The Searcher

by Len Levinson

  “Get your hands out where I can see them,” Stone said softly.

  Owsley brought his hands out from underneath the blanket and held them in the air. The barrel of Stone’s rifle was still pressed against his nose, and an expression of stark terror was in Owsley’s eyes.

  Other outlaws heard Stone’s voice and stirred. Taggart held his rifle on them.

  “All right—everybody up!” Taggart said. “Raise your hands in the air, and if any man goes for his gun, he’s buzzard bait!”

  The outlaws opened their eyes and sat on the ground.

  They looked at Stone and Taggart, figured the odds, and reached for their guns.

  Taggart pulled the trigger of his rifle and drilled one of the outlaws in the chest. Stone spun around and fired off a quick shot, hitting another outlaw in the arm. Taggart jacked his rifle and hit a third outlaw in the mouth.

  Owsley saw his chance and dived at Stone’s rifle, but Stone pivoted and whacked Owsley over the head with the barrel. Owsley fell back to the ground, and gunsmoke hovered over the campsite. The surviving outlaws raised their hands in the air.

  Stone pointed his rifle at Owsley’s head. “If anybody moves, I’ll blow off this man’s head!”

  Owsley had a cut above his left eye, and his lips were white. “Don’t move boys!” he called out. “Do what they say!”

  Taggart moved his rifle from side to side. “Get over here and line up where I can see you.”

  The outlaws held their hands in the air and walked to the side of the campsite where Stone and Taggart were.

  “Keep ’em high, boys,” Taggart said, “and let’s not try any funny business, because I love to shoot owl hoots.”

  The outlaws reached toward the moon. Stone prodded Owsley with his rifle. “Line up with them.”

  Owsley snarled as he got to his feet and took his position to the right of his men.

  “I’ll cover them,” Stone said to Taggart. “You search them.”

  Taggart walked down the line of men, patting their clothes. He pulled out a few derringers and knives, but none were carrying real guns. They’d never thought anybody would raid their mountain hideout while they were asleep.

  “They’re clean,” Taggart said.

  Stone looked at the outlaws, and they were sullen and angry. He turned to Owsley. “We want our money back.”

  “You ain’t gittin’ it.”

  Stone moved toward Owsley and pushed the barrel of his rifle into Owsley’s mouth. “I said we want our money back.”

  Perspiration poured off Owsley’s forehead. “Okay,” he said in a muffled voice, because the barrel of Stone’s rifle still was in his mouth.

  Stone pulled the barrel out of Owsley’s mouth. “Where’s the money?”

  “I already dealt it to my boys.”

  “Get it back.”

  Owsley walked around the campsite, gathering saddlebags, and Stone followed him, pointing his rifle at Owsley’s back. Owsley carried the saddlebags back to where Taggart was and dropped them on the ground.

  “The money’s in the saddlebags,” he said.

  “Empty everything out on the ground.”

  Stone kept his rifle aimed at Owsley to make sure he didn’t pull a pistol out of somebody’s saddlebag, but Owsley knew he was being watched and didn’t dare take a chance on getting killed. Every saddlebag contained a smaller bag of money. Owsley poured the money onto a pile on the beaten-down grass, while Taggart kept an eye on the outlaws, holding his rifle on them, ready to fire if any of them attacked or tried to run.

  They were tense moments, because the outlaws outnumbered Stone and Taggart, but on the other hand, Stone and Taggart were pointing weapons at them. If the outlaws attacked, they might overpower Stone and Taggart, but many of them would be shot down first.

  “Take it easy, boys,” Taggart said. “It’s only money.”

  Owsley looked up at Stone. “It’s all here.”

  “Stand over there with the others.”

  Owsley shuffled into line with the rest of his men, and Stone counted the money. Owsley’s total was correct. Stone put the money into one of the empty saddlebags and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he stood and aimed his rifle at the outlaws.

  Owsley turned down the corners of his mouth. “You talk big with that rifle in your hands. Wonder how big you’d talk if you didn’t have it.”

  Stone looked at the outlaw and felt deep hatred. “You want a gun?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go get one.”

