KNOCK ON WOOD.
Suddenly a dead silence fell over the circle of cowpunchers. It lasted for only a few moments, however, before Varner replied, “What the hell did you say?”
Marvin answered for him. “You heard what he said, Varner. I know I heard him.” He turned to Rufus sitting close by. “Didn’t you hear what he said, Rufus?” He turned back to Varner then. “He said you better not call him Pig no more.”
“Is that so?” Varner responded. “Well, Pig might as well learn that I’ll call him anythin’ I damn well please.” He pointed his finger at Carson and demanded, “What the hell are you gonna do about it? We can settle it quick enough—fists, knives, guns, any way you want it.”
“Ah, hell,” Marvin said, “you’re twice his size. It won’t be no fair fight.”
A belligerent smile crossed Varner’s face. “Well, he don’t have to fight if he ain’t man enough to back up his mouth. But he’s gonna have to apologize to me and tell me he likes being called Pig.”
Carson realized this was going to have to be settled, and the sooner the better. “Since you’re givin’ me a choice of weapons . . . I’ll pick tree limbs.”
WAY OF THE GUN
Charles G. West
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59780-4
Copyright © Charles G. West, 2013
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Ronda
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
Looks like I might have company, young Carson Ryan thought as he watched the two riders approaching the North Platte River. Always one to exercise caution, he remained in the cover of the cottonwoods on the north bank until he could see what they were about. Cowpunchers from the look of them, he thought, no packhorses that would indicate it was just the two of them on their way somewhere—maybe scouts for a wagon train of some kind. As he watched, the two separated to inspect the banks up and down the river, almost to the point of Carson’s camp. It was obvious to him then that they were selecting a crossing. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he led his horse over beside a tall cottonwood and pulled off his boots. Then he stood on the buckskin’s back to reach a stout limb. Climbing up in the tree, he looked back to the south and soon got the answer to his question. A faint cloud of brown dust in the distance announced the approach of a cattle herd. He remained up in the tree until he saw the first steers. With no further concern for caution, he descended from the tree to drop down on the ground. When the two point men rode back to meet the herd, he sat down and pulled his boots back on.
It was getting a little late in the day to cross the river, he thought. They’d most likely hold them on the other side tonight and cross them over in the morning. He knew from experience that cows weren’t fond of river crossings. Although only seventeen years of age, he had worked with cattle for most of those years, so he guessed it would always be in his blood. He was hoping to catch on with a herd heading for Montana where there were already some big outfits grazing their cattle on the vast open bunchgrass prairies. He had come up from Texas with a herd of twenty-five hundred head belonging to Mr. Bob Patterson. Starting on the Western Trail at Doan’s Crossing near Vernon, Texas, they went only as far as Ogallala. Mr. Patterson tried to persuade him to return to Texas with him to pick up another herd, but Carson wanted to see Montana. Patterson wished him well, and Carson set out for Fort Laramie, thinking it a possibility to catch a herd stopping there for supplies. It was a long shot, but at seventeen, a boy can wait out the winter and hope for something in the spring.
Carson was thinking now that he must have luck riding with him, because he had decided to make camp earlier than usual—and along comes a herd right where he camped. Maybe they could use another hand. One thing for sure, they weren’t looking to buy any supplies at Fort Laramie, because if they were, they missed the fort by a good forty miles. “We’ll just sit right here and see what kinda outfit they are,” he told the buckskin gelding. On second thought, he decided it would be better to cross over to the south side, since that was more likely to be where the herd would be bedded down for the night. While he waited, he decided he would inspect the river to find the place he would pick to cross a herd.
* * *
“Well, now, who the hell is that?” Duke Slayton asked when he sighted the lone rider waiting by the river.
Johnny Briggs turned in the saddle and looked where Duke pointed. “Damned if I know,” he replied. “He weren’t there when me and Marvin scouted the banks.”
“Well, he’s sure as hell there now,” Duke came back. “You and Marvin go on up ahead and make sure he ain’t got no friends lyin’ below that riverbank, waitin’ to pop up, too.”
Johnny wheeled his horse around a couple of times, straining to get a better look at the man before he complied with Duke’s order. He had his
suspicions the same as Duke, and he wasn’t anxious to become the sacrificial lamb in the event that there might be a welcoming party waiting to gain a herd of cattle. “He don’t look to be much more’n a kid,” he finally decided. “He might just be a stray, lookin’ for a job,” he said. “And we’re damn sure short of men,” he added.
