“I had a packhorse when they arrested me,” Carson said, figuring he might as well try.
Red Shirt gazed at him with a raised brow. “Is that a fact? Well, you ain’t got one no more,” he informed him. “You’ll be ridin’ with us, so we’ll make up some packs and put ’em on a couple of horses. That oughta do for all of us.”
“Right,” Carson said, “whatever you say.” Tice and Swann both grinned at him as if he had been accepted into a highly desirable society. He wasn’t given any choice about joining them, so Carson’s hopes of leaving them right away became suddenly dim.
The issue was settled, as far as Red Shirt was concerned, so he turned his mind to other things. “We might as well camp right here tonight. It’s gettin’ along toward evenin’, so it don’t make no sense to start out, then set right down and make camp again.”
“How ’bout all them dead bodies?” Tice asked. “They’ll be gettin’ to stinkin’ and bringin’ a flock of buzzards down here, maybe coyotes, too.”
“We ain’t gonna be here that long,” Red Shirt told him. “We’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’. They ain’t gonna start stinkin’ that quick.” When he saw Tice wrinkle his nose as if he already smelled the bodies, he said, “Drag ’em off in the bushes yonder if it turns your belly that much, you damn woman.” He turned to Carson then. “What about you . . .” He paused, then asked, “What the hell is your name?”
“Carson,” he replied.
“Carson, huh? Well, what about you, Carson? Does the smell of dead bodies turn your belly?” His question was punctuated by a contemptuous smile.
It was obvious the half-breed was looking to amuse himself, and maybe test the fiber of the new member of his little gang of cutthroats. Carson labored to hide the feeling of disgust he felt, one caused by the savage disregard for human life demonstrated by this squat, broad-shouldered murderer more so than the bodies lying about. “I reckon not,” he finally answered. “Like you said, they ain’t hardly had time to get ripe yet.” His answer caused Red Shirt to laugh again, obviously pleased with Carson’s attitude.
“Maybe you can help ol’ Tice drag those bodies into the bushes,” Red Shirt suggested.
“All right,” Carson responded, got to his feet, and signaled to the sour-faced Tice. “Come on, partner, and we’ll get rid of ’em.”
“I ain’t your partner yet,” Tice immediately replied, “not till I see how good you are when the shootin’ starts.” He followed him to Varner’s body, however, and the two of them cleared the camp area of the dead.
Once they settled down for the day, Carson spent a great deal of thought trying to evaluate his chances of ridding himself of the three outlaws. He had no doubt that any attempt to part company peacefully was out of the question. Red Shirt would never permit anyone who had witnessed his murder of a U.S. deputy marshal to ride off alive. No, he decided, he had no choice but to go along with them and hope they didn’t put him in a position where he was unable to fake his participation. Before long, he was bound to get an opportunity to slip away and head for Montana, as had been his original intent. In the meantime, he would let them think he was a willing participant in whatever crimes they were planning.
The evening was spent sitting around the fire, consuming much of the provisions that Luther Moody had brought, and talking about which direction to head when morning came. Carson learned that their destination had been the Black Hills before they happened upon the deputy marshal. Red Shirt held that there was no reason to change his mind. There were more miners staking out claims now that the Indians were not as big a threat. And small camps of one, two, or more men could be found on every little stream that emptied out of the hills into the prairie. These little camps were easy pickings, and it was unlikely anyone would ever find the bodies. “We’ll get rid of some of these horses at Crazy Jack’s,” Red Shirt said. He knew the old man who ran a trading post on the Cheyenne River had no use for horses, but he would trade for them because he knew they would be cheap. Red Shirt did not want to be bothered with driving extra horses. Crazy Jack knew that, and Red Shirt knew he knew it, so the trading of horses usually went fast.
When Carson asked Swann who Crazy Jack was, Swann told him the origin of the man’s name. “Damned old fool built him a tradin’ post up on the upper end of the Cheyenne River, back up in the hill country. It ain’t no place for a white man in the middle of all that Injun country, and nobody but a crazy man woulda done it. The Injuns knowed he was teched in the head, so they never bothered him. Jack says they’ll come around once in a while to trade some skins or somethin’, mostly three or four at a time, and he’ll give ’em a biscuit or a piece of peppermint. Then they go on off and leave him be. I expect that’s who he trades the horses to.”
