The Tenderfoot Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Listen,” Garrett said, “Cobb has twelve thousand dollars that he stole from three miners up in Fort Whoop-Up. If you send the money to Johnny Healy, he’ll see they get it back.”

  “I know Healy,” Carter said. “He’s honest enough.” He glanced down at Jenny, who was being comforted by several women. “Want to tell me how all this came to be?”

  In as few words as possible, Garrett told of Cobb’s catalog bride scheme, his trip up the Whoop-Up Trail, and how Yates had murdered three women. He talked about losing his herd and their brushes with Indians and outlaws. He did not mention Cobb blowing apart the jail to get him out, figuring that might be a sore point with the vigilante.

  When he was finished speaking, Carter’s sad vulture eyes searched Garrett’s for a long time. Then he said, “That’s a tear squeezer of a story for sure, boy. But you ought to have known that whores don’t live in the company of poor men. A man like you who owns nothing but a two-by-twice ranch and a hoss and saddle gets involved with whores, trouble is bound to follow.” He motioned to Garrett with his head. “Step outside. We need to talk.”

  “I can’t. Jenny needs me here.”

  “She’s not going anywhere, and this will only take a minute. Step outside, boy, and this time, I ain’t asking. I’m telling.”

  So far Carter had not revealed Garrett’s identity, and Garrett decided he could trust him, at least for now. He stepped over to Jenny and kneeled beside her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “I’ll be just fine, Luke,” the girl said, a wan smile on her white face. “I know I’ll be fine.”

  The young rancher nodded. “I’m just stepping outside for a minute and I’ll be right back.”

  He rose and followed Carter out the door of the saloon and into the darkness of the street.

  “Garrett,” the vigilante said, his shabby frock coat and battered top hat making him look more like a molting crow than ever. “I told you once before I liked you, and I still do. Taking into consideration what happened to your woman and the fact that you got rid of Yates and Cobb for me, I’m letting you go.” He smiled. “I don’t plan on hanging you no more, at least not today.”

  Relief flooded through Garrett. “I’m obliged to you, Carter,” he said.

  “Just one thing, though. I want you out of Benton tonight. I’ll get the ferryman to take you across the river.”

  Garrett shook his head. “I can’t do that. Jenny needs rest, and lots of it.”

  “Then she can stay, but you go,” Carter said, a hard man who saw his duty clear, no give in him. “I’m the law here, Garrett, and I don’t want a gun slick like you in my town. Trouble follows you, boy, and I want no part of it.”

  Garrett’s eyes sought Carter’s in the darkness, and he saw only the grim determination of an unbending man. Finally he nodded. “Then I’ll be on my way, Carter. Make sure you take good care of Jenny until she’s fit to travel.”

  “I’ll see she gets the best of care, Garrett. Depend on it.” The vigilante glanced around him. “Where’s your horse?”

  “At the livery. He’s a grulla that don’t look like much.”

  “I’ll saddle him and then roust the ferryman. See you’re ready to leave by the time I get back.”

  Garrett watched Carter fade into the darkness toward the stable. Then he walked back into the saloon. Men with wary eyes stepped aside to let him pass as he went to Jenny and kneeled beside her.

  “Jenny,” he said, “the vigilantes won’t let me stay. But once you’re well again, I’ll come back for you.”

  The girl’s breathing was labored, her face very white, dark shadows gathering under her eyes. “I’m—I’m coming with you, Luke. I want to live at your ranch.” She managed a slight smile, blood bright on her lips. “A woman should stay close to her man. Once—once she realizes she’s loved him all along.”

  “It’s a long trail, Jenny,” Garrett said, talking through a tight throat. “You have to rest, get strong. In no time at all, you’ll be well and I’ll come for you.”

  The girl shook her head. “Take me with you, Luke. Tonight.” Her eyes grew distant. “Tell me about it again . . . tell me how your ranch is, about the mountains and the quiet.”

  Garrett tried to talk, failed, then tried again. “Jenny, I built my cabin in the shade of the tall mountains and the air smells of pine and the aspen in the high places. And in the morning . . . in the morning, it’s so quiet, the silence lies on the land like a blessing. That’s how it is. Most times, maybe all the time.”

  “Take me there, Luke. I don’t want to stay here and watch your back as you leave. Promise me.”

  Garrett bowed his head, afraid that men might see the redness in his eyes. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.”

  He took the girl in his arms and carried her through the throng of watching people to the door of the saloon. He turned and backed through the batwings and stood outside, waiting for Carter. He looked at Jenny’s face, impossibly white in the moonlight, and he heard the sound of her labored breathing, his hands soaked with her blood.

  “Are we going home now, Luke?” the girl asked.

  Garrett nodded. “Sure thing. We’ll be there by sunup, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after that. All we have to do is follow the first bright star that points south.”

  Jenny laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m tired, Luke, so very tired. But I’m going to stay wide-awake. I want us to follow our star together and go where it leads.”

  The Blackfoot had been raiding to the west and that morning had surprised three freight wagons on the Mullen Road, killing and scalping seven men.

  They were riding through the darkness just north of the Highwood Mountains, heading for their village on the Teton, when they saw a solitary rider sitting a grulla horse heading down the trail toward them.

  A man alone was fair game and the fifteen Blackfoot drew rein, letting him come to them, their hands tightening on their weapons.

  The rider came on at a walk, moving through dappled shadows cast by the moon shining through cottonwoods lining the nearby creek.

  It was only when he got closer that the warriors saw the woman in the rider’s arms and the huge gray wolf that trotted at his horse’s heels. The woman’s head was hanging, her blond hair unbound and swaying with every step of the horse, so long it almost brushed the ground. The rider looked neither to his left nor right, his eyes fixed on the shadowed trail ahead.

  The man rode closer, his face showing not a trace of fear, the soft footfalls of his horse now loud enough for the Indians to hear.

  The Blackfoot had a superstitious dread of the insane, and who but a crazy man would hold a dead woman in his arms as he rode through the darkest part of the night?

  One by one, their black eyes glittering, they drew back, hissing their fear. The man passed through them, the noiseless wolf moving beside him like a gray ghost in the gloom.

  The Blackfoot watched the rider until he was swallowed by the night.

  And only the silence remained.