Guns on the Prairie

by David Robbins

  Stone didn’t press him too hard. The boy was new to his job, and it wouldn’t do to badger him. Besides, Stone didn’t go around talking about his own past much, either. It was personal. No one’s business but his own.

  Their search proved fruitless until the third day after they buried Loudon. Along about the middle of the morning they came on the charred remains of a campfire. The tracks told Stone that two riders had camped at the spot and gone off to the north, crossing the river at a gravel ford.

  “This might be them,” Stone announced as he gazed at the green wall of vegetation on the other side.

  “It could be anyone,” Grant said.

  “We haven’t seen sign of anyone else, and you told me they were headin’ this way,” Stone said.

  “What’s north of here?” Grant wanted to know.

  “Not much,” Stone said. About thirty miles or so was the Loup River. And then there were the Sandhills. Which were exactly as their name implied—hills and ridges, some miles long and hundreds of feet high, made mostly of sand. But it wasn’t a desert. Far from it. Something about the sandy soil let it hold water really well, with the result that the Sandhills were some of the best grassland in the state. Farms and ranches were few so far, but Stone imagined that as word spread about the fine grass to be had and the plentiful water, more and more would spring up. For now, though, the Sandhills were largely the haunt of buffalo and other game. To say nothing of hostiles and those who lived on the shady side of the law, like Cal Grissom.

  Stone led across the river and Grant followed, tugging on the rope to his pack animal, which for some reason balked. Stone intended to have a talk with him about getting shed of the packhorse at the first opportunity. Deputies needed to travel fast and light. A packhorse was like an extra leg, and of no use whatsoever.

  Stone reminded himself that Grant was young and had a lot to learn, and bound to make mistakes.

  He looked for tracks on the other side and found some in the soft earth of the woods. The two riders had gone north. Soon the country became more open and more hilly, and the ground became harder. There was less sign. In another half mile there wasn’t any at all. He figured a thunderstorm the night before was to blame.

  Stone kept watch on the horizon like a hawk. He was concerned about the Sioux. There were reports they were mighty riled because gold had been found in the Black Hills up in the Dakotas, and whites were streaming in. The Sioux wouldn’t abide that. The Black Hills were sacred to them. The Cheyenne, too, were reported to be causing trouble.

  They had gone only a few miles when plumes of smoke drew Stone to the crest of a spine of grassy ground. He’d hoped it might be Burt Alacord and Weasel Ginty but the smoke came from a low building. “A soddy, by heaven.”

  “Way out here?” Grant said.

  “Sodbusters are poppin’ up everywhere,” Stone said. And why not, when land was easy to come by and houses made of sod were easy to build? Most sodbusters were dirt poor, but that didn’t stop them from dreamin’ of better days once their farm turned a profit. “We’ll go say howdy.” He gigged his roan.

  In addition to the sod house, there was a corral and an outhouse. That was all. A vegetable garden had been planted, and about five acres had been turned by a plow and corn planted.

  “Not much, is it?” Grant said.

  “To them it’s everything.”

  Grant shook his head and said, “I don’t understand how people can live this way. Out here all by themselves.”

  “Where’s your pioneer spirit?” Stone joked, and chuckled.

  “I reckon I must not have much,” Grant said. “I’d never do what these people are doin’. It makes no sense to me. The risks involved, and for what?”

  “They do it to have a place of their own, where they can do as they please.”

  “Still,” Grant said.

  A lanky man in overalls came out of the soddy. He was holding a Sharps rifle and raised it to his shoulder but didn’t point it at them. “Who are you?” he hollered. “And what do you want?”

  “Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone and fellow deputy Robert Grant,” Stone yelled. “We’re only passin’ through.”

  The farmer smiled, and beckoned. “Come on in, then.”

  A lean woman emerged, with a pair of young’uns. The children clung to her legs, their eyes wide with fright. “Who is it, Hiram?” she said.

