by Jory Sherman
“Th-thanks,” he said. “My name is Whit. Whit Blanchett.”
Ben’s eyes widened into startled orbs popping out of their sockets like a pair of marbles.
“Blanchett?” Ben said.
“Uh, yeah,” Whit said.
“John, ain’t that the name we heard over to Cherry Creek some days back?”
“Something like that,” John said. “You any kin to Argus Blanchett, son?”
“He—he’s my pa.”
Ben and John exchanged electric glances, spears of light colliding in midair like javelins. Whit saw the look and stiffened.
“John . . .” Ben started to say.
“Let it keep, Ben.”
“Do you know my pa? Argus Blanchett?” Whit said.
“Not really,” John said.
“Did you see him? He’s been gone from home a spell.”
Ben appeared ready to burst into song about Argus Blanchett, but a withering look from John deflated his cheeks and dulled his eyes back down to a pair of slits.
“Just show us where you live, Whit,” John said, “and we’ll take you back home.”
“Me and Ma are settled up yonder,” Whit said, pointing a finger toward the top of the bluff, above the mine entrance.
“You live up on the flat?” Ben asked.
“Yeah, we got a cabin Pa and me put up, and Ma’s got her a garden started and Pa’s down to Denver buyin’ cattle. We’re going to raise us some beef cows and sell ’em.”
Neither man said anything.
“At least that’s what Pa says.”
“I can put some liniment on that knee, Whit,” Ben said, “and maybe wrap a bandage around it. We’ll take you on home.”
“Ma must be pretty worried by now,” Whit said.
Ben walked over to the horses and started rummaging in one of the saddlebags for his medical kit.
“What are you doing down here, anyway?” John asked as the boy sat down on a small boulder next to the creek.
The misty curlicues evaporated under the rising sun and rose to the clouds forming in the blue of the morning sky. John began to feel the warmth as the chill of morning wafted away on the pinions of a light breeze that sprang up from the east.
“Some men stole our milk cow two nights ago,” Whit said, cocking his bad leg to take some of the strain off his knee. He looked bedraggled, John thought. “I follered ’em down to their camp up the creek. They had our cow. When I asked them to give it back, one of ’em took a stob and whooped me with it. I run off down here and hid in that old mine up there.”
Ben returned with a tin of liniment and a roll of bandages.
“You say you live up yonder on the flat,” John said. “Did you see our survey stakes?”
The boy looked startled. Color, a rosy hue, suffused his cheeks.
“Yeah, I reckon.”
“Ben and I filed on that land some time ago and we mean to homestead it.”
“Well, you can’t,” Whit said. “My pa claimed it.”
“He has papers on it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He said the land was ours. All of it.”
Ben rolled up Whit’s pantsleg and liberally swabbed the bruised joint with a thick salve. Then he straightened the leg and bandaged it tight, but not too tight.
“You have to keep your leg straight and don’t put no weight on it,” Ben said. “I’ll make you a crutch so’s you can walk.”
“You just lie here while we set up camp,” John said. “Ben will make you that crutch and then we’ll head up to the flat this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” Whit said. “My knee feels some better.”
“Just lie still until we finish up making camp,” Ben said, his voice wavering between sternness and sympathy.
“Yes, sir, I will,” Whit said. “How come you’re makin’ camp here?”
John was walking away toward the horses, Ben ahead of him. He stopped and turned.
“We have a gold claim here, son. Had it for some time. We’re just getting back to it.”
“Where’ve you been?”
John didn’t answer. He joined Ben and they led the horses upstream into the aspens and fir trees, began unloading the panniers.
“You goin’ to tell that boy about his pa, John?”
“Not right off.”
“When?”
“Maybe after I tell his ma.”
“That ain’t goin’ to be easy.”
“No, I reckon not. Meantime, Ben, just keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“I ain’t sayin’ a word, John.”
“No, but you’re bustin’ to blurt it all out to that boy.”
“Me? Naw. I know how to keep a secret.”
“Since when?”
“Well, for a long time.”
John smiled.
“That boy’s got grit, John. He might not take kindly to what you tell him about his pa. He’s old enough to . . .”
“Ben,” John said, some steel in his voice, “just back off the subject. I’ll handle it.”
“You might have to—”
“I don’t draw down on boys, Ben.”
“That young ’un’s mite near a man.”
“Enough, Ben. Let’s get these tents up and the gear stowed. We’ve got a long morning and maybe an even longer afternoon.”
“You can say that again, John.”
John did not say it again, but they worked and made their camp in the shade of the trees, set out their pans and rockers, picks and shovels. One tent stored the dynamite, caps, fuses, extra lamps, ammunition, and foodstuffs.
Ben cut a forked limb from a lofty spruce and began to whittle it into a crutch. John helped the boy walk to their camp as Ben began to put together a noon meal with the sun high in the cloudy sky.
“Hungry?” Ben asked Whit.
“Some. I ain’t et in two days.”
“You spent the night in the mine?”
“Yeah. Them boys was plumb drunk when they come after me. Mean.”
“Well, if they don’t bother us,” John said, “we won’t bother them.”
“What about our cow?”
