A Century of Great Western Stories

by A Century of Great Western Stories (retail) (epub)

  At five o’clock that long afternoon the stage threaded Lordsburg’s narrow streets of ’dobe and frame houses, came upon the center square, and stopped before a crowd of people gathered in the smoky heat. The passengers crawled out stiffly. A Mexican boy ran up to see the dead gambler and began to yell his news in shrill Mexican. Malpais Bill climbed off the top, but Happy Stuart sat back on his seat and stared taciturnly at the crowd. Henriette noticed then that the shotgun messenger was gone.

  A gray man in a sleazy white suit called up to Happy. “Well, you got through.”

  Happy Stuart said: “Yeah. We got through.”

  An officer stepped through the crowd, smiling at the army girl. He took her arm and said, “Miss Robertson, I believe. Lieutenant Hauser is quite all right. I will get your luggage—”

  The army girl was crying then, definitely. They were all standing around, bone-weary and shaken. Malpais Bill remained by the wheel of the coach, his cheeks hard against the sunlight and his eyes riveted on a pair of men standing under the board awning of an adjoining store. Henriette observed the manner of their waiting and knew why they were here. The blond man’s eyes, she noticed, were very blue and a flame burned brilliantly in them. The army girl turned to Henriette, tears in her eyes. She murmured: “If there is anything I can ever do for you—”

  But Henriette stepped back, shaking her head. This was Lordsburg and everybody knew her place except the army girl. Henriette said formally, “Good-bye,” noting how still and expectant the two men under the awning remained. She swung toward the blond man and said, “Would you carry my valise?”

  Malpais Bill looked at her, laughter remote in his eyes, and reached into the luggage pile and got her battered valise. He was still smiling as he went beside her, through the crowd and past the two waiting men. But when they turned into an anonymous and dusty little side street of the town, where the houses all sat shoulder to shoulder without grace or dignity, he had turned sober. He said: “I am obliged to you. But I’ll have to go back there.”

  They were in front of a house no different from its neighbors; they had stopped at its door. She could see his eyes travel this street and comprehend its meaning and the kind of traffic it bore. But he was saying in that gentle melody-making tone: “I have watched you for two days.” He stopped, searching his mind to find the thing he wanted to say. It came out swiftly. “God made you a woman. The Tonto is a pretty country.”

  Her answer was quite barren of feeling. “No. I am known all through the Territory. But I can remember that you asked me.”

  He said: “No other reason?” She didn’t answer but something in her eyes pulled his face together. He took off his hat and it seemed to her he was looking through his hot day to that far-off country and seeing it fresh and desirable. He murmured: “A man can escape nothing. I have got to do this. But I will be back.”

  He went along the narrow street, made a quick turn at the end of it, and disappeared. Heat rolled like a heavy wave over Lordsburg’s housetops and the smell of dust was very sharp. She lifted her valise, and dropped it and stood like that, mute and grave before the door of her dismal house. She was remembering how tall he had been against the moonlight at Gap Station.

  There were four swift shots beating furiously along the sultry quiet, and a shout, and afterwards a longer and longer silence. She put one hand against the door to steady herself, and knew that those shots marked the end of a man, and the end of a hope. He would never come back; he would never stand over her in the moonlight with the long gentle smile on his lips and with the swing of life in his casual tone. She was thinking of all that humbly and with the patience life had beaten into her… .

  She was thinking of all that when she heard the strike of boots on the street’s packed earth; and turned to see him, high and square in the muddy sunlight, coming toward her with his smile.

  Although he died at a tragically young age, Les Savage, Jr. (1922–1958) was a prolific writer of Western and historical fiction, publishing twenty-four novels and well over a hundred short stories, novelettes, and novellas in his sixteen-year career. Even more remarkable than his output is the consistently high level of quality he attained, whether in the novel length or in the shorter forms. Savage’s fiction is highly atmospheric, assiduously accurate as to period, and vividly evoked, as evidenced by such novels as Treasure of the Brasada, The Hide Rustlers, and Return to Warbow. He was meticulous about plot, inventive, innovative, and loved to experiment. His painstaking research is apparent in all that he wrote, as is his intimate grasp of the terrain wherever a story would be set, his vital familiarity with the characteristics of flora in the changing seasons, and the way of horses, mules, and men.

