Unlike many young men, Tucker was serious about what he was doing. As Holloway had predicted, Tucker could be counted on. The Mormon religion helped, of course. Tuck Morgan lived clean. Smoking, chewing, or drinking were never good examples, but young men often rushed to adopt fouler habits they thought manly. That most around him favored tobacco and whiskey tempted Tucker not a whit, and his speech was not cluttered with coarse language. Tuck, Laban supposed, was just what most men wished for in a son. Tommy Bell would profit from emulating Tucker Morgan. It would have been unlikely that Tucker could miss the boy's fascination with his every move. Tommy had eyes for little else in the camp. But, just in case, Holloway mentioned it.
"Looks like you got an admirer, Tuck. You get to moving too fast and that boy's neck'll twist clean off."
Tucker smiled but shook his head doubtfully. "Sure hope he doesn't get disappointed when he knows me better."
"Well, between now and then you can get him off to a fair start, Tuck. Boy like that needs careful nurturing. He's delicate, like a spring shoot, but if we feed him good and show him the best ways, he'll probably grow up as strong as the rest."
"He surely looks peaked, Mister Holloway. Takes about all he's got just to climb in and out of his wagon. I'd of guessed him as maybe eleven instead of thirteen."
"Boy that can't breathe clear can't do much of anything, Tucker. Weston says young Bell has spent his life reading 'cause he can't do much else. Talks like a grownup, don't he?"
"Surely does, Mister Holloway. Wish I had his schooling."
"Likewise. I think maybe a man can exercise his brains about like he can his muscles. If you use 'em, they grow. Let 'em lay, and they wither up—about like a broken arm does when it's splinted and useless. Arm gets skinny and weak, and it takes hard work getting it strong again."
Payne-Weston also spoke to Tucker about his nephew. "Tommy has been a lonely boy, Tucker. He has not been able to play the games or build the forts that others do. I doubt he has ever swum in a creek or swung on a grapevine. Still, he is good and decent, and if his lungs allow it, he can become a fine and responsible man.
"Anyway, Tucker, Tommy admires you, and a kind word or a little attention from you will encourage him. I would appreciate anything with which you can help him."
Tucker had already been figuring out how he might best give the boy a hand. Of course he could walk up and say, "Let's be friends." Then he got to remembering how Grant Holloway had brought him along. When Holloway had guided the Morgans west he had simply let Tucker be useful. Along the way, Holloway spoke small wisdoms or showed something worth knowing. Tucker had latched onto everything like pickers on a sheepskin. The same ways should work with Tommy Bell, but he would have to start easy because the boy hadn't a flea's strength, and his bones looked as light as a bird's.
While Tucker glassed the grazing antelope, Paul Laban climbed from his wagon and began choosing his painting materials. Tommy Bell performed his task of dropping the iron anchor and attaching its rope to a horse's bit. The weight kept the team in place just as a hitching rail would.
The artist's light wagon was the only one teamed by horses. Holloway grumbled that someday the horses would bolt and leave Laban stranded, but oxen could not provide the speed the artist desired to dash to inspiring spots for quick sketches or lengthy painting.
Tucker dropped back to his saddle and replaced his telescope alongside the horse pistol holstered just forward of his knee. When Tommy had asked about the gun, Tucker had spent a little time telling the story. It was the kind of yarn any boy would enjoy, and spinning the tale gave Tucker his first opportunity to begin regular storytelling to his rapt listener.
"Well, back in 1851, my pap's wagon was traveling alone. That was way west of here, out past Bridger's Fort even. A real outlaw came riding up from behind, bent on shooting down my folks and stealing their belongings. Out there, no one'd ever have known. My folks would have just disappeared without anyone even thinking to question.
"I was out scouting and came easing in just in time to get the drop on him. Outlaw's name was Pin Larkin, and sitting up on top of his horse, he looked as big as a buffalo. I slid in behind the wagon—1 was just about your age then. When Larkin readied to haul this pistol out of the back of his belt I laid my Joseph Smith rifle on him and eared back the hammer. Old Larkin froze like he'd found a rattler in his shirt. Back then, I was for takin' him aside and shooting him dead, but Pap decided to pull his fangs and let him go 'cause we might have wronged an innocent man—even if none of us really believed it. We took his guns, and he rode off. That's how come I've got his pistol."
