by Lauran Paine
“He’s going to read you the Articles of War,” Zeke said. They both knew who he meant. “He’s been raging ever since Lew Foster come to the plateau.” Zeke spat and did not bring his gaze back to his brother’s face. “Foster was out to kill you … except he couldn’t. They had you in jail. Paw didn’t believe him at first … then he did … Well, come on. Might as well face him and get it over with.”
They went toward the others, side-by-side, big men, long of stride and corded with muscle. The others looked at them and at Uriah. Uriah had not spoken since they had left Union City. His face was stone-set now and savage-looking. His eyes seemed hotter and dryer than Lee had ever seen them look before, when they focused on him.
“Sit down,” Uriah commanded, ignoring Zeke and the others. Then for a long interval he did not open his lips again.
“Wallowing on a mud bank like a cub bear,” he said finally in a low-burning and scornful voice, and every word carried. Where the others sat, heads down and bodies motionless, it was obvious they were listening with relish. Not a one of them but had felt the lash of Uriah’s wrath some time. It was good now to hear him flay someone else, especially his son.
“Rolling in the weeds with Lew Foster’s girl … Sneaking away after the raid like a scared whelp dog … Getting caught and making us all risk our hides to fetch you clear again …”
“Paw …”
“Shut up, Zeke, I’ll handle this.
“Running out on us when you knew the cowmen’d strike back.” Uriah drew up and looked fully at Lee, his strange eyes boring in fiercely. “What kind of man are you anyway? We got a war on our hands … a fighting war … and you go skulking off to lie with that girl!”
Lee was like rock. The tongue that was cloven to the roof of his mouth was as wood. His eyes burned and big-fisted hands lay still in his lap. He did not meet his father’s glare.
Zeke pushed between them with a cup of laced coffee for his brother. Silence settled heavily. Zeke’s massiveness effectively cut Lee off from Uriah’s embittered stare. Later, after Uriah had flung away with an oath, Zeke took his brother to the farthest limits of the firelit bivouac, and there they sat hunched over on a deadfall tree, each with his tin mug of rye whiskey and coffee.
“Like I told you,” said Zeke dully. “If she come up calvy, there’d be trouble. That’s partly what’s eating at Paw.”
“Why should it bother him … it’s my worry not his.”
“He sort of figured we could get some of the squatters to throw in with us against the big outfits.”
“Well, what’s Ann got to do with that?” Lee wanted to know.
Big Zeke had both hands cupped around the tin mug, warming them. “Lew Foster,” he said quietly. “He’s joined with the big outfits. He’s a power among the squatters. He’ll take most of ’em into the other camp now.” Zeke drained the cup and sat up straighter. “Boy, you sure kicked a skunk this time.”
“Zeke?”
“Oh, hell, don’t fret too much,” the older brother growled gently, looking over where the others were eating and sprawling. “The old man’ll get over it … this goddamned world keeps on turning, seems like …” He stretched.
“But what are you all doing here? Why isn’t everyone at the camps? Who’s watching the bands?”
“The bands,” Zeke replied shortly, “are all herded together. Things’ve happened since they caught you, boy. They came into the hills about thirty strong … caught a couple of those immigrant herders and killed them. Then they raided the plateau … burned our wagon, wrecked the camp, and shot sheep till they ran out of bullets. We were over at Pompa’s the day they came.”
“Who’s leading them now?”
“The Simpsons. Old Charley and young Dade. They keep watchers on the hilltops. They know we’re in the hills somewhere but they don’t know where.” Zeke dropped the empty tin cup. “They put up posters around the country … we’re outlaws now.”
Lee looked down where the others were lolling near the dying embers. Tobacco smoke rose. There was a little desultory talk but mostly the men lay back looking into the fire or above, at the paling sky of dawn.
“What’s Paw going to do?”
