The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  Behind him the cutting horse stood, untied, head down, wetting the dusty street with the sweat that poured off his belly.

  Shurtz came out of his hotel and went across the street to the sheriff’s office. “Here, boy,” he said. “That’s no way to treat a good horse! He’ll get the heaves, standing hot that way in the wind.”

  Young Gresham turned and spread eagled himself against the office door, heaving almost as much as the horse. “Where’s the sheriff, old man?”

  “Here,” Shurtz said. “A little respect, youngster! The sheriff’s out of town. Can’t you read?”

  The kid’s face fell apart all at once. It was like the sheriff had been the end of a crusade for him; like the touch of sheriff-hand or the sight of sheriff-face was needed to stop the march of some fatal disease through his body, and now, denied it, he was resigned to die.

  Shurtz said: “What is it, boy?”

  A half dozen of Rock Spring’s finest loafers had drifted over to see what went on, and with them Hostetter, from his feed store. He said to Shurtz: “What is it, Al?”

  Shurtz shook his head. “Boy’s been kicked by a mule and lost his senses.”

  The Gresham boy got his wind back, then. “They killed Paw,” he said. “He was out riding fence, and they killed him. Tied him on his hoss, an’ he come home thataway. An’ they follered him, and Maw went for the shotgun, an’ they…they…”

  Shurtz said sharply: “They killed your mother, too?”

  The boy nodded.

  Hostetter said: “Indians? Shoshone?”

  The Gresham boy shook his head.

  There was a lot of silence there in the street of Rock Spring. Somebody said that they ought to send for Charley Sydnor, but nobody moved, though surely all had seen a crying boy before.

  What they would have done next is hard to say; because a new diversion broke them away from the Gresham boy. One of the farm kids climbed the big rock, and from up there had seen something; he was yelling and waving his arms.

  His father climbed up with him, and his deeper voice boomed down the canyon of the street. “Soldiers. Hey, folks, the Army’s got here at last.”

  And so the whole of Rock Spring was lined up to see Lieutenant Beer bring his column into town, the handful of yellow legs and Jack Romayne and Dan Younge.

  Health flowed back into the community. The Army was here, the Army would protect them.

  Beer dismounted, handed his reins to his orderly, turned to Rylan. “Sergeant, find a flat place to camp, requisition fodder for the horses, free meat for the men if you can and keep everyone together.”

  He looked down the line. Several of his troopers were licking their lips. He said: “All right, Rylan. Pick a man you can trust, and tell him to go get enough beer to fill each man’s canteen cup once. Here.” He reached in his pocket, took out a couple of greenbacks and handed them over. “But no more.”

  Dan Younge had helped Jack Romayne off his troop horse; its regular rider scrambled into the saddle at once. Dan waited, but Jack Romayne said nothing, and finally the gambler told the soldiers, “Thanks a lot,” and moved away to the sheriff’s office. Lieutenant Beer, behind them, was asking to be directed to the Indian agent.

  Romayne had fumbled the key out of his vest pocket, was unlocking the office door. “Extra key,” he said. “I always carry it.”

  Dan Younge said nothing until they were inside the office. Then he said: “Thanks for the use of the packhorse, Romayne.”

  Jack Romayne said: “You think I’m yellow. It’s a thing could have happened to any man. Shock. Surprise.”

  Dan Younge said:

  “If I told your good people about you, maybe they’d fire you and make me sheriff. I don’t want to be.”

  He turned and went back out on the street, poorer by a saddle and a bridle and a horse than he had been when last he walked Rock Spring. He went down the board sidewalk and into the Great Chance, and Wellman, from behind the bar, said: “So you came back.”

  “No other place to go. Give me a whiskey.”

  Wellman tapped a bartender’s shoulder, said: “On the house,” and then, “You’ll work tonight, Dan?”

  Dan Younge said: “Sure. I’m dead broke. I’ll make money for you tonight, there’s soldiers in town, fresh money. And a sergeant and an officer… Also, there’s about a million Indians, more or less, about to descend on the town. But I don’t think they’re here to gamble.”

