* * *
They were still following the valley when nightfall caught up with them, and they made their camp in a small cluster of trees near the edge of a creek that flowed down from the mountains beside them. There was good grass, and the water was swift and clear. Since there had been little opportunity during the last few days to do so, Nancy decided it was time to take a bath. After they had eaten their supper, she announced her intention to do so.
“Not me,” Frank said. “You’re liable to freeze to death in that water.”
“I don’t care,” Nancy replied. “I declare, I’m downright grimy. I’ve got to have a bath, and I need to get out of these clothes and give them a good cleaning.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Frank said, “when you come down with pneumonia.” He looked at Carson then and shook his head.
Carson figured this was one decision he had no say in, but he tended to side with Frank, and he wondered how Nancy could even think of taking a bath with Red Shirt lurking out there somewhere. “Well, if you decide that’s what you’re gonna do,” he said, “I reckon I could take a little ride back down the valley just to make sure we ain’t got no company. That would give you a little privacy to take your bath.” He had planned to scout their back trail, anyway, just to be safe. With the trail they had ridden since leaving Fort Phil Kearny, it seemed damn near impossible for anyone to follow them, but he didn’t trust Red Shirt. He was halfway convinced that the half-breed was part devil.
“You don’t have to leave,” Nancy said. “I can just go on the other side of those bushes hanging over the creek. You can stay here and talk to Frank.”
“I was gonna take a look around behind us anyway,” Carson replied. He finished his coffee and rinsed the cup in the creek. As he did, he couldn’t help commenting, “That water is a mite cold, though.” He picked up his rifle and started walking back the way they had come. “I’ll sing out when I come back in.”
When they thought he was out of earshot, he heard Frank say, “I’d better watch you take your bath in case there’s some bears or something around.”
“You stay right there by the fire,” she told him. “You don’t need to be looking at me. If any bears come around, I’ll send them over to you.”
“Ah, shoot,” he replied. “It’s not gonna hurt just to look.”
“Now, Frank,” she scolded playfully, “you know it’s not good for you to start thinking those thoughts when we’re in a place where you can’t do anything about it.”
Walking back through the trees, Carson couldn’t help chuckling to himself. They might need a little time to themselves, because there certainly hadn’t been any since he had joined them. Leaving the creek, he walked back along the valley they had ridden along, looking for signs that might tell him they were still being followed, but expecting none. It seemed more unlikely now that Red Shirt had picked up their trail. If he had, he would have caught them by now, since they had lost almost a full day when they took extra time to rest the horses.
As he walked, he was struck by the heavy silence of the broad valley, especially in contrast with the noisy hum of insects back by the creek. And he was reminded once more how much he enjoyed the nighttime. He had never even minded riding nighthawk when he was driving a herd. Nighttime was a good time to think on the many things there was no time for during the day. He wondered then what had become of Duke Slayton and Johnny Briggs, and Bad Eye—and Lute. It struck him then that Lute might have come close to warning him that day. The old man was not at all anxious to ride to the support of his friends. And he thought to himself how much he would like to run into them somewhere in the future, so he could thank them personally for the fine mess they made of his life. Maybe it made no difference now, for he never planned to visit Wyoming Territory again. Then he laughed at himself for having been taken in for a fool, and he remembered thinking they were the worst drovers he had ever ridden with.
His thoughts returned to the couple back in the camp, and he wondered if Nancy enjoyed her cold bath. He was prompted to wonder then why Frank and Nancy had no children. He had no idea how long they had been married, but they didn’t act like newlyweds. Well, ain’t none of my business, he thought. Maybe Frank ain’t figured out how to make a baby. He grinned at the thought. Frank seemed not to know how to do a lot of things. Feeling at peace with himself for the first time in quite a while, he looked up when a three-quarter moon popped up above a mountain peak, seeming to rest atop the mountain. The scene caused a craving in him to see more of the mountains of this wild country. I best be getting back to the camp, he told himself, realizing that he had walked for a couple of miles. As cold as that water’s bound to be, she ought to be finished with her bath by now.
