Sacketts 14 - Galloway

by Galloway

  Then, for awhile, listening to the cropping of grass and the running water, I

  slept.

  Chapter VIII

  The town lay off the road with the most beautiful backdrop of mountains you ever

  did see, and the La Plata was down off the bench and under the trees, hidden

  from the town, but close by.

  Now when I say "town" I mean it western style. In this country we folks call

  anything a town where people stop. First off there's a stage stop or a store or

  maybe only a saloon. Out California way there was a town started because a man's

  wagon broke down and he just started selling whiskey off the tailgate.

  Generally towns in this country, like in the old country, began at river

  crossings or places where the trails crossed. Folks like to stop at rivers, but

  the smart ones always cross the river first, and then camp. The river might rise

  up during the night and hold them for days.

  London, folks tells me, began at the only good crossing of the river in many

  miles. At that place there was a gravel bottom. The same thing folks tell me was

  true of other cities about the world, but how Shalako came to be, I had no idea.

  It was mid-afternoon when my mustang ambled up the one street of the town. With

  the mountains reared up against the sky in the background there were three

  buildings, two on one side of the street, one on the other. I swung down in

  front of the saloon and tied my horse, sizing up the place.

  Across the street was a general store and as soon as I could round up some cash

  I figured to go over there and buy myself an outfit, including boots. Meanwhile

  I'd tackle the saloon.

  Now a western saloon wasn't just a place to belt a few. It was a clubroom for

  the men, a clearing house for information, and often as not more business was

  done at the bar than anywhere else around. A man could go into a saloon and find

  out how the trails were, whether the Indians were on the warpath, or just about

  anything he needed to know. And I needed to know plenty. Mostly where I could

  find Galloway.

  So I pushed past the swinging doors and went in. It was cool and quiet inside.

  The bar ran across about two-thirds of the end of the room, and by the end of

  the bar there was a door. That bar was polished and in mighty fine shape. There

  were a dozen tables, a beat-up music box, and a man leaning over the bar.

  "Howdy," I said, "I'm Flagan Sackett. I'm hunting a brother of mine and somebody

  who'll stake me to a bait of grub."

  "Your brother Galloway Sackett?"

  "That's the one."

  "He and his partner rode off up country. They said to give you whatever you

  needed, so the grub will be ready. You want a drink?"

  "Thanks. I don't shape up to be much of a drinking man, but I'll have it."

  Now I didn't shape up to be much of anything right then. Like I said, those

  clothes I had on fit me a mite too soon. The pants ended above my ankles and the

  shirt sleeves only came down below my elbows. The shirt was tight across the

  chest and back, and of course, thin like I was from lack of eating, I looked

  like the skeleton had come out of the cupboard.

  Just then the doors swung open and two men came in—cowhands from somebody's

  outfit. They wore chaps and they bellied up to the bar and then one of them saw

  me.

  "Look, what the cat dragged in," he said. "Mister, next time you swipe

  somebody's pants you better make sure they fit."

  "That would be hard to do," I said, "judging by what I see around. I don't think

  there's a man-sized pair of pants in the outfit, letting alone the bartender."

  One of those gents was a stocky, redheaded gent with square shoulders and

  freckled hands ... fists right now. He taken a step toward me and said, "Let's

  see who fills the biggest pants around here."

  "Mister Red," I said, "I'm in no shape for a fight. I've come off the mountain

  after a most difficult time with Indians and such. You just hold that head of

  steam for a week or so and I'll take you out and punch your head into shape."

  "I think you're yella," he said.

  "No," I said, "although I can understand your viewpoint. But I don't aim to give

  myself none the worst of it and I'm in no shape to fight. Right at this moment I

  couldn't whip a sick kitten."

  The bartender came through the door from the kitchen pushing a tray loaded with

  grub ahead of him. "Here you go, Sackett," he said. "This'll put meat on your

  ribs."

  That redhead stared at me. "Is your name Sackett? You related to Tyrel?"

  "Cousins," I said, "although the only time we ever met was down in the Tonto

  Basin awhile back. Do you know Tyrel?"

  "I know him. He's hell-on-wheels with a gun."

  "Runs in the family," I said. "We all take to shooting like we do to girling or

  eating. Comes natural. I cut my teeth on the butt of a six-gun."

  "We had trouble, Tyrel an' me."

  "Must not have amounted to much," I said, "that trouble you speak of."

  "Why?"

  "You're still alive, ain't you? The way I heard it Tyrel don't waste around.

  When he has a job to do he does it. If I were you I'd forget all about that

  trouble. And whatever you had in mind here, too. I don't want nothing to take my

  mind off this grub."

  So saying I straddled a chair and cut into that meat. Hungry as I was it could

  have been an old saddle and I'd have eaten it, stirrups and all.

  Red brought his beer over and sat down opposite me. "Truth to tell," he said,

  "Tyrel could have pinned my ears back, and he didn't. I was tied in with a rough

  crowd and I was feeling my weight. I never did get nowhere bucking Sacketts."

