by Len Levinson
“Not anymore.”
“You sound like the kind of person who might’ve been well-off before the war.”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Got something to hide?”
“Don’t like to dredge up the past.”
Taggart smiled. “Just a curious old man, that’s all. Don’t take no offense. Can’t help bein’ curious about a man who just shot four cowboys like they was nothin’.”
“I was lucky.”
“People make their own luck. You knew what you were doin’. Moved like a cat. Yer a real fighter. I know some-thin’ about fightin’ because I was in the war myself. We wasn’t on the same side, and I weren’t no officer—I was a sergeant in the infantry. I might’ve taken a shot at you on one of those days, or you might’ve taken a shot at me, but here we are in this saloon together, and we’re goin’ to Texas together.”
“Who said I’m going to Texas?”
“You got no job and no money. What else you got to do?”
Taggart poured whiskey into Stone’s glass, and the bartender placed a steak platter in front of Stone. The aroma rose to his nostrils, and he picked up his knife and fork, cutting into the steak. He didn’t know if it was the whiskey or not, but he was warming up to the old wagon master.
Taggart washed down his food with whiskey. “That gal in the picture—what’s she to you?”
“We were engaged.”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“How long you been lookin’ for her?”
“Since the war.”
“What if you don’t find her?”
“I’ll find her.”
“Maybe you should go back home and put yer life back together.”
“Don’t have anything to put together.”
“The gal was engaged to you, and she just upped and ran away?”
“When I returned home after the war, she was gone. Some folks said she went west with a Union officer, but I can’t imagine her going anywhere with a Union officer. All I know is I’m looking for her.”
“What happened to yer family?”
“All dead.”
“You must love her an awful lot to be huntin’ her this way. Where’d you meet her?”
“We were neighbors, grew up together.”
“Come on to Texas with me. Start a new life. Maybe the gal’s there and maybe she ain’t, but you’ll never know if you don’t go and see for yerself.”
“Where you from, Taggart?”
“I’m like horseshit. I been all over the road.”
“I’ll need an advance on my wages.”
“What for?”
“Another Colt.”
“What’s the matter with the one you got?”
“Might need six extra shots someday.”
The door to the saloon was thrown open, and a group of hard-looking men stepped inside. Their leader wore a black leather frock coat, and he hollered: “Who shot my cowboys!”
The saloon fell silent. Everyone looked at Stone. The man in the black leather coat stomped across the saloon, pushing tables and chairs out of his way. Stone got to his feet, and Taggart rose beside him.
“This isn’t your fight,” Stone said.
“It ain’t so easy to find a good scout these days.”
The man in the black leather coat was followed by eight cowboys, and all of them stopped in front of Stone and Taggart.
“You shot my cowboys?” the man asked, looking back and forth between Stone and Taggart.
“I did,” Stone said.
The man looked at Taggart. “How about you?”
“I saw everything, and it was self-defense all the way.”
“It was,” the bartender agreed. “I saw it, too.”
“Ain’t the way I heard it,” the man said, measuring Stone. “You done messed with the wrong people, boy.”
He and his men stepped away, except for one cowboy facing Stone in a gunfighter’s stance, legs spread apart, right hand dangling in the air.
“You might be big,” the cowboy said, “but you ain’t bigger than a bullet.”
The bartender held out his hand. “Now wait a minute! We don’t want no more shootin’ in here!”
The cowboy wore two guns in crisscrossed holsters tied down and had long bowed legs. A rattlesnake skin was his hatband, and evidently he was the fastest gun they had.
“You killed some friends of mine,” the cowboy said, wiggling his fingers. “I like to know the name of the man I shoot. What’s yours?”
“Make your move.”
Stone stood tense and ready, and that old, wild, war feeling came over him. The cowboy narrowed his eyes. His hand was poised in the air above his gun. Suddenly his hand dropped down.
Stone’s long fingers slapped the handle of his gun and brought the weapon up fast. He pulled the trigger, and the saloon resounded with his gunshot.
The tip of the cowboy’s gun barrel still was in his holster when the bullet slammed into him. He took a step backward and stared at Stone in disbelief. Stone fired again, and the cowboy spun around, dropping his gun. He fell to the floor.
“Who’s next?” Stone asked. He pointed his gun at the man in the black leather coat. “How about you?”
Raw animal hatred was in the man’s eyes, but he didn’t move.
“Go ahead,” Stone said. “The world can do without another lowdown coyote.”
The man held his hands steady where Stone could see them. Stone swept his gun back and forth over the other cowboys.
“Anybody else feel froggy?”
They made no effort to reach for their guns.
“Get out of here,” Stone said, “and take your friend with you.”
Two of the cowboys picked up the one Stone had shot and carried him toward the door. The others followed, and the man in the long black leather coat said evenly to Stone, “Hope we meet again someday.”
“If we do, I’m going to kill you.”
The man in the black leather coat turned around and pushed his way through his cowboys. He headed toward the door, and his cowboys followed him. Pausing at the door, he aimed one last malevolent glance over his shoulder at Stone, then pushed the doors open and stepped outside.
