He awoke one morning to find a light powdering of snow spread across his camp. It served to remind him that a hard winter might not be far behind, and there were things he needed to be ready for it. So he packed up his camp and rode out of the mountains toward Helena.
* * *
He slow-walked his horses down the main street of Helena, a street that roughly followed the gulch and was aptly named Last Chance Gulch. The real boom times of the earlier gold strikes were past, but there was still plenty of mining activity, as witnessed by the busy street, the various businesses and the many saloons. When Carson came to a business that advertised on a big sign in front that it dealt in dry goods and hardware, he pulled over and tied his horses at the rail.
“Howdy.” Elmer Green greeted him when he walked in the door. “What can I do for you?” He eyed the young stranger up and down. “You new in town?”
“I reckon I am,” Carson replied, and stood there for a few moments, looking around at the merchandise on the counters and the shelves behind them. His gaze fell on a glass-top cabinet with several firearms displayed. Thinking then that he was in the right place, he asked, “Might you be interested in buyin’ some fine weapons?”
Elmer shrugged indifferently. “That depends,” he replied. “I’m in the business of selling new weapons. I don’t do much buying of used guns.” He waited for a moment while Carson thought that over, then asked, “What are you trying to sell?”
“I’ve got a good Spencer cavalry carbine, a Winchester, and a couple of Colt handguns,” Carson replied.
“What are you looking to get for them?”
“As much as I can, cash money,” Carson said, “or maybe trade for some things I need.” He knew he couldn’t ask for top price. The carbine was in good shape, but the blacksmith back at the Big Horn had taken the best Colt revolver as payment for shoeing his horses.
“Like I said,” Elmer responded, “I don’t do much buying of used guns. I’ll take a look at what you’ve got, though.” He followed Carson outside to inspect the weapons. After testing the action on the pistols, he looked the carbine over. “I’m afraid I couldn’t give you much for the lot of ’em,” he finally said. “Maybe somebody else might give you a better deal, but I guess I could let you have twenty dollars in trade if you want.”
Carson was disappointed. He had thought he might get a little more than that, but he decided to accept the offer so he could be done with it. But twenty dollars’ worth of goods, combined with the seven dollars he still had, wasn’t going to take him very far.
Back inside, Elmer studied the young man as Carson carefully selected the items he needed the most desperately for his camp. “You thinking about doing some placer mining?” he asked, thinking Carson was out here for the same reason most men were.
“No, sir,” Carson replied. “I don’t know nothin’ about huntin’ for gold. I ain’t ever done anything but work with cattle. I’m hopin’ maybe I can sign on with somebody in that business. Right now I’m just lookin’ to get by till somethin’ comes along.”
Elmer continued to study Carson intently before making a suggestion. “If you’re hard up for money, young fellow, I know where you can hire on for decent wages. That is, if you don’t mind a little hard work.”
“Where might that be?” Carson asked.
“Fellow name of Jim Saylor runs a sawmill up at the upper end of the gulch. Jim’s a friend of mine and I know for a fact that one of the men that cuts timber and snakes the logs out of the mountains west of town for him just up and quit last week. You’re a pretty strong-looking young fellow. You might wanna talk to Jim. It’s not like finding gold, but it’ll give you some spending money.”
Carson’s first thought was not one of interest, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it would help him get through the winter. Then he almost smiled when he recalled that he could claim his status as a champion woodchopper on the M/C. “What the hell?” he replied. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to your friend. What was his name?”
“Jim Saylor,” Elmer said. “Tell him I sent you.”
“Much obliged,” Carson said.
* * *
Rena Saylor came from the mill office carrying the dinner pail that her husband had just emptied in time to hear Jim talking to a tall young man who had just ridden up. “Elmer sent you, huh?” she heard him ask the stranger, so she paused to find out what he was about. “Pannin’ for gold didn’t turn up much color, I reckon,” Jim guessed aloud.
“Might have,” Carson replied. “I ain’t ever tried pannin’ for gold.” He paused to speak to the woman standing behind Jim now. “Ma’am.” She nodded.
“What have you been doin’?” Jim asked.
“Drivin’ cattle, mostly.”
Saylor studied him for a few moments more before asking his next question. If what Carson said was true, that he wasn’t hoping to find gold, then maybe he wouldn’t be off to the next strike right away. “Are you wanted by the law?” He preferred that Carson was not, but he wasn’t overly concerned, because back in the mountains where he would be working, he wasn’t likely to run into any lawmen.
Carson answered the question without hesitation. “I ain’t ever done nothin’ against the law,” he said, answering truthfully. It seemed to satisfy Saylor.
“You ever work with a team of six mules?” he asked. When Carson confessed that he had not, Saylor went on. “Well, don’t matter, I guess. You’ll be workin’ with Bris Bannerman. He’ll be drivin’ the logs to the mill, anyway. I reckon you can handle one mule draggin’ a log.”
“I reckon,” Carson said.
“You can leave your packhorse here in my corral if you want to,” Saylor suggested.
“All the same to you, I’ll keep both my horses with me up in the mountains.”