  King of the Buckskin Breed

  Les Savage, Jr.

  “I’ll Wait In The Hills… .”

  In the spring of 1840, Fort Union had stood at the confluence of the Yellowstone and the Missouri for eleven years. And in that same spring, Victor Garrit came down out of the mountains for the first time in three years. He came down on a Mandan pony, still shedding its winter coat, with his long Jake Hawkins rifle held across the pommel of the buffalo saddle. Those years of running the forest alone had changed his youthful handsomeness, had hollowed his face beneath its prominent cheekbones, had settled his black eyes deep in their sockets. It gave his face the sharp edge of a honed blade, and made a thin slice of his mouth which might have left him without humor but for the quirk which came and went at one tip. He stopped twenty feet out from the huge double-leaved gate in the palisaded wall, calling to the guard.

  The small door in one of the leaves opened and John Farrier stepped through. Chief factor of Fort Union since 1832, his square and beefy figure in its three-point blanket coat and black boots was known from New Orleans to the Canadian Territories. He greeted Garrit with a broad grin.

  “We saw you coming in, Vic.”

  “Your Indian runner found me in Jackson Hole last month,” Garrit said. “He said you were in trouble, and would give me amnesty if I came.”

  “You’ve got my protection, as long as you’re here,” Farrier told him. He scratched thoughtfully at his curly red beard. “You know Yellowstone Fur is in a hole, Vic. The Blackfoot trouble has kept my company trappers from working their lines for two years. If we don’t get any fur this year we go under. The free trappers have been operating over beyond the Blackfoot country. They’ll have their rendezvous in Pierre’s Hole this year. If we can get a train of trade goods through and get their furs, we’ll be in business again.”

  Garrit’s eyes had never been still, roving from point to point along the palisaded wall in the suspicious restlessness of some wild thing. “And you want me to take the pack train through?”

  “You’re the only man can do it, Vic. I can’t get any of these mangy lard-eaters around the post to take the chance, not even for double wages and a bonus. The trader’s here, but he had to get all of his crew from St. Looey.” The factor put a freckled hand on Garrit’s knee. “Yellowstone might forget a lot of what happened in the past, if you saved the day for them, Vic.”

  Garrit’s black eyes never seemed to lose their gleam, in their shadowed sockets, and it only added to the wildness of his gaunt face. “You’d go under if the company went under, wouldn’t you, John?” he asked.

  Defeat pinched at Farrier’s eyes, making him look old. “You know I plan on retiring soon. I couldn’t do it without Yellowstone’s pension.”

  The quirk at the tip of Garrit’s lips became a fleeting grin. “You’ve been my only friend up here, John. I don’t think I’d be alive today without you. Where’s the trader?”

  A broad smile spread Farrier’s beard, he slapped Garrit affectionately on the knee, turned to lead him back inside. There were a dozen company trappers and engagés gathered on the inside of the door, gaping at Garrit as he rode through. He followed Farrier past the great fur press in the middle of the compound to the hitch rack before the neat factor’s house. He dismounted, still carryi
ng his Jake Hawkins, and followed Farrier through the door. Then he halted, shock filling his face with a bloodless, putty hue.

  Enid Nelson sat in a chair by the crude desk, rising slowly to her feet with sight of Garrit. And beside her, John Bruce took a sharp step forward, staring at Garrit with red anger filling his heavy-jawed face.

  “Damn you, Farrier,” he half-shouted. “You didn’t tell me it would be Garrit. What are you trying to do?”

  Farrier dropped his hand on Garrit’s tense shoulder. “I gave him my word he’d have my protection, Bruce.”

  “Protection, hell!” Bruce stormed. “As an officer of Yellowstone Fur, I order you to put this man under arrest immediately.”