  Wellman’s mouth fell open. “What—what—?”

  “A lot of their people have been killed. Being good, law-abiding Indians, they are coming here to ask Miles to order the soldiers to run down the killers.”

  “They can’t do that,” Wellman cried. “Those soldiers are all we’ve got between us and…”

  “And what?” Dan asked. He tapped his whiskey glass and the bartender filled it again, slid him a bowl of pretzels.

  He sat there. Sydnor came in, then Hostetter, Miles, the lieutenant and Jack Romayne, with a fresh bandage from Dr. Arnall. They held their conference at the bar, the biggest room in town.

  Lieutenant Beer said: “I sent a corporal to take word to the fort, tell them where I’ve gone. They’ll relieve us, I’m sure.”

  “They’d better,” Major Miles said. “Those Indians are likely to lay siege to the town. They—well not Shoshone, but Cheyenne—did that once before, up north.”

  Dan Younge moved to the baize-covered table and picked up a deck of cards. A couple of heads turned his way; the lure of gambling never died, and a good poker dealer could always make out.

  Shurtz said: “The Gresham boy said the leader of the gang that killed his folks wore a big, floppy white hat. Any of you place that?”

  Nobody answered him. Two men drifted to Dan’s table and then another and he reached in his drawer and laid out a fresh pack, nodded to one of the men to break the seal. Another man was coming to join them.

  There had been no answer to Shurtz’s question, no great interest in trying to answer it.

  Yet, that was the first time White Hat was mentioned in Rock Spring. There would be plenty more times.

  CHAPTER XII

  Over his player’s heads Dan saw the swinging doors slam open with enough force to almost keep them that way. Wellman stumbled in, still holding the halter rope he’d taken to go after a cow a townsman had lost over Dan’s table. “Indians,” he yelled. “Right on the edge of town.”

  Dan was dealing to three men—two soldiers and a townsman. Corporal Sully said: “Hit me once, and then me an’ Penroyal better git back to camp.”

  Dan dealt him a king, put a three and then a five on Penroyal’s cards, dealt the townsman, Jensen, out. He handed himself a twenty and collected. “Indians are not much for night moving,” he said. “These must be in a hurry.”

  “They smell the blood of a cavalryman,” Sully said, unexpectedly. “I wish I’d stayed in Boston.” But he moved through the crowded barroom with a swagger, pulling on his big gauntlets as he went, followed by the young Penroyal.

  Dan Younge looked at Jensen, and shrugged. “Game’s closed,” he said.

  But the bar wasn’t. The men of Rock Springs were pushing up to it, buying courage at so much—too much—an ounce. A man could almost tell how much an individual had drunk by the force and eloquence of his boasts.

  There was no use trying to deal till the excitement bubbled down a little.

  He said good night to Wellman, but the owner never heard him. However, Big Red, the head bartender, caught Dan’s eye, and said: “I’ll tell him,” without stopping the rapid bottle and glass work of his hands.

  Dan Younge passed out into the street. Sober townsmen elbowed him in their anxiety to get inside and correct that condition; the news had gone up and down canyon in a hurry.

  Here came Sydnor, preceded by his belly. Dan Younge, starting to take his usua
l pre-bed stroll, decided to go down canyon; it seemed politic to avoid the vicinity of Sydnor and Phyllis Sydnor’s house.

  There was a lamp burning in the sheriff’s office, and that was another place he was not anxious to visit. But Jack Romayne was in the doorway; he called: “Younge? That you, Dan?”

  Dan Younge sighed and moved towards the sheriff. “Yeah.”

  The sheriff smiled. “You got posse money due you. Three dollars a day and twenty cents a mile. We must have covered—what—fifty, sixty miles.”

  Dan Younge said: “Sydnor’d never pay it; and it’s not enough to make me fight him. And—not meaning to tell you your business—there’s trouble downtown—the kind that flows gently from a bottle.”

  “I’ll get down there,” Jack Romayne said. “There’s a woman coming. Prob’ly somebody wants me to haul her spouse out of Wellman’s.”