When it came time to turn in, Carson rolled out his blanket a good way back from the fire with the thought in mind that he might take a chance on departing during the night. As he spread his blanket, he glanced up to find Red Shirt watching him. “Don’t pay no mind to ol’ Swann there,” Red Shirt told him. “He don’t sleep so good. He gets up all night to piss.”
“I can’t help it,” Swann spoke up. “Somethin’s wrong with my pee bag. It don’t hold the water no more.”
“That’s cause he’s gettin’ too old to be worth a damn for anything,” Red Shirt said scornfully.
“Now, you know that ain’t so,” Swann replied in his own defense. “I ain’t slowed down a hair.”
His immediate response seemed to amuse Red Shirt. It seemed a pointless conversation to Carson. Unless, he thought, it was a hint from Red Shirt that someone would be watching him during the night. Looking at the smirking half-breed, Carson could well imagine that to be his intent. He decided then that he might have to wait until they became comfortable with him before he made an attempt to desert.
The next morning, they ate a breakfast of more of the late Luther Moody’s food supply, then saddled up and headed north, following the same trail Carson had ridden south the day before. Instead of following the Laramie River to its confluence with the Platte, however, they veered to the west far enough to stay well clear of Fort Laramie before crossing the North Platte and heading north again. They were in the saddle three and a half days before striking the Cheyenne River. The journey was time enough to allow Red Shirt and his partners to feel more comfortable with Carson. By the time they approached the rough log structure that was Crazy Jack’s trading post, they were convinced that he was a willing recruit, and equally intent upon victimizing any poor soul who crossed their path.
It was almost nightfall when they rode into the clearing where Jack’s cabin sat near the bank of the river. Leading the extra horses, they rode right up to his front door before hauling back hard on the reins and dismounting amid the cloud of dust their arrival had created. Their abrupt arrival was enough to bring Jack storming out the door, shotgun in hand, expecting a cavalry raid. His reaction pleased Red Shirt, who favored him with a contemptuous sneer.
“Red Shirt!” Jack blurted, matching the half-breed’s look of contempt. “You’re damn lucky I didn’t blow a hole in you, charging in here like that.”
“You old fool,” Red Shirt responded, “you couldn’t hit nothin’ with that damn shotgun if I gave you the first three shots.”
“There’s a helluva lot of Injuns and half-breeds that made that mistake,” Jack shot back. “You wouldn’t be the first to learn not to rile my patience.” He handed the shotgun to a woman standing just inside the door, and walked out to look over his visitors. “You picked up a new man,” he observed aloud. “Looks like you picked up some horses, too. I expect you’re hopin’ I’ll take some of ’em off your hands.” He stepped up to take a closer look. “Mangy-lookin’ bunch of crow baits, ain’t they?”
“You don’t know good horses when you see ’em,” Red Shirt countered. “I don’t know if I’ll even let you make an offer. I might take ’em to Spearfish�
��get top dollar there.”
“Yeah, you could do that, ’cept they’d arrest you on sight. There was a cavalry patrol come by here about a month ago lookin’ for you and them two beauties you got ridin’ with you. You’d best not go anywhere there’s law or soldiers.” He walked all around the extra horses, looking them over, then paused when he came to Carson. Still directing his talk toward Red Shirt, he asked, “Where’d you get this fresh one?” Then not waiting for Red Shirt’s answer, he aimed his comments at Carson. “You studyin’ to be as big a backstabbin’ cutthroat as these two beauties?”
Carson didn’t answer, but Tice spoke up. “You got a mouth on you that’s just beggin’ for a bullet, old man.”
“From who?” Jack demanded. “You? Shit, my woman will cut you down before you clear leather.” The claim caused Carson to notice the cabin door standing ajar. He decided Crazy Jack wasn’t just making noise. Tice scowled but did not push it further.