Tucker let it lay a moment before setting the real hook. "Sometime when we talk alone I'll tell you how come I'm riding Pin Larkin's horse and still wearin' his old hat. Fact is, this here long knife was his, too. Story'll make your hair stand straight out."
Chapter 9
Tucker rode close and watched Laban setting up his easel. He looked across the prairie's roll and saw nothing worth painting. The artist kept turning out canvases full of real looking grass with maybe a little patch of cottonwoods off to a side or a creek that wasn't really there fitted in. Tucker figured the paintings would be more interesting once Laban added some animals.
"No good heads in that batch of antelope, Mister Laban, but there're more tucked into the hollows. Guess I'll ride out a ways and have a look." He turned to Tommy Bell. "Want to ride along, Tom? Better than sitting here chewing grass stems."
The boy was across in an instant. Tucker freed a foot from a stirrup, and Tommy got his fitted in. He hadn't the leg strength to lift himself, but Tucker got the front of his shirt and hauled him up behind. The boy sat on Tucker's coat, thonged behind the saddle. He put his arms loosely around Tuck's body and got good grips on his doeskin shirt. They had ridden this way more than once, and Tucker walked the horse so Tommy wouldn't bounce too much.
Tucker usually did the talking when they rode. He surely had stories enough. Almost every man in Great Salt Lake City had crossed the plains and fought through the Rocky Mountains. Those that hadn't, had come in from California and had wrestled two mountain ranges and a desert so mean its stories were hard to exaggerate. Grant Holloway had seen more than a barn full of ordinary men ever would, and some of his friends had experienced about as much. Tuck Morgan figured he had enough yarns packed away to last out this year and maybe the next.
Before he began talking about antelope, Tucker listened closely to the boy's breathing. By darn, Tom's lungs weren't whistling the way they first had. Might be the plains' air would clear him out.
Some nights, the boy had real trouble dropping off. He slept against an angled board so that he was almost sitting up, and his breathing rattled like dried leaves in a wind. Tucker had taken to crawling in and leaning back alongside young Tommy while he talked softly about something that had happened or that he had heard about. Pretty soon, the wheezing would ease, and sometimes Tommy Bell would fall asleep before Tucker had finished.
They were ten days out of Omaha when Tucker saw an interesting thing. After he had been talking a while, Tommy slid down his slanted board and turned onto his side. He went to sleep curled comfortable, like a boy ought. Now, sure enough, he was breathing better. Tucker sucked in a deep draught of the crisp spring air, appreciating his own strong lungs a little more than usual.
"An antelope isn't a deer, Tom. The old mountain men call 'em goats, which isn't right either. Nobody seems to know just what an antelope is related to. Interesting animal, though. If you come onto an undisturbed band they might ignore you, or they might panic and disappear before you can pick out the tenderest.
"When we're hunting meat, Mister Holloway and I never pick big bucks. They're likely tough and stringy. Young does are best eating. Between here and wherever we end up, we'll see a million and some antelope. I've seen 'em in deserts so dry lizards carried canteens. I've found them near the top of the Wasatch and Uinta Mountains. Fact is, I've seen their droppings so high up the a
ir starts thinning out, and a man gets tired specially quick.
"Anyway, we'll be a long time looking before we find antelope special enough for Mister Weston's collection, and by then we'll be dead tired of studyin' over . . . OH, OH MY GOODNESS!"
Tommy Bell felt Tucker's body stiffen and realized their horse had stopped. Tucker rose a little in his stirrups looking hard across the roll of prairie just ahead. It was a short look, and without explanation Tucker bent low and almost gently turned the horse onto their back trail.
Indians! Tommy knew they had come onto hostiles. The train had already met Indians, but Tucker had never shied away like this. Tommy guessed they weren't seen or Tuck wouldn't have been soft footing it down the back of their slope. He hoped they didn't have to run hard. Double burdened, Tuck's horse would be slowed. Tommy Bell realized his own body was drumhead tight, and he felt his heart hammering fit to burst.