  “Huh?”

  “You and I’ll have it out between us. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I want,” Owsley said.

  “Get going.”

  Owsley couldn’t believe his good fortune. He walked across the clearing to get his gunbelt and six-gun, and Taggart spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Stone. “You sure you know what yer doin’?”

  “He won’t beat me to the draw.”

  Owsley returned, carrying his gunbelt and six-gun.

  “Strap it on,” Stone said, “and go real slow.”

  “I’ll go slow as you want,” Owsley said.

  Owsley strapped on his gunbelt in careful, deliberate movements, while Stone aimed his rifle at him.

  “Can I tie my holster to my leg?”

  “Tie anything you want.”

  Owsley tied the holster to his leg and looked up.

  “You got to let me put a cartridge in the chamber. Otherwise I won’t be able to shoot your ass.”

  “Point your gun over there and do what you gotta do.”

  Owsley pivoted to the side and pointed his pistol into the woods, twirling the chamber one click so that a cartridge would be ready to fire. Then he dropped the pistol into his holster.

  “I’m ready.”

  Stone turned to Taggart. “Keep an eye on them. If anybody moves, shoot him.”

  Taggart nodded. Stone faced Owsley and transferred his rifle to his left hand. The two men looked into each other’s eyes, and rage crackled between them. The other outlaws watched, certain Owsley would win. Stone and Owsley spread their legs apart and let their right hands dangle in the air above their six-guns.

  Owsley wanted to laugh. The damn fool wanted to draw on him. Some people had no sense at all.

  “I’m gonna shoot you in the gut and watch you die,” Owsley said.

  In a sudden, darting movement, Owsley reached for his gun, but Stone already was firing. At the last moment, Owsley saw that he’d made a serious miscalculation.

  Stone’s pistol barked angrily, and Owsley went flying backward, a widening red splotch on the front of his shirt. He stumbled drunkenly, spat blood, and collapsed on his back.

  Taggart took his eyes off the outlaws for a moment to see who’d won the gunfight, and three of the outlaws charged.

  He saw them, swung around, and fired. The outlaws were so close he couldn’t miss. He jacked the lever quickly and fired again, while Stone got off two quick shots.

  When the smoke cleared, the three outlaws were lying on the ground.

  Stone aimed his pistol at the other outlaws. “Anybody else feel froggy?”

  “Not me,” said one of them.

  “Me neither,” said another.

  Taggart aimed his rifle at the remaining outlaws, and they looked seriously demoralized. Stone walked toward Owsley who lay on the ground gasping and vomiting blood. He wasn’t quite dead yet and looked up pleadingly at Stone.

  “Kill me,” Owsley whispered, blood dribbling from his lips.

  Stone aimed his pistol at Owsley’s head and pulled the trigger. Then he holstered his pistol and leveled his rifle at the remaining outlaws.

  “Get two of their horses,” Stone said to Taggart, “and run the rest off.”

  Taggart made for the corral, as Stone kept his rifle aimed at the outlaws. Their hands still were held high in the air, and they looked scared.

  “I thought you boys were supposed to be tough outlaws,” Stone said.r />
  Taggart saddled two horses and tethered them to the rails, then opened the gate to the corral and fired his pistol a few times. The unsaddled horses stampeded out and disappeared into the night.

  “You ain’t gonna leave us out here without horses, are you?” one of the outlaws said to Stone.

  “Afraid so.”

  “We’re a hundred miles from the nearest town. What’re we supposed to do?”

  “You figure it out.”

  Taggart returned with the two saddled horses. Stone continued to aim his rifle at the outlaws.

  “You boys get down on your bellies,” Stone said.

  “You gonna shoot us?” one of them asked fearfully.

  “Do as you’re told, and you won’t get hurt.”

  The outlaws dropped to the ground and lay flat, glancing nervously at each other.

  “Put your hands behind your heads,” Stone told them.

  The outlaws grimaced as they stretched and folded their hands behind their heads. Stone and Taggart roved across the campsite, taking all the guns and rifles they could find. Then they climbed onto their horses.