“What’s his name?” Stone asked.
“Dillon,” replied the bartender. “He’s the ramrod of the Rafter K.”
Stone sat and reloaded his Colt. “I’ve got to get another one of these... could use six extra bullets.”
Taggart sat opposite him. “Yer a crazy son of a bitch. Just went up against nine men and didn’t flinch. Don’t care about yer life much, looks like.”
Stone reached for the bottle and filled his glass to the brim, then raised it to his lips, spilling a few drops on the table.
“You better watch out for them cowboys,” Taggart said. “They’ll be gunnin’ for you.”
“That’s why I want another Colt.” Stone picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.
“Maybe we’d better get out of town.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Yer liable to be finished more than you want if they come back.”
“They know some of them will die if they draw on me, and nobody wants to die.”
They had apple pie for dessert and drank coffee. Taggart smoked a cigar and Stone rolled a cigarette. The composition of the saloon changed as men staggered drunkenly out the door, and new arrivals walked forthrightly toward the bar. Some men pointed at Stone. He hoped there weren’t any crazy young kids who wanted to make their reputations by shooting him in the back.
Taggart examined Stone’s worn clothing, stubbled cheeks, firm jaw. He looked tired, and there was deep sorrow in his eyes.
“You’ll like Texas,” he said. “You might decide to stay there. It’s practically a whole nation all to itself, with plenty of land for everybody. If you ain’t seen it, you can’t imagine it. It’s a whole new world.”
“What will my duties be as your scout?”
“You’ll ride ahead of the wagon train and report what’s there. You’ll look for water and good campsites. If you see Injuns, you’ll come back and tell us. Where’d you plan to stay tonight?”
“I’d planned to make camp outside town.”
“I got my set-up out on the prairie. You can spend the night in my wagon now that yer on the payroll. We’ll pick up some supplies and leave.”
They walked to the counter, and Taggart bought canned food and bacon, stuffing the goods into burlap bags. They put on their ponchos and headed toward the door.
The rain came down ferociously. They ran across the street to the stable and saddled their horses. Then they rode out into the rain that fell in a roar.
The boardwalk was deserted, and lanterns were visible behind windows. The middle of the street was a morass, its surface pelted by driving rain. The horses walked through it, feeling cold water roll down their flanks. Stone hunched underneath his poncho, his hat low over his eyes, water pouring off the brim.
The road became a trail that meandered over the rolling prairie. Lightning made jagged white lines against the dark gray clouds. Stone felt a chill underneath his poncho.
During the war, he’d lived outdoors for most of five years, often eating in the rain, sleeping in it, and fighting in it.
There was nothing more difficult than hand-to-hand combat in a downpour. You couldn’t get a foothold or handhold because everything was slimy with blood and muck. You rolled around in it and tried to kill your man.
A knobby old tree emerged out of the mists.
“We turn off here,” Taggart said.
The horses trudged onto the new trail, and the rain fell so heavily Stone could see only twenty or thirty feet in the distance. Beyond that was a gray wall.
I’m going to Texas. He’d intended to move west more slowly, but the wagon train was free, and he’d even get paid and get his grub, too. There was only one catch: the Indians.
Since coming to the frontier, he’d heard lots about Indians. They killed white people whenever they could, and the wagon train would pass through the middle of the most hazardous Indian country in America.
Taggart’s covered wagon was nestled in the hills, and his horses were gathered under a canvas roof that spilled rainwater down its sides. Taggart and Stone unsaddled their riding horses and hitched them under the canvas with the team horses, then climbed into the back of the wagon.
It was a small space, and Taggart lit the kerosene lantern, turning up the wick. His lined face glowed orange as he plunged another cigar into his mouth and lit it from the flame in the lantern.
“When’ll the others get here?” Stone asked.
“The first should start showin’ up day after tomorrow. The others’ll straggle in durin’ the rest of the week. I ’spect we’ll leave Monday. There’s one more thing I forgot to tell you: leave the womenfolk alone. I don’t want any fightin’ over womenfolk.”
“I’m engaged to get married,” Stone said. “I won’t bother the women.”
“When you see Alice McGhee, yer liable to forget yer engaged. Sometimes a pretty woman can cause more trouble on a wagon train than a Comanche war party. The men fight over her, and then the other women fight with her, and it’s a mess.” Taggart puffed his cigar. “Gittin’ late. Gonna turn in.”
Taggart arranged his bed, consisting of blankets on the floorboards of the wagon, then stuck his cigar butt outside and let the rain put it out. He dropped the cigar into his hat and stretched out on his blankets.
“Night,” he said.
Stone smoked his cigarette in the darkness and listened to the rain pounding on the canvas. He thought of corpses in puddles and tiny rivers of blood flowing in all directions. The stench had been the worst. It could stop a man in his tracks. Your skin got white and shriveled, and your feet went numb. Your ammunition wouldn’t fire. The men were sick. War in the rain had been a nightmare. He shivered as he pulled his blanket over his shoulders and rested his head on his saddle. The thunder in the distance sounded like cannon.
