I didn’t kill him, but I burned him. I made him know he’d been shot at. I sent him a yippin’ out of there. But they kept ridin’ around.
One of ‘em throwed a torch at the house that fell on the roof an’ rolled off.
Both Pa an’ me we opened up an’ dusted ‘em around with lead. It taken ‘em a few shots to realize we weren’t inside but outside, and then they turned around and charged at us.
Well, you never seen such a fine sight.
There must’ve been fourteen or fifteen of ‘em an’ they was all mounted up on fine horses and they come at us like cavalry chargin’. It was a real sight. A better sight I never saw nor had, lookin’ right down the rifle barrel at ‘em, and that time when I fired there wasn’t no mistake.
A man just throwed up his hands and fell off his horse. He hit dust and rolled over and he lay all sprawled out. And Pa took a shot and then he said, “Son, let’s get out’n here.”
So we taken off.
We taken off a-runnin’. Pa was a better runner than I thought. He was really a-leggin’ it when we heard a yell behind.
They’d seen us.
“Here, boy,” Pa said. He dropped behind a log and he hadn’t hit dirt ‘fore he fired. And me, I was just a hair behind him, firing standin’ up behind a good thick tree.
They’d set the house afire. We could see the smoke goin’ up.
Them riders split around us and we hightailed it. We was close to the rim then and bullets was kickin’ the dust all around us when we went over the rim and flopped down. We was shootin’ fast.
They turned right and left into the trees and I started reloadin’ and looked over at Pa. And there was blood all over his shirt, and his face had gone white and me, I was scared.
I crawled over to him and slung him over my back, and carryin’ both rifles I slid and fell and crawled to the bottom of the canyon. It was no way to handle a hurt man, but I didn’t have no choice. I got him to our corral and bathed off his face a little, then tried to peel off his shirt.
I got it off and his undershirt down to his waist. I seen the bullet had hit his shoulder bone and tore through the meat on his shoulder, and down his back a mite. It was pressin’ against the skin of his back, a bluelike lump, and I figgered the thing to do was get shut of it. So I slid out my bowie and cut a slit in the skin and the bullet, it just popped out in my hand.
He’d lost some blood. He’d lost a-plenty of blood, but it didn’t look to me like no death wound. Still, a body couldn’t be sure.
So I plugged up the wound with pieces of his undershirt, bathed him off some, and stretched him out.
The bullet hittin’ that shoulder bone must have been a shock ‘cause he’d passed out, somewheres.
I taken his rifle and reloaded it and set a-watchin’ for the Mowatt gang. But didn’t none of ‘em come. I was all set for ‘em, and I was aimin’ to kill me some men. But they never come.
I guess they thought they’d killed us. Or scared us off, or somethin’. Or maybe they didn’t relish comin’ into that canyon against two rifles that had the drop on them from the trees.
So there I was in the bottom of Lost Canyon, with Pa bad off from lost blood and me not knowin’ a thing ‘bout what to do.
Time to time, I’d figgered Pa didn’t know much. But he was always able to patch up folks or doctor ‘em somehow. And me, for all my windy talk, I didn’t know what to do.
Right then I surely wasn’t thinkin’ of no blonde and blue-eyed girls. I was just wishin’
I know what to do ‘cause there wasn’t nobody else around to help.
I kindled us a small fire and started heatin’ water in one of the kettles Pa had slung on the horse. I swear, he must have thought it all out ahead of time ‘cause he’d took along everything a body might need.
Unpackin’ the horses I started rummaging around to see what I could find. I come on a can of white powder Pa had been give by an old man once that was supposed to be good for bob-wire cuts. Now I’d never seen no bob-wire, but I’d heard of it, and a bob-wire cut was a scratch. And this here wound wasn’t too different, so when I’d bathed it again, I scattered some of that white powder around it.
Them days, when folks was far from doctors, they just concocted their own medicine, and some of it worked almighty good. I put on the coffeepot and scouted for firewood. And I built our cover a little higher.