Then Tucker leaned around and whispered, "There's a huge antelope coming our way. Biggest horns I've ever seen. I can't believe it, but he's there for certain.
It took more than a moment for Tommy Bell to quit feeling like the biggest fool on the plains. His imagination had created painted warriors racing after them on swift ponies as he and Tucker lashed their single mount in a desperate run for the safety of the wagon train. Tommy physically shook his head, dashing the images and realizing what was really happening. By then Tucker had crossed a leg in front of the saddle and slid to the ground. He signaled Tommy to dismount. Tucker knotted a rein around a low bush and turned his attention to his Joseph Smith rifle.
Tommy climbed from the horse, new excitement building at the prospect of real hunting. He knew what Tucker was doing. Both Holloway and Tucker often carried their rifle hammers lowered onto a lead bullet shaped to fit over their gun's nipple. That kept tension off the hammer spring and prevented the nipple from being damaged. Tucker was removing the bullet and putting on a percussion cap. He was planning to shoot all right. Tommy hoped he would be able to see the shot.
Tucker said, "I'm going to injun up this slope and take a careful look. If I wave, you come on up, but keep low and slide in beside me." The boy nodded, and Tucker thought he looked a little breathless.
The hill was only a pronounced roll in the prairie, but near the summit tufts of clump grass offered concealment. The wind blew toward them, preventing their scent from reaching the antelope. Tucker walked swiftly, rifle held in both hands. The big horned antelope had been distant, but you couldn't depend on an animal acting sensible. He might run for no reason or turn aside without cause. As though on signal, a whole herd could suddenly lie down and go to sleep. It paid to be ready.
Near the crest Tucker dropped to all fours and finally to his belly. He squiggled forward until close behind his chosen grass clump, then removed his hat and raised his head turtle slow. He peered around the grass stalks so that his head shape would not stand out. Most plains animals stayed alive by using their eyes, and anything unusual would be noticed.
There he was! Tucker Morgan's breath caught in his throat. He had seen antelope in countless thousands, but never one like this. Holloway and Payne-Weston were the hunters, but this was the antelope of all antelopes and could not be ignored. Tucker tried to estimate, could the handsomely matched horns be two feet long? He could swear they were, and the horn bases must be thicker than his fist.
Tucker Morgan felt his hands dampen in excitement. He grinned to himself. Here he was, a meat hunter who had taken wagon loads of game getting all stirred over a set of antelope horns. But, to have his name listed as the hunter in a London museum of natural history, where thousands of people would see it for maybe hundreds of years—it was enough to make even Grant Holloway squint a little.
For a moment Tucker hesitated to signal the boy up the hill. Suppose he did something awkward and scared off the game? Then Tucker thought of the youth's eagerness and his trust in the rightfulness of whatever Tucker Morgan said or did. Almost shamed by his pause, Tucker waved the boy forward.
Tommy Bell followed Tucker's route up the hill. He couldn't cat-foot his way like Tucker did, but he hoped he didn't make such a racket the antelope ran off. He tried to stay as low as Tuck had, and he moved slowly so he wouldn't start wheezing. Tucker had gone up in a minute or two. It seemed to Tommy Bell that his approach took forever.
While he waited, Tuck Morgan thought about the shot he would make. If the wind stayed right, and if the antelope did not change direction, the great buck would pass about one hundred yards below them. The shot itself would be routine. At one hundred yards his Joseph Smith gun could place all its shots within a three inch circle. If the shooter did his part the rifle would not fail.
Tucker could hear the boy laboring at his approach, being cautious far beyond need. The youth's diligence in pleasing him roused other thoughts. Being admired could make a man nervous. Measuring up was hard because he didn't know all that much and was still discovering what a pile of useful knowledge he hadn't even known existed. The thinking gave him another idea, and Tucker Morgan searched his heart to find if it was right. Then he searched his soul to see if he could do it.
