Wild West

by Elmer Kelton

  In the bunkhouse again, he sat down heavily on his bunk and stayed there a long while, rubbing his forehead, trying to decide what to do.

  Dick Coleridge was still awake. “What’s the matter, Scott?”

  “I’m leaving in the morning,” Scott answered flatly.

  He heard Dick exclaim under his breath. After a moment the cowboy said, “I’m going with you.”

  Scott shook his head, although Dick couldn’t see him in the darkness. “No, Dick, you stay here. She’s going to need help, good help. And you’re the best I know of.”

  Dick was quiet for a minute. “Where’ll you go, Scott?”

  “I won’t go far. I owe too much to John Dixon to go very far from her as long as everything’s unsettled the way it is. If she needs me, I’ll be around.”

  Next morning he was stirring before the cook was. In the breaking glow of dawn he gathered and packed his gear on an extra horse and saddled the horse he would ride. Under the baleful eye of the old bald-headed cook he ate a quick breakfast and got away before the rest of the cowboys were up. He didn’t want to explain to anyone why he was leaving. He knew he couldn’t if he had to.

  By midmorning the steady gait of his horse had put a good many miles behind him. Scott knew where he was going. He slanted down over the rim of a canyon and into a wide, grassy valley where a cool blue stream worked its way down toward the Canadian. He watched the scattering of cattle which eased away from him as he approached. The sadness which had ridden with him since daybreak began to leave him. He liked this valley. Sometimes he wished he had set out to build his own herd instead of building someone else’s. He might have taken up this valley himself, or one like it. But he had owed John Dixon a debt, and he’d wanted to pay it.

  He almost didn’t recognize the girl when he first saw her. She was wearing a loose, dirt-stained shirt and a pair of men’s trousers, perspiration coursing down her young face as she tamped loose dirt around a fence post with the handle of a shovel. The two old cowhands stood farther up the line, digging post holes for a new corral.

  She didn’t see Scott until he spoke. Then her eyes widened quickly and she grabbed a gun which leaned against a stack of new-cut posts. She blinked away the stinging perspiration which had crept into her eyes, and laid the gun down again when she recognized the rider.

  “Looks like you might need some help,” he said.

  She didn’t reply at first. He couldn’t tell from her eyes whether she was going to be hostile or not. She rubbed a sleeve across her face and left a brownish streak.

  “Maybe,” she said finally. “But I don’t reckon the foreman of the Lazy D would soil his hands on a post-hole digger for a greasy sack outfit like this?”

  He swung down and picked up the shovel. He tamped down the dirt hard as he could, then tested the post to be sure it was tight. It was.

  “I’m not the foreman anymore. I’m looking for a job. Need another hand?”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed again in distrust. “There’s bound to be a catch someplace.”

  Scott smiled. “No catch. I just want a job. I’ll work cheap, and I’ll work hard.”

  She stared levelly at him for a moment. He thought he could see a signal of laughter in her eyes.

  “All right. Just throw your bedding in that little dugout shed where March and Pike have got theirs.”

  He unpacked the lead horse and turned both animals loose. After neatly stacking his gear, he went back to where the girl and the two elderly cowhands were working.

  Before long his shoulders began to ache from the unfamiliar labor with the shovel and post-hole diggers. He was used to hard work, but principally the kind that was done in the saddle. He watched the girl working as hard as if she had been a man. The way she did it, he knew such toil was a familiar thing to her. He guessed she wouldn’t know how to stay in the house and be a lady.

  He noted the deliberateness with which she removed a big rock from a post hole and heaved it away as if it had been an enemy. He knew that whatever she owned, she would fight for.

  “How come you grabbed that rifle when I rode up?” he asked her once when he paused to ease the ache in his shoulders. “Is that the way you treat company?”

  Her jaw stiffened. “I couldn’t tell but what you might be one of Bannock’s men,” she answered, a hard determination in her eyes. “He sent me word he wanted this canyon to pay for the cattle Uncle Jess had stolen from him. I told him this valley is mine now, and that I’ll fight to keep it.”

