“Tell me you didn’t kill that deputy, or those men you stole the cattle from. I wonder if you can own up to what you did.”
He turned to face her again, looking her straight in the eye. Evidently Justin or Lucas had told her the reason he was forced to leave. “In the first place, I didn’t steal no cattle, and I sure as hell didn’t shoot Luther Moody.” He continued to glare at her for a few moments more. “And yes, ma’am, I can own up to everythin’ I’ve ever done.” With that, he turned again and headed for the barn door.
She called out one final time, this time to warn him, “Pruett Little is loafing around by the corner of the corral. You’d best be cautious.”
Her warning surprised him. He was astonished that she would bother to tell him, even though she might suspect some ill intent on Pruett’s part. He would puzzle over it later. For now he would turn his thoughts toward the possibility that Pruett was planning to exact a measure of revenge for his remarks at the supper table. He had hoped to avoid a confrontation, but he had to round the corner of the corral on his way back to the bunkhouse, unless he sneaked out the back of the barn. And he had no intention of doing that. Thanks to Millie’s forewarning, however, he could prepare for trouble if Pruett had any such ideas in mind. Spotting a coil of rope hanging on a nail driven in a center post, he grabbed it as he went past on his way outside.
Just as Millie had said, Pruett was perched on the top rail at the corner of the corral, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t say anything until Carson passed in front of him. Carson nodded, but said nothing. He had taken a couple of steps past the corner when Pruett called after him, “Hey, Texas, where you goin’ with that rope?” When Carson turned to face him, he flipped the half-finished cigarette to bounce off Carson’s chest. “I heard all you Texans have a mile-wide yellow streak down your backs.” He came down from the rail to position himself squarely in front of Carson. “How ’bout pickin’ up that cigarette for me? I just rolled it and I’m runnin’ a little short of rollin’ papers.”
“I’m not in a mood to put up with you, Pruett. I’ve got things I need to do right now. If you’re so damn determined to show me how strong you are, go over yonder and pull that little tree up by the roots. If that’s too much for you, go pull up some of those weeds growin’ along the fence there, and I’ll tell all the boys back in the bunkhouse how strong you are. Just leave me the hell alone.”
A malicious smile slowly formed on the bully’s face. Carson’s reaction was what he had expected. It told him that he was reluctant to stand up to him. “I saw Millie go in the back of the barn,” he said. “What was you two up to in there? I think Millie would rather be saddle-broke by a real man, instead of a yellow-dog Texan, don’t you? Now pick up my cigarette like I told you.”
“You ain’t gonna let it alone, are you?” Carson replied.
Pruett chuckled, delighted, anticipating the pleasure he planned to enjoy. “Nope. You’re gonna have to take a whippin’ for tryin’ to steal my gal.”
“All right, here’s your damn cigarette,” Carson said, and reached down to pick it up. He blew on the smoldering tobacco to revive a glow, then held it out for Pruett to take. When he was within a step of him, he flipped it at Pruett’s face, almost striking the larger man in the eye. Pruett recoiled frantically as the harmless missile bounced off his cheek. Carson didn’t wait for him to recover, delivering a stinging blow across his face with the coiled rope. Pruett backed away, but Carson stayed with him step for step, using the rope like a club, raining blow after stinging blow upon his head, and leaving raw red stripes about his neck, ears, and face. The attack was so sudden and devastating that Pruett was kept off balance, and he tried to charge his assailant, only to suffer more blows as he tried in vain to grab hold of the flailing rope. In frustration, he finally tried to pull the pistol he was wearing and charged again. With his head down to keep the cruel blows from striking him across his eyes, he was easy for Carson to sidestep, tripping him as he lunged by. Carson backed away warily, quickly fashioning a loop in the rope as Pruett rose to his knees and hesitated a moment to clear his senses. It was a moment too long, for Carson threw his loop, as if roping a steer, before the startled bully knew his intention. Drawing his noose tight as Pruett lunged up to his feet, Carson succeeded in pinning the big man’s arms to his sides. Before Pruett could get the rope worked up high enough to slip out of it, the quicker man ran around him several times, wrapping him up in a helpless bundle. Raging mad, Pruett tried to pull away from his captor, but Carson looped his end of the rope over a corral post and used it as leverage to pull his two-legged steer up tight against the corral rails. Once he had him flat against the rails, he secured him with the rope, binding him with his arms immobile at his sides and his feet tied to the post. When the task was finished, Carson walked away toward the bunkhouse, never saying another word, followed by a hailstorm of enraged curses and threats.
