Way of the Gun (9781101597804)

by West, Charles G.

  By the time he reached the river, his horse was just about spent from running full out for so long, but there was no sign of the man he pursued. Finding it hard to believe that his horse had been outrun so badly, he entered the water, only to recoil halfway across when he saw a horse standing at the water’s edge on the other side. In reflex action, he jerked the Winchester from the saddle scabbard, prepared to shoot, until he realized there was no rider. When he continued across, he walked the bay up to the other horse and discovered it to be the roan that Duke had been riding the day before. The horse was thoroughly spent from the race across the prairie, and he realized then the reason his horse was so badly beaten in his attempt to close the distance. Duke, or Johnny—he still didn’t know which one he was chasing—had fled with both horses, and switched to the fresher one here at the river. It might not account for a great difference in the condition of the horses, but Carson knew it was enough to gain an edge.

  He felt helpless to do anything about the problem at this point. The bay had given his all when Carson asked for it. To push the horse farther could result in severe damage to its wind. Forgetting his anger for a moment, and thinking rationally, he had to question the wisdom of continuing to follow Duke deeper into Bar-T range. He had no notion as to the layout of the ranch headquarters, or how many men would come to the defense of one of their own. Ain’t worth the risk, he told himself, especially when my horse is too tired to run. He turned around and crossed back over, leading the abandoned horse.

  When he got back to the ravine, he called out to Shorty, identifying himself. When Shorty acknowledged, Carson walked back up to their camp, leading the horses. “What about the one up on the hill?” he asked.

  “Dead,” Shorty answered.

  “Long black hair, wearin’ a Montana Peak hat and a buckskin coat?”

  “No, it was the other one,” Shorty said.

  So it was Duke who managed to get away, Carson thought. “Figures,” he commented. Duke always got away.

  “I see you picked up a spare horse,” Shorty said.

  “Yeah, Duke ran this one out and switched over to Johnny’s. I expect there’s two more horses somewhere on the other side of this ravine—if they ain’t run off somewhere.”

  Shorty chuckled. “Wasn’t a bad night’s work, was it? Got some of our cattle back and picked up three horses, saddles and all.”

  “I reckon,” Carson replied.

  They had to think that there was no longer a threat from Duke Slayton on this night, but both men were still too much in a state of readiness to think about trying to sleep the few hours of darkness that remained. They decided instead to rekindle the fire and make some coffee. After finding the gunmen’s two horses, they figured to drive the recovered cattle out early the next morning, since there was no water or grass in the ravine.

  Chapter 10

  Lon Tuttle, owner of the Bar-T Ranch, walked down to the cook shack where his men were eating breakfast. He wasted no time with “good mornings” as he went straight to Duke Slayton, who was seated at the head of the long table. “I heard you came in by yourself before daybreak. What happened to the three men who were with you?”

  “I was comin’ to see you after breakfast,” Duke replied respectfully. “I didn’t wanna disturb you too early.”

  “Where’s Blackie and Jake and Johnny?” Tuttle insisted impatiently.

  “Well . . .” Duke hesitated, aware of the sudden silence that fell over the table as all ears were tuned to his explanation. “We ran into some trouble.”

  “Some trouble?” Tuttle demanded.

  “Yes, sir, we ran into an ambush when we went after some cows they was tryin’ to drive back on M/C range. We never had a chance. They set up an ambush and killed everyone but me, and I was lucky to get away. There wasn’t much else I could do. There was too many of ’em.”

  “How many were there?” Tuttle asked, at once concerned that Mathew Cain might be sending large gangs of rustlers to cut out part of his herd.

  “I couldn’t count all of ’em,” Duke lied. “It was too damn dark in that little box canyon, probably ten or twelve guns. They was led by Carson Ryan. That much I know for sure.”

  “You mean John Carson, that new hand that Cain hired?”

  “That ain’t his name,” Duke replied, realizing an opportunity to take the heat off himself for the failed mission. “His real name’s Carson Ryan, and he’s wanted in Wyomin’ for cattle rustlin’ and murder—and one of the men he murdered was a U.S. deputy marshal that was takin’ him to prison.”

