For a long time he saw nothing at all, then a faint movement. He lay still, watching, and he saw it again. They were coming up the slope, perhaps a dozen Indians. Yet this would not be the only attack. He slid back away from the rim and ran down the slope into the hollow. Quickly he explained.
From the east attack was impractical because of the bareness of the ground. The major attack would come from the bunch he had seen, but without doubt there would be a feint toward the horses from the other side.
“You stay with the horses,” he told Janice. “Use your gun if they come at you. Tom”—he turned on Healy—“you go up that slope. I doubt if you’ll find more than two or three. Dodie will bring her shotgun and come with me.”
Dodie took six shotgun shells from her pockets and put them on the ground near her. She looked white and strained, but determined.
He waited, his Winchester lying in the grass. Each of them had found a little hollow that offered protection.
“Remember,” he said, “when they attack from the other side, don’t look around! We’ll have to trust to Tom to stop them. The moment you take in looking could be the one chance we’ll get to stop them. And you’re shooting downhill, so aim at their knees.”
The minutes ticked by. There was no longer movement in the bottom. Mabry knew the Indians were moving up the slope in the grass, moving with the movement of the grass by the wind.
Suddenly a chorus of shrill yells rang out, then a shot, instantly followed by other shots.
Mabry was banking on the Sioux’s believing he was still in the buffalo wallow. And he gambled right. Suddenly, with the sound of shooting, they came up and ran forward.
Dodie’s shotgun lifted. “Hold it,” he said quietly. “Let them come close.”
They came on, trotting easily, confidently. They expected no trouble until they broke over the ridge. Mabry drew a deep breath and lifted his rifle. Behind them there was shooting now, intermittent fire. Healy was alive, then, and busy.
He could see streaks on a Sioux’s body, and smudges of earth. The range was point-blank. He fired.
His bullet was aimed right at the Indian’s beltline, and it seemed to knock the man’s feet from under him. Instantly he moved and shot, hearing the smashing roar of the shotgun. He heard it once, twice, three times.
The attack broke and the Indians were running. He fired two more quick shots before they disappeared.
Dodie had reloaded and fired her third shot with scarcely a break.
He got to his feet. “All right, let’s get back.”
Janice was waiting, her face white and her gun in her hand. As they came up to her and to the horses, Mabry saw her looking up the opposite slope. Tom Healy lay there, unmoving.
Mabry stepped into the black’s saddle and trotted the horse up the slope. As he swung down beside Healy, the Irishman looked up. His face was white and sick-looking, but he was uninjured. He got up slowly, stared wide-eyed at Mabry, and said, “Let’s move, shall we?”
“Sure,” Mabry said. “Get Maggie in the saddle.”
Tom Healy walked away down the hill and Mabry waited for a moment, watching him go. Then he walked the few steps to the crest.
Two Indians lay sprawled on the grassy slope. One of them was crawling away, dragging a broken leg. The other wasn’t going to crawl anywhere again.
That Indian had come close, too close. Healy’s bullet had struck the mechanism of the Sioux’s rifle, smashed into jagged lead, and ricocheted, ripping the Sioux wide open. Part of the breech had been smashed by the bullet and sent flying upward, ripping the Indian’s throat. It was a gruesome sight. No wonder Healy was sick.
King Mabry rode back down the hill and joined the little cavalcade. “We’ll move now,” he said, “while they’re getting up nerve to try again or deciding to run.”
He led them out, moving fast, going over the edge of the hollow to the west and keeping the hill behind them, into the bottom beyond. He turned south with it, then circled west and back to the north. Riding hard for twenty minutes, they then slowed to a walk, then rode hard for ten minutes and walked the horses again.
Into the maze of ravines and low hills they rode, putting distance between themselves and the Indians.
It was almost dusk when they sighted the cabin and the corrals. There was a barn, too, but there was no smoke, and no evidence of life except a few horses in the corrals.