Standing just inside the open barn door, Millie watched the confrontation just finished with excited yet mixed emotions. The last faint light of the sun was fading away as she backed away and went out the back of the barn to return to the house, still marveling over the way Carson had so efficiently handled Pruett. She could have freed the oversized bully, but she chose not to, thinking it a good lesson for him. She had no room in her mind for thoughts of Pruett Little, anyway. Her brain was mired in a confusion of conflicting feelings about the man who had roped him. In a way, she was glad that the truth had come out about the stranger who had landed on her doorstep. She had been determined that she would have no interest in the young man, and this made it easier to accomplish. What if what he had told her, that he was innocent of the charges against him, was the truth of it? Would it make a difference in the way she regarded him? Nancy and Frank thought the sun rose and set on the man they had met on the trail. Were they mistaken? Why am I even thinking about it? she thought. She was convinced that the man had never been born whom she would consider worthy of her approval. “I’m glad he’s leaving tomorrow,” she murmured softly as she went up the kitchen steps.
* * *
“Wonder where ol’ Pruett is,” Mule remarked as he placed a couple of pieces of wood on the fire in the fireplace. “He’s usually the first one in his bunk on a chilly night like this’n.”
“Well, it ain’t likely we’ll miss him,” Shorty said. It had been quite a while since the supper dishes had been cleaned up, and most of the men were crawling into their bunks. Because of the situation with Carson’s sudden termination, the talk in the bunkhouse was a little more subdued than usual, Shorty being the only one who knew the entire story behind the young man’s departure.
“You reckon we oughta see if ol’ Pruett’s fell through the hole in the outhouse or somethin’?” Clem Hastings wondered aloud. Of all the men on the M/C, Clem was the only one who never seemed to mind working with Pruett.
“Nah,” Shorty answered him. “Pruett don’t ever use the outhouse.”
Already in his bunk, with his blanket pulled up over his shoulders, Carson was concerned only with minding his own business and avoiding questions from the other hands, so he made it obvious that he was intent upon going to sleep. After about half an hour more, all conversation died away and the bunkhouse was settled in for the night. No one was curious enough about Pruett’s absence to look into the possible reason for it. When an additional half an hour passed, everyone was awakened, however, startled by the sudden explosion of Pruett’s irate entrance into the room.
“Where’s that son of a bitch?” he roared, and went straight to Carson’s bunk. His outburst of rage caused everyone to sit up immediately, all except Carson, who seemingly ignored him. Pruett planted himself to stand menacingly at the foot of Carson’s bunk. “Get up outta that bunk,” he commanded. “It’s time for you to get a little lesson, and I’m the teacher, so get up.”
“Go to hell,” Carson responded, without moving.
“What th
e hell’s got into you, Pruett?” Shorty asked. “Why don’t you leave him alone and go to bed? We gotta get up early in the mornin’.”
“You shut your mouth, Shorty,” Pruett told him. “This ain’t none of your business.”
“What did he ever do to you?” Mule asked.
Lucas Cain, who had followed Pruett in the door, answered for him. “He tied him to the corral post,” Lucas volunteered. “If Pa hadn’t made me go back to the smokehouse to get the bacon I was supposed to bring Lizzie for breakfast, I reckon he mighta stayed tied to that post all night.” The boy had followed Pruett to the bunkhouse after he untied him. He figured it was going to be a show he wouldn’t want to miss.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Mule started to speak when he noticed the welts around Pruett’s face when the flickering light from the fireplace played upon it. “Looks like you got a whuppin’ to boot.”
“Not as bad as the whuppin’ I’m fixin’ to give him,” Pruett promised. Back to the man still lying in his bunk, he ordered, “I told you to get up from there.”
“You’d best leave me alone,” Carson replied, “and just forget about it.”
