by Len Levinson
Dillon looked up from his glass and saw Stone advancing. Their eyes met, and Stone walked past him toward an opening at the bar. He placed his foot on the rail and waited for the bartender to take his order.
It was the same bartender who’d been on duty yesterday, and his hand trembled so much he could barely pour whiskey into the glass of the cowboy in front of him. Taggart took his place beside Stone, and everything became quiet.
The bartender walked fearfully toward Stone.
“Two whiskies,” Stone said.
The bartender placed two glasses and a bottle on the bar, then stepped back out of the way. Stone poured whiskey into his glass and passed the bottle to Taggart.
Somebody spoke at the end of the bar: “Son of a bitch got a lot of nerve walkin’ in here like that.”
Stone sipped the whiskey, rinsing his mouth with the fiery liquid. He looked relaxed but was ready to draw and fire.
“I say we should kill him where he stands,” the voice said.
Stone looked down the bar in the direction of the voice. “Why don’t you try it?”
There was silence for a few moments, then the cowboy pushed himself away from the bar and walked toward Stone, stopping ten feet in front of him. The cowboy wore one gun in a holster tied to his leg and a bear’s tooth on a thong around his neck. His hat was low over his eyes.
Everyone got out of the way. Stone stepped away from the bar and faced the cowboy.
“How many of you idiots from the Rafter K do I have to kill?”
“Yer killin’ days are over.”
They faced each other. The bartender raised his eyes above the bar, took one look, and ducked again.
Dillon spoke: “Finish him off, Tandy.”
Tandy was shorter than Stone, with a shadowy growth of beard on his jowls. He spread his legs apart and poised his hand above his gun, gazing at Stone through flinty eyes. He looked like a coiled spring.
Tandy’s hand dove toward his gun, but Stone’s two Colts already were clearing their holsters, and he pulled the triggers. The guns fired simultaneously and Tandy looked like he’d been struck in the chest by a tree. He staggered backward, an expression of astonishment on his face.
The gun fell out of his hand, and the air was thick with gunsmoke. Tandy’s eyes glazed over, and his body undulated, then he went crashing to the floor.
The death energy hit Stone, that wild spiral of a man’s spirit leaving. It bolted through his body and left him cold. He looked at the men from the Rafter K, smoke rising from both barrels of his Colts.
“Who’s next?”
Nobody said anything. The saloon had become silent, and everyone stood still as a statue. Stone stared at the cowboys from the Rafter K while the pool of blood widened around Tandy.
Taggart stood near Stone, facing the cowboys from the Rafter K, his hand above his Remington. The men from the Rafter K knew they could win in the end, but the price would be high. Nobody made a move.
Stone walked toward Dillon, his Colts still leveled. Dillon stood in front of the bar, the handle of his gun showing through the opening in his black leather coat. He made no attempt to go for it.
Stone stopped in front of him.
“You must be a real bad hombre to be ramrod of the Rafter K.”
Dillon didn’t say a word. The barrels of Stone’s Colts were inches from his chest.
“I’ll give you a fair chance,” Stone said.
He took three steps backward and dropped his Colts into their holsters. Then he spread his legs. “Make your move.”
Dillon tried to keep his fear hidden, but it was visible in the pallor on his face and in his thinned lips.
“I’m waiting,” Stone said.
The ramrod of the Rafter K was being humiliated in front of his men. Dillon looked as though he were going to faint.
Stone stared at Dillon. “You look to be the kind of scum who’d shoot a man in the back, so here’s my back. Go ahead and take a shot—if you’ve got the grit.”
Stone turned around slowly, presenting his back to Dillon, and if he heard the faintest hostile sound, he’d hit the floor and pull his Colts, but nothing happened. They were afraid of him. He’d backed them down.
“Guess I’ve got no takers,” Stone said. He stepped toward the bar. “Bartender—can I get a glass of whiskey?”
