Way of the Gun (9781101597804)

by West, Charles G.

  “I didn’t have any idea Varner was gonna try somethin’ like that,” Carson said. “It wasn’t a very smart move, ’cause there wasn’t a chance he could get away with it. It wasn’t as dumb as the move your partner made, though, stickin’ that gun in his face. I reckon Varner decided he’d rather take a bullet than stretch a rope. Maybe you’d better not give me a chance like that.”

  “Maybe we oughta save the hangman some trouble,” Collins said, “and string you up right here.”

  “Maybe you’d better,” Carson came back at him, his dander up over this latest incident that had been laid at his feet. “I guarantee you that the first chance I get, I’m gone. I didn’t steal those damn cows, and I didn’t kill anybody. I tried to tell those army sons of bitches to find Mr. Bob Patterson and he would tell ’em I was with his herd when those cattle were rustled. But they didn’t care enough to find out. And, damn it, I didn’t tell Varner to shoot your man, so if you’re of a mind to hang me, or shoot me, then get on with it, ’cause I’d just as soon not go to prison.”

  Surprised by the young man’s passionate outburst, Moody didn’t respond for a moment. “Just simmer down a minute, Bud,” he told Collins. “He’s probably right about havin’ nothin’ to do with Jim’s murder. He didn’t have time to. That don’t mean he wouldn’ta done the same thing if you’da stuck your ass up in his face. But he didn’t, so we’d best do what we can for Jim, dig him a nice grave, and get along to Laramie to turn this one over to the prison.” He didn’t voice it, but he had to admit that Carson’s statement of innocence had a ring of truth to it, and he would just as soon wash his hands of it. Directing his words to Carson now, he said, “Might as well eat your food before it gets colder.”

  * * *

  “What the hell was that?” Ed Tice blurted when he heard the gunshots. His automatic reaction was one of anxious concern, lest the shots signaled a posse or a cavalry patrol that might have followed their trail from the wagon they left burning near the stage road. He spilled half of his coffee in his haste to set it down.

  “Shots!” Orville Swann exclaimed as he scrambled up the side of the creek bank a few steps ahead of Tice. “Half a dozen or more! Might be a posse!”

  Jesse Red Shirt remained by the fire, leisurely sucking the last bits of meat from the leg bone of a rabbit. “Six shots,” he stated calmly, “four from a rifle, two from a pistol.”

  “They came from back thataway,” Swann said, still concerned as he pointed upstream. “Reckon what the shootin’ was about? Think somebody’s already got on our trail?”

  “You ain’t got the brains of a tick, Swann,” Red Shirt snarled. “It’s too soon for anybody to be on our trail. Even if they were, they wouldn’t be comin’ from that direction. They’d be comin’ on behind us.”

  “Yeah, you dumb shit,” Tice said, in spite of the fact that he’d jumped to the same conclusion Swann had, “if they was after us, they’d be comin’ from downstream.” Still concerned, however, he asked, “Reckon what they was shootin’ at, Red Shirt?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Red Shirt answered. He threw the cleaned bone into the fire and wiped his hands on his shirt. “I aim to find out—maybe somethin’ to gain.”

  Both Swann and Tice knew what that usually meant. It was an expression the half-breed Lakota Sioux used often and, more times than not, meant trouble for somebody. Red Shirt was proud of the fact that he had lived for a while in Sitting Bull’s village and often boasted about riding into battle with the Hunkpapa Lakota holy man. “Sitting Bull let the soldiers chase him to Canada, but I never surrendered to the soldiers. I live where I want to live,” he was fond of reminding Swann and Tice. Thus far, more than two years after Little Big Horn, he and his two partners had managed to avoid the army and the law while preying upon freighters, settlers, miners, stagecoaches, and any other small expeditions. He had run into Swann and Tice at a shabby little trading post run by Lem Sprool on the North Platte near the Rattlesnake Mountains. Swann, a deserter from the army, and Tice, a wanted murderer from Arkansas, were wandering aimlessly, looking for any opportunity to put food in their bellies. After a night of drinking Lem Sprool’s rotgut whiskey, the three decided their odds of success were better if they rode together. From the beginning of the partnership, it was clear to see who would be the leader. Both Tice and Swann were content to follow, which was good, because Red Shirt would not have had it any other way.

