the Quick and the Dead (1983)

by L'amour, Louis

  Duncan shook his head, but his eyes did not meet hers. "What could we get rid of? Some of those things belonged to your family."

  "Yes, yes, I know." The thought stayed with her. Did she really need them? Yet the thought of leaving her things behind gave her a pang. She would need furniture when they made a new home and it would be nice to have them then. If they ever got there.

  "I wonder where he is?" she asked suddenly.

  "Who?" he asked, but he knew the answer. He was thinking that a blind man could follow their deep-cut tracks, and it was now two hours until noon and they had come nine miles. It was good time ... or would have been had they not been so eager to put distance between them and the river.

  His eyes swept the country ... vast, empty, still. Above them a buzzard soared. How like a speck they must seem to him, a speck in this tremendous ocean of grass. He started the team again but he did not ride the wagon. He walked beside it.

  Noon came and passed, but nobody mentioned hunger. Nor was there any place to stop. It was all the same, only the grass, the sky, and the soft wind.

  At mid-afternoon they came up to a buffalo wallow. There was water in it, collected from the rains. He unharnessed the team and led them to water, then let them graze for an hour before hitching up again.

  The sun was down before they reached Black Jack Creek, and he drove the team through and up the other side, then along the creek for a short distance before stopping.

  Duncan found a flat place and started to gather wood. When he put the wood down to start a fire, a voice said, "Don't do that. There's a better place down here."

  He turned sharply, realizing he had left his gun in the wagon, and cursing himself for a fool.

  The stranger was standing under the edge of the trees, watching him.

  "Where'd you come from?" he demanded.

  "Been waitin' for you all. I got no coffee, and after that shootin' I didn't figure to ride into town and buy none."

  There was a fold in the ground where a trickle of a spring ran down to the creek. On a flat bench beside the spring he had built a small fire. "Can't see it until you're close up," he explained. "No use showin' 'em where you are."

  "Do you think they'll come?"

  "Uh-huh ... couple, maybe three hours from now. They'll ride out, scout around, locate your wagon. Maybe they'll run off your stock."

  "You don't seem very worried about it."

  "Ain't my stock."

  "We haven't thanked you." Susanna had come up behind them. "You saved my husband's life."

  "It wasn't nothing. I never liked that Ike Mantle, no way."

  She was shocked. "Youknew him?"

  "Oh, sure! He was meaner'n all get-out. His brother Purdy ... now he's a different kind. He'll shoot you face to face."

  He glanced at her. "If you're figurin' on eatin', you better get at it. Cook what you got to, then dowse the fire an' set back."

  She glanced at him, irritated by his manner. "Don't take no offense at me, ma'am. I can chew on some jerky an' make out, but that man of yours and the boy, they'll need some cookin', an' you, too, for that matter."

  He looked her up and down. "Although you surely do shape up, ma'am. You shape up mighty purty."

  "Sir," McKaskel spoke coolly, "you saved my life and you have been very helpful, but I do not like your comments to my wife."

  "Well, now." He looked astonished. "You mean you don't think she's got a nice shape? Look at her agin that light. Now--"

  "The lady is my wife. I do think her beautiful, but I do not think it is the proper thing to--"

  "Think she'll get big headed? Well, maybe so. But she is surely purty. I always did figure it was the right thing to tell either a horse or a woman when they shape up fine. And atop of that she makes good coffee."

  Duncan was exasperated, and Susanna had to turn her back so that he could not see her smiling. It was amusing. After all, in his own way he was being complimentary.

  When they had eaten, the fire was put out by pulling back the unburned ends of the sticks and thrusting them into the earth to smother the few sparks. The coals that remained would soon die down.

  "Take those horses over there behind that fallen tree," he suggested, "an' bed down back yonder. You'll have to keep watch, because sure as shootin', they'll find you."

  When Duncan McKaskel led the mules toward the hollow behind the tree, Susanna took the stranger's cup and filled it again. "There's no use throwing the coffee out," she said.

