Boone's Lick

by Larry McMurtry

  “You might have damaged your pistol, if you’d slugged him,” Uncle Seth said. “A side arm is not supposed to be used as a hammer.”

  Both of the Tebbits were down but neither one of them was out. They were writhing around on the ground, holding their heads. Percy was bleeding profusely, but Newt didn’t seem to be cut. Sheriff Baldy rode over and looked down at them.

  “Goddamn the luck,” he said. “This is just the sort of complication I wanted to avoid.”

  “Yes . . . and Thursday’s slipping away,” Mr. Hickok said.

  “I hope you brought some handcuffs—it will eliminate the need for tying knots,” Uncle Seth said.

  “I did, six pair,” the sheriff said, pulling a tangle of handcuffs out of his saddlebag. “I didn’t expect to have to waste any on the Tebbits though.”

  “If I were you I’d handcuff them while they’re still groggy,” Mr. Hickok advised. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they showed some fight.”

  The sheriff jumped down and got to it. He had just clicked the cuffs on the two men when both of them began to yell.

  “Come, boys! Come, boys!” they yelled, as loud as they could. Then they both staggered up and began to run down the ridge, at which point seven or eight men, all mounted, burst out of one of the thickets east of Stumptown.

  “Well, there’s your ambush,” Uncle Seth said matter-of-factly. “What do you say, Bill? Should we make a run for the church? The cover is sparse on this hill.”

  “I count eight riders,” Mr. Hickok said, getting off his horse. “We are five. That only gives them an advantage of three. Look at them flail their nags! I doubt that any of them can shoot straight from a running horse, and besides that, those puny horses will give out long before they get here. Let’s not disturb ourselves any more than is necessary.”

  We all dismounted and watched the ambushers, who were still quite a long distance away. Uncle Seth took the oilcloth off his rifle. He had a little tripod which he sometimes set up for long-distance shooting—he could rest his rifle barrel on it if he needed to take a fine sight.

  “Which one am I supposed to shoot?” G.T. asked. Sheriff Baldy and Mr. Hickok were calmly watching the ambushers come. I wasn’t calm, myself—I wanted to start shooting right away, but like G.T., I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to shoot at.

  “Wait, boys—they’re out of range,” Uncle Seth said. “I’ll shoot a horse or two, and when I do you count to ten before you fire—that goes for you too, G.T.”

  “Shoot a horse or two, Seth—it might discourage them,” Mr. Hickok said.

  “How far will this rifle shoot?” G.T. asked. “Somebody tell me, quick.”

  I didn’t blame G.T. for asking the question. I had no idea how far my own rifle would shoot. I had killed two deer with it, and several wild pigs and a wolf, but none of those critters had been very far away, and I think the old wolf must have been sick, otherwise he would never have let me get as close as I did. I couldn’t keep a clear focus on the men who were charging toward us—one minute they looked as big as giants, and the next minute they looked tiny—so tiny I knew I’d be lucky to hit one of them without using up a lot of ammunition. Uncle Seth had given me ten cartridges, and G.T. the same.

  Nobody answered G.T. Uncle Seth had set up his tripod, but he hadn’t drawn a bead yet. Mr. Hickok and the sheriff were as cool as if they were watching the Fourth of July parade.

  “I see Jake Miller, and I believe that’s Ronnie just behind him,” the sheriff said. “We might land the whole family in the next few minutes.”

  Mr. Hickok was not so optimistic.

  “There’s no sign of Billy Perkins, though,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect him to be as foolish as these men, charging up a hill at five riflemen. It would occur to Billy Perkins that one or two of the riflemen might be competent shots.”

  Then Uncle Seth laid his rifle across his little tripod and proved Mr. Hickok’s point. Before G.T. and I could get our wits together and start counting, Uncle Seth shot twice and brought down two horses—their riders went sprawling off into the grass.

  “Drop one more, why don’t you, Seth?” Mr. Hickok suggested. “The loss of one more horse might bring them to their senses.”

  “I was wrong, that ain’t Jake Miller—it’s just his cousin Eli,” Sheriff Baldy said. “They favor one another quite a bit.”

  Uncle Seth fired again and a third horse went down—though just saying it went down would be to put it too mildly. The third horse turned a complete somersault. Its rider flew off about thirty feet, after which he didn’t move.

  “It’s rare to see a horse turn a flip like that,” Uncle Seth observed.

  “That was Ronnie Miller’s horse,” Sheriff Baldy said. “Ronnie took a hard fall. He ain’t moving.”

  The two Tebbit brothers, both still handcuffed, stopped about halfway between us and the riders. Then the riders stopped too, all except one, who came on about another fifty yards before it dawned on him that he was no longer part of a group, after which he quickly drew rein.

  “That’s Charlie Tebbit out in front,” the sheriff said. “I knew that story about the toothache was a damn lie.”

  “Do you see anyone you particularly want to shoot, Seth?” Mr. Hickok asked.

  “No, not if they’re cowed—I’ve seen too much war to wantonly spill blood,” Uncle Seth said.

  “Let’s keep our guns cocked,” Mr. Hickok suggested. “They may not be quite cowed.”