  But it was Ellen Lea. She stood in the light from the office, and said: “Oh, Jack. Saw your light. I’m not exactly a shrinking violet, but I’d appreciate a sober escort home.”

  Jack Romayne said: “Dan was just telling me that Rock Spring seems to be drowning itself tonight. Work to do. Will you wait, Ellen, unless Dan Younge here…” He let the question go unsaid.

  Dan Younge said: “A pleasure,” because there was nothing else to say.

  Ellen Lea said: “Oh, I’d not take you out of your way, Mr. Younge, Jack…”

  But Romayne was already gone down the sidewalk, towards the trouble. Dan Younge watched him go and thought, wound and all, he heads for the trouble he’s used to; it’s the unknown that frightens him. He said: “I always take a walk before bed,” and held out his arm to Ellen Lea.

  She took it, letting her fingers rest lightly on his bent arm, and said: “I’ve heard and seen you on those walks, Mr. Younge, and wondered. A widow sleeps lightly.”

  This was a subject to be avoided. “So does a gambler.”

  Ellen Lea said: “It must be lonesome, being the only professional gambler in a town.”

  When a lady used the word lonesome, Dan Younge shied; towards, if she were married, away if she was not. He said: “Well, a gambler’s hours are good, and I get the exercise I need horseback riding. Which reminds me; I need to buy a horse. Do you know anybody with a good one for sale?”

  They were halfway between downtown and Sydnor’s now. She said, “This is my place. I’ll ask around about a horse, Mr. Younge. Most news passes through the store every day.”

  She had left a lamp burning in her window, she must have gone home to supper and then back down to Sydnor’s store. He didn’t envy her working conditions. It was past one o’clock, and Charley Sydnor would probably expect her to open the store at seven tomorrow. Or maybe be there earlier to dust.

  Under the circumstances, he could hardly blame her for looking for a husband, even a professional gambler.

  His sense of humor got the better of him then, and he began to chuckle softly as he turned back downtown. Wait till you’re asked, Danny Boy. There’s something between her and Jack Romayne, and a good, steady sheriff’s a nice prospect.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Jack Romayne woke up the next morning and knew, as a man does, that his wound was on the mend. Since he had broken up three fights the night before, this was pretty good. And in a way, it was bad, too. If the bullet crease had turned into something serious, it would have vindicated him in Dan Younge’s eyes.

  He shaved carefully, because he intended to consult Lieutenant Beer, and he had an idea that a neat and soldierly appearance would help him.

  He found the officer in front of the hotel, quietly watching the street traffic. He said: “You heard about the Indians? I plan to get up a posse of citizens, ride out to the Shoshone camp, show them the men of Rock Spring are under arms and ready to ride with your troops.”

  “Troops is a mighty poor description for a depleted platoon,” Beer said. He pulled at his smooth shaven chin. “Call my command a squad, and I wouldn’t get insulted. Sheriff, you may have an idea. It would depend on how much control you can hold over your citizens. One hothead could start an Indian war.”

  “That’s the chance we have to take,” Jack Romayne said.

  Lieutenant Beer said: “Every time I hear someone use that phrase, I know he hasn’t thought out the thing he plans to do.”

  Jack Romayne said: “Lieutenant, I can be pushed a little too far. I suggest we go see Major Miles.”

  “A third man seems indicated.”

  A little knot of townsmen had collected around them; but the two officials, Army and civilian, spoke in low voices, and nobody ventured close enough to overhear. Now, as Romayne and Beer started for their horses, the curiosity seekers followed them.

  Beer said: “Rock Spring seems to have declared a legal holiday.”

  Jack Romayne was mounting, a little clumsily, the action pulled at the half-healed crease on his side. He didn’t answer.

  They pulled out of the hitching rail and turned towards the Indian Agency. It was out of town, slightly, on the edge of the reservation land about a third of the way to the Shoshone camp that made itself evident this clear and windless morning by the smoke from a hundred campfires.

  “They don’t look like a war party,” Jack Romayne said.

  “Wouldn’t know,” Lieutenant Beer said. “Haven’t seen many.”

  The sheriff laughed in his easy manner. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen any. Cowboying around, I always avoid hostile country.”