Saylor shrugged. “Up to you,” he concluded. “Be back here at the sawmill first thing in the mornin’ and we’ll ride up to the camp. I’ve got a load of supplies to take up there.”
* * *
When Saylor arrived at his sawmill early the following morning, he found Carson waiting for him. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“Since sunup,” Carson replied. “You said first thing.” His reply was enough to please Saylor. Maybe the young man really was accustomed to hard work.
It was a long half day’s ride to the mountains west of town to Saylor’s camp at the base of the hills. An old army squad tent was set up beside the corral, but there was no one about. Noticing two of the mules were missing, Saylor commented, “Bris is most likely up the mountain, snakin’ logs down. I expect he’ll show up directly.” By the time Carson took his horses to the small creek nearby and hobbled them to graze, they heard Bris coming down the mountain, driving a two-horse team and dragging a huge log.
“Ho, Jim,” Bris called out upon seeing them. “What brings you out here this mornin’?” He didn’t stop for an answer, but gave the stranger standing beside his boss a good looking-over as he continued by them to deposit the log next to a pile near the corral. Saylor and Carson walked over to watch as Bris unhitched the mules and left them to stand while he talked to his boss.
“I thought you might oughta be runnin’ short of bacon and beans,” Saylor said. “This here’s John Carson. He’s gonna be takin’ Pete’s place.”
“Is that a fact?” Bris responded, looking Carson up and down with a skeptical eye. “That’s gonna take some doin’. Pete was a helluva worker.” He glanced at Saylor and commented, “He’s a big feller, ain’t he?” Looking Carson directly in the eye then, he asked, “Reckon you can stand up to the work, boy?”
“If I can’t, I reckon you’ll fire me,” Carson answered as he studied the man he would be working with. At this point, he wasn’t sure how long that would be, but he anticipated it would be at least until spring. He could already guess what kind of man Bris was—short and
wiry, it was hard to tell how old the man was, but a full set of whiskers was more gray than brown, and Carson couldn’t help wondering if he might have been of average height had he not been so bowlegged. His speech was gruff in manner, but Carson noted a twinkle in the little man’s eye that betrayed a more congenial nature.
Bris laughed at Carson’s response to his question. “I reckon so,” he agreed. “That’s fair enough, ain’t it, Jim?” He turned his attention back to Saylor then. With expecting eyes, he asked, “You didn’t happen to bring anythin’ with you, did you, Jim?”
“In my saddlebag,” Saylor replied.
“Good man,” Bris said, his scruffy beard spread with a smile.
Saylor turned to Carson then. “Well, I’ve got to get back to town before dark, so I’ll leave you two to sort it out between you.” He went to his saddlebag to get the bottle of whiskey he brought and handed it to Bris. “Bris can show you all you need to know, ’cause he knows what has to be done.” When the supplies were unloaded and put away in the tent, he stepped up on the sorrel and bade them good-bye.
“Thanks for the bottle,” Bris said. “And tell Rena I still love her, and one of these days I’ll be comin’ for her.”
“I’ll tell her,” Saylor called back over his shoulder. Carson would learn later that Rena was Jim Saylor’s wife, and this promise was a ritual practiced almost every time Saylor visited the lumber camp. In the spirit of the joke, Rena usually cooked Bris a fine meal whenever he brought a load of logs into town.
* * *
Carson and Bris got along right from the first day of their work together. The work was hard for just two men, but Carson found that the physical labor was something he needed at this time in his life. Wanted by the federal marshals, he decided it was a good time to be out of sight up in the mountains. The days were spent wielding an ax, trimming the limbs off the pine logs after riding one end of a crosscut saw, then snaking the logs down the mountain to be loaded on a log train that Bris had built for the purpose. Bris was easy to camp with. He insisted on doing all the cooking, and Carson appreciated the fact that he was a fair hand at it—a lot better than Bad Eye had been. That thought caused him to wonder if Bad Eye had escaped the pursuit of the lawmen. Other thoughts of his days with Duke Slayton’s gang of outlaws were recurring less and less as winter moved into the hills.
On the days when Bris took a load of logs into the sawmill, he hitched all six mules to the heavy log train, leaving Carson with free time. He could have hitched his horses up to the logs, but he felt that was not a proper job for a cow pony, at least not his cow pony. Besides, he felt the time was better spent hunting for something to eat besides salt pork. His talent with a rifle was greatly appreciated by his gnarly little partner, because Bris openly admitted he wasn’t much a shot. He was surprised, however, that Carson seemed to have no interest in riding into town with him. He never pried into Carson’s history, but after spending the long winter months working so closely with the young man, he decided for himself that Carson had a reason for shunning the town. He figured it was Carson’s business, and not his. All he was concerned with was the man’s work ethic, and he decided he’d never had a partner who worked as hard and as steady as Carson.
A Montana winter in the wild will change most men, and Carson was no exception. The physical change was more evident to Bris than it was to him, however. By springtime, Carson seemed to have gained strength as well as size, thanks to his heavy laboring that added tough muscle to his shoulders and arms. It was hard for Bris to believe he was looking at the same man Jim Saylor had introduced at the end of summer. As for Carson, he was aware of the feeling that he was fit, but he didn’t suspect that he had changed that much.