  “You heard him,” her husband answered. “They’re lawmen.”

  “Are you sure?” she anxiously asked.

  “You can see their badges, can’t you?”

  Smiling to put the woman at ease, Stone drew rein and leaned on his saddle horn.

  “We’re lawmen, all right, ma’am,” he assured her. “After some outlaws who might have come this way.”

  “Outlaws!” she exclaimed.

  “Calm yourself, Hortense,” Hiram said. “Outlaws ain’t about to bother us. We don’t have anything they’d want.”

  Stone could have pointed out that the farmer was mistaken, that the farmer’s wife was lure enough, but he held his tongue. “Have a couple of men been by here recently?”

  Hiram placed the Sharps’ stock on the ground. “Deputy, you’re the first souls we’ve seen in a coon’s age. You’re welcome to light and sit a spell. We hardly ever have company.”

  “Hardly ever,” Hortense sadly echoed.

  “As much as I’d like to—” Stone started to say.

  “I can make coffee or tea,” Hortense said. “It won’t take but a few minutes. We’d be ever so grateful.”

  The woman, Stone realized, was a bundle of nerves. She was probably one of those who fretted every minute—about Indians, about the weather, about her family’s health. It wouldn’t surprise him if she didn’t want to be here, and all this was her husband’s idea.

  “Please, Deputy.”

  Stone changed his mind. The appeal in her eyes touched him. “I reckon we can spare an hour or so. And coffee will do us fine.”

  Grant glanced at him as if surprised.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” Hortense said. “Give me a few minutes. I was putting water on to heat when you rode up and it should be hot by now.” Beaming, she turned and whisked into the soddy, her offspring half-hidden in the folds of her dress.

  “You’ve done us a big favor, Deputy,” Hiram said. “My missus is starved for company.” He stepped to the dark doorway. “I’ll be right back.”

  Stone became aware that Grant was staring at him. “What?”

  “Why?” Grant said. “I thought you were in an all-fired hurry to find those outlaws.”

  “You heard them.”

  “You’re doin’ it to be nice?”

  “Part of bein’ a lawman. We don’t just enforce laws and arrest those who break them.” Stone dismounted and stretched. “I make it a point to be as friendly as I can to folks like these. They’re the reason we wear these badges.”

  “I don’t know as I can be as nice as you.”

  “It takes practice, I’ll admit,” Stone said. “The thing to remember is that little things go a long way. A smile. A handshake. Always bein’ polite.”

  “You missed your calling,” Grant said, grinning. “You should have been a parson.”

  “I’m serious, son,” Stone said. “A good lawman has a duty to put on his best face and always treat others with respect. Someone once said we are our brother’s keeper, and I believe that, heart and soul.”

  “You’re the most peculiar lawman I’ve ever met.”

  “You’ll understand more as time goes by,” Stone predicted. When he had been Grant’s age, he hadn’t appreciated the effect a lawman had on people. Back then, all he cared about was finding lawbreakers and bringing them in. It took a number of years before he caught on that how he acted made a big difference in how folks reacted, not just to him but to lawmen in genera
l.

  As if to prove his point, Hiram came back out with a plate of biscuits his wife had made for the entire family the day before, and offered to share them. Not ten minutes later the lady, herself, emerged with a pot of coffee.

  Stone let himself relax for an hour. The couple were starved for news of the outside world. In particular, they were eager to learn whether the Sioux would break from the reservation. Stone was honest with them. He thought there was a good chance the Sioux might. He’d often thought that if the Sioux ever joined forces with other tribes, they could push the white man from the central plains. He didn’t mention that to Hiram and Hortense. But he did advise them that if anything suspicious happened around their place, if a horse or a cow disappeared or they saw moccasin tracks, they should hightail it to North Platte. “You can never be too cautious.”

  Deputy Grant hardly said anything the whole time. He listened intently, though, and at one point, after Hiram mentioned that they had every cent they’d owned tied up in their farm, the young deputy looked around, then asked, “And you reckon this is worth it?”