Pruett was not to be denied his revenge. He reached down and pulled the blanket off Carson, only to find himself staring at the muzzle of Carson’s Colt .44. “Whoa!” he blurted involuntarily, and backed away, almost stumbling over his own feet. With the pistol still aimed at Pruett, Carson sat up and pulled the hammer back. The click of the cocking weapon seemed to shatter the silence of the moment before. Pruett backed away in panic, falling over one of the empty bunks in the process.
Deadly calm, Carson shifted his feet over on the floor and stood up, all the while holding the .44 on Pruett. He moved around the empty bunk to stand directly over him. “What am I gonna do with you?” he pondered aloud. “Am I gonna have to shoot you to have any peace?”
Never taking his eyes off the pistol covering him, Pruett rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. “All right,” he muttered reluctantly, “it’s over. I ain’t gonna cause no more trouble. Just let me get to my feet and I’m ready to turn in.”
No one in the bunkhouse believed him, especially Carson, but he said, “Go ahead, then.” He stepped back to give him room and released the hammer on his .44. Pruett pushed himself up on one knee, then paused there for a few moments, waiting for his opportunity. When Carson lowered his pistol to hang casually by his thigh, Pruett made his move. He lunged to his feet, lowered his head, and charged like a runaway train. Expecting such a move, Carson stepped deftly aside, avoiding the mass of angry muscle and sinew, and administered a solid blow against Pruett’s temple with the barrel of his Colt. He took another step back as the huge man crashed to the bunkhouse floor, where he lay motionless for a couple of minutes. Carson hoped that the bully had had enough, but that was not to be the end of it. The massive man began to stir eventually, and when his head cleared enough, he got to his feet, looking around him, trying to locate Carson, who was standing right in front of him. He emitted one great roar and launched himself in Carson’s direction. Carson had hoped it would not come to this, but unable to think of anything else to get the peace he desired, he raised his pistol and fired.
The bullet caught Pruett in the leg, causing him to crash to the floor once more, finally stopped as he lay there moaning and holding his leg. “You shot me, you bastard!” Pruett cried out in pain.
“I reckon I did,” Carson replied calmly. “You damn fool, if you’da just let it alone, I wouldn’t have had to shoot you.” He turned then and returned to his bunk, but instead of climbing back in bed, he put the pistol back in its holster and pulled on his pants and shirt. He was just pulling his boots on when Mathew Cain, Justin, and Frank rushed in the door, having heard the gunshot.
“What was that shot?” Mathew demanded.
Carson answered as he stood up to start packing his belongings in his war bag, “That was me sayin’ good-bye,” he said without emotion.
“What the hell . . . ?” Justin exclaimed when he saw Pruett lying on the floor holding his leg, with Clem trying to help him up. He turned back to Carson then, looking for an explanation, but Carson offered none. He just continued with his packing.
“Looks to me like Pruett picked the wrong man to ride herd on,” Mathew Cain remarked after he had taken in the scene. He had pretty much had a hunch that John Carson was not the kind of man to be bullied. “How bad is he hurt, Clem?”
“Well, he’s got shot in the leg,” Clem replied. “Coulda been a lot worse if John’s aim hadda been a little higher.”
“I got an idea that John’s aim was right on the money,” Mathew said. He turned to Shorty then. “What happened here, Shorty?”
Shorty told him that Carson had tried to avoid fighting Pruett, but Pruett kept after him. “John warned him to leave him alone, but Pruett tried to jump him anyway, so he shot him in the leg to put a stop to it.”
“I figured somethin’ like that musta happened,” Cain said. “Mule, take a look at that wound and see if you can fix him up.” He bent over Pruett then, who was grimacing with the pain in his thigh. “Don’t look like he hit you in a serious place. Mule’s gonna take care of it. You might be hobblin’ around for a few days, but you’ll be all right.” With Pruett taken care of, he turned his attention toward Carson. “What are you aimin’ to do?”
Carson picked up his sack and his rifle. “I reckon I’ll head out tonight, instead of waitin’ till mornin’,” he said.
“I think that’s a good idea, son,” Cain said. “Justin and I’ll help you saddle up.”
“Me, too,” Frank volunteered. “I’ll help.” More than anyone else, he knew that he probably owed Carson his and Nancy’s life.