  She stopped, holding the pot and looking down at him as he sat on a chunk of wood near the dying fire. "I want to thank you for what you did," she said quietly. "It was a fine thing to do."

  He looked at her, then shrugged. "He done all right. I mean he'd have got himself killed because he was all eyes on that porch an' he forgot about what was behind him. In this country you've always got to look behind.

  "For a tenderfoot he handled himself mighty well, an' I'd say you got a fair chance." He grinned at her. "Maybe I won't get to pick up the pieces after all."

  She filled her own cup. "You might at least tell us your name."

  "Names don't count for much out here. Mine's Vallian, Con Vallian. What was your name in the States?"

  "Our name in the States?" she was puzzled.

  "Sure. Most folks change their names to get away from whoever they are runnin' from."

  "Mr. Vallian, we are notrunning . My husband is an honorable man, a man of education, but he wished to be independent of relatives and friends. He wanted to go west where he could make his own way."

  "He come to the right place. There ain't no other way out here ... if he lasts." He sipped his coffee, then glanced up at Susanna. "You know what they say out here? The educated ones, they find the life and the work too rough and most of them start to drink, and that's the end of them."

  "You need not worry, Mr. Vallian. My husband drinks very little, and he is not afraid of hard work."

  Con Vallian got to his feet and threw the dregs of his coffee on the coals. "Maybe. We'll have to see how much sand he's got when the going gets rough. Of course," he added, "lots of times it's the womenfolks. Ain't much that's pretty out here, except the country. An' when a man tries farmin' an' gets hailed out, flooded, or froze out, it ain't much fun. If'n he misses those things there's always drouth an' grasshoppers."

  "Grasshoppers?"

  "They come in clouds to darken the sun, an' they eat everything in sight. Mostly they like cultivated crops." Vallian turned his back on her and crossed to his horse. Mounting, he rode away toward the new camp and she stared after him, angry and frustrated.

  "He doesn't think much of our chances, does he, Ma?" Tom said. "But we'll show him! You just wait!"

  "Of course, Tom. Mr. Vallian does not know us, but he has a right to be skeptical. This is a new life for us, and a hard one. We will have to adjust to many changes, I am afraid."

  "I hope he stays with us."

  "What? What ever put that idea into your head? Why should he stay with us? Mr. Vallian is a drifter, son, so far as we know he just moves from place to place, and from his appearance I would say he doesn't do very well."

  "He's been here a long time, I think. And he's alive."

  She put her hand on Tom's shoulder. "Yes ... yes, you are right, Tom. Whatever one might say about him he is alive, and he's able."

  Tom kicked dirt into the coals. One after another the coals died out until only a little smoke arose from where the fire had been.

  "Come, Tom. We'd better go." Somewhere an owl hooted, a mournful, lonely sound in the dark trees.

  Chapter III

  Susanna sat in the darkness near the horses. Tom was beside her, and despite his determination to stay awake, he had fallen asleep at last.

  Vallian came to them and spoke softly. "I figure to sleep some. Ma'am, you'd better do the same, like the boy here.

  "McKaskel, you take the first watch. Listen, learn the sounds that are natural to the night, and you'll hear most of them in
the first hour or so. Any other sound you hear is likely to be them.

  "You watch my horse. Those are city horses you've got, so you don't have to pay them much mind. My horse will have his ears up as soon as he hears them coming, and he'll hear them before you do.

  "He's mustang--wild stock--and all his young life he had to listen for varmints that might attack him, so he's not likely to miss much. About one o'clock by that watch of yours, you wake me up."

  With his saddle for a pillow he lay on his groundsheet and rolled himself in a blanket. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  Duncan McKaskel sat down by his wife. "They'll find our fire," he said, "I am sure there will be some smoke. That should take some time, and we may hear them."

  "He's a strange man," she said.

  "Ssh! He may be awake."

  "No, he's breathing evenly. I am sure he's sleeping." After a moment, she added, "We can learn from him, Duncan. He knows so much that we'd better know."

