“So you might as well have a cup of coffee,” Shorty suggested.
Justin considered that for a moment before replying, “I reckon it can wait that long. I might as well let my horse drink.”
“You got any idea what he’s talkin’ about?” Shorty asked while Justin led his horse to water.
“Nope,” Carson answered.
“There ain’t much left in this pot,” Justin commented as he filled his cup. He refused the offer of a piece of jerky from Shorty and sat down to drink the strong black brew, while making an effort to ignore the awkward silence that his visit had created. He would rather have questioned Carson immediately about Lon Tuttle’s accusations, but his father had been specific in his instructions. He couldn’t help wondering about Carson’s reactions. If he told him what Tuttle had claimed, would he deny it, or would he run? And what difference would it make if he did? As long as he posed no threat to him or his father, there was no harm done. Finally Justin could hold his curiosity in check no longer. “Do you know a man named Duke Slayton?”
Carson became immediately wary, and hesitated before answering, “I know him. That’s the man Shorty and me had the gunfight with.” He was concerned now, wondering what this was leading up to.
“I know that,” Justin said. “But did you know him before you and Shorty had the fight with him and the others?”
Carson felt the blood in his veins suddenly go cold. He didn’t like the line of questioning. His first inclination was to simply say no, but he glanced at Shorty’s blank stare of curiosity and remembered that he had already told him he had known Duke Slayton before. He had to answer something. Still, he hesitated, asking a question instead. “Is this what Mr. Cain wants to talk to me about?”
“Yeah,” Justin replied, “that and some other things.”
“Well,” Carson said, hoping he could satisfy Justin with as little information as he had given Shorty before, “I met up with Duke Slayton in Wyomin’ Territory, but it wasn’t for long. I didn’t want any part of him and the crowd he rode with. That’s the long and short of it.”
Having already opened the subject, Justin was eager to proceed. “What about Slayton’s claim that your name ain’t John Carson, that it’s really Carson Ryan, and you’re wanted in Wyomin’ for murder and cattle rustlin’?”
There was nothing Carson could say. The awful truth was exposed like an open knife wound, laid open for them to see. Duke Slayton had fixed him up good. He looked from Justin’s probing stare to Shorty’s openmouthed astonishment, both men anxious to hear his explanation. He took his time in deciding how he was going to answer the question, finally deciding that he would tell the simple truth. “Slayton’s right. My name was Carson Ryan. It’s John Carson now, and I reckon that’s the way I’ll keep it, since Carson Ryan is wanted in Wyomin’.” He went on to tell them that he had hired on with Slayton as a drover, unaware that the herd he was helping to drive had been stolen and a couple of men killed in the process. He told them about his capture by the army, his conviction as a murderer, the killing of deputy marshal Luther Moody by Red Shirt, and his escape. “That’s the whole story,” he said when finished, “except for one thing.” He looked Justin straight in the eye. “I ain’t guilty of any of the damn charges, but nobody wanted to hear my side of it. And I don’t reckon you do, either.”
For a long moment, both Justin and Shorty were struck speechless. Finally Justin spoke. “I don’t know. . . . I mean . . . Son of a bitch. . . .” That was all he could manage for the moment, which was more than Shorty could muster.
Of the two, Shorty might have been rocked the hardest, for he had felt a close friendship building with his woodchopping partner. He could not picture Carson in the role he was accused of, even after witnessing his cool efficiency during the trap they had set for Slayton and the other three. Like Justin, he had difficulty finding the right words. “I swear, John . . . ,” he said before his voice trailed off again. Then he stated, “I believe you.”
“I ’preciate it, Shorty,” Carson said softly. Then he turned again to Justin. “What do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” Justin replied. “I ain’t no lawman. There’s nothin’ I’m supposed to do about it, and I don’t plan on sendin’ word to the U.S. marshal if that’s what you’re askin’ me. I’m askin’ you to ride back with me and talk to Pa. I think he oughta hear your side of the story. I don’t see how you can stay on with us if you’re wanted by the law. Let’s see what Pa says. He’ll know what’s best to do.”
