by Ralph Hayes
‘I think it’s about what you’d expect, Molly. You’re the prettiest girl in town.’
‘Do you know what I told Matt?’
‘I wouldn’t want to guess.’
‘I told him I had a beau, and it was you. I said it was you.’
‘Well. I’m sorry for Dawkins.’ O’Brien offered, looking embarrassed.
‘Oh, you are so frustrating!’ she said loudly, looking away.
He sighed. ‘Sorry I ain’t quite what you expected,’ he began. ‘Look. I don’t know what my future holds. But when I get through here again I hope I get to see you. That’s what I stopped by to say.’
Molly rose and went to stand by the fire, her back to him. ‘Without you here, things will be different. I might be in New Orleans by then. Singing at a dance hall for gamblers and sailors.’
O’Brien rose too, smiling ‘I think that would surprise everybody.’
She turned to him. ‘I mean it, O’Brien. This foolish decision of yours doesn’t just change your life. It affects others, too.’
He was finished with it. ‘Well, I’ll be going. I’ll look forward to seeing you soon, Molly. I’ve really enjoyed knowing you.’
‘Oh, go to hell!’ she blurted out, turning away again.
O’Brien turned too, then left the house.
When he arrived back at the compound Cahill was packing some gear into his bedroll in preparation for their morning departure. There were just a few other men there. O’Brien sat heavily on his bunk and Cahill glanced over at him.
‘How’d your visit go?’
O’Brien gave him a sour look. ‘Not so well.’ He looked at the floor.
‘Maybe I am being stupid, Cahill. I got a good-looking girl talking serious about me, and her daddy runs this whole damn place. Most men would think that’s quite a step up.’
Cahill studied his somber face. ‘Do you like her?’
O’Brien nodded. ‘Yes. But I don’t really know her.’
‘You could end up owning this whole outfit.’ Cahill grinned at him. ‘Then you could give me a foreman’s job.’
O’Brien returned the grin. ‘You ain’t no foreman.’
‘You ain’t no company owner.’
They exchanged small laughs.
‘Well I’m ready to leave at dawn,’ Cahill said. ‘If you’re still of a mind. But now, I’m going into town and get me a couple of swallows of red top rye while it’s still available to us. Why don’t you come along?’
‘I don’t know,’ O’Brien said. ‘I ain’t got no interest.’
‘Come on, partner. You need the fresh air. And I’m buying.’
O’Brien finally nodded. ‘OK. That tipped the scales.’
When they passed by Walcott’s house there was nobody on the porch. O’Brien was glad. A few minutes later they arrived at the Conestoga saloon. For the first time, because he knew it could be rowdy inside, O’Brien slid the Winchester from its saddle scabbard and took it inside with him.
Inside the saloon there were cowboys, town clerks and some of Walcott’s men. O’Brien was pleased to see that McComb was not there. He and Cahill took a table near the front of the room, and ordered a bottle of rye whiskey. The piano player was taking a break, but the place was loud with the noise of conversation and laughter.
One of Walcott’s hiders saw O’Brien from a back table, and held a glass of ale high.
‘O’Brien! Hear you’re heading out to hunt on your own. Good luck to you.’
‘Yeah, good luck to both of you,’ a companion called out.
Cahill nodded and lifted his glass. He was about to comment on the greeting when McComb and Navarro walked in just a short distance away. McComb saw O’Brien immediately.
‘OK, hell!’ O’Brien grumbled.
McComb got a hard grin on his thick features. The scar on his jaw and neck showed pink in the saloon lamps. He spotted a table behind theirs and he and Navarro took it. They sat down and spoke in low tones between themselves. A waiter in an apron came over to them and wiped their table off with a cloth.
‘What can I sell you tonight, gentlemen?’
McComb looked over at O’Brien’s table. ‘What are they having?’
‘Why, I don’t know, sir.’
‘Hey, O’Brien! Cahill,’ Navarro called out. ‘What is your poison over there, muchachos?’ A big grin accompanied these words.