  "Yes," he admitted, "I suppose so. The kind of education we have doesn't count for much out here."

  After awhile Susanna dozed, and McKaskel got up and moved out, closer to the horses. They were cropping grass in the small circle they had chosen for a camp. For the first time he walked all around it, and shook his head in irritation at himself. He should have seen this place at once. The fallen tree barred all approach from one angle because one end was up against some rocks, the other was near the edge of the bluff. Around that tree there was a good deal of old bark, dried leaves and branches.

  Behind them was a thick grove of trees, so thick that a man could push through it only with considerable noise. On the other side were the fallen trees, broken brush and old stumps of a deserted beaver pond. The position was not sheltered from gunfire except near the fallen tree, but it was difficult to find or approach by night.

  Vallian had seen the place at once, which indicated how much could be learned by observation. A man had tosee , not just look.

  McKaskel listened, but heard no other sounds than those of the night. He moved carefully, trying to walk without sound, and not to remain in one place too long. He was thinking, trying to understand this new world and to draw on what he remembered from his reading that might help. He sat down on a log and rested, listening.

  Several times his eyes almost closed, and after a moment he got up and moved around again, going around the circle of their camp, listening for any new sound. He heard nothing, and when his watch was over he went back to camp and spoke softly to Con Vallian.

  The frontiersman was immediately awake. "Time," McKaskel whispered, "and all's quiet."

  Vallian sat up and tugged on his boots, slung his gunbelt around his lean hips and took up his rifle. "Get some sleep," he said quietly. "They know you're a tenderfoot and they'll be looking to steal your horses, fast. When they don't find them they'll try to get into your camp."

  "Wake me. I'll be ready."

  Duncan McKaskel stretched out on his blankets. He was tired but he would rest only for a moment. He had to be ready to help, and after all, who was this man to whom they were trusting themselves? He might have plans of his own. Yet even as he thought it he did not accept the idea. He closed his eyes and slept.

  A hand on his shoulder awakened him. It was very still. He felt Susanna stir, but although he knew she was awake, she made no sound, listening as he was. He took up his gun, warning himself that he must be careful not to shoot the wrong man.

  Shoot a man? He was startled to realize that he had accepted the idea with no accompanying sense of guilt. Was this what environment did? Or was it his subconscious acceptance of practical necessity?

  Susanna watched him move away, then sat up, suddenly aware that Tom was already gone.

  Gone?Gonewhere?

  She got up quickly, then stood still, realizing she wore a light-colored dress. Gathering up the blanket that had covered them, she gathered it quickly around her. She had no gun but there was a stout stick nearby, and she knelt down and felt for it. Her hand found it and she straightened up. Something stirred among the leaves near her and she tightened her grip.

  There was another faint stir, and then a shadow loomed near, a shorter, broader shadow than either of the men in her camp, wider than her son. Whoever it was had a rancid, unclean odor of one long unbathed.

  She gripped the stick, which was about two feet long and a good three inches around, in her two hands. She drew it slowly back. The man was unaware of her, but soon would hear her breathing. She swung the stick at his face with all her strength.

  The stick struck with a dull smack, and the man cried out, staggering backward. She struck again, over his head this time, and the man grabbed out frantically, scarcely aware of what he did. Dropping the blanket from her shoulders she thrust the stick at his face and he grabbed it.

  Instantly, she kicked out, her foot striking his kneecap. He staggered, lost his grip on the stick and fell. She struck wildly, missed, then hit him again, probably on the arm or shoulder. In the deeper darkness toward the ground she could not see. She was panting with the effort.

  Suddenly she heard a shot ... lighter in sound than Duncan's rifle, then two more. There was a moment of silence, then the heavy bellow of the rifle and silence.

  Something was crawling in the brush. For an instant she thought of following, then recovered her blanket and waited where she was.

  There was movement from within the camp and someone loomed nearby. The smell this time was of pine and buckskin.

  "You all right?" It was Vallian.

  "I hit one of them ... several times."

  "Prob'ly more'n we did. What did you hit him with?"