  “It’s ours,” Hiram said proudly, and put an arm around his wife, who mustered a thin smile.

  “But is it worth dyin’ for?”

  Stone frowned at his partner’s lack of tact. “No one is goin’ to die,” he cut in. “Hiram and his missus are too sensible to let it come to that.”

  The harm had been done. The rest of their visit, Hortense chewed on her bottom lip and cast anxious glances at the hills to the northwest.

  Stone hated to leave in the state she was in. He did his best to assure her that her family would be fine, but he could tell it had little effect. When the time came to leave, he took Hiram aside and suggested he take his family into North Platte anyway for a few days, “just to put your missus at ease.”

  Hiram said he would.

  Once the farm was behind them, Stone vented his annoyance. “That was damned rude of you, Deputy Grant. Scarin’ that lady like you did.”

  Grant seemed genuinely bewildered. “What did I do?”

  “You shouldn’t have brought up dyin’.”

  “They have kids, for God’s sake,” Grant said. “Don’t tell me you aren’t as worried about them as I am.”

  “You are?”

  “They’re decent folks, but they don’t have a lick of brains. I don’t care what Hiram says, they have no business bein’ there.” Grant muttered something. “I never gave much thought to homesteaders before. Not those who live in soddies, anyhow. They have it pretty hard, don’t they?”

  “It’s not a life for the faint of heart.”

  “They don’t even have anything worth stealin’.”

  “What made you think of that?”

  “I don’t know,” Grant said, rather angrily, Stone thought. “There are robbers everywhere, aren’t there?”

  “I do come across them from time to time,” Stone acknowledged. “Arrested more than my share. Nothin’ galls me more than someone who takes what ain’t theirs. It’s so low, it’s despicable.”

  “There are robbers and there are thieves,” Grant said.

  “I fail to see the difference.”

  “A robber is someone like Cal Grissom. He takes from stagecoaches and banks.”

  “He’s robbed people, too,” Stone said.

  “At gunpoint, I’d wager,” Grant said.

  “What else would he use?”

  “A thief doesn’t do that. He uses his wits, not a gun. He doesn’t scare people.”

  “Stealin’ is stealin’.”

  “That’s how the law sees it,” Grant said. “But to me it matters how the stealin’ is done. A thief has more scruples than a common robber. More—I don’t know what to call it—class.”

  Stone laughed. “And you called me peculiar? That’s like sayin’ a man who stabs somebody isn’t as bad as a man who shoots somebody. A lawbreaker is a lawbreaker. It doesn’t matter how they break it.”

  “If you say so,” the other said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  They came to the first hill and started up. Midway, Stone’s roan raised its head and pricked its ears. The horse had heard something he didn’t. Out of habit, Stone placed his hand on his Colt. “What is it, fella?” he said quietly.

  The answer presented itself as they neared the crest.

  A bull buffalo lumbered into view, lowered its huge head, and snorted.

  11

  Alonzo Pratt heard Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone quietly say, “Don’t move and don’t make any loud sounds.”

  As if Alonzo would. He was so shocked, he was speechless. He froze in his saddle and prayed Archibald wouldn’t do anything dumb. Alonzo had never been this close to a buffalo before. He saw them from time to time in his travels but nearly always at a safe distance. This one wasn’t thirty feet above them.

  The brute stared at them and tossed its wicked curved horns from side to side.

  Alonzo was afraid it was about to charge. He wasn’t sure he could get out of the way in time. Archibald had a lot of stamina but wasn’t especially quick.

  Stone had frozen, too, with his hand on his Colt, and Alonzo hoped the deputy wouldn’t draw. A revolver wouldn’t do much good against a monster that size. Buffalo skulls, he had heard, were inches thick, and hard for a slug to penetrate unless a high-caliber rifle was used, like that homesteader’s Sharps. Buffalo hearts and lungs were protected by a lot of muscle and fat. Alonzo knew that Indians killed them all the time using bows and arrows, although how they managed to penetrate deep enough to inflict a killing wound was beyond him.