  Beer said: “Lucky.”

  “I thought it was smart.”

  The high gate of the Agency was unmanned, but the flag was flying, indicating that the government was in operation. Inside the board building, opposite the big Agency store, a male secretary said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Major Miles is in his office. I’ll see if he can see you.”

  Jack Romayne laughed, but Lieutenant Beer said: “Certainly.”

  The clerk went through a painted wooden door and closed it behind him. Beer said: “Sheriff, never disturb the even tenor of a red taper’s day. What’s a minute, more or less?”

  The penpusher came back and bowed. “Major Miles will see Lieutenant Beer and Sheriff Romayne.”

  “Nice of him,” Jack Romayne said, and followed the Army man into the sacred inner office of the Indian agent.

  Major Miles came from behind his desk, a cheerful looking man, neat in a black suit and white shirt. He held out a well scrubbed hand. “Sheriff, Lieutenant, I was just about to walk into town to look for you.”

  “We rode out,” Jade Romayne said.

  “Quite so. In this job, I’m at a desk so much, I walk when I get a chance.” He laughed and patted his slightly plump belly. “Well, well. I gather the problem is, what to do and who’s to do it?”

  Lieutenant Beer said: “On reservation land, in reservation matters, I am to be at the disposal of any Indian Bureau official who cares to take the responsibility.”

  The sheriff said: “Short and to the point: I want to assemble a posse—a large posse—of townsmen, and take them out, with Lieutenant Beer’s men, to see the Indians.”

  Miles shot a quick look at Beer. “Armed men?” he asked. “On the reservation?”

  Jack Romayne said: “If there’s going to be a fight, I don’t think Rock Spring ought to have it where the women and children are. If there isn’t going to be a fight, your Indians aren’t going to be hurt by the sight of men carrying guns.”

  Major Miles nodded. “Very well put. And yet… Let’s hear from the Army.”

  Beer smiled slightly. “Those Indians say their people have been murdered, including some women. No use my talking to them again; I’m under the orders of your Bureau.”

  Miles said, slowly: “Let’s leave it at this. I’ll go parley with the Indians, and Lieutenant Beer will provide me with some of his men, few enough so that
the Shoshone will not take alarm. Sheriff Romayne will come with us or not, as he sees fit, and he’ll make every effort to keep his townspeople away.”

  “Good,” Beer said. He put out his hand and he and Miles shook, then they both shook hands with the sheriff. Beer said, “I’ll be back in half an hour. I want to make sure my men are properly turned out. I understand Indians are strong on ceremony.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Dan Younge had awakened at his usual hour. Now, at eleven, he came to the door of the hotel, lit a cigar, and leaned there, smoking, looking out over the main street.

  There was a clatter and a cloud of dust, and the lieutenant rode by, all in blue and spotless yellow, followed by eight of his men, as well-groomed as he. They rode at stiff attention, eyes forward, backs arched, and one of the men carried a guidon and another an American flag.

  Before the cavalry dust had settled, the men in the crowd began talking it up, each in his own way. Some muttered and some yelled, but the result was the steady hum that any man knows—too well—if he has ever heard a mob about to form.

  Dan Younge blew a smoke ring. It hung on the air.

  Jack Romayne came out of his office, badge catching the bright sun, gun slung alertly on his hip, hat tilted back to show his pleasant face.

  A man called out: “The Army just rode by, dressed fit to kill, goin’ to call on them Injuns fer afternoon tea.”

  Wellman was shoving through the crowd, and behind him Sydnor. They ranged themselves in front of Romayne, forcing him back a little into the office. Dan Younge grinned to himself. The real bosses of Rock Spring talked to the sheriff in voices too low for the crowd and Dan Younge to hear. Now Wellman was turning and facing the crowd, but from his attitude, and from the bulk of Sydnor behind him, it was the storekeeper’s decision that was being relayed.

  “You’re taxpayers and citizens,” Wellman said. Behind him Sydnor’s lips moved. Wellman nodded and went on. “The sheriff agrees that it might be a good idea for you men to be standing by.”