When the snow began melting on the mountaintops, Carson figured it was time to move on, and he told Jim Saylor of his intention. It was at a time when Bris wanted to move the camp, since they had cleared most of the trees that the two-man team could reasonably get to. So they packed up the tent and moved their camp several miles farther along the mountain range. Carson agreed to stay on to help Bris and Jim through the summer, or at least until Jim could find a replacement for him. One year turned into two, with Carson still content to remain, although he began to catch himself wondering what it was like beyond the mountains they were cutting timber in. But thoughts of a different nature also began to enter his idle moments. He found himself wondering if the crew at the M/C came through the hard winter without losing too many cattle—and if Frank and Nancy were glad they had made the hazardous journey from the Black Hills—and Millie, although he couldn’t explain why he thought of her at all. And without realizing it, he was missing working with the cattle. The day finally arrived when he changed his mind and accepted Bris’s invitation to ride into town with him.
“Well, I’ll be . . . ,” Bris marveled. “What changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” Carson said. “I just ain’t been in a long time. I reckon I just wanna see if the town’s grown any since I saw it last. Besides, I’ve got a birthday sometime this month and I think I oughta have myself a drink to celebrate it, maybe two drinks, since I forgot it last year.” He paused to make sure of the month. “This is August, ain’t it? At least I think that’s what Jim said when he brought those last supplies.”
“I believe he did,” Bris replied, “but I ain’t got no notion what day it is.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Carson said, “as long as it’s the right month.”
So Bris hitched up the mules and they set out for town, Bris sitting on top of the load of pine logs, driving the team, with Carson riding alongside. Reluctant to leave the black horse back in their wilderness camp unprotected, Carson tied it on behind the logs. Impatient with the pace set by the team of mules, he often loped along ahead of Bris, working some of the rust from his horse, acquired after many days of doing nothing more than grazing on the lush meadow grass of the high plains. He realized at once that he had accumulated some rust himself, and realized how much he missed his days in the saddle. It caused some serious thinking about returning somehow to the business of raising cattle. These were thoughts he had to keep to himself, because talk of such plans tended to make Bris melancholy.
It was after dark by the time they unloaded the logs at Saylor’s sawmill and went home with Jim to enjoy one of Rena’s fine suppers. It was a strange sensation for Carson to be in a house after so long a time camping in the pine-covered hills. And it was hard to disagree with Bris’s claim that Rena Saylor was the best cook in Montana Territory. It was a pleasant evening, and Carson would have been content to bed down for the night and call his birthday celebration complete, but Bris insisted that wouldn’t do. “John here deserves to go get a drink on his birthday,” he said.
“There’s no need to go down to a saloon,” Saylor offered. “I’ve got a bottle right here.”
“That wouldn’t be the proper thing to do,” Bris was quick to remark. “I mean, drinkin’ in front of Rena. That don’t show her no respect at all.”
Overhearing the conversation, Rena spoke up. “It won’t bother me. I don’t care if you all get drunk.”
Bris was insistent. “John’s a young single man. He ain’t been in a saloon in a coon’s age. He might wanna kick up his heels a little.”
It was fairly evident to Carson and Jim that Bris was the one who wanted to visit a saloon. They exchanged knowing smiles and Carson remarked facetiously, “Yeah, that’s right. I might wanna kick up my heels.” It brought a smile of satisfaction to Bris’s whiskered face.
Rena paused a moment on her way to the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes. “I don’t know who you men think you’re fooling. Go on, if you’re going, but I better not hear about Jim Saylor kicking up his heels, or I’ll be the one doing the kicking tomorrow.”
“I’ll see that he behaves hisself,” Bris volunteered. “And I’ll get him home before too late.” He couldn’t resist tea
sing the patient woman. “If you decide to kick him outta the house, remember that I still love you, so you’ve got an ace in the hole.”
This brought a laugh from both Jim and Carson, and Jim said, “Come on, Ace. Let’s go get that drink. I’ve got to go to work in the morning.”
Hands on hips and assuming a mock expression of disgust, Rena watched the men file out the door. She didn’t begrudge Bris his desire to ogle the whores who frequented some of the drinking establishments in town. The old man led a lonely existence. She was confident in her husband’s ability to behave himself. Watching the last one out the door, the one who literally filled the doorway, she realized that she did not really know John Carson. Tonight was only the second time she had even seen him since Jim first hired him. The transformation of the quiet young man into the formidable, emotionless mystery that she saw on this occasion was difficult to believe. Had she not known for a fact, she might have refused to believe it was the same man.
Of the many saloons in Helena, there was no question as to which establishment Bris wanted to visit. Sullivan’s Saloon was his favorite watering hole and the one he visited on every trip to town. Sullivan’s was not one of the fanciest bars in town, but there were always a few painted ladies who worked the customers for drinks and whatever else they were interested in. And they were not above showering a little attention on stubby little gray-haired men like Bris.
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