  "Then it's about time you either stayed out of the fights or got in on the right

  side."

  "Which side is yours?"

  "One not hunting trouble. We came into this country hunting land. We figure to

  settle down and raise cows and families. You got anything against that?"

  "No ... but the Dunns might."

  Well, I didn't want to talk about it. Seemed to me there'd been too much talk

  already. What I wanted was some shuteye, now that I was stowing away this grub.

  I wanted a rest and then an outfit. I'd need blankets, a poncho, saddlebags, a

  rifle, and some grub. It was a lot to ask, but no more than I could pay for,

  given time.

  The saloonkeeper left his bar and crossed over to my table with a beer. "Mind if

  I join you? Name's Berglund."

  He was a big, tough-looking man with yellow hair, a wide, battle-scarred face,

  and massive shoulders, arms and fists. "Glad to have company," I said. "You been

  here long?"

  "Nobody has. I was driftin' through the country, headed west. I suppose I was

  huntin' gold, and did make a pass at it now and again, but then I came up on

  this bench and I decided this was there I wanted to stay. The fishing was great

  and the hunting was even better, so I bought an axe and an adze and built myself

  a saloon. I figured that was the easiest way to find company.

  "In the good months I fish and hunt, and in the winter I sit by the fire and

  read or talk. I'm a talkative man, Sackett. I like people, and enjoy their

  company. Nothing like a warm fire when the weather's turning bad to get folks to
>
  sit up and talk."

  "It's a risk meeting folks," I said. "You never know which one is a danger to

  you. It's like coming to a crossroads where you pull up and look both ways and

  your whole life may change if you take the wrong direction. One thing you can be

  sure of ... your life wouldn't be the same."

  "I don't know," Berglund argued, "I think a man takes trouble with him."

  "Well," I said, "I surely didn't want trouble when Curly Dunn first came up on

  me. He brought it to me. And I'd no idea I'd ever see him again, but when Meg

  Rossiter taken me home she taken me right into the middle of the target."

  When I finished that meal I just sat there for a moment, enjoying the contented

  feeling that was settling me down. I sorely needed an outfit, but right now I'd

  no desire to get my feet under me and walk over there. Nor was there pleasure in

  the thought of pushing my sore feet down into new boots.

  "There's folks a-coming in," Berglund said, "most of them prospectors, but

  there's a few farmers and cattlemen coming, too. This here's a growing land."

  "The Dunns come in often?"

  "Nearly every day. They spend money, but I don't care for them. And the worst of

  them isn't Curly, either. He's small calibre compared to Ollie Hammer or Tin-Cup

  Hone. Tin-Cup got his name from the mining camp they call Tin-Cup. They had a

  way of running marshals out of town or killing them, and Tin was one of the

  worst of the lot. Then he ran into Ollie and they teamed up and came down here

  and signed on to punch cows for Old Man Dunn and his boys. That's a mean lot."

  Getting to my feet I thanked him and walked outside. The sun was still bright on

  the mountains although it would soon be hidden behind them. I walked across the

  street, limping some, and went into the store.

  Galloway had been there before me and told them I might show up, so I outfitted

  myself with new pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. I looked at the guns but

  decided to hang onto the old Dance & Park six-shooter. That gun felt lucky to my

  hand.

  When I walked back to the saloon I was toting a full outfit, right down to a

  brand spanking new Winchester. And you know something? That was the first new

  gun I'd ever owned. Always before it was some hand-me-down, owned by a

  half-dozen before me.

  Berglund had him a back room and I changed there and got into my new outfit, all

  but the boots. I set them aside for a time when my feet would be well enough.

  Then I taken that Winchester and loaded her to the guards. She was a '73, and

  carried seventeen bullets in the magazine and chamber.

  When I came back into the saloon Berglund looked at me and said, "You're all

  slicked up to go courtin'. Who'll it be? Meg Rossiter?"

  "She'd never look twice at me," I said. "But I'll tell you what I want to do. I

  want to write a letter. You got the makin's?"

  So Bergland fixed me up with paper and pen, and then went to stirring up a fire.

  Fine as it was in the daytime a body could always sleep under a blanket there at

  Shalako, which suited me.

  The letter I wrote was to Parmalee. He was a flat-land Sackett, folks of which

  we'd heard tell but had never met up with until that trouble down in the Tonto

  Basin when Tyrel and Parmalee Sackett showed up.

  He was an educated man. Those flatland Sacketts had money. They were well-off,

  and Parmalee had been to school and all. It never affected his shooting, though,

  so I reckon school is a thing to be wished for. Wishing never done me any good.

  Parmalee had cattle, and this here was fine grazing land, and Parmalee had

  something else he'd need. He had nerve. When I'd finished the letter to

  Parmalee, telling him of the range, I suddenly had a thought. We were shaping up

  for trouble with the Dunns, and that was excuse enough to write to Logan.