  “Go!” Stone shouted.

  He spurred his horse, and Taggart spurred his. The horses leapt forward and charged away from the campsite. Their hooves thundered on the ground as they galloped down the mountain trail. Stone turned around in his saddle and saw the outlaws scrambling to their feet, running toward their equipment, and he realized the outlaws probably had guns he and Taggart hadn’t found.

  “Get down!” he shouted to Taggart.

  Stone and Taggart bent low over their saddles, and a fusillade of shots erupted behind them. Bullets whizzed over their heads, but then they turned a corner in the trail, and the outlaws were out of sight behind them.

  Stone and Taggart rode hard down the mountain trail, leaning over switchbacks and turnarounds, passing beneath massive stone ledges. Finally they reached the spot where they’d tethered their horses. They reined in the ones they’d stolen, and the stolen horses danced and pranced nervously.

  “You picked two good ones,” Stone said. “I think we should keep them.”

  They were far from the outlaws, and there was no need to rush. Dismounting from the stolen horses, they climbed onto the ones that they’d ridden to the mountain. They slipped their rifles into their boots on the saddles and tied the reins of the stolen horses to the pommels.

  Taggart looked at Stone. “Why’d you draw on Owsley?”

  “I didn’t like him.”

  They rode down the mountain and headed across the plain. The moon was low on the horizon and stars twinkled overhead. Stone reached down and patted the saddlebag full of money.

  He remembered the first man he’d ever killed. It had been at Manassas, his first combat engagement. The Yankee soldier, on foot, had fired his pistol at Stone and missed, and Stone cut him down with his saber.

  It had only taken a few seconds, but Stone never forgot it. It had been like chopping into a thicket of branches— that’s what a man’s ribs were like. He recalled how the Yankee soldier’s eyes had rolled into his head, how blood gushed out of the wound. Stone had been horrified, but he kept charging. He killed more Yankees that day and after a while became cold-blooded and methodical, a professional soldier in every way, fighting for Jeff Davis, Bobby Lee, and the glory of the South.

  He and Taggart rode silently across the prairie. In the distance, a wild dog barked, and the stolen horses plodded along dutifully, as if they knew they were stolen and were wondering what their new lives would be like. Stone saw a dark smudge ahead on the prairie, the wagon train.

  “We sure showed them outlaws a thing or two,” Taggart said. “Next town we come to, I’ll tell the sheriff that we wiped out half the Owsley Gang. There might even be a reward.”

  “We won’t be able to collect it, because we haven’t brought back any bodies.”

  Taggart snapped his finger and frowned. “That’s right, too. Son of a bitch. We shoulda thought of that.”

  “We might not’ve got out of there if we’d taken the time to load on some bodies,” Stone told him.

  “Sure we coulda,” Taggart replied. “We was hot back there, my boy. We coulda done anythin’ we wanted.”

  The wagon train loomed ahead, and Stone saw figures among the wagons. He and Taggart rode closer, and the travelers were hiding behind the wagons, holding their rifles in their hands, ready for the worst.

  “It’s us!” shouted Taggart. “Don’t shoot!”

  The travelers surged forward, women and children among them.

  “Didja get the money?” Georgie Saulnier asked.

  “We got it,” Taggart replied.

  The travelers raised their arms and cheered. They circled around Stone and Taggart as they rode into the center of the encampment and dismounted. Some of the men slapped them on their backs and shook their hands. The children danced about and clapped their hands. Stone threw the saddlebag full of money onto the ground.

  The travelers descended on the saddlebag and poured out the contents. The gold coins glittered in the light of the moon.

  “You got back fast,” Georgie Saulnier said. “Guess the outlaws didn’t put up much of a fight.”

  The travelers counted the money, and Stone removed the saddle from his horse. He led the horse onto the prairie and rubbed it down with dry grass as the travelers laughed and sang in the distance.

  Chapter Nine

  The incident with the Owsley gang drew the travelers closer together. It had been a shared adventure, and all came out better than they’d expected.

  People spoke with each other who’d never spoken before. They cooperated and helped more than ever. Barriers of mutual distrust broke down. The travelers became a big family.