“Sometimes, it’s best to take your losses and get up from the table,” John said.
“What do you mean?”
“He means,” Ben said, “you ain’t goin’ to get your milk cow back.”
“Shoot,” Whit said. “That ain’t fair.”
“Next time,” John started to say, then thought better of it. “Well, don’t let there be a next time.”
“I got a gun,” Whit said.
John looked up from the plate Ben handed him, and fixed the boy with a steely glint of his eyes.
“Guns cause more problems than they solve,” he said. “Forget about packing iron.”
“You both carry guns.”
“I hate guns,” John said softly.
Ben snorted.
John turned his head and glowered at Ben.
“Don’t you say one damned word, Ben. Not one word.”
Ben handed a plate of grub to Whit.
“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” Ben said.
Whit took a fork and cut a new potato in half, sawed through a chunk of beef, and started eating.
Ben sat down and stared at the Colt on John’s hip, the gun his father had modified for his son and left to him after his death.
“Sometimes, Ben,” John said, “you can say a whole lot with your mouth shut.”
Whit looked at the two men.
He had no idea what they were talking about, but he chewed his food thoughtfully in the ensuing silence.
All three were finishing up their lunch when John heard the slightest sound a few yards away. He set down his pewter plate and turned, cupping a hand to his right ear.
“You hear that, Ben?” he asked.
“What?”
Then, there it was again, the soft crunch of a boot on a dry tree branch, the crinkle of a loosened stone. Ben stopped chewing the last of the meat and stared in the d
irection John was looking.
John’s right hand glided slowly toward the butt of his pistol.
That was as far as he got.
“You grab that hogleg and your brains will wind up on your plate, mister.”
John stiffened and froze his hand in midair.
A burly man stepped out from behind a juniper, a rifle held level in his beefy scarred hands.
“Just nobody make any sudden moves,” the man said, and two more men emerged from behind the trees. Each carried a rifle, and the first man cocked the hammer back.
Inside his head, John’s mind ticked like a clock, a clock tied to a half dozen sticks of dynamite.
3
THE THREE MEN ALL WORE BACKPACKS MADE OUT OF HEAVY duck. The packs bristled with shovels, picks, pry bars, and chunks of milled wood. John saw the outlines of gold pans and tin cups as the men unslung the packs and dropped them on the ground. With their metal contents, the packs clanked like sacks of kitchen utensils.
John looked closely at the men, focusing on their eyes. The one who had spoken seemed to be their leader and the most dangerous. He had pale blue eyes and his gaze shifted from John to Whit, back and forth, as if trying to make a connection. He did not look at Ben much, which told John that the man did not consider the bearded old man much of a threat.
“You boys are a little bit off your range, ain’t ye?” the bull-shouldered man said, looking directly at John Savage.
“Seems to me you’re the ones who drifted,” John said, slowly and in an even, neutral tone of voice. “We’re camped on our legal mining claim.”
“We ain’t seen no workings here. I’m claimin’ this stretch of creek.”
“I don’t reckon you are,” John said, fixing the man with a stare dark as night.
The man looked over at Whit, his eyes bulging with a hatred that was almost palpable.
“That kid there. He kin of yours?”
“Maybe,” John said.
“You’re a damned liar.”
John didn’t bat an eye. Instead, he let a slow smile flicker on his lips. It was almost like a leaf shadow, soft and subtle, as fleeting as if it had wings.
“You’re good at name-calling,” John said, in that soft even voice of his. “I wonder if you know anything about the bullets in my six-gun.”
“Huh?”
The man’s two friends stepped closer to their leader, menacing looks in their eyes. John noticed that their rifle barrels were pointed at the ground. They wouldn’t open the ball, he was sure, and it would take them a second or two to aim their guns. Way too long for men who wanted to live past forty.
“My bullets have names,” John said.
“Mister, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about. Bullets don’t have names.”
“Mine do,” John said.
The man shook his rifle as if it were a dust mop or a broom.
“You talk too damned much, mister,” he said.
“I just thought you might want to know their names,” John said.
“Makes no never-mind to me.”
“One of my bullets is called Fate. Another is Destiny. In fact, three of them are named Fate and the other three are called Destiny.”
“That makes about as much sense as you sayin’ you got a claim here.”
“Well, the ones called Fate are either warnings or a smashed leg. The Destiny bullets take out throats or brains. One smashes a man’s heart to a bloody pulp.”
While he was talking, John’s hand had slid ever so slowly to the butt of his pistol.
“You shut your damned mouth or my rifle will do all the talkin’.”
“We gonna shoot ’em all, Krieger?” The man closest to the bullish man spoke the words.
Krieger didn’t answer. He started to bring his rifle up to his shoulder.
That was all John needed.
To everyone’s surprise, John did two things so fast, he caught the three strangers off guard for a split second. He got to his feet, but didn’t stand up straight. Instead, he sidled to his right and drew his pistol so fast that it was a black blur in his hand. They all heard the snick of the cocking mechanism as John hammered back with his thumb. The pistol seemed to have a life of its own as he crouched, aimed, and fired with just a light squeeze of the hair-trigger.