  “Come,” Red Shirt directed his partners. “We’ll ride up the creek a ways. Them shots couldn’ta been more’n a couple of miles away.” They loped along, single file, close by the heavy brush that framed the creek. Red Shirt kept a sharp eye ahead, for there was very little to hide them in the flat, treeless plain on this side of the mountains. When he saw a small stand of cottonwood trees about half a mile ahead, he stopped and led them down to the creek bank. “You two stay with the horses. I’ll work my way up the creek on foot so I can see who it is and what the shootin’ was about—maybe somethin’ to gain.”

  Ed Tice strained his neck, trying to see farther up the creek. “How do you know that’s where they are? I can’t see nothin’.”

  “’Cause that’s the only spot for a mile where there’s trees,” Swann said. “Right, Red Shirt?” Red Shirt’s response was merely a look of impatience before moving quickly away.

  Trotting in a crouch, in an effort not to present a profile along the top of the bank, Red Shirt quickly advanced to within sight of half a dozen horses at the edge of the water. He immediately sank down behind the cover of a thicket of berry bushes, and from that point, he advanced more carefully. After a couple of dozen more yards, he caught his first glimpse of the camp. He dropped to his hands and knees then and crawled closer until he could clearly see the men in the small clearing. He counted two men at first, and one of them was digging a hole with a short-handled shovel. Moving slightly to the side for a better vantage point, he then saw a third man sitting on the ground, his back to a tree. He must be the boss, he thought at first, then realized the man was tied to the tree.

  He crawled forward a few more feet to the edge of the brush, pausing when a couple of the grazing horses whinnied, but the two men seemed not to notice. So Red Shirt inched a little closer to get a better look. Something crooked was going on, he thought, for now he saw the results of the shooting. There were two bodies on the ground. One of the men, the one watching the other one dig the hole, looked familiar. And then it struck him. It was the lawman from Cheyenne, U.S. Deputy Marshal Luther Moody. It was not difficult to form a picture of what must have occurred. The deputy evidently was taking a prisoner, maybe two prisoners, if one of the bodies was that of an outlaw, to Laramie. So the man tied to the tree was an outlaw, on his way to prison.

  An evil smile spread slowly across Red Shirt’s face as he realized the opportunity just handed him. Standing unaware, well within the range of his Spencer carbine, was the hated lawman Luther Moody and one of his posse men. Red Shirt pulled his carbine up and rested the barrel on a lump of dirt, piled there by a rodent digging among the berry bush’s roots. The two men were standing close enough together to ensure that he could hit both of them before they could react without having to rush the second shot. He laid his front sight on Moody’s broad back first, to make sure he got the deputy should something happen to block the second shot. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, enjoying the anticipation of the sudden discharge to come. And then the carbine spoke, and Moody dropped to his knees, remaining there for only a moment before falling forward to land on his side and roll over into the half-finished grave.

  Red Shirt quickly ejected the empty shell and chambered a second cartridge. There was plenty of time, however, for Bud Collins stood stunned, confused, and not sure what had just happened. He did not move until Moody’s body rolled up against his boots. By that time, it was too late, for Red Shirt’s second shot slammed into his chest before he could dive for cover.

 
As soon as Collins fell, Red Shirt sprang to his feet and screamed a loud war cry in triumph, for he was certain there was no one else in the camp but the prisoner. Before moving into the camp to finish his victims, he turned back toward the creek and yelled, “Come on! Bring the horses.”

  In the blink of an eye, things had gone from bad to worse for the young man tied to the tree. Helpless, he watched the half-breed trot toward him, the carbine in his hand, and he could only guess when his turn would come. Unconcerned about any trouble from the prisoner, Red Shirt called again for his partners, then turned his attention toward the two men he had just shot. Both were still alive, although mortally wounded. Seeing that Moody was straining to pull himself out of the grave and trying to reach the rifle he had dropped upon being hit, Red Shirt went to him first and kicked the rifle away from his hand. He took a quick glance at Collins then to make sure he was not a threat before concentrating again on the deputy. “Hey, Moody,” he taunted, “remember me? You finally caught up with me, you fat ol’ son of a bitch.” Whether Moody was too near death to respond was impossible to say, but he made no reply. Red Shirt waited a moment, then drew a long skinning knife from his belt and proceeded to take the deputy’s scalp. This brought a scream of pain from the dying man, and brought a smile of satisfaction to Red Shirt’s face. With his foot, he shoved Moody back into the grave. The deputy made no attempt to crawl out again.