  There was work enough the next few days to keep everybody busy from daylight to dark. They built permanent pole corrals to replace the shaky ones Jess Owen had thrown up. He hadn’t put much work into his, probably because he figured on leaving here in a hurry some time.

  They improved and braced up the picket shack that Nell Owen lived in, rebuilding its roof so the water would no longer leak in when it rained. The men threw up a shelter for themselves to replace the dugout shed. There were cattle to work, calves to brand. Carefully Scott examined all the cattle for evidence of burned-over brands, so that any stolen cattle could be returned to their rightful owners. The Owen place was going to be on an honest basis from now on, Nell Owen said.

  But Jess Owen had been slick. Evidently he had taken only unbranded livestock to burn his brand on, like the calves he had hidden far up the canyon. There was no way to determine which cattle had been stolen and which had been his own, or who any stolen animals might belong to.

  “He wasn’t a big-scale thief,” Scott told the girl. “Nothing like Curly. Besides, half the herds in the high country were started by somebody with a wide loop and fast horse. Reckon you’d just as well claim all the cattle with the JO on them and start even.”

  The two saddle-stiff old cowhands soon came to accept Scott Tillman as their boss. They were good enough workers, but too many years had taken the starch out of them. Without anyone actually saying anything about it, they came to look upon Scott as the one who would give the orders. Even when Nell Owen told them to do something, often as not they looked at Scott to be sure it was all right.

  It came about so naturally that Scott didn’t realize it until it was accomplished fact. He thought the girl might resent it, but if anything, it seemed she was glad.

  One day Scott rode far down the canyon, looking for a few head that had strayed out. He found them and pushed them back. On the way home he spied the broad white tail of an antelope out on the grassy flat. Fresh game for the table was always welcome, for it kept an outfit from having to kill much of its own beef.

  His second shot downed the antelope. He had gutted the animal and was ready to swing it up on his horse when he heard the hoof beats racing up behind him. He glanced back and saw Nell Owen’s frightened face as she slid her horse to a halt. She took a long look at the antelope, relief washing the color back into her cheeks.

  “I heard the shots, and I saw your horse with an empty saddle,” she said, her breath short.

  Strange, he had never figured her as even capable of being scared. But here she was, scared as a rabbit—scared for him.

  She was silent for a long moment, regaining her composure.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said with sympathy. “But then again, I’m not. It’s kind of an honor, knowing that you were scared for me.”

  She looked levelly at him. “Why not? You’ve been awfully good to me.”

  He replied, “I’ve had a lot to make up for.”

  “You’ve done that ten times over.”

  She dismounted and began to tighten the cinch on her saddle. Scott stepped down and knelt in the shadow of his sorrel.

  “I can’t figure out why you came here,” she said. “There are plenty of big ranches down south that would pay you three times as much as I ever can.”

  Scott picked up a twig and began to poke at the ground with it. “Some things are more important than money, Nell.”

  Her brown eyes probed at him, and her lips were drawn inward worried
ly. “Is it because of Wilma Dixon?”

  He nodded, and caught the sudden disappointment that crept into her face before her stubborn pride covered it up.

  “She’d be a good wife, Scott,” the girl said, her voice strained. She turned away from him, her fist clenched white.

  He stood up quickly. He reached out toward her, then changed his mind. “Look, Nell,” he said quietly, “there are some things you don’t understand. I don’t love Wilma. She’s a fine woman, that’s true, but I’m not in love with her.”

  The girl was still turned away from him. “Why do you stay, then?”

  Scott absently wrapped the bridle reins around his hand, knotting them against his knuckles, trying to figure out how to tell her. “I made a promise a long time ago to watch out for her. I’ve got to keep that promise, as long as she needs help. If it hadn’t been for John Dixon, I’d probably be an outlaw today, like Curly Kirkendall. That is, if I wasn’t already dead. Curly and I grew up together, down in the brasada of South Texas. We both came out of there as wild as Spanish ponies. We got in some pretty tight scrapes.

  “One day Curly got the idea of robbing a bank. He figured that with all that money we could clear out of Texas and really live high someplace else. But John Dixon got wind of it. He tried to talk me out of it. When he couldn’t, he bent a gunbarrel over my head.”