“We’re going to Bethel today,” Zeke replied. “This is like the war all over again to him. He says we got to have a base for supplies. That’s why we’re going to Bethel. For supplies and more men … if we can get ’em.” Zeke stretched again and turned his head toward Lee’s profile. “The story we got … Lew Foster’s girl was with you when they ran you down. Tell me about it.”
“We were running away … I guess. The two of us.”
“You guess … don’t you know whether you were running away or not?”
“We had to go south, Zeke. The creek was way too high to ford. We were following it south … but it kept bearing toward Union City. I wanted to come back. Ann said for us to break away and keep going south. I was wondering what to do … exactly … when they came on to us.” The younger man shook his head. “I don’t know which I’d have done, Zeke … At first I wanted to go back to the plateau, but later … I don’t know.”
A stalking shadow went past, leading a saddled horse. It was Uriah. He led his beast up to the fire and stood there, saying nothing. The others got up wearily and moved off to get their horses. Scarcely a word was spoken.
Zeke stood up, watched the bustle a moment, then brushed fingers across his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, boy, we’re Bethel bound.”
* * * * *
They rode gaunt animals through the pearl-gray dawn. It was warm and still with a long streak of pink across the underbelly of sky along the farthest mountains to the east. There was neither moon nor sun. It was the between hour—the best time for fugitives to ride. Visibility was in their favor. They could see without being seen. Uriah knew these things. They followed the dim roads, a ragged line of men going by twos. Where dwellings lay they detoured wide and several times dismounted to lead their horses furtively through the gloom. When the hills were far behind and the open country stretched ahead, they gave rein and spur, fleeing over the range in a swift mass, and finally, with the village of Bethel in sight, Uriah made for a forested spit and drew up there, looking out.
Dawn was spreading. A pure white mist floated among the trees. From the tender grass and sage clumps drowsy birds made small scolding sounds. Freshness was over the land; only the wood lot was blotched and shadowy. Beside Uriah surly Kant U’Ren looked steadily ahead at the awakening village. Although there was yet no sun, a tidal wash of pale, pale pink touched rooftops.
“Be better,” said the half-blood, “if one of us goes in alone, first.”
Uriah’s reply was instantaneous. “And face them alone if there’s trouble?”
Where Lee sat his horse beside Zeke, black fear froze his heart. Uriah had doubts about the villagers. If there was reason to doubt their only allies—what hope was there? He looked at his brother. Zeke was rubbing a bristly jaw; the sound was loud. Behind them sat George Dobkins and Pete Amaya. Dobkins was sucking on his bubbling pipe. Amaya was a ragged bronze statue, motionless and impassive. The long-barreled revolver that had splintered Paxton Clement’s skull was jammed into his waistband.
Finally Uriah led out. They followed him at a brisk walk across the open plow ground, and distantly, where people were stirring, they were seen. Men darted among the shacks and stores. By the time they were close a dozen armed men barred their way into Bethel. Beside Lee, Zeke cursed with cold feeling.
“We’ll never get away if they start shooting,” he said. “Not over all this open ground.”
But Uriah rode on as though unaware of the obvious hostility awaiting them at the village’s outskirts. He did not change his lead or slacken his pace until he was ten feet from the band of men afoot. Others were hastening up, also with rifles, hair tousled and hastily dressed but all with the same locked e
xpression.
Town Marshal Will Harper—a sheepman himself—spoke first. “Hold it, Gorman, right where you are. What are you doing here?”
“We’re after food and fresh horses,” Uriah replied in ice-clear tones. “We also need ammunition.”
“Not here you don’t,” the Marshal answered back. “You got the whole goddamned country against you for what you done at XIH. You put all our lives in danger … ain’t a sheepman in Wyoming isn’t in danger now. You ruined our last hope for peace.”
“Peace,” Uriah choked. “Peace with the cowmen? Damn you, Harper. There was never a hope for peace and you know it.”
“You been outlawed by the US marshal, Gorman. You and those that ride with you.” Will Harper’s eyes flicked over them one by one. “The governor’s sending troops … the cowmen’re hiring guns … there’s posses all over the country looking for you. The folks here in Bethel want no part of you. Now go on … ride off.”
