He wore some contraption on his left arm that shoved a derringer out into his fist. He got off both barrels, or they might have both gone off accidentally at the same time. Two slugs tore into the drifter. He fell dead, but the gambler wasn't in the greatest shape, either. He died when the doctor tried to save him.
A slow smile came to my lips as I sketched. I was getting into a drawing of three wranglers insisting they bed down in the hotel, only they wanted their horses in the room with them. The porch barely accommodated one rider and his horse, much less three. But they crowded in, to the room clerk's disfavor. Broad pencil strokes turned into a finer line as the remembered scene took on a life of its own.
George Wyatt would pay well for the drawing of half a horse inside the hotel, two others with their riders crowding close behind. Whether the hotel owner saw this as funny as most folks watching, me included, was another matter. Mr. Wyatt needed to keep his readers smiling and wanting more stories. With luck, they would want more of my pictures to go with the stories.
The sketch done, I pushed it aside and looked back at the one I had begun the instant I sat at the table in the corner away from the wind blasting through the door as customers came and went and from the curious folks peering over my shoulder the way that other wrangler had before when I . . .
My thoughts jumbled up. I had sketched out Hanks' likeness. The man who had been watching so intently hadn't been on that wanted poster — nor was the rustler I saw — but he had shown a powerful interest in my work. As good an artist as I was, there hadn't been reason for him to peer at my work so intently unless he recognized Hanks.
There had been a gang of rustlers. He might have been Hanks' partner and gone to warn him out at the Triangle K. That explained why me and the marshal rode into the sights of a marksman. Hanks had been warned we were coming, not directly but eventually.
"Hey, Gus, you got any more paper back there?"
The barkeep shook his head.
"You ain't drinkin' fast enough fer that, Charlie. You swill my brew quicker and there might be a scrap of paper come along with another mug of beer."
"Thief." I settled back and stared across the bar. The smoke stung my eyes, but seeing wasn't what I did. I remembered. Without paying much attention to the owlhoot spying on me before, I still conjured up his face. It's hard to describe how I recollect faces and, in the case of lovely young ladies, their figures. Humans and horses always come easy for me. I spent a year living with the Indians and appreciated how they become part of the horse when they rode, but the flow, the motion, the composition as they tried to convince me in art school, became paramount.
Where to put the men and horses in a picture came as naturally to me as the details of the men and animals. What I found annoying now was not studying the face of the rustler more closely, for a rustler he was and Hanks' partner. What else explained the ambush?
"Here, Charlie. Don't choke on it," Gus said, dropping a mug in front of me.
"It's half foam. You're more than a thief. You're a cheat, a crook, a swindler and a no account, good for nothing — "
"Here's yer damn paper." Gus dropped a sheet with only a few greasy fingerprints on it beside the beer.
I grinned and touched the brim of my hat in salute to him.
The lead pencil tip touched my tongue to get it to lay down a smooth line, but my hand hovered above the sheet without jumping into action as it usually did. The rustler who had watched me before was only a blur in my mind. Not even his shirt or six-shooter or anything about him came to mind. I had been too intent on drawing Hanks to watch the world around me.
"Gus. Gus!"
"You done scribbled up that sheet already? Ain't got another."
"Before when I was in here, before going out with the marshal to Cheshire's ranch, did you notice a fellow looking over my shoulder?"
"Only the angel of death. You get all oblivious to what's around you, and if your hand wasn't drawin' and your lungs suckin' air, I'd believe you was a dead man."
"He could be one of the Triangle K crew."
"Don't know."
"You see Miss Mira in town today?"
"Who? Oh, Jack's daughter? Ain't seen her more 'n a time or two the whole three years I been in Utica. Her ole man's real jealous of her, and he has every right to be. Every man in town'd be payin' her court if she showed up more often. Don't blame him wantin' to keep her away from bad elements like us."
"Must get lonely out there, all by herself. She have any brothers or sisters?"
"Just her, her ma and pa. I heard tell Jack'd sent her back East to finishing school, but that she'd got throwed out." Gus smiled broadly, showing off a gold front tooth. "Bad behavior's the last thing Jack Cheshire'd tolerate. She'd have a litter of squallin' babies 'fore sundown if he let her have free rein."