* * *
Shivering so hard she could barely pull on the clean pair of Frank’s trousers that she favored to her skirts and petticoats, Nancy would not admit it to Frank when she returned to the fire, but the water had been so cold that it stung when she waded in up to her knees. That was as far as she could force herself to go. Washing her torso and arms with a cloth dipped into the fast-moving creek, she had almost lost her breath and her very bones ached with the cold. She finally finished drying her back and arms, although she would not be comfortable until back by the fire. Pulling on a heavy shirt, she was about to leave the cover of the bushes that had ensured her privacy when she detected movement in the shrubs on the other side of the creek.
That dog, she thought with an impish grin, but immediately had second thoughts. Frank would hardly have crossed over to the other side of the creek to annoy her. Then she realized that Carson had been gone for a long time, and she was at once bitterly disappointed in the young man she had become so fond of. That he would slink around in the bushes to spy on her told her that he was lacking the character she had given him credit for. Maybe he thought it was a funny joke, spying on a lady. Angry now, she pulled her coat over her shoulders and picked up the pistol and holster she had become accustomed to carrying. Leaving the screen of bushes, she stopped suddenly when she saw the dark form across the creek moving back toward the fire. “Well,” she yelled, “did you get a good eyeful?”
Startled, Red Shirt turned at once and fired, his shot passing inches from Nancy’s head and clipping a large branch from the bush she had just left. Terrified, Nancy dived to the ground, her fingers trembling as she tried to pull the revolver from its holster. Finally she freed it and shot at the place where she had seen the form, although it was no longer there. It immediately occurred to her that now he knew where she was, but she no longer knew where he was. Her only impulse was to run, and run she did, leaving her soiled clothes on the ground where she had fallen.
“Nancy!” Frank screamed out when he heard the shots. He dropped his coffee cup, grabbed his rifle, and ran to meet her on the dark bank of the creek.
Seeing her husband, Nancy exclaimed breathlessly, “He’s found us!” She rushed to meet him, but wasted no time in an embrace. “We’ve got to hide!”
“Over there!” he said, pointing to a clump of larger pines, which offered greater protection than the bushes by the creek.
On the other side of the creek, Red Shirt retreated quickly to take cover behind a thicket of younger pines. When he had been startled by the woman’s sudden challenge, his reaction was to assume that they had somehow spotted him and had managed to get around behind him. He counted himself lucky that she had foolishly called out instead of shooting first. In the darkness, he could not be sure if his shot had hit anyone or not, but he removed himself as a target immediately. He cursed his luck in having been spotted before he had the chance to look over the camp and see where everyone was. Now his task was going to be much more difficult and many times more dangerous with Carson lying in wait for him to make a move. There was danger from the woman and the other man, but he felt it paramount to locate Carson, for his rifle seldom missed. Red Shirt would have to w
ork his way in closer to try to spot him, so he left the thicket and moved quickly to a low mound closer to the creek. Since there were no shots fired when he moved, he decided that they didn’t know exactly where he was, either. Encouraged by that thought, he moved again, closer still to the camp, this time to a place of protection behind a large log. From here, he could see the deserted camp and the horses picketed beyond. He decided to wait there awhile to see if he might spot one of the three.
Carson guessed that he was about half a mile from the camp when he heard the two shots, and he immediately feared the worst. So far, there were only the two shots as he broke into a run. What did it mean? Red Shirt? Other Indians? He raced to find out. Something told him it could be no one but Red Shirt, and he blamed himself for agreeing to stop to rest the horses for over half a day. He couldn’t deduce anything from the two shots, one a pistol, the other a Winchester, for Red Shirt had a Winchester, but Frank did, too. He feared what he might find when he got back.