He was going to Texas with an old wagon master who’d fought against him in the war. Funny how everything turned over onto itself. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain. Gradually he sank into slumber and dreamed of cavalry advancing to the front through the rain.
Chapter Two
He was awakened by the smell of coffee and bacon. Poking his head outside the canvas, he saw Taggart preparing breakfast in front of a fire.
“Stick yer head in the feed bag,” Taggart said.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was full of clouds. Stone pulled on his boots and climbed down from the wagon. He sat next to Taggart and gazed across the clearing at a big black bird perched high in the branches of a tree.
This was the time of day Stone liked best. The world had just been born anew, and anything was possible.
Taggart handed him a tin plate filled with bacon and beans and covered with two sourdough biscuits. “Need to get supplies in town today. You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”
“Want to buy another gun, so I’ll be going in, too.”
“There might be gunplay.”
“If you’re worried about getting shot, I’ll go in alone.”
“Rambunctious, ain’t you? Just remember there’s always somebody faster.”
“Can’t hide my head under my pillow because somebody’s faster.”
“We’ll go in together. Watch each other’s back.”
“It’s not you they’re mad at.”
Taggart lowered his voice an octave. “Like I said, we’ll watch each other’s back.”
Stone ate his beans. A squirrel ran across the clearing, paused to look at them, and continued on its way.
“You a gunfighter?” Taggart asked.
“No.”
“You talk like one. Hope you don’t die like one.”
After breakfast they hitched the horses to the wagon and rode to town. The trail was deserted, and a mist hung over the prairie. Taggart sat upright on his seat, smoking a cigar.
“If we see Rafter K horses, it might not be a good idea to spend much time in town.”
“They won’t stop me from doing what I want.”
“You lookin’ to die?”
“I’m buying another gun.”
“Yer gonna need one, crazy as you are.”
The main street of Crawford was crowded with riders and wagons. Stone spotted a sign that said gunsmith, and Taggart angled the horses toward it as a bullwhacker with a load of buffalo hides passed on the other side of the street.
Taggart stopped the wagon in front of the gunsmith’s shop, and Stone jumped to the ground. He stepped onto the boardwalk and turned around quickly. Two dirty-faced boys ran by, followed by a lady in calico. Taggart joined Stone on the sidewalk.
“Don’t see any Rafter K brands.”
Stone entered the gunsmith’s shop and saw pistols in the display cases and rifles mounted on the walls with the heads of an antelope, buffalo, and mountain goat. A man with a stringy black mustache sat behind the counter reading an old newspaper.
“What can I do fer you?”
“I want to buy a used Colt to match this one.” Stone laid his gun on the counter.
The man looked at it, then took a similar one out of the display case and handed it to him. Stone felt its weight, cocked the hammer, aimed down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. It felt the same as the Colt he had.
“Take it out back and fire a few cartridges if you want.”
Stone walked down the passageway and came to the yard. Before him were bottles and cans on a plank suspended between two barrels. Stone thumbed six cartridges into the Colt, raised it, and took aim. He fired all six shots in rapid succession, and six cans went flying into the air.
He returned to the gunsmith’s shop. ‘I’ll need another belt and holster.”
The gunsmith rummaged through a box and came up
with two identical belts and holsters. “If yer gonna carry two guns, yer holsters should be matched. I’ll take the one yer wearin’ in trade.”
Stone pulled off his holster and strapped on the two the man had brought him. He crisscrossed them and slung them low, tying them to his legs. Then he quick-drew both a few times.
“How much?”
“Twelve dollars.”
Taggart stepped forward and paid the gunsmith. Stone holstered the guns and walked toward the door, aware of the new weight on his body. He stepped onto the boardwalk and looked down the street to the saloon where he’d shot those men yesterday.
Taggart joined him on the boardwalk. “Let’s go to the store.”
“Why don’t we have a drink first?”
“Are you crazy?”
“When a man first comes to town, he usually stops off at a drinking establishment. It’s the civilized thing to do.”
“If you git killed, how’m I gonna git my twelve dollars back?”
“Take my horse and guns.”
Stone walked toward the saloon, spurs jangling and the butts of his guns hanging wide. Taggart caught up with him.
“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with yer mind. You must be lookin’ to die. If there’s boys from the Rafter K in there, they’ll shoot you like a dog.”
“Man’s got a right to have a drink if he wants one.”
“Yer a stubborn son of a bitch!”
They passed the sheriff’s office, a barber shop, and a lawyer’s office. The sun had come out, and steam rose from puddles of water in the street. Then they came to the saloon. They looked at the horses tied to the rail, and some of them carried the Rafter K brand.
“You don’t have to come in,” Stone said to Taggart.
“You go in that saloon, and they’ll carry you out feet first.”
Stone moved toward the swinging doors. Taggart grabbed his arm.
“Why?” Taggart asked.
“I want a drink.”
“You can get a drink someplace else.”
“I want one here.”
Stone shook loose and stepped through the swinging doors. The bar was to the left; men drank and talked loudly. Stone spotted Dillon, the ramrod of the Rafter K, wearing his black leather coat, one foot on the bar rail.