For all I knew they might just be a-settin’ up there atop the rim waitin’ ‘til it was sure-enough dark to come at me.
Leavin’ Pa for a moment I slipped down and got some water to heat up for broth after I’d made the coffee.
When I got back Pa was stirrin’ a mite.
How long he’d been bleedin’ before I seen he was wounded I don’t know. It might have been after the first burst of gunfire, but the way his clothes was soaked up with blood had scared me somethin’ awful.
Nobody showed. I guess they never come down off the rim but I wasn’t takin’ no chances going up there. If they nailed me, Pa would be left to die down here. Or tough it out alone.
So I set and waited and listened, longing for somebody to come. Only there wasn’t nobody goin’ to, ‘less Owen Chantry come back, and he’d not find us easy, way down in this hole.
I was real scared for Pa and never felt so helpless in all my days.
It was long after midday ‘fore Pa opened up his eyes. I was right there with some coffee, and I held the cup for him and let him have a sip or two.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You caught one, Pa. Ain’t too bad, but you surely lost blood. You got to sit quiet an’ rest. Ain’t nobody come. I got the stock took care of and some dee-fenses built up an’ the guns loaded an’ I been settin’ by just awaitin’ for ‘em to come. …”
He closed his eyes, then taken a mite more of coffee. It seemed to do him some good, and so I shaved off some jerky into a kettle and stirred it up real good with a fire under it. Soon I’d have us some broth.
“Chantry’ll come,” he said. “We’ll be all right then.”
Well, that sort of ired me. “He won’t find us, if’n he does. An’ even if’n he does come, he’ll likely run afoul of them Mowatts. We got to set here ‘til you feel better, then climb up yonder and get out of here.”
“This here’s our home, boy. We’re not goin’ to leave. We’re goin’ back an’ build up that house again. I’ve done wandered all I’m a-goin’ to, son. I’ve been a mover all my born days, but this here’s where I intend to stay.
Maybe it ain’t the finest land, maybe it’s far from city places, but it’s land I can say is mine. We’ll stay.”
By the time I’d fed him all he would take of that broth, the sun was out of sight and shadows were climbin’ the walls of the canyon. I drank what was left.
Then I taken the stock to water and found a patch of open grass along the stream. I dragged some poles into place and made a corral, using rocks, trees, and the side of the canyon. That would keep my stock a-feedin’.
Then I taken up my rifle. “Pa?” I said.
He answered somethin’. Only what he said weren’t right. He had him a fever and was wandering in his head. I’d figgered on going up to the rim for a look around.
I was turning back when I noticed the ears on Mary. Mary was a plow horse, and she was a big, powerful brute, but gentle as could be. And she could sense whatever was goin’ on around. Mary had her head and ears up. … Something was a-comin’.
There wasn’t no sound. Not a smidgin. And I listened hard.
Mary’s ears were still up, though she seemed less concerned. Maybe it was a varmint of some kind, a catamount, or the like. I started to set down my rifle when somebody spoke.
“Doby? Is it all right to come in?”
It was that Chantry. It was him, sure ‘nough.
“Come on in,” I said. I was never so relieved in all my born days. I wasn’t alone no longer with nobody to help with Pa but me.
Chantry come out of the trees a
foot and stopped there ‘til I had a good look at him. Then he come on up to the fire. He looked at Pa.
“How bad is he?”
So I told him. Pa was sleeping, so Chantry said to let him sleep, which was the best doctor of all. But when Pa was awake he’d have a look at the wound. And then he said, “Marny is with me, and an old man.”
“An old man?”
“He’s been here in these mountains for years.
… Or so he says.”
“I never seen no old man round here. You sure he ain’t one of them?”
“He’s not. We’ve been doing some shooting of our own.” Chantry went to the edge of the woods and called softly.
They come in. There was that girl, lookin’ tired-like but still almighty pretty, and an old, old man who looked like somebody had woke him up from his grave, he was that gray an’ old. But he moved about spry enough, an’ the way he taken for that coffeepot, you’d a thought he owned it.