"You're a prince, Gus." I drained my mug and tucked the pages of sketches safely into a pocket. Spending quality time in the Watering Hole gave my clothes time to dry out a mite.
Stepping into the cold air made me want to go back in and spend the night curled up in the backroom. More 'n once I'd done that, but getting back to the OH Ranch to tell Mr. Phillips everything that had happened drove me through the gathering storm. Before leaving town, I slipped the drawing of the cowboys riding their horses into the hotel under the door of the Gazette. Mr. Wyatt had gone home for the night. Sneaking Monte from the stables without paying for the few hours he'd been in a stall saved me a half dollar livery fee. A quick look into Doc Delacroix's door told me what I needed to know. Marshal Toms snored loudly under a blanket near the cast iron stove, snug as a bug in a rug.
All the way back to the OH, I cursed him for being so warm while I froze my fingers and toes off in the storm.
* * *
"I'm gonna shoot somethin' if I have to stay cooped up inside much longer," Rusty Rawlins said, staring at the frost riming the bunkhouse window. He shivered, pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and looked longingly at the stove in the middle of the room.
After I got back last night, it had given out enough warmth to keep the frost from forming on the wranglers' beards but nobody had gone out to chop more wood. Not that it was so cold, but a man gets lazy after such a fine summer as we'd had. It hardly mattered that everyone froze since no one fetched firewood.
"We ought to get out and do somethin'. Ridin' will keep us warm," Rusty said. The logic of this made more than one of the cowboys frown. Rusty looked around, realizing how dumb this sounded but not wanting to admit it. "I meant we ought to get out there and find them rustlers' tracks and bring 'em in to the marshal."
"It's not snowin'," Early Wilson said, sticking his nose out a crack between door and jamb. Even this small opening let in a blast of air cold enough to freeze a preacher man's soul. "We might do what Rusty said."
"Trackin' in this weather's not a good idea," I said. "Remember what happened to Reel Foot."
Everyone looked at me. Only Rusty had the nerve to ask who that was. I puffed up a mite because this was my chance to take their minds off the cold and keep more of them like Early from thinking Rusty had any kind of a good idea.
"You never heard of him? He was famous in the lower Yellerstone as the man who couldn't be tracked."
"Everyone leaves tracks," Rusty protested.
"That's true, but you got to be 'bout the cleverest tracker ever when you come across a man like Reel Foot. He was born deformed, one foot pointing forward and the other backward. All warped and twisted up, he was, and when I was settin' in on a poker game and noticed it, I was so plumb flustered I couldn't finish my drink.
"I know it wasn't polite and all, but I stared at the way his feet was arranged. Took me so long to figure out they was both his, the barkeep poured my drink back in the bottle and tried to sell it to me again. I wouldn't have any of that, but seein' Reel Foot like he was so shook me up I thought about giving up drinkin.'"
"For how long?" Early dropped down to a bunk and pulled on his sheepskin coat
against the chill. "Ten seconds?" This produced a laugh that got everyone crowding closer to hear when I fell off that fast-moving wagon.
"The scare wore off mighty quick when I got better acquainted with Reel Foot. His right foot pointed square ahead, all natural like you 'n me. But his left pointed back on his trail."
"That musta been hell for him," Rusty said.
I shook my head. "Luck has a way of evenin' out, even for a man like Reel Foot. Truth is, if it hadn't been for that wayward foot of his, he'd have ended up dead. You see, he camped along the Porcupine River where the trappin' was good. It was so good he built hisself a lean-to out of brush thinkin' on stayin' awhile. He wasn't one of them folks who gets lonesome 'less he's got someone to talk to. The animals were more friends than he needed. He'd lived among the cayuses so long that he savvied them and they tolerated him. Why, he'd go off on a long tirade and they'd crowd in to listen, like they knowed what he was sayin'.