  “John—” Enid wheeled toward him, her voice sharp. “You can’t ask Farrier to go back on his word!”

  Bruce glared at Garrit, breathing heavily, held by Enid’s angry eyes for a moment. Three years of soft living had put a little weight around his belly, but he still bore a heavy-shouldered handsomeness, in the buffalo coat and cowhide breeches of a trader. Garrit was not looking at him, however. Since he had first entered, his eyes had been on Enid. She was a tall girl, auburn-haired, with a strong beauty to her wide-set eyes, her full lips. The Palatine cloak with its pointed hood, the tight bodice holding the swell of her mature figure, the skirt of India muslin—all brought the past to Garrit with poignant impact.

  Bruce finally made a disgusted sound. “I’d rather go alone than be guided by a wanted man.”

  “You’d never make it ten miles alone,” Farrier said. “The trader for Hudson’s Bay tried it last year. The Blackfeet caught him. He lost his whole pack train. He was lucky to get his men back alive.”

  “Those weren’t Blackfeet,” Garrit said thinly.

  Bruce stared at him blankly a moment, then a derisive smile curled on his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re still harping on that Anne Corday fable.”

  Garrit’s head lifted sharply. He turned to pace restlessly across the room, glancing at the walls, like some animal suspicious of a cage. “It’s no fable,” he said. His voice had lost its accustomed softness. “Anne Corday was with those Indians that got the Hudson’s Bay trade goods last year. The same woman that got my pack train down on the Platte.”

  Farrier stopped John Bruce’s angry retort with an upheld hand. “There may be something to it, Bruce. The few trappers of ours that have gotten through haven’t been able to keep any pelts on their lines. Their traps have been cleaned out more systematically than any Indians would ever do it.”

  Enid turned to Bruce, catching his arm. “John, if Garrit’s the only one who can get you through, let him do it.”

  “And let him take another five thousand dollars’ worth of trade goods whenever he feels like it?” Bruce said. “I’m not that foolish, Enid. And you have no right to give him amnesty, Farrier. When the company hears about this, there’s liable to be a new factor at Fort Union.”

  He turned and stamped out the other door, leaving an empty silence in the room. But Farrier winked at Garrit.

  “They sent Bruce up here to learn the ropes so he could take over when I retire. But he can hardly be factor if there ain’t any Yellowstone Fur, can he? And there won’t be any Yellowstone Fur if he don’t get through to the rendezvous. And he won’t get through unless you take him. When he cools off, he’ll see how simple it is.”

  With a sly grin he followed Bruce out. Slowly, reluctantly, Garrit looked back at Enid. His weather-darkened face appeared even more gaunt. When he finally spoke, his voice had lowered to a husky murmur.

  “It’s funny. I’ve dreamed of seeing you again, for three years. And when it comes—I don’t know what to say.”

  A smile came hesitantly to her soft lips. She moved toward him, reached out a hand shyly, impulsively, to touch his mouth.

  “That quirk’s still there, isn’t it?”

  The touch of her hand was like satin, bringing the past back so painfully that it made him pull away, turn from her, start to pace again.

  “It’s the only thing that hasn’t changed, in you,” she said. “I don’t think I’d have recognized you, at a distance. You must have lost twenty pounds. You’re dark as an Indian. And so restless, Vic. Like some animal.”

  “The woods do that to a man, I guess,” he said. “You got to be half animal to stay alive in the Blackfoot country.” His deepset eyes filled with that restive gleam as he glanced around the walls. “I never saw such a small room.”

  She shook her head from side to side, staring at him with hurt, troubled eyes. “Was it worth it?”

  He turned sharply to her. “Would you spend five years in jail for something you didn’t do?”

  “Don’t you want to come back, Vic?”

  “Come back.” He looked at her an instant, the pain naked in his eyes. Then he turned away stiffly, voice low and tight. “More than anything else in the world, Enid. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

  “Things have changed, Vic.”

  The gaunt hollows beneath his prominent cheekbones deepened, as he realized what she meant. “You … and Bruce?”