“Or lookin’ for a meal,” Duke said, although he noticed that the young man was riding a stout-looking buckskin and was leading a packhorse. “You goin’ or not?”
“I’m goin’,” Johnny replied, and wheeled his horse once again. “Come on, Marvin.” The two of them were off at a fast lope while Duke turned back to meet Rufus Jones, who was riding forward to meet him.
“I’m thinkin’ ’bout beddin’ ’em down in the mouth of this shallow valley, where they can get to the water and there’s plenty of good grass,” Rufus called out as he pulled his horse to a stop. “That all right with you?”
“Yeah, hell, I don’t see why not. I ain’t wantin’ to try to push ’em across tonight, and that’s a fact,” Duke replied. They were driving close to two thousand head of cattle, and by the time the boys riding drag caught up, it would most likely be approaching dusk. The herd had been strung out for about two miles since the noontime rest.
Up ahead, Johnny and Marvin slowed their horses to a walk while both men scanned the brush and trees behind the lone stranger, alert to anything that didn’t look right. With nothing to suggest foul play afoot, they walked their horses up to the rider awaiting them. Johnny was the first to speak. “Well, young feller, what are you doin’ out here all by your lonesome?”
“I was campin’ down the river a ways,” Carson replied, “and I saw you ride up. So I thought I’d say howdy—maybe visit awhile if you’re fixin’ to bed that herd down here.”
Johnny studied the young man carefully. He was young right enough, but he was a husky fellow, and fairly tall, judging by the length of his stirrups. He could see no deceit in the deep blue eyes that gazed out at him. “Why, sure,” Johnny responded. “Right, Marvin?” He didn’t wait for Marvin’s answer. “We’re always glad to share our campfire with strangers. Where you headed, anyway?”
“Well, I was thinkin’ about ridin’ up to Fort Laramie and maybe catchin’ on with a herd movin’ on through to Montana Territory.”
“Is that a fact?” Marvin asked. “Maybe you should talk to the boss.” He nodded toward Duke Slayton, who was riding up behind them now. “’Cause that’s where we’re pushin’ this herd—up Montana way.”
Maybe Lady Luck was following Luke, Carson thought, as a sturdy-looking man with a full face of gray whiskers rode up to join them. Like the two before him, he cast a sharp eye back and forth along the line of the bank behind Carson. Figuring that if there was any funny business planned, it would already have been happening, he nodded to the young man. “Howdy, young feller,” he remarked. “Where are you headed?”
Marvin answered before Carson had a chance. “He’s on his way to Fort Laramie, lookin’ to catch on with a herd goin’ to Montana.”
That brought a look of interest to Duke’s face. “Well, now, is that so? You ever work cattle before?”
“Yes, sir. I just came up from Texas with a herd that belonged to Mr. Bob Patterson, but he only took ’em as far as Ogallala.”
“How come you wanna go to Montana?” Duke asked.
“’Cause I ain’t ever been there,” Carson replied.
Duke grinned. “I reckon that’s reason enough. Reminds me of myself when I was about your age.” He paused to think about it a moment longer before deciding. “We are short a man.” He glanced at Johnny and shrugged. “Hell, we could use about two more men than we’ve got, but one more would make a heap of difference. Wouldn’t it, Johnny?”
Johnny responded with a grin of his own, “I reckon that’s the truth, all right.”
“I guess we could give you a try,” Duke went on. “This feller, Patterson, I reckon he was payin’ you about twenty dollars a month. Right?”
“No, sir,” Carson replied. “He was payin’ me thirty dollars.”
“That’s the goin’ rate for an experienced cowhand,” Duke came back. “And right now you’re a pig in a poke.” Carson shrugged indifferently, and Duke continued. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a try at twenty until you show me you can cowboy with the rest of us. Whaddaya say?” Carson started to reply, but Duke interrupted when a thought occurred. “You ain’t wanted by the law, are you?”
“No, sir,” Carson answered. “I ain’t.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I reckon I’ll go to Montana with you.” He knew he was worth more than the twenty dollars offered, but he didn’t blame the man. Besides, he figured, he was bound for Montana one way or another, so he might as well go with this outfit. It might be a better bet than looking for one passing near Fort Laramie this late in the summer. He didn’t know where in Montana they were taking the cattle, but if he had to guess, he’d say they had over three hundred miles to go. So they were cutting it close as far as the weather was concerned. It was going to get pretty cold in a month or so.