With the preliminary insults apparently over, the talk turned more to a civil tone. “Put them horses in my corral,” Jack said, turning again to Red Shirt. “We can talk trade in the mornin’. I’ll have Sarah rustle you up some grub if you’ve got any money.”
“Tell her to get her ass movin’,” Red Shirt said. “My belly’s growlin’ somethin’ fierce while we’re just standin’ here jawin’.”
It seemed a strange way to conduct business. Aside from that, Carson found it surprising that Red Shirt even considered legitimate trade. It was Carson’s impression that the savage simply robbed anything he needed and left bodies behind to tell no tales. Carson halfway expected Sarah to be an Indian woman, but she was, instead, a big-boned redhead who stood nearly as tall as her husband, and although she spoke with a heavy Irish accent, there was definitely no twinkle in her eye. In fact, Carson was reminded of the lifeless eye of a wolf when she fixed her gaze upon him. The .44 single-action Colt pistol she wore strapped around her waist seemed right at home as she worked at her stove.
Sarah proved to be an adequate cook, nothing special, but filling, with the standard fare Carson expected in a place like Crazy Jack’s—beans cooked in a pot with slices of sowbelly, mixed up with small chunks of meat that Carson suspected was muskrat—and something that looked like wild turnips. To round it out, she brought out a loaf of sourdough bread, baked fresh that morning. It was washed down with the always necessary black coffee. It was the best meal that Carson had had in quite some time, so he made it a point to compliment her and thank her for it. She said nothing in return, but stared at him as if he had said something degrading. Carson’s compliment caught Red Shirt’s attention as well, and he paused in his eating to study the young man intently. After a moment, he shrugged and continued eating his beans, using a slice of bread as his spoon.
After the table was cleared, Jack brought out a bottle, and the drinking began. Several rounds were downed before he produced a deck of cards, so old and worn that Carson imagined that the gruff old man probably knew each card by touch. He declined the invitation to sit in a game of poker with the excuse that he didn’t have anything he could afford to lose, so he sat at the end of the table and watched. As he had figured, Jack seemed to have the luck that night, so much so that Carson wondered when the violence would begin. It never did, however, even after Jack won hand after hand. All of the other players complained and cursed the cards, but no one challenged Jack’s luck. This caused Carson to speculate on the reason. After giving it some thought, he decided Jack’s was the only place Red Shirt could go to trade and play cards. Jack was, no doubt, aware of this and played it to his advantage. There was no telling how much stolen merchandise had passed through Jack’s business to be traded with the Indians.
As the night wore on, Carson became tired of watching the poker game and announced that he was going to turn in. Swann promptly threw his hand in and said he was going to bed, too. “That damn crooked old man ain’t gonna let nobody have a fair hand. I might as well go with Carson before I lose every cent I got.” He got up from the table and followed Carson out the door. Carson couldn’t help wondering if Swann’s decision might in actuality have been an effort to keep an eye on him. True, Carson had considered the opportunity to possibly ride out while his three companions were deep into their whiskey and cards. He might have given it serious thought if Swann had remained in the game. To add to his suspicions, when they bade each other a good night, Swann picked up his bedroll and moved it over by the horses. Coincidence or just happenstance? Carson couldn’t say for sure, but he decided tonight was not the night to make good his escape. There were bound to be better opportunities. He picked up his blankets and moved closer to the river.
He had barely settled in to go to sleep when he heard a soft footfall on the sunbaked ground above his head. Without thinking, he immediately rolled over on his belly, snatching his Colt revolver up as he did, ready to fire at the dark form standing over him. “Don’t shoot,” a soft voice whispered. “It’s just me, Sarah.”
Fairly astonished, Carson put the pistol back where it had lain beside his blanket. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am,” he sputtered, purely bewildered by her appearance at his bedside, “but I swear, I almost shot you.”
Sarah knelt down beside him. “I brought you a couple slices of bread. A young boy sometimes gets hungry during the night, and this will soak up some of the whiskey you drank. Still puzzled, he started to thank her, but she interrupted. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he told her as he began to have uneasy feelings about the clandestine visit from the older woman.