“All right,” Carson said. “I’ll ride back with you. I’ll need to pick up my packhorse and my possibles if I have to move on, anyway. I reckon I owe it to your pa, since he was kind enough to hire me on.” With the decision made, they smothered the fire after the horses were deemed rested enough, and started back to the M/C, a somber three riders with a shortage of words and an abundance of thoughts.
* * *
Lucas Cain alerted his father as soon as the three riders appeared at the top of the ridge east of the ranch house, and the old man walked out on the porch to await them. He stood there, watching, until they were opposite the barn; then he went down the steps and walked across the yard to meet them. Lucas followed several yards behind him. Inside the house, Millie returned to her post by the window in the front bedroom, hoping to catch a word here and there, enough to figure out what was being said.
The three riders pulled up before the old man and dismounted. Cain told Lucas to take the horses to the barn and tie them to the corral. Disappointed, because he very much wanted to hear what was said to the alleged gunman, Lucas did as he was told. “I appreciate you comin’ to talk to me,” Cain said to Carson. From the concerned look on the faces of all three men, he speculated that Carson knew why he sent for him. “I’m hopin’ you can straighten out some things I’ve been told about you.”
“Yes, sir, I can,” Carson replied. “Most of what you’ve heard is true, but not all of it. I’m wanted by the U.S. marshal service. I reckon that’s the thing I can’t deny.” He went on to tell his side of the story. When he had finished, he said, “That’s the God’s honest truth. I ain’t ever murdered anybody, and I ain’t ever stole anybody’s cattle, but I sure as hell escaped when I had the chance, and I reckon I’d do it again. It was just dumb luck what happened to me. I should have gone back to Texas with Mr. Patterson after we sold that herd at Ogallala, but I wanted to see Montana.”
It was a difficult confession for Mathew Cain to hear. The young man seemed so sincere he wanted to believe him, but he didn’t see many choices open to him. Knowing what he had just been told, he couldn’t keep him on, in effect harboring a felon. And there were the other men to consider. What effect might that have on them if they found out they were working alongside a convicted murderer and an escaped prisoner? And what kind of example would it set for his children? In good conscience, he could not bring himself to turn him over to the federal marshals, either. The man had brought his daughter and son-in-law through perilous hostile territory to reach Big Timber, risking his own life to do so. That being true, he still could not keep him on as if it would all go away in time. Finally he gave Carson his decision. “Son, I got no way of knowin’ if you’re tellin’ the truth or not. I kinda feel like you are, but from what you’ve confessed to, I can’t keep you on here at my ranch. I hope you understand that. I couldn’t explain it to the womenfolk, or to the men who work for me. And I ain’t got the heart to turn you in to the law, so I’ll just ask you to pack up your things and go your own way. And I wish you luck, wherever you end up. I’d advise you not to hang around too close to Big Timber, because there might be a reward on you, and some of those bastards over on the Bar-T might wanna try for it.”
“I ’preciate what you’re sayin’,” Carson said. “I understand the spot I’ve put you in, and I wouldn’t expect no different. I’ll get my stuff and get off your land right away.”
>
“There ain’t no need to be in that big a hurry, is there, Pa?” Justin spoke up. “No reason he can’t rest up, get somethin’ to eat, and ride out in the mornin’?”
“Justin’s right,” Mathew said. “Give yourself time to get ready and leave tomorrow after breakfast.” He started to turn around to go back to the house but hesitated to add, “And don’t tell none of the men where you might be thinkin’ about goin’. If the law shows up here lookin’ for you, I don’t wanna know where to tell ’em you went.”
“Yes, sir, I ’preciate it,” Carson said once again as Cain suddenly offered his hand. Surprised, Carson accepted it and the two men shook hands before the old man turned and returned to the house, leaving the three to tend to their horses.