“Get some sleep, Doby,” Chantry said to me. “I’ll look after your pa.”
Well … I was tired.
They built up the fire some and when I’d stretched out to sleep they set around drinkin’ coffee.
Our house had been burned, our stock scattered, an’ Pa was wounded. I had me a couple of busted ribs, and there was folks up on the canyon rim that wanted to kill us, but I slept. I just taken off to sleep, and it was full day ‘fore my eyes opened up. And there was no more sound than nothin’.
I sat up and looked around. There was Marny Fox, a-settin’ by the fire. Pa was a-layin’ on the ground not far off, his head on a folded coat.
Chantry was nowhere about.
“Where’s Chantry?” I asked.
“He went up to the house.”
“Ain’t no house. He’s wastin’ his time.
It’s done burned down.”
“No, it isn’t, Doby. The old man looked at it through his telescope and the house is standing. It’s been partly burned, all right, but it’s still standing.”
Course, I should have maybe figgered on that.
Heavy timbers like them would take time to burn. A sudden flash fire might not hold long enough to get them tight-fitted, squared-off logs to burnin’.
I went to the creek and splashed water on my face and washed my hands. I taken a mouthful of water and kind of sloshed it around inside, then spit it out. Then I combed my hair with my fingers the best I could.
When I come back to the fire, Marny poured coffee for me. And about that time Owen Chantry come in with that old man who looked like the walkin’ dead.
Chantry had an armful of books, some of ‘em charred a mite, but that was all. “The house didn’t burn, Doby. Only part of the roof and part of the porch.”
“You saved you some books,” I said. “Is that all you looked for?”
“It’s Tennyson I wanted,” he said, “
” A kind of funny look come over his face, and he stared hard at Marny.
“Tennyson. … Now that is a thought.”
Chapter 13
They were huddled together in a bunch.
“I used to read,” Marny said, “but we’ve few books here. If it wasn’t for Mac—”
“Mowatt reads?”
“As a matter of fact, he does. My feeling is, considering where he’s lived, he’s had a better than average education.”
“My brother liked Tennyson,” Chantry said, “and we had a mutual favorite, a poem called “Ulysses.””
It wasn’t the right time to be talking of books and poetry. It was time to figure a way to get out of the fix.
The Mowatts had bled and they’d not take it lightly. They’d come back.
“I think we should pay us a visit to Mowatt,” said Doby.
“Clive would have his own way of doing things,”
Chantry mused, “and if he wanted to tell me something he’d have his own way of doing it.”
“Them Mowatts got a way of tellin’ things, too,” Kernohan said, cross-like. “They’ll be comin’ back and here we set, like an ol’ ladies’ tea party!”
“You’re right, of course,” Chantry said. “But I don’t think they’ll come now. Sooner or later, we must leave this canyon, and when we do it will be easier for them to attack.”
Marny brought Chantry a cup of coffee.
He took it gratefully and glanced over at Doby.
Chantry knew the younger Kernohan had a chip on his shoulder, and it was probably over Marny.
Well … that was to be expected. The important thing was not to let it get out of hand.
Chantry was, he knew himself, inclined to be impatient, but he must not be impatient with Doby, who was a good lad and had the makings of a man.
Despite his assurances to the others, Chantry also knew the situation was uncertain. How much control could or would be exerted by Mac Mowatt remained to be seen.
He was tired and he needed a shave.
Suddenly, he was irritated. Doby was right. It was time to wind this thing up.
“I’m going to see him,” he said suddenly.
They looked at him, uncomprehendingly.
“I’m going to see Mac Mowatt and have him call off his dogs.”
“You’re plumb crazy!” The old man spoke before any of the others could. “They’d kill you afore you got to ‘im. An’ he ain’t callin’ nobody off, even if he could.”
“We’ll see.”
Marny was on her feet again. She was wide-eyed and still, staring at him. “They won’t listen,” she protested. “They’ll kill you.”
They were right, of course, but he was right, too.