The bartender raised his head, reached for the bottle, and poured the drink. Taggart joined Stone at the bar. Men from the Rafter K picked up Tandy and carried him out the door, followed by all the cowboys who rode for that brand, including Dillon.
The bartender picked up his bucket of sawdust and carried it around the bar, dropping handfuls on the blood. Stone sipped his whiskey, feeling light-headed and strange. Adrenaline rushed through his arteries, and he felt as if he could run all the way to Texas.
Taggart turned and looked at Stone. “Yer even crazier than I thought.”
Stone reached for his bag of tobacco. His hands trembled and his mouth was dry as he rolled the cigarette. He’d won, but it could’ve gone the other way.
“If you ever see a Rafter K brand again, you’d better run for yer life,” Taggart said. “Next time they’ll shoot you on sight.”
Stone lit his cigarette. The doors opened and the sheriff entered the saloon followed by one of his deputies.
“Now what the hell happened in here?” the sheriff said.
“Another cowboy from the Rafter K got shot,” the bartender replied and pointed his thumb at Stone. “It was him again.”
The sheriff looked down the bar at Stone sipping his whiskey. “I guess it was self-defense?”
“That’s right.”
“How’d it happen?” the sheriff asked the bartender.
“The cowboy from the Rafter K braced this man here, and this man beat him to the draw.”
“I’m a witness,” Taggart said. “That’s the way it was.”
The sheriff pushed back the brim of his hat and moved toward the bar. “Whiskey.”
The bartender filled a glass; the sheriff raised it to his lips and knocked it back. Then he looked at Stone.
“If I was you, I’d leave town.”
“I am leaving town—in a few days.”
Stone filled his glass with whiskey. He hated fear and took the offensive whenever it came. It was the only way to deal with fear.
Taggart finished his glass. “We’d better git rollin’ along. Got a lot to do.”
Stone downed his whiskey, readjusted the cavalry hat on his head, and headed for the door, stepping over the puddle of blood in the middle of the floor.
A crowd had gathered across the street, looking at the saloon. Taggart stepped through the swinging doors and joined Stone.
“Let’s go to the store.”
They walked side by side down the planked sidewalk. A few kids ran beside them in the street, staring at them in awe. A drunk lay sprawled on a bench in front of the undertaker’s office, and they stepped over his legs. Finally they came to the store.
It was dark and cavernous, with goods piled everywhere. A group of men sat around a long low table.
“What can I do for you?” asked the bald man behind the counter.
Taggart took a list out of his shirt pocket and laid it on the counter. Stone sat on a chair in the corner and smoked his cigarette.
Beside him was a stack of hides that smelled like new leather. It was quiet in the store, and the bald man placed a crate of beans on the counter. Taggart was buying his main supplies for the trip to Texas, and Stone thought of the fight in the saloon. It wasn’t the first time he’d been braced by a stranger. Frontier saloons were full of men who wanted to play with guns.
“I’ll get the wagon,” Taggart said.
“I’ll go with you.”
“Stay here and watch the grub.”
Taggart walked out of the store. Stone wondered if the cowboys from the Rafter K would try to dry gulch him. He rose and stood in the doorway, watching Taggart head toward the wagon.
The street was crowded with riders and buggies. Stone looked at the windows and roofs across the street but didn’t see anything suspicious. He didn’t think the cowboys from the Rafter K would take the chance of shooting innocent people, but later, on the trail, there might be trouble.
Stone looked at Taggart climbing into the wagon. The old man had stood beside him in a fight where he might be killed, but he never hesitated.
Taggart stopped the wagon in front of the store. He and Stone loaded the supplies in back, then picked up the tailgate and fastened it. They climbed onto the wagon, and Stone scanned the rooftops. Taggart flicked the reins, and the horses walked into the street.
They rode out of town, and Stone held his rifle in his hands, peering into alleys and looking through open windows for the gleam of gun barrels. They came to the edge of town, and ahead was the open prairie.
“Thanks for standin’ with me back there,” Stone said.