* * *
By the time Shorty and Carson pulled the saddles off their horses and let them out with the others, there wasn’t much left of the day. Carson used the time to inventory his possibles in speculation of the days ahead and the winter rapidly coming on. He decided that he needed a lot more supplies in preparation for heading off to the mountains to the west of the M/C range. His latest situation had come upon him so suddenly that he had no plans beyond working cattle for Mathew Cain. He had no prospects beyond possibly the chance of a job with another cattle ranch farther west, maybe closer to Helena. He had no money, so he needed to find a place to trade some of the gear he had accumulated from the encounters along the way from the Black Hills—several good rifles, an extra saddle, a couple of extra handguns, and a few other things that he didn’t need. Justin made him an offer to buy the saddle. It was a more than fair offer and Carson was convinced that it was probably nothing less than an act of charity. But Justin insisted that he had had an eye on the saddle from the first, so Carson acquired a few dollars to use for other supplies.
Shorty stayed close by while Carson prepared to leave, and Carson was convinced that the stocky little man was truly sorry to see him go. “Maybe Mr. Cain would rehire you when this mess has a chance to blow over,” he told Carson. But Carson told him that this business with the law wasn’t something that would ever blow over, so he didn’t expect to be back this way again. “Well, what in the hell are you gonna do?” Shorty asked. “Where are you headin’ when you leave here? I know Mr. Cain told you not to tell anybody where you’re goin’, but hell, I ain’t gonna tell nobody. Winter ain’t far away.”
Carson could see that his friend was genuinely worried about him, but he was not concerned about the coming weather. He was confident in his ability to adapt to whatever the conditions happened to be. “Don’t worry ’bout me,” he assured him. “If an Injun can live off the land, then I reckon I can, too. I’ll find me a hole somewhere up in those mountains, just like a bear in his cave. When spring gets here, I’ll be comin’ out with the flowers.”
“I oughta go with you,” Shorty said, halfway serious.
His comment caused Carson to laugh. “Hell, I’ll have my hands full keepin’ myself alive. You’d best stay here and take care of the rest of the boys.”
Supper that night saw the usual bantering that went on around the long table with the exception of Shorty and Justin, who appeared to be especially quiet. Roundup was set to begin in one week’s time, so there was a lot of talk about enjoying the food here in the bunkhouse while they could. “We’ll be eatin’ some more of that swill Mule calls chuck,” Pruett Little blurted, taunting the slight man with the ever-forlorn face. “We’ll all be a few pounds lighter if he gives us a case of the gallopin’ shits, like he did on the spring roundup.”
“That warn’t none of my fault,” Mule replied in self-defense. “That meat had turned when they brought it to my cook pot. Besides, didn’t nobody get the runs but you and Slim, and that’s because you ate twice as much as ever’body else.”
“Well, I’m tellin’ you this,” Pruett went on, “if you mess up my grub one more time I’m gonna stuff your scrawny ass in that big stew pot of yours.”
“I’ll put somethin’ extra in your supper,” Mule came back. “Might put a little spirit in your step.”
Pruett decided to turn his annoying japing on the new man then. “Why don’t you let ol’ John try his hand at the cookin’, Justin? He might be as good at cookin’ as he is at choppin’ wood.”
Accustomed to Pruett’s horseplay, but not in the mood to indulge, Justin responded with a simple statement. “Mule will be drivin’ the chuck wagon, same as always.”
“Well, that sure does seem like a shame,” Pruett said. “I bet ol’ John can cook, but hell, maybe he’ll show us all how to round up cattle, like they do in Texas.” With no desire to participate in Pruett’s game of needling, Carson made no comment, content to eat his supper and get to his bed, anticipating a long day’s ride ahead of him. Still, Pruett wasn’t through entertaining himself. “Hey, Justin, let John work with me. I ain’t too old to learn new tricks.”
Justin was becoming weary of Pruett’s mouth, so he made one simple statement. “John ain’t gonna ride with nobody on the roundup. He’s leavin’ M/C in the mornin’. So eat your supper and let him be.” His statement caused a sudden lull in the noisy banter as all eyes turned to focus on Carson.