  For the two witnesses to the brutal scalping, there was the uncertainty of what was in store for the one tied to the tree, but the certainty of a second scalping for the wounded one in the grave was without question. Whimpering fearfully, with Moody’s body pressing him against the side of the shallow hole he had dug, Collins tried to crawl out, knowing he was doomed. Still, in desperation, he tried to crawl toward the bushes by the creek, never thinking to try to pull his revolver from his holster. Red Shirt watched his struggles for a few moments, enjoying his obvious terror. Then he walked unhurriedly to overtake him, grab a handful of his hair, and lift the scalp.

  Tice and Swann came up in time to hear Collins’s screams of agony. “Damned if he ain’t somethin’,” Orville said when Red Shirt went into a short war dance, holding the two trophies up for them to see.

  “Gawdam savage,” Tice replied, low enough to be sure no one but Swann could hear.

  They stood there for a few minutes, surveying the scene to get an estimate of the spoils to be gained—the four bodies on the ground, one lying in a freshly dug hole; the horses by the creek; the man tied to the tree. After a moment, Tice commented, “Looks like you took care of everythin’.” Red Shirt grinned in response. “What about him?” Tice asked, with a nod of his head in Carson’s direction.

  “I ain’t made up my mind yet,” Red Shirt replied. The question prompted him to walk over to stand before Carson. Swann and Tice followed him.

  “He’s kind of a young-lookin’ pup,” Tice commented. “Reckon what they was gonna do with him?”

  “That fat one over there is a marshal,” Red Shirt said, and pointed toward Moody’s body. He directed a question at Carson then. “Where was he takin’ you, boy? To the prison at Laramie?”

  Carson could not see that he had much choice but to answer, so he replied, “That’s right.”

  “Why?” Tice asked. “What did you do?”

  “Rustlin’ and murder is what the court said,” Carson answered. “He was takin’ me and this one to be hanged.” He nodded toward Varner’s body lying close by.

  “Cattle rustlin’ and murder,” Swann crowed. “Hell, he’s one of our kind, ain’t he?”

  Red Shirt was skeptical. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “He don’t look so mean to me.” The facts were pretty obvious, however, that he had done something bad enough to be captured by Moody and hauled to Laramie City. “Who’d you kill?”

  “They said I killed some cowhands and stole their cattle,” Carson answered. He made no attempt to acclaim his innocence of the charges. It didn’t seem the prudent thing to do under the circumstances.

  “I reckon it’s your lucky day since we showed up, ain’t it?” Swann said.

  “Maybe,” Carson replied. “I can’t say yet. I’m still tied to a tree right now.”

  “Well, now,” Red Shirt commented with a chuckle, “that is a fact, ain’t it?” He could not help being amused by the young man’s indifferent attitude. He walked from one side of Carson to the other as if judging a horse for sale. “There ain’t nothin’ keepin’ me from givin’ you the same those two lawmen got.”

  “Well, there ain’t much I can do about it, unless you wanna untie me and we have a go at it man to man. But I don’t hardly think that’s gonna happen. So I reckon you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. One way or the other, it don’t matter too much. I was on my way to a hangin’, anyway.”

  “What would you do if I was to cut you loose?” Red Shirt asked, still enjoying the predicament the young stranger was in.

  “I’d get me a cup of coffee outta that pot on the fire,” Carson replied unemotionally. “Mine got spilled when the shootin’ started.”

  Red Shirt threw his head back and laughed. “Whaddaya say, boys, think we oughta let him loose and let him get him some coffee?”

  “Don’t make no difference to me,” Tice replied. Carson had nothing of value—at least nothing that Tice would kill to take from him, so he was honest in his reply.