  The bull pawed the ground and did more tossing.

  Alonzo didn’t know much about the beasts. Only that they roamed all over, eating grass. And that to rile one was to invite an early grave. This one appeared riled. It tore a clod from the soil with its hoof and vigorously shook its head. Alonzo’s mouth went so dry, it hurt to swallow.

  The thing was so close, Alonzo could smell it. A sort of musty scent, unlike that of, say, a dog or a horse. He felt Archibald tremble under him and didn’t blame his horse for being as scared as he was.

  Suddenly the buffalo wheeled to the left and went about twenty feet, then started down the hill. It was leaving without attacking them. It looked back every now and then and snorted a few times.

  “Thank you, Lord,” Jacob Stone breathed.

  “We could have been killed,” Alonzo said.

  “But we weren’t.” Stone smiled at him. “Always look at the bright side of things. You’re better off that way.”

  Alonzo failed to see a bright side to any of this. Hunting a pack of killers was bound to get him or both of them killed. This whole law business had no bright side whatsoever, and he’d made up his mind he’d never impersonate a lawman again for as long as he lived.

  “Don’t look so miserable,” Stone said. “We’re still breathin’, aren’t we?”

  The lawman seemed to think it was funny. Alonzo didn’t. He needed to be shed of Stone, and soon. He decided to slip away that very night. He refused to take any more of this. That eased his worries enough that he smiled.

  Stone noticed. “That’s the spirit,” he said, and gigged his mount.

  Reluctantly, Alonzo followed. He hardly noticed the sea of grass or the occasional wildflowers. Hawks soared on high, but he didn’t care. Deer bounded away. He hardly gave them a glance. He was focused on one thing and one thing only. Getting the blazes away from Jacob Stone.

  The lawman kept scouring for sign. Apparently he had considerable experience as a tracker because he saw things Alonzo didn’t. About the middle of the afternoon, Stone turned in his saddle and said, “We could be in luck. I think I know where Burt Alacord and Weasel Ginty are headed.”

  “Do you, now?” Alonzo said.

  “I’ve been through here once before. About five
miles on there’s a spring in the woods. They’d likely stop there to water their horses.”

  “And still be there?” Alonzo said skeptically. It had been days since he ran into them.

  “You never know,” Stone said. “It could be where they were meetin’ up with Cal Grissom and the rest.”

  “You’re guessin’.”

  “So? Law work involves a lot of guesses,” Stone said. “You have to use your brain all the time.”

  Alonzo almost remarked that going after known killers struck him as downright brainless.

  “Yes, sir,” Stone said excitedly. “I hope we are in luck. We can put an end to these outlaws, one way or the other.”

  Before Alonzo could stop himself, he said, “If they don’t put an end to us.”

  “There you go again. Always lookin’ at the worst that can happen. You need to learn to relax, son.”

  “That’s another thing,” Alonzo said, his ire up. “I’m not your ‘son’ and I’d be obliged if you’d stop callin’ me that.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Stone asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “But if that’s how you want it, sure.”

  Alonzo fell into another sulk. He shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have prodded the old man. Now Stone might be less friendly, and more suspicious. To try to cover himself, he said, “I lost my pa when I was young. Every time you say it, it makes me think of him.”

  “Oh,” Stone said. “I’m sorry. That never would have occurred to me.”

  The old man sounded so sincere that Alonzo felt a twinge of guilt. That was another thing. Stone kept bringing out feelings in him he hadn’t ever had. It was unsettling to think he might have a streak of decency buried deep down inside himself. That would never do. How could he go around breaking the law if he took to feeling guilty about it? Guilt was for saps. He’d learned long ago that the world was dog-eat-dog, that you took what you wanted and everyone else could be hanged.