“Leavin’?” Pruett reacted. “You mean he quit?” He turned to Carson. “You quit?”
“You could say that,” Carson replied.
“Well, I’ll be . . . ,” Pruett said. “Couldn’t stick it out a week! How ’bout that, boys? Couldn’t stick it out a week. That’s just like them Texans, ain’t it?”
“Why don’t you shut that big mouth of yours, Pruett?” Shorty said. “And let us eat in peace.”
Suspecting something more than Justin was telling, and that Shorty was in on it, Pruett was not to be silenced. “Somethin’s goin’ on here.” He looked from Justin to Carson, then back to Shorty. “You might as well tell all of us. What did he do? Steal somethin’? Botherin’ the women?” He was delighted with the possibility that Carson had been caught doing something and was getting fired for it. He turned his badgering on Carson then. “How ’bout it, Texan? You get caught behind the outhouse peekin’ at Millie?”
Finally Carson realized that Justin was not going to put a stop to the noisy bully. He had enough of Pruett’s mouth for one night, so he broke his silence. “Like Shorty told you, Pruett, shut your damn mouth. What I do and why I’m leavin’ is my business, so keep your nose out of it.”
All talking stopped, and a total silence descended upon the table. It lasted until broken by Pruett. “Whoa, now,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “Lookee here, boys, our woodchoppin’ Texas rifleman says it ain’t none of our business.” He waited for a response, but there was none, so he continued. “Well, I say it is our business. Anythin’ that goes on here at the M/C is our business. Ain’t that right, Justin?”
Forced to intercede, Justin answered him, “No, it ain’t, Pruett. It’s his personal business, so leave him be, or I’ll fire you, too.”
“Aha!” Pruett exclaimed. “So he was fired! I thought so!” When he saw Justin’s dander start to get up, he quickly backed down. “All right, all right. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ more. I’ll let him be, just like you said.” A triumphant sneer spread across his wide face as he turned to Carson and nodded slowly, as if to promise more to come later.
Carson ignored him and concentrated on finishing the fine meal that Lizzie had prepared, feigning oblivion to the eyes upon him. What the hell is it about me that attracts every bully around? he thought. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of showing how strong he is.
After supper, he returned to the barn to make sure the saddle Justin had bought from him was clean and in good shape. It was a good saddle. Deputy Marshal Luther Moody must have paid a pretty penny for it, for it was hand-worked and decorated, and Justin had paid a fair price for it, a reasonable deal for both buyer and seller. Satisfied that everything was in order, he left the tack room,
almost bumping into Millie as he came out the door. She was holding a single egg in her hand, and quickly stepped back to avoid a collision.
“For goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed. “Like a bull coming out the gate.”
“I’m sorry, Millie. I didn’t expect to see you down here in the barn. I reckon I’d better watch where I’m goin’.”
She quickly tried to explain her presence there, for she usually gathered the eggs in the mornings. “I was checking the hay in the last stall. Some of the chickens have been nesting there, and I forgot to check on it this morning.” She held up the egg as proof. “One egg, so I did miss one this morning.” She made no move to leave, forcing him to move aside to get past. As he started toward the front door of the barn, she called after him, “So it turns out I was right about you from the beginning.”
He turned then to face her. “And what might that be?”
“A gunman,” she replied, “running from the law.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” he replied, seeing no reason to deny it.
“I tried to tell them,” she said, seeming reluctant to let it go. “But you had everybody convinced that you were a top hand with cattle.”
Her tone was beginning to get to him. “I am a top hand with cattle,” he said.
“But you’re handier with a rifle, right?”
Fully irritated by the apparent dressing-down he was receiving from the precocious young woman, he responded curtly, “Look, miss, I don’t know what I did to get on the wrong side of you, but I ain’t gonna be here to bother you come mornin’, so I’ll say good night to you, and hope you have pleasant dreams.” He turned away again and headed for the door. She stopped him once again.
“I want to hear you say it,” she blurted.
“Say what?” he responded, without turning around.
Way of the Gun (9781101597804) Page 19