They walked out of the bunkhouse, leaving Mule to doctor Pruett’s wound. Several of the other men left their bunks to help catch Carson’s horses, and Mathew sent Lucas to the smokehouse to get a side of bacon for Carson to take with him. Carson was somewhat mystified by the going-away party. By the time the bay was saddled, and Luther Moody’s blue roan was loaded, everyone at the house was aware of the unscheduled departure. Nancy and Millie walked down to the barn in their robes to see Carson off.
When everything was packed, he slid his Winchester in the saddle scabbard and prepared to step up in the saddle. There were a few wishes of “good luck” from the men, and a hard handshake from Shorty. Frank stepped up then and offered his hand, and Nancy gave him a hug and thanked him for all he had done for them. Millie remained in the background, watching Carson’s reactions to the farewells, and wondering why she was troubled by the high regard Nancy seemed to have for one she decided was a no-good drifter. She told herself that she wouldn’t give John Carson, or whatever his name was, another thought after this night.
The good-byes over, he stepped up on the bay and rode straight out to the north, a bright moon behind his right shoulder, and a chilly wind on his face. Although disappointed that things had not worked out for him on the M/C, he was not discouraged, for he was confident that he was on the path he was destined to ride and he would deal with wherever it led.
Chapter 11
Carson decided to put more than a few miles behind him before making a camp. His only goal at this time was to simply find a place to get a peaceful night’s sleep without having to worry about Pruett Little recovering enough to pay him another visit. With a full moon rising higher now to light the prairie before him, he felt no risk of crippling his horses, even though the route he had chosen took him over some rough terrain with the Crazy Mountains only a few miles to the east of him. His planned course of travel would take him north of the steep, rugged peaks of the mountains towering ghostlike above the moonlit prairie. He recalled Shorty telling him of the sharp ridges and peaks and the howling winds that whipped around them, inspiring the name given the range by the Indians. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would reach the northern tip of the range and then
he would turn to the west toward Helena. There were no lingering feelings of regret, for he decided that his failure to stay on at the M/C was balanced by the opportunity to explore the mountains to the west, his initial reason for leaving Bob Patterson at Ogallala.
He estimated he had ridden about ten miles, and was still on M/C range, when he came upon a healthy stream coming out of the mountains to his left. It looked to be as good a campsite as any he was likely to find, so he guided his horses to a grassy bank bordered by pines and clumps of laurel. Here he made his camp. After his horses were taken care of, he built a small fire for warmth, since he had already eaten supper back in the bunkhouse. He spread his blanket over a bed of pine needles and settled in for the night, unconcerned for any further problems to interrupt his sleep. He didn’t think it likely that Pruett would hobble after him on his bad leg. He drifted off with thoughts of the Rocky Mountains before him and the many possible trails a young man might choose to follow. It was a good feeling, although he had to admit that he would miss the opportunity to see how big Mathew Cain’s ranch would grow. He saw the potential for the M/C to become the biggest outfit in the territory. Justin Cain was a capable foreman, and Lucas was already a steady ranch hand. With Frank and Nancy to help out, and of course Millie. The thought of Nancy’s younger sister caused him to pause there to consider the strange mannerisms of the girl who acted as if she ran the place. He shook his head then as if to clear away thoughts of Millie. The good Lord had not seen fit to give him the gift of understanding women, but he had really had no need for it—up to now.
* * *
A day and a half’s ride brought him to another range of mountains he would later learn to call the Big Belt Mountains. The call of the mountains was too much to resist, so he followed a busy stream back up a narrow canyon as far as his horses could comfortably manage and made his camp. He planned to go on with the idea of finding Helena, where he intended to trade his extra weapons for supplies he would need to see him through the coming winter. But the plentiful sign of elk in the lower foothills caused him to remain there for almost a week. It was a good week, and gave him the chance to satisfy his natural curiosity about the country he had always imagined when still a boy. From the tops of the mountains, he discovered that he could see a town of good size in the valley to the west. He figured that it had to be Helena. It could wait, he decided, until he had smoke-dried his fresh-killed elk to pack on his extra horse. There were more mountains farther west, beyond Helena, that he could also see from the mountaintop, waiting for him to explore. He knew then that he would spend no more time in the town of Helena than necessary to complete his business.
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