McComb let his tongue move over the empty space at the corner of his mouth where O’Brien had knocked his tooth out. It didn’t show unless he grinned widely. But it felt to him like a continuing insult and it festered deep in his gut. The swelling of his nose had gone down.
O’Brien didn’t respond, but Cahill turned to them. ‘We’re having ourselfs a taste of rye over here, boys. Might be a little strong for you beer drinkers. I’d start off easy if I was you.’
‘If you was me you could call yourself a man,’ McComb barked out.
There was some laughter at the exchange from a nearby table.
‘Just let it go, Cahill,’ O’Brien said quietly. ‘I’m trying to enjoy myself here.’
A hide man seated by the back wall yelled at McComb. ‘Hey, McComb. Rawhide is leaving tomorrow. You ought to buy his drinks. You know, for old times’ sake.’
There was another round of laughter at their table.
‘You hear that, O’Brien?’ McComb called over to him. ‘The boys think I should buy your drinks. What do you think?’
O’Brien turned partly to him. ‘I’d guess money holds to you like the cholera to an Apache,’ he replied soberly.
McComb noticed the Winchester lying across the far side of O’Brien’s table. He nudged Navarro and pointed at it.
‘Look at that,’ he said with a grin.
‘What does he think he can do with that in here?’ Navarro replied quietly. ‘I could put three holes in him before he found the trigger on that long gun.’
They were speaking so softly that O’Brien and Cahill couldn’t hear them above the noise in the room. O’Brien was already sorry he had come. The liquor wasn’t worth it.
‘Hey, O’Brien,’ Navarro called over again. ‘I see you brought your buffalo gun in here. You expecting a herd to come through?’
There was more laughter, and now the saloon was warming to the exchanges.
O’Brien swigged a shot glass of whiskey like it was water, ignoring the Mexican. But Cahill was getting irritated, his weathered face looked sullen.
‘Why don’t you drink some little boy beer and keep it to yoursels?’
‘Are you calling us little boys, old man?’ McComb said in a hard voice. This would be a good chance to kill O’Brien, he realized. The hunter was armed, after all. He could tell Walcott any story he wished, after the fact.
‘I call what I see,’ Cahill replied.
O’Brien turned again to McComb. ‘Let it go, McComb.’
Navarro took it up now, though. ‘I don’t think you should come in here and call names, barrachos. It could be … you know … dangerous.’
‘It could be very dangerous,’ McComb growled. He scraped his chair around so he was facing O’Brien directly. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t wait till tomorrow, backwoods, to leave. I think you ought to leave town tonight.’ A hush had now fallen over the room. Glass tinkled when the bartender set a tankard down beside another one.
O’Brien had thought it would come to this. He put his hand on the rifle and moved its muzzle toward them slightly. McComb’s dark eyes glistened with hatred as his hand went out over his gun. But Navarro was very excited about developments.
‘No, wait, amigo. Remember Walcott and your position.’
‘Better listen to the greaser, McComb,’ O’Brien responded. ‘It could be the best advice you had in a while.’
McComb saw the look in O’Brien’s eyes, and hesitated. In that moment, Navarro rose from his chair.
‘You call me a greaser, you trail scum!’ His hand reached for the Remington Army .44 at his hip.
But before his han
d reached the gun O’Brien fired the Winchester and it roared in the room. The lead cut Navarro’s holster from its belt and it fell heavily to the floor with the gun still in it before Navarro could get at it.
O’Brien had not moved from a sitting position, the Winchester now lay on the table, his finger in the trigger assembly.
Navarro stared at his gun on the floor wide-eyed. ‘Dios mio!’ he whispered.
McComb’s eyes narrowed on O’Brien as he sat tense, on his chair.
Then there was a burst of laughter around the room, a release of the built-up tension.
McComb looked around the room, hot anger in him. His hand was still out over his deadly Colt. The laughter subsided. McComb looked ready to act.
‘Go ahead,’ O’Brien told him. He rose slowly and stood facing McComb, the rifle held loosely in his grasp. ‘Let’s see how it plays out.’
McComb stood up as silence filled the room again. His hand twitched, hanging over the Colt. Then he dropped it to his side. He reached out, picked up a beer glass and threw it violently to the floor. Where it smashed loudly.