Bone weary and sagging in their saddles, they came down the slope at a walk. Nothing moved but the horses. All else was deserted and still. But it was a cabin. And here someone had lived. Their journey was almost at an end.
Janice turned and looked back. She could scarcely remember Hat Creek, and the towns and theatres before that were vague and unreal in her mind.
Yet it was late dusk, and they were riding up to a home. It was over now, all over.
Chapter 17
IT WAS A strongly built log house near the junction of two small streams. Another creek flowed into one of these above the confluence. There was a wide grassy space around the house, but on the streams there were dark rows of trees, and near the house a few huge old cottonwoods and a pine.
King Mabry’s hail brought no response from the house, and they rode on into the yard. The earth was hard-packed, and the barns—mere sheds—showed recent use. And there were the horses in the corrals. Swinging down, Mabry loosened his gun in its holster and went up on the porch.
His moccasins only whispered on the boards. All was dark and still. Lifting his fist, he hesitated an instant, listening. Then he rapped, and the sound was loud in the clear night air.
He rapped again and harder, and only then did he see the square of white at the edge of the door. It was so near the color of the whitewashed door as to be almost invisible.
Leaning forward and straining his eyes in the dim light, he tried to read. Then he risked a match.
Gone to Fort Custer. Rest, eat, leave wood in the box. No whisky in the house. No money, either. The whisky I drunk. The money I taken to buy more whisky.
Windy Stuart
Mabry opened the door and stepped inside. He struck another match and, finding a candle, lighted it. The house was sparsely furnished, but there was fuel in the wood box and a fire laid on the hearth. The room in which he stood served as both living room and kitchen, and two curtained doorways led to small bedrooms, each containing two beds. Windy Stuart evidently often entertained travelers, and was prepared for them.
King Mabry put the candle down. He felt drained and whipped. His strength had been depleted by the loss of blood and the long rides. His wounds bothered him only because they itched, evidence that they were healing.
The house was clean and comfortable. It was too bad they could not stay, but must move on at daybreak. Yet Fort Custer could not be far away, and once they were there, their troubles would be over.
“Come on in,” he called from the door. “I’ll stable the horses.”
“Got ’em,” Healy replied. “You take it easy.”
Mabry lifted Maggie from her horse and helped her into the house. When he put her down on one of Windy Stuart’s beds, she looked up at him. “I’m beat,” she said, “but I feel better.”
He walked to the door, looking out into the night. There was a good field of fire except for those trees. Windy Stuart knew the danger of those trees, but probably hated to cut them down. I wouldn’t, either, he decided.
Janice followed him to the door. “Don’t be so restless. We’re safe now,” she told him.
“I was thinking about Barker.”
“Forget him. That’s over.”
“No. He won’t give up that easy. Some folks never give up.”
“You’re so right,” Dodie said from within the house. “Some don’t.”
“But what can he do now?” Janice protested.
“His troubles really begin when we tell our story at Fort Custer, which looks like our first settlement. He may think we’re dead, but I don’t believe that. We left plen
ty of sign, and Barker struck me as a careful man. Besides, he has help now.”
The moon was rising and the cottonwoods looked stark and bare in the vague light. The barn cast its shadow, and the bare white poles of the corral looked like skeleton bones in the moonlight. Out in the stable a horse stamped and blew.
Over the trees, somewhere in the meadow beyond the streams, a wolf howled.
“You’re borrowing trouble, King. They’d be afraid to attempt anything now.”
He did not argue, yet King Mabry had that old, uneasy feeling. The woods out there were dark, but they did not feel empty, and the hunted man learns to trust his senses. On too many occasions they had saved his life.
Inside it was warm and cheerful. Carefully he hung blankets over all the windows. Old Windy had been well provided for here, and evidently got along with the Crows, whose country this was. The Crows were friendly, anyway, and, like the Shoshones, were old rivals of the Sioux.
Soon a big fire blazed in the fireplace and Janice was busy preparing a meal while Dodie was setting places at the table.