  “I tried to wait, Vic.” She turned her face away, as if unable to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how hard it was.” Then she wheeled back, catching at his arm, the words tumbling out. “You’ve got to understand. I did wait, you’ve got to believe me, but it was so long, not hearing from you, then someone brought word you were dead—”

  “It’s all right, Enid. I understand. I had no right to ask that you wait.” He paused, then brought the rest out with great effort. “I suppose you and John plan to be married after he makes good on this trip?”

  “Oh, Vic—” It was torn from her, and she wheeled around, face in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. He stared at her, helplessly. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms, more than anything else he’d wanted in these three years. He started to, then his hands dropped, and he stopped again, as he realized he had no right. She was tortured enough, in her dilemma. Even though she knew he was alive now, it did not change things. He had no more to offer her than he’d had three years ago, when he fled.

  Finally, in a barely audible voice, he said, “For your sake, and for Farrier’s, I hope Bruce decides to let me take him through. Tell them I’ll wait in the hills to the west. These walls are getting too tight.”

  Hell-Cat’s Brew

  John Bruce’s pack train left Fort Union on the twelfth of April, following the Yellowstone River south. There were ten men and thirty mules, loaded with the tobacco, Du Pont powder, Missouri lead, knives, traps, flints, vermilion, bridles, spurs, needles and thread for which the free trappers and Indians at Pierre’s Hole would trade their furs.

  The cavalcade toiled through the rolling grasslands south of the Missouri, forded countless creeks swollen and chocolate with spring. They passed the mouth of the Powder River where the sand lay black and fine as Du Pont on the sloping banks, and fighting their way through clay flats turned viscid as glue by the rains, finally gained the mountains.

  There had not been too much talk between John Bruce and Garrit during the days in the lowlands. But now, as they pulled to the first ridge ahead of the toiling mules, and halted their horses among the pines, Bruce let out a relieved sigh.

  “Thank the Lord we’re though that clay. I thought I’d go crazy. I never saw such country.”

  Garrit sat staring off westward at the undulant sea of hoary ridges and valleys, rolling away as far as he could see. “It’s a good country. You’ve just got to get used to it,” he said. His broad chest swelled as he drew a deep breath of air, syrupy with the perfumes of pine and wild roses. “Take a whiff of that. Like wine.”

  Bruce frowned closely at him. “Don’t tell me you actually like it—running like an animal all these years in this wilderness.”

  Garrit tilted his narrow, dark head to one side. “It’s funny,” he said. “A man doesn’t think about liking it, or not liking it. He just lives it. Maybe he should stop t
o appreciate it more often.”

  “I used to see those mountain men come into St. Looey,” Bruce said. “I never could understand what made them come back here, year after year, till some blizzard got them, or some Indian.”

  Garrit glanced at him, the humor leaving his face. “No,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Surprise widened Bruce’s sullen eyes. Then his lips clamped shut, and the antipathy dropped between them again. “You want to be careful, Garrit,” he said. “I still think I should turn you in.”

  A sardonic light gleamed in Garrit’s eyes. “But not till I’ve brought you through safe with the furs that’ll make you chief factor of Fort Union.”

  Bruce’s face grew ruddy, and he started to jerk his reins up and pull his horse over against the mountain man’s. But a rider came laboring up the slope behind them, stopping Bruce’s movement. It was Frenchie, a burly man in a cinnamon bear coat and elk hide leggings, a red scarf tied about his shaggy black hair, immense brass earrings dangling against his cheeks. He drew to a halt beside them, blowing like a horse.

  “Now for the climbing, hein?” he grinned. “Looks like we go through that pass ahead.”

  “Not by a long shot,” Garrit said. “How long you been in this country?”

  “Jus’ come north to work at Fort Union this spring,” the Frenchman said. “Man don’t have to know the country to see that pass is the easiest way through.”

  “Exactly why we don’t take it,” Garrit said. “The Blackfeet have caught three pack trains in there the last two years. They don’t think there’s any other way through Buffalo Ridge. But I know a trail over that hogback to the south.”