He was breathing shallowly. ‘Get your goddam gun and let’s get out of here,’ he said in a snarl to Navarro. Navarro gave O’Brien a wary look and got his gun. Then he was following McComb out through the swinging doors.
‘Don’t get lost out there in the dark,’ Cahill called after them.
There was no reply.
CHAPTER SIX
Cahill half-expected an ambush by McComb and Navarro on their way back to Whiskey Creek that night, but they arrived safely at the compound. O’Brien didn’t think McComb would try anything at company HQ, but he and Cahill took turns standing watch. McComb and the Mexican didn’t show up until later, and made no move against them.
By sunrise O’Brien and Cahill were saddled up and ready to ride out. Walcott and several other men were outside to see them off. Walcott wished them well again, and after he had gone back inside McComb showed up. He walked over to O’Brien, who was now mounted.
‘A word of advice, O’Brien. If you really intend to hunt shaggies out there, keep out of our way. I won’t ever want to see you on one of our herds. If I do, you’re a dead man.’
O’Brien met his gaze with a cool one. ‘We’ll hunt where the herds take us, McComb. And I hope Walcott fires you before you cause any more trouble here.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ McComb told him.
Then they were gone.
For the next three days they rode south and into Kansas, purposely to put themselves outside the range of Walcott’s operations. They travelled so as to avoid riding through towns, making hardship camp every night, eating beans out of a tin and roasting rabbit over a crackling fire with a green stick. Both men preferred that to town life. Later when they had bought more provisions, there would be corn dodgers, tinned fruit and chicory coffee.
They eventually stopped in a small town north of Wichita called Smith Junction, to buy supplies. They spent the next couple of days purchasing food supplies, a beat up old wagon for hides, a long-eared mule to haul it and camp equipment. At a gun store they bought ammunition and asked to see some larger-calibre rifles. The clerk brought out two Sharps .500 rifles and showed them.
‘You want these for buff hunting?’ the gray-haired fellow asked.
O’Brien nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Well, this here is the biggest gun on the market. Powerful. Accurate up to a quarter-mile in the right hands. Not too heavy neither. Nice balance.’
‘Just let me see the gun,’ O’Brien said, taking one from him.
He hefted it and sighted it on a lamp post outside. He looked it over carefully. He nodded and gave it to Cahill.
‘What do you think?’
Cahill took it and smiled. ‘It’s a lot of gun for an old man. But I like it.’
‘We’ll take both of them,’ O’Brien said. ‘And five hundred rounds of ammo for them.’ They had already purchased ammo for their other rifles.
‘Five hundred? I don’t know if I got that much.’
‘Give us what you got,’ Cahill said.
‘And the scabbards,’ O’Brien added. ‘Can you get them attached to the saddles?’
The clerk nodded. ‘I’ll have then ready for you tomorrow early.’
O’Brien sighed. That meant a night in town. ‘You got a deal.’
‘We rode in from the north,’ Cahill said. ‘Didn’t spot any herds. How’s the hunting in these parts?’
The clerk arched his eyebrows. ‘None better, boys. They been taking a lot of hides south and east of here. Big herds. But of course not like ten years ago.’
‘Sounds good enough,’ Cahill told him. ‘We’ll pick up this stuff tomorrow.’
There was a small hotel down the street, and the pair took a room on the first floor. But not until after a small dispute.
‘We’ll take a room. Two beds,’ O’Brien told the desk clerk.
The reception area was high-class, with potted palms and a carpet on the floor. There was a Remington painting on the far wall. The clerk looked the two over carefully.
‘You sure you came to the right place, gentlemen?’ he said warily. ‘There’s an inexpensive rooming house just down the street.’
‘We can afford this,’ Cahill said acidly.
‘Well, if you’re sure. We send all of you trail people down the street. You get your breakfast free there.’
O’Brien gave him a perturbed look. ‘You got good hearing, mister?’
The clerk gave a nervous smile. ‘Oh. Yes. Well, I could give you a room upstairs. At the rear. I think that would suit your purpose.’