  Duke’s accusation captured Tuttle’s interest immediately, and the possibility of a full-scale range war loomed in his mind. Mathew Cain ran a lot more cattle than he, and consequently had a few more men on his payroll. Tuttle didn’t care for his odds in a war with the M/C, especially if Cain had brought in a hired gun. Tuttle had been operating under the impression that Cain had so many cows that he wouldn’t miss a few that wandered over to the Bar-T. Duke Slayton had been the chief influence for this policy. Now, thanks to Slayton’s botching of last night’s incident, Cain knew about the brand switching. “Damn!” he swore when considering the likely results of a war with Cain. Maybe, he thought, it might be a good idea to ride over and talk to Cain and convince him that he had no knowledge of the rustling. He could lay the blame on Duke. “You sure about this John Carson, or Carson, what’d you say his name is?”

  “Ryan,” Duke replied. “Yes, sir, I’m sure. He rode with me for a short spell.”

  Tuttle could see what steps he had to take to hopefully settle with Mathew Cain, and the quicker the better with roundup coming up soon. “I reckon the best thing for you now is to pack up your stuff and leave the Bar-T,” he said.

  Duke was taken aback. He hadn’t foreseen that possibility. “What the hell?” he demanded. “You firin’ me?”

  “That’s right,” Tuttle replied. “And you ain’t got nobody to blame but yourself. I want you off my ranch.”

  “Why, you sorry son of a bitch!” Duke exploded. “I’m the best hope you’ve got of fightin’ that bunch.” His outburst caused a sudden tightening of the tension around the table. Tuttle’s foreman, Tom Castor, got up from the bench to stand by his boss. Duke took note of the gesture, but fumed on. “I almost got shot doin’ your dirty work, and this is the thanks I get?” There was no sign of yielding in the two stern faces confronting him. After a lengthy pause filled with silence, Duke finally gave in. “Well, by God, if that’s the way you want it, then I’ll go. I didn’t cotton much to workin’ for this yellow-dog crew of yours, anyway.” He pushed back from the table, knocking over the short stool he had been sitting on, and got to his feet. “Good luck with your war with the M/C without me,” he said sarcastically, then stormed out of the cook shack.

  Tuttle looked at his foreman and calmly said, “See that he gets outta here without doin’ any damage, Tom.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tom replied, and followed Duke out the door. He was more than happy to see Slayton go. He didn’t like the man to begin with, and he had harbored some concerns that Duke might be after his job.

  Back in the cook shack, Tuttle addressed his men. “I know we’ve been a little loose when it came to whose cow was whose, but we ain’t travelin’ that trail no more. I blame myself for listenin’ to that man and his three partners, but I aim to be a better neighbor from now on.” His statement was met with nods of approval from the men seated around the table, most of them glad to see the last of Duke Slayton.

  * * *

  Lucas Cain called to his older brother back inside the barn, “Justin, riders comin’ over the ridge.”

  Justin took his time walking out to the front of the barn. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Lucas replied. “I can’t tell yet. There’s two of ’em, but it don’t look like any of our folks.”

  They waited a few minutes until t
he riders descended the ridge and pulled a little closer. “That looks like Lon Tuttle,” Justin said, “and Tom Castor.” He waited a minute longer to be sure. “Run up to the house and tell Pa he’s got company.” After Lucas hurried away, Justin muttered, “I wonder what the hell they want.”

  “Justin,” Lon Tuttle acknowledged as he and his foreman pulled up to the barn.

  Justin returned the greeting in kind, then waited while the two men stepped down. “What brings you and Tom over?”

  “I need to talk to your pa,” Tuttle answered. He handed his reins to Tom, who led the horses over and tied them to one of the corral posts.

  “He’s up at the house,” Justin said. “I sent Lucas ahead to tell him you’re here. I reckon we can walk up.” It was an awkward visit for Justin, since they had expected more trouble from the Bar-T after John Carson and Shorty drove eighteen head of cattle back from Bar-T range, especially since the altercation had resulted in three men getting shot.

