forested tunnel, he saw daylight ahead and Patch breaking into a clearing with Jeb and his horse directly behind. Ethan soon joined them at the site of a rather large log cabin with a nearby low-roofed barn. The structures appeared to be the result of master craftsmanship. The clearing was surprisingly expansive, with probably four or five acres of meadow surrounding the building site, Ethan guessed—a good strategy for defending the occupant against unwelcome visitors. A clear mountain stream snaked its way through the meadow, rushing over a narrow, rocky bed, affording the occupants a reliable water supply.
"Stretch those hands way high and step ten paces away from your critters. Don't want to kill no innocent animal." The menacing voice came from behind them, near the path they had just exited. The man spoke softly but with a tone that left no doubt he should be taken seriously.
Both Ethan and Jeb obeyed, although Patch was already leading the other horses and mules away for a drink at the stream. Ethan turned but could not see the man. "We're not looking for trouble, mister. We came to see One Ball McLarty about an offer for a job. Sheriff Will Bridges sent us."
"Bridges, huh? What's his wife's name?"
"Martha."
"What's his son's name?"
"He has no children."
A tall, lean man emerged like a specter from the blackness of the forest. He must be only an inch or two under six and a h
alf feet, Ethan estimated, taller with the beaver skin cap that fit like a bowl on his scalp, with flaps that fell over his ears. He wore a fur vest—wolf, perhaps—but his sinewy arms were bare. His face was craggy and covered with several weeks' growth of white whiskers, but the ladies would likely have considered him a handsome man in his younger years. His cobalt-blue eyes were alert and fierce as he approached with his Sharps lifted and ready to fire. The long-handled, Cheyenne war axe that hung from his belt was not for decoration, Ethan surmised.
"What's your handle?"
"Ethan Ramsey."
"Heard of you. Goddamned law wrangler. Be a waste of a good bullet." He turned to Jeb. "Who's the darky? Your slave?"
Ethan started to give an intemperate reply, but he was cut off by Jeb. "My name is Jebediah Oaks. My friends call me 'Jeb.' You may call me, Mr. Oaks."
McLarty suddenly roared with laughter and lowered his rifle. When he finally caught his breath, he said, "Mr. Oaks it is, then. I think you'll do, Mr. Oaks. You may call me One Ball. And you gentlemen may put your hands down, so long as you don't play with your guns. You got a business proposition, huh? Why don't you fetch your horses and stake them out someplace and come on up to the house, and my woman will get out some biscuits and tea."
When Ethan and Jeb got to the house, One Ball booted the door open and pointed to some split-log chairs that were placed around a rough-topped pine table. The cabin-house consisted of a single massive room, with the table at one end and a huge bed at the other. A large stone fireplace was centered along a wall in between. Other than several bearskin rugs stretched out on the cedar-planked floor and a few buffalo robes tossed on the bed, the cabin was otherwise spartanly furnished, yet very inviting. An Indian woman, who appeared not yet twenty, knelt by a dying fire, lifting the lid of a Dutch oven with an iron rod. Then, evidently satisfied with the results, she hoisted the oven out of the coals and onto the hearth. When she stood, Ethan saw she was quite pretty, although a little on the plump side, and very pregnant.
The young woman set steaming cups of tea at their places. A sip convinced Ethan that he was drinking something pleasurable, likely a concoction made up of native plants. While Ethan told One Ball the story that had led them to his cabin, Yellow Bird, as One Ball called her, smiled pleasantly as she dropped several biscuits on each small plate and gave them a small hunting knife to share for spreading a nondescript jam from a bowl she provided. He wasn't certain how much English the young woman understood, but Ethan spoke to her. "Ma'am, I've never had better biscuits . . . or tea, for that matter."
He meant it, and she responded with a pleased smile and gave a little nod of her head.
"So," One Ball said, "Old Will thinks I should ride along to look after you two. Appears that could take some doin' I fear. How much would I get for this?"
Ethan pulled the double eagle from his pocket and flipped it onto the table. He watched One Ball eye the coin greedily.
"Add an eagle, and I'll do it," One Ball said.
"No, that's it. Take it or leave it."
"In advance. I'll give it to Yellow Bird in case I don't come back."
Ethan found it hard to argue with that, but he still didn't quite trust the old weasel. But they really needed another man. "It's yours. We want to strike out on the trail as soon as possible . . . no later than morning."
"I want another night with my woman, and your critters could use some rest. You camp out under those pines in front of the cabin. We'll ride out at first light. I'll take my woman to her village . . . she's Cheyenne, you know. Her band's a day's ride north of here. She wanted to be with her mama and her people when she birthed the child, anyways. You keep going on the Jack Rabbit Trail till you reach the Powder. I'll find you there in about two days. You've already climbed the steepest of it. You'll have supper with us. Venison stew, and more biscuits. Ain't no woman can cook like my squaw . . . and she can do a lot more." The old mountain man winked. "Cost me five horses, but I got to give her old man two more if she births a boy. Makes no difference to me, but a girl child would be cheaper."