  The wagon train rolled westward, and the next major stop was Clearfield. The travelers hadn’t seen civilization since they’d left Kansas, and everybody dreamed about the big town. They were scheduled to spend three days there.

  Stone’s horse plodded along steadily, and the steady rocking back and forth and the bright sun produced an hypnotic effect on him. Sometimes he heard snatches of music. Once he thought he heard Marie’s voice calling out to him. When he realized he was drifting, he’d snap himself into alertness. The wagon train was relying on him, and he couldn’t let them down.

  One day he saw a town in the distance and knew it had to be Clearfield. He rode back to the lead wagon, and Taggart sat on the front seat, a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth, his knees spread wide apart and his reins held tightly in his hands.

  “Clearfield’s straight ahead!” Stone told him.

  “Figured we’d be a-runnin’ into it purty soon.”

  Stone turned his horse around and rode alongside Taggart’s wagon. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but maybe Marie was in Clearfield.

  They drew closer to a jumble of buildings in the middle of a fertile valley and camped beside a river on the outskirts of town. Another wagon train was camped on the same river several hundred yards away. They unharnessed their team horses, watered them, and set them to graze.

  “One of us should always stay with the wagon train,” Taggart said to Stone. “I’ll go into town fer supplies now, and then you can go in tonight.”

  Taggart saddled up one of his riding horses while Stone checked Taggart’s wagon to make sure no bolts had worked loose. Taggart and a large group of travelers left for town, leaving only a few at the campsite.

  Stone built a fire, boiled some water, and shaved, then bathed in the river. He didn’t have any clean shirts left, so he washed one and hung it to dry. He made a pot of coffee for himself and rolled a cigarette.

  The tension of the trail gradually left him. There were no marauding tribes of Indians near Clearfield, and he didn’t have to worry anymore. The wagon train had been a constant strain. You never knew when danger would strike suddenly.

  He sat on the grass with his back against a wagon wheel and watched the other travelers
puttering around their wagons. It was a lazy, sunny afternoon. Stone stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes for a few moments. Soon he was fast asleep.

  He was awakened sometime later by hoof beats. It was Taggart, sitting atop his horse, looking down at him.

  “That’s a helluva way to guard the wagon train!”

  “Guess I dropped off.”

  “Guess you did.” Taggart looked around and stretched. “No harm done. No Injuns around here.”

  Taggart took down his bulging saddlebags and carried them to the wagon. “Left my big order at the store,” he said. “Pick it up tomorrow.” Placing the saddlebags on the ground, he opened a flap and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “This is for the trail.”

  “Is there a good restaurant in town?”

  “Miss Molly Nickerson’s. Tell her yer a friend of mine. You can go in now, if you want.”

  Stone took out a mirror and combed his hair. He thought his face had become leaner since leaving Crawford, and his complexion had turned a deep bronze from the sun. He had a red neck.

  He dropped his saddle onto his horse and tightened the cinch. Then he climbed on board, guiding it toward the campfire where Taggart was sitting.

  “Don’t know when I’ll be back,” Stone said.

  “I’ll be here. Watch yer step.”

  Stone rode toward Clearfield, anticipating a good meal and some good whiskey. He wondered if the cowboys from the Rafter K roved this far south. As he drew closer, he could see that Clearfield was larger and much more prosperous than Crawford.

  He came to the main street of town, and it was lined with two-story wooden buildings in good repair. There was a hotel, a bank, and a number of saloons. Stone tied up at the first one he saw, and the sign above the door said: CRYSTAL BALLROOM. Stone jumped onto the boardwalk and paused to let a lady with a bustle in her skirt walk past. Then he approached the swinging front doors of the saloon, pushed his hat to the back of his head, and stepped inside.

  The first thing he saw was a big chandelier in the middle of the room, light playing off the many facets of the tiny crystals. Underneath the chandelier were tables, and men of every description sat at them. Some looked like ranchers, others like bums, a few like wealthy town businessmen, and there was the usual, nondescript crowd of cowboys and roughnecks.