“Fine,” Duke said. “My name’s Duke Slayton. This is Johnny Briggs and Marvin Snead. What’s your name?”
“Carson Ryan.”
“All right, Carson, you can meet the rest of the boys at supper. Might as well just wait around till the drags come in and we settle the herd in this valley. You can dump your bedroll and other stuff in the chuck wagon and talk to Skinny Willis—he’s the wrangler—about a string of horses.” He turned to Johnny then. “You and Marvin pick the best place to cross in the mornin’?”
“Right here where we’re settin’ is about as good as any, I reckon,” Johnny said. “There ain’t much bank to climb on the other side.”
Duke turned to Carson then in a spirit to playfully test the new man. “What do you say, Carson? This look like a good place to push ’em across?”
“No, sir,” Carson replied stoically. “If it was me, I’d try it upstream a couple hundred feet, maybe on the other side of that tallest cottonwood.” He pointed to the tree.
All three men looked genuinely surprised to hear his reply. “Is that so?” Duke responded. “And why would you do that? The banks are good and low on both sides right here.”
“Quicksand,” Carson answered, matter-of-factly.
“Quicksand?” Johnny exclaimed. “How do you know that?”
Carson shrugged. “Well, I don’t know for sure, but I noticed a couple of places toward the other side where the water looked like it was makin’ little whirlpools. And it wasn’t flowin’ around any tree roots or rocks or anything, and that’s what the water looks like when there’s quicksand under it.”
Duke couldn’t contain the laugh. He threw his head back and roared. “Whaddaya think, Johnny? Maybe we oughta go ahead and give him the thirty dollars.”
“I’m just sayin’ that’s what the water looked like when we got into some quicksand on a drive two years ago crossin’ the Red River,” Carson quickly offered, afraid he might have made an enemy of Johnny. “Might not be quicksand here at all.”
“Ain’t worth takin’ the chance,” Johnny said, apparently not offended. “That stuff can cause a lot of trouble that I’d just as soon be without.”
“All right, we’ll cross ’em up above the big cottonwood,” Duke said cheerfully. “And if we get into any quicksand, we’ll hang Carson in the damn tree. Does that suit everybody?” Everyone grunted in approval, including the new hire. “Now, let’s get them cows watered. Come on, Carson, I’ll take you to see Bad Eye—he’s the cook.”
* * *
Supper that night consisted of sourdough biscuits, white gravy, and sowbelly, washed down with black coffee. Bad Eye, so named because he had only one eye, wore a patch over the empty socket where his right eye had once resided. The loss of his eye had evidently occurred quite a few ye
ars back, because the rawhide cord holding the patch in place had worn a permanent furrow around the sides of his head. A heavy man, he perspired a great deal while he was fixing the vittles, causing Carson to wonder how much of his sweat had dropped into the gravy. It didn’t seem to affect the taste of the food, however, other than perhaps adding a little more salt. The appearance of the cook seemed to have no adverse effect on the appetites of those lined up to fill their plates, and this included Carson. It seemed to him that the cook on every cattle drive he had ridden with was the last man to take a bath whenever there was an opportunity to do so.
The rest of the crew were naturally surprised to see a stranger at the cook fire when they had all gathered to eat supper, but all seemed friendly enough after Duke informed them that Carson was a new hire who was on his way to Montana. It was a rough-looking crew of men, but most drovers were, so Carson felt right at home. When Marvin sat down beside him with a plate of food, Carson asked, “Is Duke the owner of the herd, or is he just the trail boss?”
“Duke’s the trail boss,” Marvin replied after a gulp of black coffee. “There ain’t no owner. What I mean is, we’re all kinda partners in the herd. We own it.”
“Oh,” Carson said, “so I reckon I’m workin’ for all of you.”
“That’s right,” Marvin said, then chuckled. “Kinda makes you feel like the low man on the totem pole, don’t it?”
“Well, it ain’t like I never been there before.”
Marvin laughed again. “You’ll do all right as long as you pull your share of the load.”
Their conversation was interrupted then when a tall heavyset man, who had been introduced as Jack Varner, knelt down to speak. “Duke says you know how to run cattle. Maybe you’ll be ridin’ swing with me,” he said facetiously. We’ve been short a man, but Duke might want you to ride drag instead, and put one of the other boys with me.”
“Makes no difference to me,” Carson said. “I’ll do whatever job you fellers think best.”
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