The moon had freed itself from the mountain peak behind him and was now high enough to cast shadows among the trees by the creek. Carson stopped running when he was within fifty yards of them and began to move with extreme caution, darting from one point of cover to the next: a hummock, a bush, whatever was available. When he reached the trees without drawing fire, he dropped down behind a pine and crawled up to a spot where he could see the camp. There was no one to be seen. Frank and Nancy must have fled. At least there were no bodies in the small clearing, but the mystery was yet to be solved. He had to think for a few moments before deciding whether to call out to them or to remain in the shadows and try to work his way all around the camp, searching for Frank and Nancy or what or who had caused the gunfire. He decided it best to choose the latter and refrain from announcing his presence.
Withdrawing to the trees once more, he rose to his feet and began a careful circle around the campsite on the other side of the creek. The pines were thick enough in most places to allow him to move rapidly while allowing enough moonlight for him to see what was ahead of him. Still, there was no sign of anyone and he was approaching the point where he would have to cross over the creek if he was going to complete the circle around the camp. At the water’s edge, he hesitated to listen. There was nothing but the sound of the water running over the rocky bottom and the clicking of the insects. He stepped into the water and started across, placing his feet carefully on the slippery rocks. When he got to the other side, he reached up and grasped the branch of a bush to help him out of the water. Halfway out, he looked up to see the short, compact body and wide shoulders of the demon Red Shirt.
“Howdy, Carson,” Red Shirt growled with an evil grin of anticipation. It was only for an instant, because as soon as he spoke, his body was hurtling through the air to impact with Carson’s and they both landed in the icy water. It had all happened so fast that Carson had no time to raise his rifle. It was now somewhere on the bottom of the creek. Both men struggled to regain their feet with Red Shirt clawing at the young white man, trying to get a firm grip on him. But Carson was quick enough to avoid the thrusts of the vengeful half-breed, and managed to gain a few feet of separation. Confident in his ability to overpower the lanky younger man, Red Shirt had dropped his rifle back on the bank and pulled his scalping knife. His evil grin promised the pleasure he anticipated with the methodical killing he planned. “You put me to a helluva lot of trouble to take your scalp,” he taunted, “but there ain’t no place for you to run now.”
Carson did not reply, but drew his skinning knife and moved cautiously, trying to set his feet squarely under him on the slippery rocks. He did not underestimate the solidly built half-breed’s ability when it came to hand-to-hand fighting. Like the fight he had had with Varner, his survival depended on his quickness to avoid the powerful arms and the thrusts from the deadly knife. He knew that, despite his thick torso and wide shoulders, Red Shirt was quick also. Who was the quicker was about to be decided, and it was going to be the ultimate penalty for the one who came in second. They slowly circled for a few moments, Red Shirt still grinning with confidence while Carson waited warily, not sure if he was a match for the savage half-breed, but determined to make it costly for him either way.
Finally, unable to wait any longer, Red Shirt made the first move, lunging at Carson and grabbing the wrist of Carson’s knife hand while slashing at his belly with his knife. It was quick, so quick that Carson was unable to block him entirely, but succeeded in protecting his gut and taking the blow on his arm. He felt the bite of the blade on his forearm. Unable to free his knife hand from the viselike grip that held him, he sought to disable Red Shirt’s knife hand as well. He suffered another slash across his forearm before he was able to clamp down on the powerful wrist, and the two combatants strained against each other in a contest of strength. Neither man could gain an advantage as he pushed and pulled in an effort to free a hand. It evolved into a sheer test of physical dominance that would seem likely to go to the sturdy half-breed. The knee-deep water close to the bank negated the use of feet as weapons, which might have played a part if the battle had taken place on dry land, but Carson knew it was to be decided by upper-body strength, and he was not sure but that he might have met his match. He strained against the sneering outlaw in desperate determination, knowing he could not allow himself to weaken under this supreme test, but there was no indication that Red Shirt was weakening, either. He realized at that moment that his fate might lie in the next few seconds in his life, for he was beginning to feel his strength draining. He suddenly felt his brain spinning in his head as he reached deep down inside his body for more strength, and he heard a sudden explosion in his head. Not sure what it had been, he then felt a weakening of Red Shirt’s grip on his wrists. He stared into the half-breed’s eyes and discovered a look of surprise and despair, and he realized then that the explosion he had heard was the crack of a rifle shot.