“Seventeen,” she repeated, “about what I woulda guessed.” He could see her nodding in the darkness. “How long have you been riding with this gang of murderers?”
“Just a few days, ma’am,” he answered.
“How many men have you killed?”
“I’ve not shot anyone,” he replied.
“Good,” she said at once, “then you still have a chance to make something better out of your life than riding with scum like Red Shirt and the others. I knew I saw something decent in you right from the first. But you need to run as far away from those three as you can.”
Feeling somewhat relieved now, he said, “I am, ma’am. I’m plannin’ on runnin’ first chance I get, but I’m waitin’ for a time when I can get a good head start. I think they’ve been keepin’ a pretty close eye on me ’cause I saw Red Shirt kill a U.S. marshal.”
“Good for you, boy. You take leave of these bastards before they get you mixed up in some of their evil doings.” She got up then, apparently satisfied that she had accomplished what she had come to do, and left Carson staring at her dark figure as it vanished in the dark. Thinking he was too wide awake at this point to ever get to sleep, he lay back and stared up into the starless night. It seemed like a year since he had bade Mr. Patterson farewell in Ogallala and started out on the first leg of a journey that he figured would find him in Montana. In actuality, it had been only a few weeks.
He had no idea when he drifted off to sleep, but he awoke in the morning to find the sun already sending its fingers probing the shadows in the trees by the river. After breakfast inside, most of the morning was wasted away while Jack and Red Shirt argued over the value of the horses. Carson sat on the ground with Tice and Swann beside a small fire Swann built in a corner of the yard and waited for the trading to be finished. Leaning on one elbow, absentmindedly feeding the fire with small twigs, Swann finally sought to satisfy his curiosity. “What was goin’ on between you and Jack’s wife last night?” he asked Carson. “I saw her talkin’ to you after we turned in.”
Not surprised that Swann had seen them, Carson replied, “She brought me some leftover bread, thought I might get hungry, so she offered it to me before throwin’ it to the hogs.”
“Huh,” Swann grunted, “she coulda throwed some of it my way.” He sat back, apparently satisfied with Carson’s answer. “Probably thinkin
’ about her boy,” he said.
“She’s got a son?” Carson asked.
“Did have,” Swann said. “He’s dead now, got shot down by a part-time sheriff on a bank robbery that went bad—up at Deadwood. I reckon he was about your age, just a young feller.”
His comment caused Carson to turn to look at the solemn woman who came out of the cabin just then to throw the breakfast dishwater out in the yard. He understood now why she had come to talk to him last night. She met his gaze for a moment before turning away to return to her kitchen, giving no response by her expression. It was easier to understand the woman’s concern for him now, and he hoped that he had convinced her that he had no intention of falling to the same fate.
It was late in the morning before Red Shirt and Jack reached final agreement on the trading. As usual, according to Tice, Jack got the better side of the trade. “I reckon we can saddle up now.” His guess was confirmed moments later when Red Shirt stalked past them on his way to the horses, cursing Crazy Jack for a cheating skinflint, and telling the three lounging men to get saddled. Less than an hour later, they were on their way, the one packhorse they kept loaded with supplies and cartridges Red Shirt had traded for the extra horses. Crossing over the fork of the Cheyenne, they continued north. According to Red Shirt’s reckoning, they could anticipate striking the Beaver River in half a day.
Feeling as much a prisoner as he had felt while in the custody of Deputy Marshal Luther Moody, Carson rode silently, his thoughts of escape interrupted frequently by bantering between Tice and Swann. There was plenty of time to consider the two outlaws who followed their savage boss’s whims without protest, riding along behind him like brainless servants. The two men were as different as night and day. Tice seemed to always have something eating away at his insides that caused him to be constantly irritated. He was a tough, wiry man, whose face seemed to never have experienced a smile. Swann, on the other hand, wore a foolish grin for most of the time, seeming to be amused by most everything that happened. The trait the two men had in common was a callous disregard for human life and sympathy for no one. Fine lot I’m riding with, Carson thought, recalling Sarah’s words. Then it occurred to him that he would hate to have his grandmother see him riding with such evil vermin.
Way of the Gun (9781101597804) Page 6