Tommy Bell slid in close beside him, wheezing only a little, keeping his head so low one cheek was on the ground. Tucker laid the boy's straw hat aside and whispered in his ear. "Raise up real slow and only as high as you have to. He's still about four hundred yards out and grazing this way. Once you've looked him over, ease back down, and I'll explain how we'll do this."
While he waited, Tucker examined how he could make the moment most memorable for the boy. Words would help a lot he figured. When Tommy slid back down, Tucker started in.
"Seeing he's still coming to us, we've got time to get everything just right.
"Now, this animal will probably walk past us a little downhill and about one hundred yards out. See where buffalo have humped the ground? Right about there would make a perfect shot. Sights should be held low, close behind the shoulder. The idea is to keep seeing the sights and trying to hold on the target even after the shot is fired. That way a hunter doesn't pull his bullet off by raising up too soon."
Tucker had to stop and gather himself because the rest wasn't too easy. He shifted his hand along his rifle's stock, feeling almost one with the gun he had carried since his eleventh year. Then he slid it across Tommy Bell's body to where the boy could reach it. He made his voice matter of fact, as though what he was saying didn't wrench at him a lick.
"I figure this would be a good shot for you to make, Tom. I'll talk you through it, and we'll have a reasonable chance of taking the best darned antelope anybody's likely to ever see."
Tommy Bell feared his heart might explode, and he doubted he'd ever get his thinking calmed down. He tried to say no, because if he missed, he would surely die, and his whole miserable body was starting to tremble like a cannon-scared puppy. Tucker had a reassuring hand on his back, and he was talking on, so Tommy couldn't get his fears out in the open.
"Now this'll be your first real rifle shot, and it'll be at important game, so there's no sense pretending it won't be scary. You'll shake like an aspen, and your eyes will water. Your hands will turn slick with sweat, and your heart will thump so hard your sights will jump clear off the animal. But, I wouldn't be handing you the task if I didn't figure there was a good chance that you could bring it off."
The boy's voice was small and fearful, but Tucker could also hear the secret hope.
"But Tucker, you could make the shot easily and then we'd be sure. I may miss and we'll never get him."
Tucker took his time answering. "There's a feeling inside me that says you should make the shot. We've a chance to do something we will remember our whole lives. We'll remember how this grass looked and smelled, and how the earth was damp under us. Whether you hit or not, that antelope will be forever clear in your mind's eye. When you are an old man with a white beard, you'll still be telling how you and Tucker Morgan went after the world's biggest antelope. If we get him, it will
be a fine finish, but Tommy, the trying for him is the real part."
Tucker stopped to take a look at the antelope's progress. "All right, Tom, he's working closer. Get yourself into a strong position with your rifle over that dirt hump. Keep your front hand under the gun and take a few practice sights to make sure you've got it right."
Tommy Bell fiddled himself comfortable, and Tucker risked another glimpse. Then he slid against Tommy's ear and whispered his softest. "He's getting close. Put your hammer on full cock."
To Tommy Bell the hammer's click sounded dangerously loud. He wiped sweat from around his shooting eye and wondered how it could be so hot on a jacket-wearing day. Tucker again put a hand on his back, and Tommy concentrated on doing everything just right.
Tucker barely breathed into the boy's ear.
"All right, you'll see him in just a minute. Don't hurry anything. He'll come into full sight.
"Uh-huh, there he is, just as we hoped.
"Fine down your sights just like you want 'em, Tommy. Start squeezing your trigger and keep looking across your sights. Take it slow. . . you're doing it just the way it should be."
The rifle's crack shut out Tucker's voice. Painfully, Tommy Bell realized he had forgotten to jam the rifle butt tight into his shoulder. The recoil slued him, and the gun slid off its rest. Tucker's fist in the back of his shirt jerked him above the powder smoke, and Tuck's triumphant whoop sent the boy's hopes rocketing.
The rifle was plucked from Tommy Bell's unfeeling hands, and Tucker reloaded while the youth stood in paralyzed delight, admiring the downed and unmoving antelope stretched against the buffalo stirred ground—almost exactly where Tucker Morgan had said it would be.
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith) Page 5