  Now Logan was a Clinch Mountain Sackett, and those boys from Clinch Mountain are

  rougher than a cob. There were those who called Logan an outlaw, but he was

  family, and he was handy with a shooting iron.

  I wrote to him, too.

  Trouble was, the shooting was likely to be over and done with before any of

  those boys ever got here, unless it was Parmalee, who was down in New Mexico,

  not far south of the line.

  He might make it in time. And of a sudden I had a hunch we'd need him.

  This country was shaping up for war.

  Chapter IX

  Leaving my gear at Berglund's place, I mounted that grulla and rode down off the

  bench into the river bottom of the La Plata. It was very still. There was grass,

  and everywhere a body looked there were the tall white trunks of the aspen.

  Stopping at the river I let the mustang drink from the cold water that ran down

  froin the melting snows on the mountains.

  Across the stream I went up through the trees beyond. There was a plateau over

  there with good grass, a few clumps of oak brush here and there, but a fresh,

  green country lying at the foot of the mountains.

  There were pines along the mountain slopes with thick-standing clumps of aspens

  of a lighter green. The aspen was usually the first tree to grow up after a

  burn, and the aspen groves provided a lot of food for wildlife.

  Riding slowly along the edge of the mountain and up under the trees along the

  slope, I knew this was my country, this was where I wanted to be. This was the

  land I'd been looking for and no amount of Dunns would keep me off of it.

  I headed back to Shalako.

  The first person I saw when I walked into the saloon was old Galloway, and I

  never laid eyes on anybody that looked better.

  "You look kind of peaked," he said, grinning at me. "I declare, the first time I

  leave you alone you make out to get yourself killed, or nigh onto it.

  "Flagan, this here's Nick Shadow ... a good friend."

  "Howdy."

  "My pleasure."

  We all sat down together at a table and went over what had taken place, and we

  came to agreement on Curly Dunn. Galloway looked me over mighty curious when I

  talked about Meg Rossiter, and I felt myself flushing. More because he was

  looking at me than anything else. It was no use him thinking there was ought

  between us, nor me thinking it either.

  The only thing she wanted from me was distance, and I had no ache to a shoot-out

  with Curly Dunn over a girl that couldn't see me for dust. What I had to tell

  them then was about the land I'd seen, and they agreed.

  I taken to Shadow. Galloway and me, we see things about the same, and anybody I

  liked he liked and the other way around. Nick Shadow was a tall, handsome man

  but one who had judgment as well as education, and the two don't always

  accompany one another. I've seen some men who were mighty bright in their books

  who couldn't tell daylight from dark when it came to judging men or the

  condition of things.

  Now I hold by the Good Book, but in some ways I am closer to the Old Testament

  than the New. I believe in forgiving one's enemies, but keep your hand on your

  gun while you do it, mentally, at least. Because while you are forgiving him he

  may be studying ways to get at you.

  I like my fellow man, but I also realize he carried a good measure of the Old

  Nick
in him and he can find a good excuse for almost any king of wrongdoing or

  mischief. I wanted no trouble with the Dunns, and would avoid giving them cause,

  but at the same time I had common sense enough to realize they might not feel

  the same way. A man who starts imagining that others think good because he does

  is simply out of his mind. I've helped bury a few who did think that way ...

  nice, peaceful men who wanted no trouble and made none. When feeding time comes

  around there's nothing a hawk likes better than a nice, fat, peaceful dove.

  "We can lay claim to land," I said, "but we'll have to have cattle on it. I've

  written to Parmalee."

  "I've got a few head," Shadow said. "We might include them in the drive."

  We spent the evening talking about the ranch we wanted, the cattle drive to

  come, and the future of the country. There was or had been a fort over on the

  Animas, and Berglund told us there was a house over there if you wanted to call

  it that. So we were not alone in the country. There was an Irishman named Tun

  McCluer who had moved into the country and he was getting along with the Utes

  ... which showed that it could be done.

  McCluer told Berglund that the Utes and the Jicarillas usually got along, so the

  bunch who had been hunting me were likely to have been renegades, prepared to

  plunder anyone who crossed their trail. The Indians had men like that as well as

  the whites.

  We stabled our horses in the livery barn and camped in the loft. Falling asleep

  that night I dreamed of my own outfit, and slept with the smell of fresh hay in

  my nostrils.

  We moved over west of the town, and west of the La Plata, and we made camp there

  in a grove of aspen, a splendid country spread out before us. We decided we'd

  all spend some days working on the beginnings of a spread, and after that Nick

  Shadow would take off for the south to meet Parmalee and to round up his own

  cattle to join the herd.

  "I don't need to tell you boys," he said, "but keep the Dunns in mind. They're a

  tough, lawless outfit and they won't take lightly to our being here. Especially

  after both of you have had words with Curly."

  First off, we built a corral, and then a lean-to. We built them back into the

  woods with a screen of trees between us and the open flat. Then we went back

  into the trees and cut some limbs here and there, and a whole tree yonder to