  “Curly got somebody else and tried it anyway. The other fellow was killed. Curly got away.

  “That sobered me up in a hurry. I knew I owed John Dixon a debt that I couldn’t ever pay him in money. I went to work for him as a cowboy. When he came up here, I came with him. And he never told anybody what I’d done, not even Wilma. Doug McKinney was the only one who ever knew. That’s one reason he’s never trusted me, I guess. I can’t blame him.

  “And that’s why I’ve stayed, because I promised John Dixon I would. Wilma will marry Doug someday, and he’ll be a good husband. Then I can leave. Till then, I’m always going to be around somewhere.”

  He had been looking far across the creek toward the distant canyon wall, as he told Nell the story. When he faced her again, he found that she was looking straight into his eyes. A smile played along her lips.

  “I’m glad you told me, Scott,” she said. “You know, we’re a lot alike, you and me. Maybe that’s why I’ve gotten so that I like to have you around.”

  Her face reddened in embarrassment for what she had said, and she quickly turned away. Scott put his hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around toward him again.

  Something happened to him as he looked into her earnest brown eyes. She wasn’t really pretty, like Wilma Dixon; there was even a plainness in her face. But there was something about her—some inner beauty—something that had nothing to do with a pretty face or pretty clothes. His hands on her arms, Scott felt his heartbeat quicken. He saw the softness come into her eyes and an unspoken word form on her lips. He saw the girl as he hadn’t seen her before. He pulled her gently toward him. She came with eagerness, her face uptilted to his.

  The people on the JO seldom saw anyone else, but news drifted in occasionally with a passing rider. There was a story about rustlers burning out a little ranchman up high on the rolling plains country, sweeping most of his herd along in a lightning raid. There was news of a gunfight—some said it was provoked—between another little ranchman and Fletch Bannock. In quick retaliation, Clive Bannock and his riders had swept down upon the place, run the ranchman off, and taken over the land. The cattle had been pushed off onto neighboring small ranches. There had been another brush when a group of the small stockmen tried to chase the cattle back from where they had come.

  Scott and the two cowhands were building a good dugout shelter for themselves the day Fletch Bannock came. Nell Owen had almost decided the Bannocks had been bluffing. But here came the Bannock kid, trailed by five hard-looking gunmen from High Land. They reined up a dozen paces from the new dugout.

  Scott felt the weight of the six-gun on his hip, where he had strapped it when he saw the riders coming. He glared at the slick-faced boy who sat in arrogance on a fine grulla gelding.

  “You’re not welcome here, Fletch,” he said.

  The boy gave him a lopsided grin and pushed back his hat. His eyes were the gray of granite. “Well, now, here’s Scott Tillman. We about decided you run off to East Texas or someplace.”

  “I said you’re not welcome, Fletch. Move on.”

  Fletch leaned forward, the grin suddenly gone. “No, Tillman. You move! We’re taking this place for the Slash B, like we said we would.”

  Anger began to roil in Scott. He looked around him, but could see no more riders anywhere. Fletch evidently had thought there would be nothing to it, running off a girl and an old stove-up cowboy or two.

  “Where’s Clive?” Scott asked. “Can’t he do his own dirty work?”

  The youthful gray eyes were heavy. Fletch’s fingers played ominously close to his gun butt. “Generally. Just thought I’d give him this valley as a surprise present. You better do like I told you, Tillman. I ain’t in the mood to wait around.”

  Fletch’s draw came so quickly that Scott barely saw it. Scott tried to reach for his own gun but stopped himself. It would be suicide, he knew.

  Fletch grinned crookedly. “Pretty fast, wasn’t it, Tillman? I could’ve blowed your brains out before you could get your hands on your gun. I got a good notion to do it yet.”

  Then Nell Owen stepped out of the picket shack, behind Fletch Bannock and his men. Scott saw her before the others did, raising a six-gun to eye level.

  She sent the singeing bullet right across the rump of Fletch’s fine grulla. The first wild jump of the squealing horse almost unseated the young gunman. Grabbing for the horn, he let the pistol drop. For a long moment, hanging low over the bucking horse’s side, Fletch managed to keep hold of the rigging. Then he let go and went tumbling to the ground on his face.