  She lifted the stick. "With this. I hit him in the face the first time. With both hands." She was startled to realize she was speaking with some pride. What sort of person was she becoming, anyway? "I hit him hard."

  He touched the stick. "Reckon you'll do, ma'am. You surely did hit him. There's blood on that stick."

  She gasped and let go. The stick fell to the leaves. "I didn't know. I didn't realize--"

  "You done just right." Suddenly he said, "Your boy is with the horses. He done all right, too. He was over there holdin' tight to 'em before things started. That's a good boy."

  "Duncan? Where is Duncan?"

  "He's yonder ... with the boy. We won't have no more trouble this night. You all should get some sleep."

  He moved away in the darkness, leaving emptiness behind. She stood there, holding the blanket around her, feeling the sudden damp chill of the night. Yet she no longer felt secure lying where their bed had been. Taking their canvas groundsheet she drew the bed closer to the wagon.

  The wind was stirring, and she looked up. The sky was overcast and the wind rising. The canvas cover on the wagon flapped in the wind.

  Duncan came out of the darkness. "Susanna, you'd better sleep in the wagon. I'll sleep under it. It may rain."

  She had not liked sleeping alone in the wagon, the space was cramped and she could not see what was happening, but now she was grateful. The darkness was no longer comforting.

  "Are you all right, Duncan?"

  "Yes, I am. Tom's already under the wagon again."

  "Where ishe ?"

  "I don't know ... around somewhere."

  "Duncan? I am glad he's here."

  He was silent. Was he thinking that she doubted his ability? She had not meant it that way, but two men were better than one.

  "So am I." he said quietly.

  It was not until she was in the wagon and almost asleep that she realized she had said nothing about hitting that man. She chuckled suddenly. Duncan would be shocked ... and surprised. After all, a well-brought up young lady did not go around clubbing men in the darkness.

  Surprisingly, she slept, and when Duncan touched her arm to awaken her the sky was gray. "Tom's still asleep, but Vallian thinks we should move."

  She had not undressed, so she smoothed out her skirt as much as possible and put on her shoes. A fir
e was going, and Vallian had made coffee. He was squatting near the blaze, warming his hands. He looked around at her. "You look even better in the morning," he said, "Fine thing in a woman."

  "What do you know about women in the morning?" she spoke sharply, and without thinking.

  "More'n you'd want to hear, I expect. I ain't always lived in the far out lands."

  "Are they gone? Those men, I mean?"

  "Doubt it. You got too much they want, but the farther out you get the more they'll be likely to leave. Too much chance of Injuns."

  "What about us?"

  He shrugged. "You seem willin' to take the chance. I've knowed folks to cross all the way without seein' ary an Injun, and others had a fight ever' day. You face things when you get to 'em."

  "You don't think we'll make it, do you?"

  He shrugged again. "You got a chance."

  They ate a quick breakfast and drank coffee. Tom awakened when they were hitching the mules and ate the bacon and bread that had been saved for him.

  Con Vallian mounted his horse and took a quick scout through the trees. "Nothin' close by," he said, "Let's roll 'em!"

  The wagon moved out, with Duncan handling the mules, his rifle beside him. Tom rode in the back, keeping an eye on the horses. Vallian scouted on ahead.

  "I'm sorry to say it," Duncan spoke suddenly, "but there's something about him that irritates me."

  "He's a conceited boor."

  "Maybe. But he knows this country, Susanna, and he knows how to get along in it. We must take advantage of every minute, and learn from him."

  "He moves like a cat."

  "Yes ... yes, he does."

  "He said you did very well in the settlement. He spoke well of you."

  "He said that?"

  They left the trees behind, moved out upon the bald plain. At least, Susanna thought, they can't approach us here without our seeing them. They will have to come out in the open.

  Con Vallian had disappeared. She looked around. He was gone--vanished from sight.

  "Duncan! What happened? Where did he go?"

  He stared, peered around the edges of the wagon cover toward their rear ... nothing. "Well, I'll be damned!"