Taggart lit a cigar. “I don’t know whether yer a brave man or a damn fool.”
Crawford receded in the distance behind them. Stone’s eyes roved back and forth on the prairie, wondering if the cowboys from the Rafter K were out there someplace, waiting for them.
“You must’ve been hell in the war,” Taggart said. “I’m shore glad yer on my side now. When you showed yer back to Dillon, I thought you was a dead man. Someday yer going to try that with the wrong person, and that’ll be the last time you try it.”
They returned to camp without incident, unhitched the horses, and set them out to graze. Taggart heated beans and flavored them with his special spices, then served them with thick wedges of tinned meat.
They sat by the fire. The sun was overhead, and only a few wispy clouds were in the sky.
“Yer the fastest man I ever seen,” Taggart said. “Can’t forget how you stood up to ’em. Why’d you taunt ’em?”
Stone shrugged.
“Life is cheap when yer young. When yer older, it’s more dear.”
“Why did you stand with me?”
“A good scout is hard to find.”
“I don’t know anything about being a scout.”
“I can always use a man with a gun. You got just the kind of experience I’m lookin’ for, and what you don’t know you can learn, but I think you might be in for some disappointment down the line. What if you don’t find that gal of yourn, or what if she’s married to somebody else when you do find her? Then what’ll you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d better think about it. Every soldier’s got to figure out his line of retreat just in case.” Taggart raised his arm and swept it over the horizon. “You like this country?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You oughta think about settlin’ down out here.”
“I do think about it.”
“Let me give you some advice. I know you believe yer woman is the only woman in the world, but I’ve been around a lot longer than you, and I know better. All wimmin are pretty much alike, when you get down to it. All you need to do is find a good one, and there’s lots of good ones out here, wimmin who ain’t afraid to work, wimmin with grit. If I was you, I’d pick one and settle down while yer still young. Yer liable never to find that one yer lookin’ for, and you’ll throw yer whole damn life away.”
“Maybe I’ll give up someday,” Stone said, “but not yet. Got to keep looking. A person doesn’t vanish off the face of the earth.”
Chapter Three
The first wagon arrived the next morning. It contained a family of farmers from Pennsylvania. Old Stewart Donahue had a white beard and wore suspenders. His wife, Martha, was stout and always busy. They had two big strapping teen-aged boys and one girl nine years old, a pretty, shy, little thing who liked to pick flowers on the prairie.
The next wagon had three miners aboard, burly men in dirty shirts and canvas pants, all wearing beards. They had gold dust in their eyes, and their names were Wayne Collins, Joe Doakes, and Georgie Saulnier.
Then came the preacher man, the Reverend Joshua McGhee, his wife, Doris, and his daughter, Alice, the one Taggart had said was so beautiful, and he hadn’t lied. She was a redhead with the face of an angel.
“Glad you could make it,” Taggart said to McGhee, shaking his hand. “This is our scout, John Stone.”
Stone shook hands with Reverend McGhee. He figured Alice was no more than nineteen. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she looked around the prairie.
“It’s so beautiful here!”
“Watch out for Injuns,” Taggart said.
Reverend McGhee looked at Stone. “I take it you’ve made this passage before.”
Stone was about to say that he was new to the territory, but Taggart interrupted him. “Captain Stone has made the trip many times. He’s a former cavalry officer.”
“Where do you want me to set up?” Reverend McGhee asked.
“Anywhere that’s convenient for you. The stream’s that-away, and there’s plenny of good grazing around here as you can see.”
The Reverend McGhee slapped his reins against the haunches of his horses, and the horses pulled the wagon away. When it was out of earshot, Stone turned to Taggart.
“Why’d you tell him I’m an experienced scout?”
“What he don’t know won’t hurt him.”
Taggart winked and walked away. Stone looked at the McGhee wagon. It had stopped, and Alice was climbing down from her seat. She turned and looked at him, and he looked back. Their eyes met, and Stone turned away.