“Harper, we got to have vittles.”
“Get ’em somewhere else. Now go on.”
Harper raised his rifle. The men around him did likewise. By now they numbered close to twenty guns. Harper’s small eyes glowed spitefully, murderously.
“I already lost a hundred woollies. Them as are riding with you’ll lose more. You aren’t free-graze men any more, you’re a bunch of damned outlaws … renegades. You’ll have prices on your heads before many more days. Now ride off or we’ll bury you right here.”
“There’ll be a sight more digging than you figure on if you try it,” Uriah said harshly. But he drew back on his reins and turned his horse.
They followed him back across the plow ground, each head twisted, watching the silent men back at the village. Near the tag end of the silent file Kant U’Ren growled: “They won’t try it. No rewards yet to make it worth the risk.”
Uriah rode slumped over. What some thought with sinking hearts was dejection, though, was thoughtfulness. He halted when they were back against the warming hills.
“Pete, take whoever you want and go steal us some horses. Remember, we got to have good sound ones … and fast ones, too.”
Amaya nodded. His teeth flashed. He chose George Dobkins and Gaspar Pompa.
“Fawcett,” Uriah continued, “you take who you want and fetch us back food and as much ammunition as you can get … pistol and rifle.” Joseph Fawcett watched Uriah impassively; he made no move to do as ordered until Uriah swept the others with his brittle stare.
“The rest of you’ll come with me. We’ll go to C Bar S.”
“What for?” Zeke asked.
“To get Simpson and his boy.” The burning eyes swept over them. “Hostages, you fools. We got to have hostages before we can barter with the law or the Army … I know.”
Joseph Fawcett’s eyes flickered with faint hope. He turned and selected three men. Among them was Kant U’Ren.
When they split up, the sun was climbing high. Counting Uriah, the last band to skirt along the hills southwesterly numbered six men. As usual Lee found his place beside Zeke. They moved onward in deep silence.
The sun at its fierce height burned down. In all that throbbing solitude it beat against them, reflected from the mountainsides. They could not escape it; they hugged the rocky upthrusts for protection against sentinel eyes and it engulfed them. Lee grew drowsy. Thirst dried his throat and his face felt raw and red. Beside him Zeke rode without a murmur, granitelike even as Uriah was also granitelike.
Uriah did not speak. He did not have to. They all knew the way to the Simpson Ranch, and after that … planning did no good. You acted as you had to when the time came.
“Zeke?” Lee said.
“Yeah.”
“Was Harper talking the truth?”
“I reckon. We been outlawed all right … I already told you that.”
“Then what in hell are we doing here? Why aren’t we getting out?”
Zeke’s eyes, fixed on the Uriah’s back, were dull and murky. He shrugged without replying.
“Zeke, we can’t fight the Army.”
“Maybe we won’t have to. The old man’s been figuring.”
Lee looked ahead where their father rode. Uriah’s bony shoulders were rigid. His raw-boned frame was incongruous-looking on the horse, long shanks dangling, ragged shirt half in, half out of his waistband, big pistol at his side and naked-winking rifle balancing across the saddle fork. Lee’s darkness of spirit returned. Once again he was divided within himself.
“Zeke?”
“Yeah.”
“I been thinking. The way he’s been acting lately … since that first killing at Shipman’s Meadow … and all …”
“Well?”
“Zeke, I think Paw’s crazy.”
The younger man’s importuning eyes were met by a hard, cold stare. “Boy,” the older brother said in a soft and distant way. “He’s your paw … don’t you ever forget that. He gave you life. He’s bent-shouldered from raising you and me.”
The solid wall of Zeke’s blind allegiance grew between them. In substance it was nearly tangible. Lee grew silent. They followed their father with faces averted from one another.