Tom Healy dug out his razor and shaved, combing his hair carefully. Somewhere among the things brought from the wagons he found a clean shirt.
Not to be outdone, Mabry shaved. When he belted on his guns again, he went out through the back door and scouted around in the dark. It was quiet…too quiet.
How far away Fort Custer was, he had no idea. But Barker would know, for this was his old hunting ground. And Barker would know the lay of the land, so he could choose his own spot and time.
It was a quiet supper. Several attempts to start a conversation died at birth. King Mabry had his ears alert for sounds, and Tom Healy seemed sour and unhappy. Janice was curiously quiet, looking long at King from time to time. Only Dodie seemed gay. She laughed and chattered for a while, but then even she was silent.
After supper Mabry went outside and Janice followed him. Together they walked out under the big old cottonwoods.
“King,” she said, “there must be no more killing. No more at all.”
“A man does what he has to do.”
“I couldn’t marry you if you did.”
It was the old story, and it stirred a deep-seated irritation within him. As if he went hunting for men to kill.
“You’ve no right to say that, Janice. Who knows what will happen in the next few days? I don’t want to kill, but I have no desire to be killed, either.”
“You can avoid it.”
“Perhaps.…You’ve never tried to avoid a gun fight. You have no experience with which to judge a man like me.”
“If you kill,” she protested, “you’re no better than they.”
“What about the war? You told me your father was in it.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Because they carried flags? This is war, too, a war to see who will hold the West—those who come to build homes or those who come to grab and steal.”
Janice shook her head. “It isn’t right, King. It just isn’t right.”
Miserably he stared at the mountains. How could he make her understand? Or anyone who had not been through it? They tried to judge a wild, untamed country by the standards of elm-bordered streets and convention-bordered lives.
“What about the Indians? Should I have let them kill us?”
“They were Indians.”
“But they’re men too. Often good men in their way. The Indian is fighting for a way of life as good for them as our way is for us.”
She was silent but he knew she was unconvinced. She hated the gun he wore, hated the thought of what it had done, and even more of what it might do. In Virginia men who killed had been hung or sent to prison, and she could see no difference here.
He could guess her thoughts and searched his mind for arguments, but he was not a man of words, and none would offer themselves now. He sensed the rising strangeness between them, and sought desperately for something to sweep it away.
He reached out for her and drew her to him, but there was a stiffness in her back, and no willingness. She was coming to him, but she had yielded nothing.
She looked up at him. “Promise me you won’t use your gun again.”
He dropped his hands from her arms and drew back a little. “I’d be a fool to make such a promise. This is a land of guns.”
Angrily she turned away from him. “I think what they say of you is true! You like to kill!” Then she added, “And you don’t love me. If you did, you’d do what I want!”
“No,” he replied quietly, “I wouldn’t. To do what you want would be no proof of love. I’m my own man. I have to live my life as it comes to me, according to my own conscience.”
“Conscience!” she flared. “You don’t know the meaning of the word!”
Turning abruptly, she went inside. Helplessly he walked back to the porch and stood there in the darkness. Why had he not promised and ended the argument? There was a good chance they would never see Barker again. Yet he knew, even as the thought came to him, that he could make no such promise. He hoped never to use a gun again, yet if the time came when it was necessary, use it he would.
He remained where he was until the fire inside was down to coals and all were in bed but himself, and even then he hesitated, for the old restlessness was upon him. The soft wind still blew, only more lightly now,and somewhere out under the sky a lone wolf howled at the moon, and the echoes gave back their answer from the strong-walled cliffs, and sounded again and again from the crags and shoulders of the mountain.
He stepped down from the porch and walked around the corrals, soft-footed as a big cat. On the porch again, standing in the darkness, he rolled a last cigarette, then lit it in carefully cupped hands.
“Janice…Janice…” He whispered the name softly into the darkness.