"One morning Reel Foot headed out to check his traps, ridin' on his cayuse. He quits the pony 'cuz the brush got so thick and walks a mile or so down the creek. He checked on his traps, doubled back on his old trail a couple hunnerd yards, finds his pony and rides back to camp.
"What he didn't know was a bunch of Oglalla Sioux led by Blood Lance was out buffalo huntin'. They were on the war path and out to kill any white man they found, too. They figgered it was whites what hunted down their buffalo and didn't take anything but the tongues. Left perfectly good meat to rot."
"I could go for a buffalo steak right about now," Early said.
"I could go for a fire to roast it on," Rusty shot back. "Them Injuns, they found Reel Foot?"
"They found his tracks in the snow. Every single last one of the Indians dropped to the ground to study the tracks. They skinned their guns, ready to claim themselves a white man. Might be they intended to take only the tongue in retaliation what other whites had been doin' to their buffalo. Now, Reel Foot was wearin' moccasins so they had no trouble readin' the tracks in the snow. They saw where he knocked out the tobacco from his pipe, so they know they got themselves a white man, 'cuz Indians don't smoke when they're travelin'. Whenever a red man lights his pipe, it means he is around a council fire or otherwise settin' down, takin' comfort.
"Now, the chief looks at the tracks in the snow and says, 'My brothers, are we like the bat that cannot see in the light? Are we to sit and squawk like old women while these men with hair on their faces, who leave the buffalo to rot on the prairie, go on their way untouched by the steel of our knives? It is plain to see from these tracks that there are two men.'
"The others in the hunting party study the tracks for a spell, then decide the old man has a keen eye and deserves to be called their best tracker. There were two one-legged men travelin' in opposite directions. Measuring the stride told them both men were long of leg and very tall. They split their party and take after both trails."
"But," said Rusty, "there was only Reel Foot!"
I nodded, trying to keep from smiling. The others in the bunkhouse crowded just a little closer, shoulder to shoulder now and huddling warm like a flock of sheep.
"They're no fools. They go lookin' for the mark of a crutch or wooden leg. Of course they don't find none, so they reckon these two gents traveled by hoppin', maybe to confuse them. One place Reel Foot jumped down a cutbank — it was ten feet straight down. This worried the Indians because how in all creation did the other one-footed man stand flat-footed and jump up onto the bank? They looked and looked but didn't see any sign of him scramblin' up.
"The party what took the trail towards Reel Foot's camp gets kinda scared at what they find. One of the younger bucks says, 'It looks like the tracks of two two-legged men walkin' in opposite directions. Or else the one-legged men have found their lost legs.'
"The old chief shakes his head and corrects his young brave. 'You have the eyes of a bat. There are four tracks, two of the right foot and two of the left. These are the tracks of four one-legged men.'
"This creates quite a stir. Can it be the work of ghosts? They get real scared but curiosity gets the better of them. They follow Reel Foot's trail until they get to the spot where he mounted his horse. They argue what they find in these tracks and finally figger two of the one-legged men got off the horse, while the other two comin' from the opposite way get on and ride off."
The howl of the wind was the only sound in the bunkhouse as I stopped to consider the next part of the story. All eyes fixed on me, making me feel mighty special. I couldn't outride a one of them. Branding and roping and breaking horses were all something I did but nowhere near as good as the least of 'em. As scary a thought as it was, might be Texas Pete cooked better 'n me. But not a one spun a yarn as good to pass the time and get their minds off their troubles.
"The Sioux are beginnin' to think they found the land of one-legged men. When they sight the smoke from Reel Foot's campfire, they almost turn tail and run."
"What about Reel Foot?" Rusty huddled even closer to hear.
I pursed my lips, then said, "Well now, when he got back from checkin' his traps, Reel Foot was leg-weary from draggin' his warped feet through the snow. After he chows down, he stokes the fire and lays down with his feet close-by to the fire to get 'em all warm and cozy. He's snorin' up a storm when the Indians sneak up on him. They catch sight of his feet and their mouths drop open, plenty astonished at what they've found. All the tricks are plain to them now. Some are hostile and want to kill him, but the old chief says it's bad medicine to kill a man who's fooled 'em so good.