Suddenly, growing from stillness, a low, insistent rhythm began to roil the air. It grew louder and Uriah jerked back to a halt, listening. The sound increased, beat up into the steady throb of oncoming horsemen. Uriah looked back at them. His face was sweaty and twisted.
“Up that little draw,” he snapped. “Quick now!”
They scattered into the brush of a ravine like quail. Where Uriah dismounted, standing at his horse’s head to pinch off any nickering, the others followed his example. Then, a half mile off, where the trail they had been using swung away from the hills to breast the plain, they saw them—a large body of horsemen moving steadily toward them at a loose lope.
“Ander,” Uriah breathed. “Looks like he’s got half Union City with him.”
One of the men behind Lee spoke clearly. “Be a hanging bee if they find us.” He crouched closer to his horse with sweat dripping off his chin.
“Keep low and still,” Uriah cautioned as the riders swung with the trail and came closer. “If we’re caught watch me … do as I do.”
Lee was sick with dread and fear. Beside him big Zeke looked calm except for the sudden whiteness around dark-ringed eyes.
The riders streamed past, every eye sweeping the long run of land ahead. Their leader, Town Marshal Bob Ander, showed a glimpse of haggard face and bitter eyes, then he was gone and the others were gone after him. Choking dust lingered in their wake. It dulled the sound of Uriah’s voice.
“Charley and Dade weren’t with them, boys. It’s a good sign.” He led his horse out of the brush and toed into the stirrup. “They’ll be at the ranch. Come on.”
Lee followed his father, thinking that Will Harper had been right, terribly right. The land was alive with men bent on their destruction. When Zeke rode close, Lee said: “He’s going to get us all killed.”
Zeke might not have heard. At least his head didn’t turn or his eyes show understanding. He was watching their father’s back and rocking along at a gallop.
Overhead an evil sun glittered across the vast sweep of sky. Below there was an emptiness. Ahead, tall and stringy in the saddle, rawhide-tough and inflexible, was Uriah. Beyond him, coming to sight, assuming a dimensional fix upon the prairie, was a set of log-and-mud wattle ranch buildings: Simpson’s C Bar S.
Uriah reined down. Shiny with sweat, his horse wheeled and cavorted under a tight rein. The old man let them cluster up around him. “We got to be careful,” he said, never once looking away from the buildings. “We’ll go under the cutbank where the creek lies … leave the horses there and go on afoot.”
They followed him noiselessly, blindly, out of sight under the creek-scoured dirt barranca that ran behind Simpson’s barn and
along the south side of his sturdy square house. The horses were left tethered and each man had his gun bared.
Where the creek bed heightened with silted gravel, Uriah straightened up to look out. The house was less than fifty feet away. Some scrawny chickens were foolishly busy in an untended vegetable garden. They caught movement and cocked bright and silly eyes at Uriah. A door slammed somewhere nearby. Uriah drew down lower, only his raging eyes showed over the crumbly creek bank. The chickens forgot and returned to their scratching. A man appeared abruptly from the rear of the house. He stood looking northward toward the hills, in the direction Ander’s posse had ridden. His expression was fiercely etched and cruel. It didn’t even change when Uriah’s voice came, thinly drawn out, from the creek bed.
“Don’t make a single move, Simpson. Not a single move!”
Chapter Seven
Charles Simpson was a flintlike man, as hard as the land. He watched Uriah over the rim of the creek bank and stood silently. On both sides of Uriah other heads appeared, some hatless. Each face was familiar and Charley Simpson studied them singly. He meant to remember each one. It was his nature, Indian-like, never to forgive nor forget.
“Get his gun,” said Uriah.
Zeke scrambled out of the arroyo and went stalking forward. A brace of savage eyes locked, then Zeke emptied Simpson’s hip holster and stood back. The others were coming now. There was not a word. Scarcely a sound. Uriah was close. They were of a height, the captive and his captor. They were alike in other ways, too—both stood raw-boned and stringy and both wore expressions blasted from a life that had seldom been easy.