Supper had turned out as good as promised, and Ethan and Jeb decided to grab their sleep early, agreeing it might be hard to come by in the days ahead. They laid out their bedrolls, and Ethan dropped quickly into an exhausted sleep. Minutes later, he was startled awake by a grunting that sounded like a grizzly bear tracking a meal. Ethan reached for the Winchester that rested by his buffalo robe blanket.
"You hear that, too?" Jeb whispered.
"Yeah. What is it?"
"Coming from the house."
"The house? Trouble?"
A woman screamed. Then she laughed hysterically. The grunting stopped and was replaced by a low moan that was just short of a growl.
"You don't think?" Ethan whispered.
"I do think. And I may just vomit."
Near morning, Ethan was awakened again by the commotion from the cabin. He pulled the robe over his ears and fell back to sleep.
10
They were no more than a few miles from the Powder River when Ethan silently signaled a halt. "I'm going to dismount," he said softly. "You take Patch and move on up the trail a half mile or so. I'll circle back on foot and see who's following us."
"I didn't hear anything," Jeb said.
"I didn't, either. I feel it." Ethan peeled off his boots and removed a pair of well-worn, calf-high moccasins from his saddlebags, replacing them with the boots. He slipped on the moccasins and, after pulling his rifle from its scabbard, waved Jeb forward. "Have a gun ready just in case I run into something I can't handle."
Jeb headed his caravan up the trail as Ethan disappeared into the forest. Ethan weaved easily and soundlessly through the trees, working his way back a little less than a hundred yards, and then he sat down some twenty feet off the trail, resting his back against a sturdy pine tree, waiting and watching.
A half hour later, he caught sight of a rider slowly moving up the path he and Jeb had taken. Ethan eased to his feet, readying his rifle. Whoever it was seemed to be picking his way cautiously, and Ethan noted the rider maneuvered with some skill and deliberation. At first, he thought it might be One Ball McLarty, but the old mountain man would have no reason to hang back. Besides, McLarty was a formidable physical presence, and this rider sat low in the saddle.
Finally, when the rider swung around a curve in the trail, Ethan recognized him. He leaned his Winchester against the tree, plucked his Bowie knife from its sheath, and inched closer to the trail. When he neared the tree line, he stopped again until the rider passed by, and then he emerged from the curtain of trees, eased behind the unsuspecting rider, grasped his wrist, and swung him roughly off the horse. In a single motion, Ethan had the rider flattened on the rocky ground, straddling his chest with the razor-sharp blade inches from his prey's throat.
Running Fox's eyes widened in terror as they looked up at Ethan and the threatening knife blade. "No, no, no," he said, sobbing, and shaking his head from side to side. "Me Puma's friend. Come to help."
Ethan figured he had scared the boy enough for the moment, and he got up and sheathed the knife, saying nothing but sending a message with the anger in his eyes to the boy that he was not a welcome visitor. This was not a good development. He had to think about this.
He lifted the frightened boy back into the saddle and commenced leading the horse up the trail. At least, he thought, the boy had the good sense not to say anything for now. It was all Ethan could do to restrain himself from giving the kid a good butt whipping.
When they met up with Jeb, Ethan's mood had not improved much, and Jeb seemed to sense it. His eyes fixed on Running Fox, but he said nothing.
Ethan turned to the boy, "Get off the horse. We have to talk."
Running Fox dismounted.
"Sit down," Ethan ordered, pointing to a fallen log that edged the trail.
The boy obeyed, staring at Ethan with his dark, wide eyes, his lips trembling.
Ethan felt his heart softening.
Maybe he had overreacted, but he had wanted to teach the boy a lesson. He let himself down on the log a few feet from the boy. "I would never have harmed you. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes. But you make me scared."
"I wanted you to understand what a dangerous thing you did following us. Anybody could have jumped you like that. Now, what are you doing here?"
"Me help Puma find Sky-in-the-Morning."
"No, you are a boy. This is work for grown men. Now we may lose valuable time taking you back. Or if you come with us, we will be distracted trying to protect you. It could cost a man his life. Can you see that?"
"Me not know this word, 'distract.'"
"It means we will be looking after you when we should be watching for something else . . . like someone who wants to kill us."
Ethan abruptly looked up at Jeb, who had his arms folded across his gelding's saddled back, his chin resting on this arms. "Do you want to take him back?"
"We're too short of guns now, Boss. I don't see how you can spare me."
"I know. I'm just trying to avoid the reality of the situation. I guess he goes with us."
Ethan turned back to Running Fox. "Do you understand you did the wrong thing, following us here? Rachael and Otter and the others are going to be worried about you. And you may cause danger for the rest of us, as well as yourself?"
"Me see that. Sorry. Wanted to be with Puma. Scared Puma not come back."
The boy appeared genuinely contrite—and frightened. "Well, the Powder should be only a few miles up the trail. Let's head on up there and find a place to make an early camp. We'll get some rest and wait for One Ball."