  “Me, neither,” Swann said, since Tice had not objected, and there was no reason to suspect Carson of attempting any form of retaliation for the killing of the men who were taking him to be hanged.

  Red Shirt took the knife he had just used to scalp Moody and his posse man, and cut Carson’s bonds. “All right, go get your coffee. And while you’re at it, make a new pot and we’ll all have some.”

  “Fair enough,” Carson said, and proceeded to do just that while the three outlaws searched the bodies for anything of value.

  Chapter 4

  Out of the frying pan, into the fire—it appeared that Carson Ryan’s summer was fated to land him in one tight situation after another. He now found himself seated beside the campfire that Orville Swann had built, eating more of the beans and bacon he had cooked. Across from him the two men who had come up after Red Shirt killed Moody and Collins were noisily gulping their dinner while the half-breed was still inspecting the horses recently gained. The conversation was predominantly an interrogation of the man they had freed. Carson patiently answered their questions, telling them where and how he had been taken prisoner, making his answers as short and vague as possible. He knew it was in his best interest to let them think he rode the same trail as they, and not proclaim his innocence of the charges made against him.

  “Hell, it’s a good thing we run across you,” Tice said. “We could use another man.” This was not what Carson wanted to hear. He had hoped they would leave him a horse and weapons and go their separate ways. “Course, it’ll have to be all right with Red Shirt,” Tice continued. “He’s kinda particular about a lot of things.”

  “Ha,” Swann grunted. “What Ed means is Red Shirt calls all the shots, but I think he must like you. Hell, if he didn’t, he’da most likely left you tied up to that tree.”

  “Yeah,” Tice remarked, “and maybe with your throat cut.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when Red Shirt came back to the fire to join them. “Pretty good horses,” he commented as he poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Bring a good price from that ol’ son of a bitch on the Cheyenne,” he said, referring to a trading post on the Cheyenne River. He grinned at Carson then and said, “I bet you got one of them horses picked out for yourself.” When Carson didn’t answer, but only shrugged indifferently, Red Shirt informed him, “You can pick out any of ’em you want except that black one. I’m keepin’ him for myself.” Carson nodded. “Same thing for the guns,” Red Shirt went on. “You get yourself a rifle and a handgun, and some cart
ridges for ’em, but not that marshal’s rifle. I want that one for myself.” He paused, then remembered. “And that old bastard’s badge is mine. I want it. I’ll pin it on my scalp stick with his hair.”

  “I ’preciate it,” Carson said. “They took my rifle and six-shooter back at Fort Laramie.” He regretted the loss of his father’s Henry rifle, but Moody and both of his posse men had been carrying Winchester rifles, so he had hopes of acquiring one of the two left after Red Shirt claimed his. With that in mind, he took note of the weapons carried by his new partners. Red Shirt had carried a Spencer carbine, but both Orville Swann and Ed Tice were armed with Winchesters. So his prospects of getting a Winchester for himself were pretty good. As far as the handgun was concerned, he didn’t care that much. Just about anything would do. If he had a choice, of course, he would take a Colt, but a good rifle was the most important requirement. When it came to horses, he was satisfied to keep the bay gelding he had ridden from Fort Laramie. It seemed as stout a horse as those ridden by Moody, Summer, and Collins, and he and the horse seemed to get along fine.

  With avoiding a discussion in mind, Carson picked up his saddle and threw it on the bay’s back, causing Tice to comment, “You didn’t waste much time takin’ your pick. We ain’t had time to look ’em over ourselves.”

  “They’re all about the same,” Carson told him, “and this is the one I rode here on.”

  “Seems to me we was the ones that took them horses, so we oughta get first pick before he does,” Swann complained.

  “Like he said, ain’t none of ’em much better’n the others,” Red Shirt said. “Let him take any horse he wants, long as it ain’t that black one there.” Like that of a stern father with his children, Red Shirt’s word was not disputed. Carson suspected they seriously feared their savage partner, and he could readily understand. Red Shirt was a powerfully built man with wide shoulders and large hands that looked strong enough to crush a man’s throat.