And the darkness gave back no answer. Only the wolf howled again, and the long wind whispered down the ranges.
Chapter 18
AT DAYLIGHT KING Mabry rolled out of his bed and dressed quickly. Healy was already up and puttering about in the outer room. Mabry heard wood splintering, then the crackle of flames. As he stamped his feet into his boots he heard the door slam and knew Healy had gone out.
Mabry swung his gun belt around his lean hips and buckled it. He flipped his gun lightly, as was his habit, to make sure it was free in its holster.
Walking into the outer room, he poured water into a basin and bathed. The wash bench outside the door was too cold for these winter mornings.
When he had his hair combed, he crossed to the fire and added a few sticks, then poured coffee. Janice was up and dressed, and when she heard him moving she came to the door and spoke to him.
The coffee was fresh, hot, and strong. He took his cup in his hand and walked to the door. Healy was nowhere in sight, evidently in the barn feeding the horses.
Janice poured a cup and joined him at the table. She looked fresh, competent, and lovely, much as she had seemed at Hat Creek when he first saw her. “I’m sorry, King. Really sorry. But you wouldn’t have me go against what I believe, would you?”
“Better have some coffee.” He indicated the cup she held.
Dodie came from the bedroom, and a few minutes later Maggie emerged, walking carefully, but under her own power. She was thinner, but her eyes were bright.
“Never let it be said,” Mabry commented, “that the Irish aren’t tough.”
“I’ll make it,” Maggie replied grimly. “I’ll make it yet.”
Janice looked across the table at Mabry, who avoided her eyes. The room was growing warm and the smell of coffee was pleasant. Outside there was frost on the ground, and frost atop the corral bars. In here it was cozy and warm.
Maggie looked around, and when she spoke her tone held a touch of wistfulness. “It’s a nice place. A woman could do a lot with it. And those trees! I always loved big old trees.”
“In the spring,” Mabry said, “the hills are green. The peaks over there always have a li
ttle snow, but down here the meadows are soft and the cattle walk knee-deep in grass.”
“And I’ll be walking the boards of some dusty stage,” Maggie said, “and dressing in a stuffy little dressing room.”
“You’d never want to do anything else, Maggie,” Dodie said. “If you had a home like this, someday you’d smell grease paint or hear a spatter of applause and you’d be gone again.”
“Maybe…maybe. But I’d still like to try it.”
Mabry finished his coffee cup and put wood on the fire. He knew there were things to be said. Janice was wanting to say them or expecting him to say them, and he felt like doing anything but talking.
“Where’s Tom?” Dodie asked suddenly.
“Outside. Feeding the horses, most likely.”
King walked to the window and glanced out. The sandstone hills were bleak and frosty this morning. Only here and there was there any snow, lying in white streaks in crevices where the sun never reached. He walked back to the table and, putting down his cup, rolled a smoke.
Janice went twice to the window to look out, and the second time Mabry glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Where is he?” she asked. “I’m hungry.”
“I’ll fix something for him now,” Dodie said. “We’d all better eat if we’re going to get an early start.”
Dodie took the frying pan and put in some grease. There was bacon, and she found some eggs. She held one aloft. “I never expected these! I was beginning to think nobody ate anything out here but beef and beans!”
Janice got to her feet. “I want some fresh air. I’ll go help Tom.”
She went out quickly, drawing the door shut behind her. Grease sputtered in the frying pan. Mabry watched Dodie breaking eggs and slicing bacon. “Don’t let it get you, King,” Dodie said. “She’ll change.”
He glanced at her, but made no reply. The smell of bacon frying was making him hungrier. He drew deep on his cigarette and sat back in the buffalo-hide chair, liking the warm feeling of the house, the sound of the fire, the comfortable sounds of a woman moving about.
Even a place like this…just so a man could call it home. What did it get a man to be forever wandering? He saw a lot of country, and he learned a lot, but what was the use of that unless it could be passed on to somebody?
Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) Page 13