Just before lunch, the Fenwicks arrived, another farm family. They had the newest wagon and wore new clothes. Jason and Mary Fenwick were in their early thirties and had four young children, two boys and two girls. Taggart welcomed them to the wagon train and introduced them to Stone.
“Our scout,” Taggart said, slapping Stone on the back.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jason Fenwick said.
Stone liked the look of Fenwick. They shook hands, and then the Fenwicks moved toward their camping spot.
“Nice family,” Taggart said. “Too bad if the Comanches get ’em.”
In the early afternoon, a rickety old wagon pulled into the clearing. It swayed from side to side and looked as though it might tip over. Three women were perched on the front seat. The one with the reins was middle-aged and plump, with a red bandana on her head. The other two were young and pretty.
“Howdy, Mister Taggart!” shouted the woman in the middle. “Waal, we made it!”
“Glad to see you,” Taggart said. “Let me introduce my scout, Captain John Stone. Captain Stone—Miss Bottom.”
Stone tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Bottom.”
“Not too bad, Captain Stone. This here’s Miss Daisy Sommers, and this is Miss Shirley Clanton.”
Miss Bottom fluttered her eyelashes. Misses Sommers and Clanton looked Stone up and down with more than routine interest, while he wondered what three women were doing traveling across the open plains without a man.
The wagon moved off, and Stone turned to Taggart. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked.
“What do you think it’s all about?”
“They sure as hell don’t look like farmers.”
“They’re dance hall girls. You know what I’m talkin’ about. Texas needs wimmin, otherwise the cowboys’ll be screwin’ their horses after a while.”
The lonely plain became transformed into a scene of domesticity. Women washed clothes and prepared meals, while men watered horses, chopped wood, and fixed whatever was wrong with their wagons. Children played hide and seek in the tall grass. Toward suppertime another wagon arrived, this one containing two dudes, one wearing a derby and the other a stovetop hat.
Taggart and Stone walked toward the wagon. The dudes wore striped shirts with suspenders, the top buttons of their shirts unfastened. The one on the left was stout, and the one on the right, holding the reins, was slim. Their faces were sunburned, as if they’d only recently come into
the sunlight.
Taggart introduced himself and Stone. The men said they were Tad Holton and Sam Drake.
“When’ll we be pullin’ out?” asked Drake, the one who held the reins.
“Soon as the other wagons get here.”
Drake leaned forward and grinned like a hyena. “Think we might find a good card game in that town we just passed?”
“There’s some wild cowboys in that town.”
“We can take care of ourselves. Nice meeting you, Captain Stone.”
Drake slapped the reins, and the wagon pulled away. Taggart turned to Stone. “Wouldn’t get drawn into any games with ’em, if I was you.”
“Looks like we’ve got a little bit of everything here.”
“That’s what a wagon train is—a little bit of everything.”
Fires were lit around the campsite, and the sun sank toward the horizon. After supper, Stone checked his horse, a sorrel with three white boots. He’d bought the horse a month ago in Ohio from a horse breeder who’d fought for Nathan Bedford Forrest.
Stone walked back to the wagon he shared with Taggart and sat against one of the wheels. He rolled a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Raucous sounds came to him from across the way. It sounded as if the miners had whiskey.
Taggart was nearby, sitting next to the fire, gazing at the glowing embers. Stone could see that the old wagon-master was lost in thought. He heard a shriek of laughter on the other side of the campsite; it sounded like the dance hall girls. The campsite was getting lively.
Stone gazed up at the stars. When he’d been in the cavalry, he’d often used the stars as guides, like a compass. The North Star was the most important one, and they’d leave in a few days in the opposite direction, toward Texas.
He heard the approach of footsteps, and it was the Reverend Joshua McGhee. “Mister Taggart—can’t you do something about the noise? My family and I’d like to turn in early, but we can’t sleep with all that ruckus. Sounds like somebody’s got some whiskey and having themselves an orgy.”
“I doubt if it’s that serious, Reverend.”