  The five men with him raised their hands at the sight of the furious girl and her steady gun. At her command they unstrapped and dropped their guns.

  Trembling in rage, Fletch Bannock pushed himself up on his hands. Dirt covered his face and burned his eyes. A trickle of blood worked down from the corner of his mouth.

  “Get up, Fletch Bannock,” Nell Owen said evenly. “It’s your time to start crawling. You’re going back to the Slash B and tell Clive Bannock that a woman whipped you. You’ve had half the people in the high country scared of you—but they won’t be any more. Everybody will know you’re just a spoiled, bluffing kid.” She motioned with the point of the gun. “Now git!”

  Shame and fury flushed the young killer’s face a crimson red. His lips were drawn back from his teeth as one of his men brought him the grulla horse, and he swung into the saddle.

  Scott saw the Bannock rider reach into his boot top and hand something to Fletch. He heard Nell scream for him to look out. Then Fletch Bannock had whirled the grulla around and had the muzzle of the gun bearing down on Scott. Scott leaped to one side, stumbling as he heard the retort of the gun.

  Somehow he jerked his own pistol out. Falling on his back, he looked up to see Fletch’s face above him, his mouth twisted in rage beneath the fuzzy mustache. The gun was aiming down again.

  Scott felt the sledgehammer blow strike him with the heat of hell.

  With a terrible effort he squeezed the trigger. Young Bannock swayed in the saddle, his horse plunging in terror. Then the kid went slack and tumbled to the ground, almost at Scott’s side. He lay in a twisted heap beneath the swirling dust.

  Scott’s right shoulder and arm were numb and useless. His left arm went around his stomach, trying to hold back the sickness that came with a rush.

  “I didn’t want to do it,” he murmured painfully. “Why did he have to try?”

  Eyes wide in fear, Nell passed her gun to one of the two old punchers and fell to her knees beside Scott.

  “Scott, Scott!” she cried. “I tried to hit him, but the gun jammed.”

&
nbsp; The bullet burned in his shoulder with the heat of a blacksmith’s furnace. He gritted his teeth against the grinding pain. He felt Nell tearing the shirt away, at the same time screaming to the five Bannock men.

  “Go on, get out of here, before we kill the whole lot of you!”

  One of the men braved the gun to step off and turn Fletch Bannock over. “Give me a hand here,” he said to one of the others.

  They lifted the body across a saddle. Then one man caught Fletch’s grulla and got on him.

  He looked down at Nell Owen long enough to say gravely: “You better get that fellow away from here, miss, a long way away. Old Clive will bust loose like a wounded grizzly when we take his son home to him. He won’t stop hunting till he’s found Scott Tillman and killed him. He might even kill you, if you’re in the way.”

  In a red maze of pain, Scott heard, rather than saw, the men ride away. He felt himself carried into the dugout. He groaned to the stabbing agony of a knife probing for the bullet. Then he gave in to unconsciousness under the searing of a cauterizing hot poker …

  He awakened to the coolness of a wet cloth on his forehead, and the gentle touch of soft fingers on his face. “Scott,” the girl’s voice begged in desperation, “wake up. Wake up.”

  He forced open his eyes and tried to rise. He fell back in blinding pain.

  “Scott,” Nell persisted. “You’ve got to wake up. We have to move you.”

  He fought back the smothering blanket of unconsciousness. Nell Owen’s soft lips brushed his forehead, and he saw the evidence of dried tears on her cheeks.

  “I hate to do it, Scott,” she said, “but we can’t fight off Clive Bannock’s whole bunch. They’re bound to come.”

  Scott’s head still reeled, and he struggled to clear his mind. “We can’t leave, Nell,” he said weakly. “They’ll take the ranch. You’ll never get it back.”

  “We couldn’t hold it anyway,” she argued. “It’s not worth your life to try. We’ll carry you to the Lazy D.”

  Scott shook his head. “No, that’s the first place they’ll look, and there’s no use drawing Wilma into it.”