Mowatt might see reason. If he did, that would take most of the load off their backs, anyway. Getting to him would be a problem but, despite his normal caution, there was in Owen Chantry a streak of wild Irish rebellion —foolhardiness some would call it. Others would call it plain damn foolishness. …
But it was his way to bow his neck and plunge in.
And better him than the others.
“They won’t expect it,” he said, more quietly. “I could walk in on them.”
“You can walk in,” Doby said grimly, “but you’ll never walk out again.”
In a flash of anger, Chantry spoke and was instantly sorry. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Doby?”
All their heads came up. Doby flushed.
“Nossir, I wouldn’t,” he said. “You an’ me may not see eye to eye, but I’d surely not like to see you get killed. I surely wouldn’t.”
Doby swallowed.
“Fact is, you go in there an’ I’m a-goin’ with you,” Doby said. “I can shoot, an’ I can stand steady. You go in there with me an’ you’ll see you ain’t the on’y one’s got hair on his chest.”
“I never doubted it, Doby,” Chantry said, sincerely. “But I’ll have to go by myself. After all,” he added, “it was my brother they killed.
Whatever it is they’re looking for belongs to me.”
“Maybe it does,” Doby said stubbornly, “an’ maybe it don’t. It’s buried in the ground, or hid. So maybe it’s just treasure-trove belongin’ to the finder.”
Chantry shrugged. “Wherever and whatever it is,” he said calmly, “my brother intended me to find it, and so he will have left it.”
He wanted it over, done with. He was getting the old urge to get out, to leave. Yet how many times had he done just that? Was that not, in itself, a form of cowardice?
Chantry brushed the wood ashes from his sleeve. He would need a new coat. This one was getting threadbare. He straightened it and walked over to his horse. This was no place to leave his friends, yet … He glanced up the canyon.
He hated to leave. Kernohan was hard hit.
Reluctantly, Chantry gave up the idea of moving their camp. They would have to chance it here.
“Sit tight,” he said, “I’ll go out and take a look.”
“If you’re goin’ after ‘em, I’m comin’ along,” Doby insisted.
“You stay. What about your pa?”
Doby looked trapped, but he argued no longer. “You’re takin’ a long chance,” he said.
Chantry glanced over at Marny. “I’ll be back,” he said and, touching a spur to his horse, he started for the trail.
He had no certain plan, nor could a plan be devised until he saw the situation at close hand.
It was a good scramble for his horse to get up the trail to the top of the mesa, and Chantry dismounted and led his horse when they reached the crest.
Birds were everywhere about. A squirrel sat on the ground near some rocks.
Every move must be made with caution now, for the renegades who rode with Mowatt were frontiersmen, all of them. His only advantage lay in the fact that they might also be careless.
He walked his horse in the deepest shadows, pausing from time to time to listen. He was disturbed by a vagrant but unfocused notion that kept slipping around at the edge of his mind. Every time he tried to pin the thought into position, to guide it into focus, it slipped away, eluding him.
… Something about Tennyson and his brother and himself. They used to write each other letters.
His horse walked softly through the grass and wild flowers that edged the woods. It was the long way around, but he had no desire to trust himself to the open out there, where the distance was shorter.
When he was well away from Lost Canyon, he moved more swiftly.
The air was cool, there was a dampness of dew on the underbrush now. Something stirred and he drew up suddenly. Several shadows moved out into sight.
He waited, holding his breath. Then he slowly relaxed …. Elk. They liked to feed in high meadows at night.
He caught a faint smell of smoke. He waited, trying to locate the source. The smell faded. He walked his horse on, keeping his eyes on its ears.
The ears were up, and Chantry could sense the interest of his horse. It smelled something too.
The smoke, other horses, or men. …
A faint breeze stirred the leaves, they rustled, and the breeze passed. He walked on, a few steps farther. Chantry had a feeling he was near their camp, but so far he had no definite indication of it.
He caught a gleam through the trees … water. He rode closer. It was a small lake, yet he still saw no fire, nor smelled any more smoke. He rode around the lake, taking his time. He glanced at the stars.
Over On the Dry Side (1975) Page 11