‘Just give us the key,’ Cahill said even more acidly.
When they got to the room Cahill threw himself onto one of the two beds.
‘My God. I never been on this soft a mattress.’
O’Brien pushed a hand onto his, and shook his head. He grabbed a pillow and threw it onto the floor beside the bed.
‘I can’t sleep on that. I’ll sleep on the floor.’
Cahill gave him a surprised look, then grinned.
‘You must of been with them Lakota longer than I figured.’
They had brought their rifles from their horses’ saddler. O’Brien retrieved his from a corner of the room and sat in a chair with it. He ‘broke’ the long gun with a release device and peered through its barrel. Cahill had picked up a Kansas City newspaper that some previous tenant had left behind. He was reading the headlines.
‘Anything happening in the big world out there?’ O’Brien asked, snapping the rifle back into lock position.
‘Somebody named Mark Twain just published a book called The Gilded Age. Whatever that means.’
‘Never heard of him,’ O’Brien commented.
‘Jesse James held up a bank in Russellville, Kentucky.’ Cahill grinned. ‘That boy is making a name for hisself.’
‘Never met a gunfighter I liked,’ O’Brien said. ‘Did you clean that Hotchkiss?’
‘I ain’t fired it,’ Cahill replied. ‘Hey, here’s one. The price of robe-quality hides has gone up to sixty dollars in Boston. They’re even paying thirty for green hides at the Fort Griffin market. Walcott will get rich if this keeps up. Maybe we’ll even get in on some of it.’
O’Brien stared across the room. Remembering how embarrassed he had been when Molly found out he couldn’t read. He glanced over at Cahill reading the paper.
‘Maybe one of these days. When we got the time.’
Cahill looked over at him. ‘What?’
‘You could show me. A little about how that’s done.’
Cahill understood. ‘Reading?’
‘Just so I could read headlines and stuff.’ He was looking down at his rifle.
Cahill’s lined face softened almost unnoticeably. He had never heard O’Brien ask for help in anything. It touched him emotionally. He cleared his throat.
‘Of course. It would pleasure me to help. It ain’t nothing really.’
> ‘Just a smattering is all I’d need. I ain’t planning to read no books.’
‘I’ll pick up a McGuffy’s First Reader before we ride out,’ Cahill said. Then he shook his head.
‘What?’ O’Brien said warily.
‘I was just thinking. You speak three Indian languages. You taught Gray Hawk how to make cartridges and field strip a rifle. You can hunt and track like a Cherokee. And you’ve won prizes at target shoots. And behold! I can teach you something.’ He laughed softly.
O’Brien grunted. ‘Don’t push that line too far, partner, or you’ll have to digest that newspaper.’
Then they both had a quiet laugh.
They ate at a small café across the street that evening, and Cahill was glad to get a break from the trail grub. O’Brien had a big steak, six eggs and fried potatoes. Then they returned to the gun store and O’Brien bought a tripod for the Sharps rifle.
‘My eyes ain’t good enough to shoot so far that would do me any good,’ Cahill declared.
‘In case you’re interested,’ the owner said, ‘a cowpoke that come in earlier said a pretty nice little herd was spotted west of here less than a day’s ride. Out past Smith Meadows.’
‘Is everything hereabouts called Smith?’ Cahill said.
‘Just about.’
‘Appreciate the report on shaggies,’ O’Brien told him. ‘Maybe we’ll look into it.’
By dawn the following morning, they were on their way west.
It only took to mid-afternoon to find the herd. It was small, less than 200 animals. But it was enough for two men still-shooting. They were able to get close enough so O’Brien didn’t use his tripod. But the big Sharps rifles boomed out again and again before the herd ran. O’Brien had taken down six, and Cahill four. They couldn’t have done that with the Winchester and the Hotchkiss.
The rest of that day was spent skinning and scraping and loading the hides onto their wagon, while the mule stood patiently waiting near the picketed mounts. Not long afterward they found a small stream where they watered the animals and cleaned themselves up. It was too late to return to Smith Junction, where there was a small market for green hides, so they made camp at the stream.