  They were only halfway across the yard when Mathew Cain appeared on the front porch, with Lucas close behind him. “Well, well, Lon Tuttle,” the patriarch of the M/C remarked, truly surprised to see his neighbor. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “How do, Mathew?” Tuttle responded, not at all comfortable in the role of peacemaker. “I expect it’s past time to talk about a few things that’s happened between our two spreads that mighta caused some misunderstandin’.”

  “Oh?” Cain replied, knowing full well what Tuttle was referring to. “What kinda things is that?”

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about,” Tuttle responded. “There ain’t no sense in beatin’ around the bush about it. There’s been some swappin’ of brands and downright cattle rustlin’, and I came over here to own up to my boys doin’ most of it. But what I’m here to tell you is that I just found out about it.” He gestured toward Tom Castor. “Neither me nor my foreman knew that some of the men I’d hired to help with roundup were reworkin’ the brands on some of your cattle. So I’ve come to see you today to let you know I fired the ones doin’ the stealin’. I’m an honest man, and I won’t stand for outlaws on my payroll, so I sent ’em packin’. Tom here tells me that those men I fired musta tried to steal some M/C cattle a couple of nights ago and run up against that gunman you hired. I want you to know that wasn’t any of my doin’. Like I said, I fired those men.”

  Cain listened patiently, although thinking all he was hearing was a pack of lies, thinking there was no reason for any of his men to change the brands unless they were being paid to do it. But the reference to his gunman caught his attention. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Tuttle? What gunman?”

  “That young feller, that outlaw,” Tuttle replied, and turned to Castor. “What’s his name, Tom?”

  “John Carson,” his foreman replied.

  “Yeah,” Tuttle continued, “John Carson. That’s the one. He killed three of those men I just kicked off my ranch.”

  “John Carson?” Cain exclaimed. He and Justin exchanged astonished glances. “John’s sure as hell not a gunman. He’s handy with a rifle, all right, but he’s just a ranch hand like all the rest of my men—and a damn good man with cattle.” He gave Tuttle a stern look. “I don’t hire any gunmen on my ranch.”

  Looking fully contrite, Tuttle shook his head slowly. “That’s the main reason I came over here today. I figured it was the right thing to do to make sure you hadn’t been lied to, just like I was. I have it on good authority that this feller John Carson’s name is really Carson Ryan, and he’s wanted in Wyomin’ for murder and cattle rustlin’.” He paused then to witness the effect his statement had on Cain and his sons.

  “Somebody told you wrong, mister,” Justin interrupted. “John Carson ain’t no outlaw. He didn’t shoot all three of your men, anyway. Shorty Wheeler shot one of ’em, and he sure as hell ain’t no outlaw. And the only reason anybody got shot was that those four jumped John and Shorty. They were just defendin’ themselves, and they were on M/C range. You need to get your facts straight before you go around spreadin’ stories about honest men. Hell, you’re the one hirin’ outlaws.”

  Still striving to maintain his peaceful countenance, Tuttle responded, “I figured you’d think that. So I figured it best to come over here and talk it over face-to-face. I got rid of my dishonest hands as soon as I found out about ’em. And it’s plain to see now that you don’t know who you hired, either. One of the men I fired told me he used to ride with Carson Ryan, and they were both charged with cattle rustlin’ and murder. Not only that, but your boy John Carson killed a U.S. deputy marshal and escaped on his way to prison.” He could no longer hold on to his countenance of innocence, and gave in to a smug look of contentment when he witnessed the profound effect his statement had upon both Cain and his sons.

  Stunned for a few moments, Mathew Cain recovered then. “Well, is there anything else you came here to talk about?” He strained to keep any emotion from disturbing his somber expression.

  “No, I guess not,” Tuttle replied. “I just thought it the neighborly thing to do, in case you didn’t know what kind of man you had workin’ for you. I’m hopin’ we can work together on the roundup comin’ up.”