"They don't even wake Reel Foot. They creep off, coverin' their guns and gettin' their ponies. When he wakes up from his nap he finds the moccasin tracks, but he never knows how close he come to gettin' killed in his sleep. A couple years later me and him are in Blood Lance's camp, dickerin' on some trade goods when Blood Lance spies Reel Foot's bent foot.
"He puts down his pipe and says, 'Those feet fooled the Sioux and saved the white man's scalp.' He tells what happened in the hunting party and gives Reel Foot his Indian name. The Man Who Walks Both Ways."
"Get on," scoffed Rusty. "That never happened!"
"Did, too," I said. "And it ought to be a lesson for us right now."
"What's that?"
"If you don't know if a man's comin' or goin', don't go out in the snow to track him."
This brought a good laugh to all the wranglers, which is what I intended. They might think I'd made it all up, but they can never tell, not for certain sure. I flopped back on my bunk as the door slammed open and Horace pushed his way in.
"To your horses, you lazy cayuses. There's a storm comin', and Mr. Phillips wants to be sure we don't lose any head to the cold."
I looked at Rusty, who mouthed, "Or to rustlers."
Which might be the bigger danger to the herd was something we'd have to find out once we got onto the range. I heaved myself to my feet, dog tired but willing to ride if Mr. Phillips asked. I just wasn't sure what he was asking. Not yet.
Chapter Six
"Does the mud keep you from freezin'?"
Rusty asked the question between chattering teeth. I slewed around in the saddle as Monte lost his balance. It took me some doing to keep my balance. Rusty laughed at my predicament, which could have turned nasty if I'd fallen off into a half-frozen creek sluggishly running a few feet away. On the far side a dozen head of cattle poked their noses through the thin ice to drink. I didn't want to think what such cold water did to their stomachs.
The wind and occasional fitful rain splashing down on me cut through the layer of mud on my coat Rusty wanted to know about. A few sharp whacks got more mud off my arms. Monte danced about and then settled down when I quit my attempts at cleaning.
"So far, it's keepin' me warm," I lied. The only thing that would keep my nose from falling off in a lump of ice would be a roaring fire or maybe a half bottle of decent whiskey.
"Ain't gonna happen," he said. Rusty rode closer until we were knee to knee, him
looking away from the creek and me across at the beeves. "This is that Viking winter I heard 'bout from Sven. You remember him? The Swede what worked the OH last year?"
"He was the one who went north 'cuz it was too warm here?"
"That's the man. He tole me about something called Fimbul winter. The season turns cold and never changes. The whole danged world is cold and the only change is that it gets colder. It never warms up again. Ever. This is Fimbul winter. You can feel it in your bones."
"I wish he was here to tell us about it some more. If it ain't ever gonna warm up, might be Montana's too inhospitable for man and beast."
"I think the whores had the right idea. Take a stagecoach south, then catch a riverboat, float down the Missouri until they reach somewhere warmer."
"Don't know they go far enough to get away from snow, though I heard tell New Orleans is a mighty fine place to spend the winter. It never was in St. Louis. We always had harsh winters with snow up to your ears."
Rusty sneezed, rubbed his nose with his hand and peered over at me. Hoarfrost had formed on his eyelashes. I always thought his eyelashes, all ginger and thin looking, never existed since they were so pale. Now they'd turned white and not even his body heat melted the icy spears.
"Gotta be warmer in St. Loo," he said. "You figured out how to keep the cattle fed?"
"Might have," I said. "The summer saw knee-high grass growing, more 'n the cows could eat 'fore we drove most of 'em to the railhead."
"It's still there but all froze up."
"The cows can't paw their way down to it through the snow, but horses can. We pasture horses with the cattle. That ought to save some of them beeves."
"I dunno, Charlie. That sounds good but why would the ponies keep pawin' the snow away after they got enough to eat? The cattle still starve."
I laughed at this. I knew how we'd be feeding the cattle. There was a barn full of hay. We'd be hauling it out to where the cattle were pastured, but with the early snow and sudden cold, that day came sooner rather than later.
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 24