Krieger screamed as the first bullet smashed into the stock of his rifle, right next to his hand. The stock splintered as the .45-caliber lead ball smashed into the wood, shredded it to sawdust. The rifle flew from Krieger’s hands and bounced off a tree trunk and clattered to the ground. Before the other two could bring their rifles to bear, John swung his pistol and squeezed off two more shots. His bullets struck one man just above the kneecap, and he uttered a shrill cry of pain as his leg twisted under him and, off balance, he careened to the ground.
The third man jerked as the bullet ripped through his upper arm, close to the shoulder. His fingers went limp as he twisted into a human corkscrew and staggered backward. His hand opened involuntarily and the rifle slid from his grasp, struck the ground muzzle-first, stood upright for a half second, then fell over.
Smoke billowed from the muzzle of John’s pistol, and he waded through it to stand over the three men, two of whom were clawing at their wounds. Krieger was on his knees, grasping his numb and stinging hand, a glazed look in his eyes.
All three men heard the pistol cock again. They all stared at the pistol’s black snout as if it were a poisonous snake about to strike.
“There are three bullets left in the cylinder. Each one is named Destiny,” John said. “Make your choice. You tasted a speck of Fate just now. Your destinies are waiting.”
“God, man, don’t shoot,” Krieger said, his eyes wet and glittering.
“Don’t shoot us,” said the man squeezing his leg, blood pouring from a blue-black hole just above his kneecap, a splinter of bone poking through his fingers.
“No, man, you win,” said the third man, his slitted eyes leaking tears as his wound painted his hand a bright red.
“You lose your rifles,” John said, “and your sidearms. You walk back to your camp and never come down this creek again.”
All three men nodded.
“I can’t walk,” the man with the wounded leg said.
“What’s your name?” John asked, leveling his pistol at him.
“Harry—Harry Short,” the man stammered.
“And you?” The barrel of his pistol swung toward the man with a hole through his arm muscle.
“Peter Rosset,” he said tightly, grimacing in pain. “Pete.”
“And you, Krieger,” John said. “You got a given name?”
“They call me Al,” he said. “For Albert.”
“I’ll remember your names and your faces,” John said. “Now, shuck those pistols and get on back up the creek before I change my mind.”
The smell of burnt powder lingered in the still air as the three men lifted their pistols from their holsters and laid them on the ground. Krieger and Rosset helped Short to his feet. They made noise as they staggered through the leafy aspen branches, their boots crunching on rock and gravel. Soon, there was silence again, and John swung the cylinder out of his pistol, ejected the hulls, and slid three fresh cartridges into the empty chambers. The silver inlays on the pistol gleamed and sparkled in the sun as he turned to face Ben and Whit. The boy’s eyes widened as he stared at the pistol, at the part of the barrel that bore a scripted legend in Spanish.
“Goshamighty,” Whit said, “I never seen nothin’ like that. What’s that you got writ on your pistol, Mr. Savage?”
John stuck out his hand, let the boy read what it said.
“Is that Mexican?”
“Spanish, yes.”
“What’s it mean?”
Ben chuckled under his breath as he got to his feet. He walked over and began picking up the rifles and pistols that were strewn among the aspens.
“It means a great deal to me,” said John. “My father gave this gun to me b
efore he died. He modified it, gave it a hair-trigger, and had it engraved in silver.”
“I wish I knew what it said.” Whit watched as John pulled the pistol back and looked down at the barrel, the words.
“It says, ‘No me saques sin razón, ni me guardes sin honor.’”
“Huh?”
“It means, ‘Do not draw me without reason, nor keep me without honor,’” John said.
“You had a reason to draw it, I reckon,” Whit said.
John holstered the pistol. He didn’t say anything right away.
He drew a breath, held it, then let the air out slowly.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, “I think the pistol has a mind of its own.”
Ben laid the weaponry down and looked long and hard at John as Whit’s eyes shone with a faraway look of wonder.
“It’s just a hunk of iron, John,” Ben said. “It don’t have no mind of its own.”
John looked at Ben, his eyes narrowed. He could still feel the shock of the pistol’s recoil in his hand, and the echoes of its booming voice still reverberated in his ears.
“It’s more than that,” he said, and turned away, walked down to the creek, squatted, and washed his hands in the cooling waters. He could still smell the acrid smoke, the burnt powder, and wondered if he would have killed those three men if they hadn’t given up after his warning. He hadn’t wanted to end their lives, but he had cocked his pistol a fourth time, and he could still feel the tingling in his trigger finger as it hovered near that delicate trigger, a hair breadth away from touching it.
He might have killed them.
The gun might have killed them. He thought he could still feel it pulsing in his hand, the grip throbbing against the muscles of his hand, as if it were breathing.
As if it were just waiting for that light touch of his finger to bring on its deadly roar, its lethal thunder.
He shook his head as if to throw away his thoughts, as if he could so easily dismiss them.
“Let’s see about getting this boy back up to his home and his ma,” he said to Ben. “After you hide those rifles and pistols real good.”
“You show us the way, Whit,” Ben said. “We’ll get you home.”
Whit said nothing. He was still looking at John Savage with something very close to awe.