  “I expect it’d be in both our best interests if we do,” Cain replied stiffly. He turned to direct his younger son then. “Lucas, run, fetch the gentlemen’s horses. They’ve got a long ride back to the Bar-T. I suspect they’re anxious to get started.” With no doubt that they had been rudely dismissed, Tuttle and his foreman turned and walked toward the corral where the horses were tied. When they had gone, Cain turned to Justin and said, “Go get John Carson. Tell him I wanna see him.”

  “Him and Shorty are still ridin’ the north section,” Justin said, “up near the Musselshell. It might take me a spell to find ’em.”

  “Pack you somethin’ to eat and go find ’em,” Mathew said. “I wanna hear what he has to say about this.” It was hard for him to think such a fine-looking young man like John Carson could be the man Tuttle had described, and he wondered how he could have been such a bad judge of character. More than likely it was a case of mistaken identity because of the similarity of their names. He hoped so, anyway. He walked into the house then to see Millie coming from the front bedroom where, unbeknownst to him, she had been sitting at the side of the window, listening to the conversation in the front yard.

  “I knew it,” Millie muttered. “I knew it.”

  Lizzie looked up from the potatoes she was peeling when the young girl walked into the kitchen. “What?” Lizzie asked in her heavy German accent. “What you knew?”

  “Nothing,” Millie replied. “I was just thinking to myself.” She paused for a moment, perplexed. Then seeing the half-empty bucket on the sideboard, she announced, “I’m going to go get some water.” She met Nancy coming in the back door, and had to step quickly to the side to keep from hitting her with the bucket.

  “What’s the matter with her?” Nancy asked. “She almost hit me with that bucket.”

  Lizzie shrugged, not really concerned. “Who knows? She don’t say.”

  * * *

  Justin did not find Carson and Shorty until the next day. About midday, he spotted them beside a wide creek on the eastern boundary of the M/C range. He was spotted at almost the same time by the two men sitting by a small fire eating jerky and drinking coffee while their horses rested. “Look comin’ yonder,” Shorty said. “Looks like Justin.”

  Carson, whose back was turned, looked back over his shoulder in the direction Shorty pointed. “It is Justin,” he confirmed. “He might like a little coffee. Any left in that pot?”

  “A cup or two,” Shorty answered. “Wonder what he’s doin’ out here.”

  They got to their feet to greet their boss as Justin reined his horse to a stop before them and dismounted. “I couldn’t find you yesterday,” he said, “so I figured you might b
e down this way.”

  “What was you lookin’ for us for?” Shorty asked, joking. “Lookin’ to find out if we was just settin’ on our behinds drinkin’ coffee?”

  Justin’s stoic features relaxed for an instant with the hint of a smile to acknowledge Shorty’s effort to joke. Just as quickly, it reverted to an expression of gravity. “I was comin’ to get John,” he told them, looking directly at his new ranch hand. “My pa wants to talk to you right away, so we’d best cut straight across and get on back to the house.”

  “What’s he wanna talk to me about?” Carson asked.

  “I reckon you’ll find that out as soon as we get back,” was all Justin offered.

  “Am I in trouble?” Carson asked, trying to think of anything he could have done to get in hot water with his boss. Justin was always of a serious demeanor, but he seemed even more tight-lipped than usual.

  “Well, you ain’t done nothin’ to get yourself in trouble with me and my pa,” Justin replied. “But Pa wants to talk to you.”

  Astonished by Justin’s attitude, Shorty wondered what Carson could possibly have done that didn’t involve him as well. Yet Mathew Cain only wanted to talk to Carson and not the two of them. “Well, I reckon we’ll be ridin’ back,” he commented. “There’s coffee left in the pot. How ’bout a cup, Justin?”

  “Thanks just the same,” he replied, “but we’d best get started back.”

  “The reason we stopped to eat was that the horses needed a rest,” Carson informed him. “We ran ’em pretty hard a little while back when we rounded up some strays and drove ’em back toward the main herd. I think we oughta give ’em a little more time before we head back.” He wasn’t sure of the urgency of Justin’s mission, but he didn’t intend to overwork the bay gelding if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.