His strength failing rapidly, Red Shirt tried to fight on, even though blood began to spread on his shirt from the hole in his side. Knowing he was seriously wounded, he jerked his wrists free from Carson’s exhausted hands and staggered back toward the center of the creek, where he collapsed in the deeper water. His strength nearly spent, Carson still tried to go after him, but he was not quick enough to reach him before the hated half-breed’s body was carried away by the current to disappear in the darkness. With the last ounce of his strength gone, Carson waded back to the bank and crawled out to drop on the ground.
It was done. The ominous cloud that had followed the three travelers was at last dispersed. A dozen yards upstream, Frank and Nancy Thompson stood shaken and staring in disbelief of the deadly struggle just witnessed. Frank still held the rifle in his hand, having been afraid to shoot a second time, lest he might hit Carson. Frozen for the moment before, but free now, they hurried to the bank to help him. “John!” Nancy cried. “Are you all right?”
Slowly, he got up on his hands and knees and crawled up the bank. “I reckon,” he replied. “I ain’t sure. I ain’t ever been this tired before, though. I know that for a fact.” He rolled over on his back and lay there for a few moments. “I don’t know how it woulda turned out if you hadn’t shot that son of a bitch—pardon me, ma’am.”
“Frank shot him,” Nancy said, proudly now that the danger was past.
“I’d have shot him again, but I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have hit you,” Frank said.
“You’re bleeding,” Nancy exclaimed, just then noticing the blood on Carson’s sleeve. She knelt down at once to look at his arm. “You’ve got a couple of bad-looking cuts on your arm I’ll need to take care of.”
“I ain’t worried about that right now,” Carson said. “First, I’ve gotta find my rifle. It’s on the bottom of this creek somewhere.”
Carson waded around in the knee-deep water for several minutes, but he had no luck in finding his rifle. It was too dark to see the bottom, and he wasn’t really sure exactly w
here it might have flown when Red Shirt lunged at him. “Doggone,” he commented. “I didn’t notice the water was this cold when I was tryin’ to keep him from cuttin’ my throat.”
“I reckon I can understand why,” Frank said, and prepared to wade in. “I’ll help you look.”
Carson stopped him. “No use you freezin’ your feet off, too,” he said. “I’ll just wait till daylight and maybe we can see it. It can’t get no wetter than it is now.” He waded back over to the shore. “It sure ain’t gonna do it any good.” Then he remembered. “I’ve still got a good one, though.” He walked a few feet down the bank and picked up the Winchester Red Shirt had tossed there, a Winchester ’73, with the letters L. Moody carved on the stock.
“What are you gonna do about the body?” Nancy asked, thinking Red Shirt’s corpse might somehow contaminate the water, picturing it snagged on a root or a rock a few feet downstream. It was a little too close to their camp to suit her.
“John and I can look for him in the morning,” Frank said. “It’s too dark tonight. Besides, he’s downstream from our camp.”
“Good,” she said. “Then you can sit by the fire and get dry while I look at John’s arm. I’ve got some old shirts I’ve been keeping for bandages.” She started back toward the fire, then stopped to exclaim, “I declare, I can’t believe we can stop worrying about that devil chasing us.” She paused again to pose another question. “How could he have caught up with us so quickly?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ about that myself,” Carson replied. “And the way I figure it, he knows the country, and he figured we were headin’ for the Yellowstone. So while we were roamin’ around in the mountains tryin’ to lose him, he rode straight up the valley and got ahead of us. It pays to know the country.”
Although they had already had their supper, Nancy decided a fresh pot of coffee was called for to celebrate their freedom from pursuit. They stayed by the fire later than usual that night, talking about what the future held for them when they reached Nancy’s father’s ranch in Big Timber. It was a topic that had not been discussed on recent nights because of the threat hanging over their heads. After Carson’s boots had dried out a little, and his arm was freshly bandaged, he made a search in the trees to find the black horse Red Shirt had ridden. He found it tied to a bush some fifty yards from the camp.
Way of the Gun (9781101597804) Page 12