  I didn’t know whether the ambushers were cowed or not, but I was happy they had called off their charge. I had started my count and was up to six when the lead rider pulled rein.

  “Stop counting, G.T., we don’t need to shoot,” I said. Once G.T. started something, it was hard to get him stopped. I saw his lips moving, so I figured he was still counting—then his rifle clicked, indicating that I had been right.

  “Uh-oh, forgot to load,” he said.

  “Well, load then, but don’t shoot,” I said.

  “I’m reasonably pleased with my shooting,” Uncle Seth said. “The tripod is a fine invention.”

  The Tebbit brothers weren’t pleased with anything, though. The fact that the ambushers had pulled up annoyed them greatly.

  “Charlie, come get us!” Newt yelled. “Why’d you stop?”

  “Why does he think they stopped?” Mr. Hickok said, amused. He lit one of his thin cigars. “Seth was shooting all their horses—that’s why they stopped.”

  “It’s our play, Baldy—what do you want to do?” Uncle Seth asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Sheriff Baldy said.

  “Thursday’s slipping away,” Mr. Hickok reminded him, though it was still early enough that the morning mist had just burned off.

  9

  I GUESS from the sheriff’s point of view the situation must have looked complicated. The ambushers were sort of milling around, paying no attention at all to Newt and Percy Tebbit, who were still hoping to be rescued. Two of the men who had been spilled off their horses were back on their feet, but they weren’t walking too steady. Ronnie Miller, the man whose horse had turned a flip, wasn’t moving at all.

  “Do you suppose this bunch would agree to be arrested?” the sheriff asked. “It’s a passel of people to cram into jail, much less feed.”

  “Arrested for what?” Uncle Seth asked. “All they did was race their horses—you can’t arrest people for holding horse races.”

  Mr. Hickok raised an eyebrow at Uncle Seth’s remark, but the sheriff just looked confused.

  “What?” he asked.

  “So far I’m the only one who’s broken the law,” Uncle Seth went on. “I just shot three horses that didn’t belong to me, and I may have killed that fellow whose horse flipped over.”

  “No, I seen him stir,” Mr. Hickok said. “I expect him to get up any minute.”

  The sheriff looked even more confused. It was the kind of thing Uncle Seth was always doing: turning some simple matter around so that everybody became confused. I�
��ve heard Ma flare up at him a hundred times, for just that sort of thing.

  “How can you say that to me, Seth! Why would you say such a thing to me?” Ma would say. Sometimes she’d cry and sometimes there’d be bitter words—Uncle Seth would always just sit there with a pleasant look on his face, until the storm blew over.

  “There’s nothing wrong with looking at the other fellow’s point of view,” he might say, if he said anything.

  “Yes there is!” Ma would cry. “Yes, there is. Just look at my point of view! That’s what you need to worry about.”

  The ambushers were still milling around. It was clear that they couldn’t decide what to do. The two Tebbits had yelled themselves hoarse, but nobody seemed interested in rescuing them. Finally they began to hobble on down the slope, as fast as they could hobble. The man whose horse had flipped got up on his hands and knees.

  “Ronnie Miller must be lucky,” Uncle Seth said. “A tumble like that could easily have broken his neck.”

  “This would be a simpler situation if the two men we really want were here,” Mr. Hickok said. “That would be Jake Miller and Little Billy Perkins.”

  “And Cut-Nose,” the sheriff said. “Cut-Nose is a pretty cold killer.”

  “As to that I wouldn’t know,” Mr. Hickok said. “All I see are a bunch of amateur ambushers. If they knew their business they would have fallen on us while we were still in the mist. Seth’s tripod wouldn’t have been much use in that mist.”

  About that time the two Tebbits finally reached the gang of horsemen. Though all the horses were skinny, the Tebbits and the men whose horses Uncle Seth had shot climbed up behind the mounted men; then they all rode away. Some of the puny little horses could barely stagger along, under the weight of two men and their saddles and gear.

  “Damnit, this is awkward—they’re headed for the Miller shack,” Sheriff Baldy said.

  “It’s worse than awkward—something ain’t right,” Uncle Seth said. “That was too easy, even if I am good at shooting horses out from under people.”

  “Agreed—I believe they’ve flanked us,” Mr. Hickok said. “The real team, I mean.”

  Uncle Seth and Mr. Hickok began to amble around as if the departure of the ambushers had confused them so badly that they didn’t know which way to turn. In the course of their ambling both of them switched from the uphill to the downhill side of their horses.

  “Don’t look, boys,” Uncle Seth said. “Baldy, you’re likely to be the first man shot unless you change your position and change it quick.”

  “I don’t think anybody’s behind—” the sheriff said, before a bullet splatted into him and knocked him off his horse.

  “Duck behind your horses, boys—do it quick,” Uncle Seth said. G.T. and I were quick to obey.

  The gang behind us wasn’t as numerous as the gang in front of us—on the other hand, they were a lot closer. They were no more than two hundred yards away, and there were six of them that I could see.

  “Do we still have to count to ten?” I asked Uncle Seth, but I never got an answer: he was too busy shooting, and so was Mr. Hickok and Sheriff Baldy, who didn’t seem to be dead.

  “These Rebs, they love a cavalry charge,” Uncle Seth commented, at one point. Just then I heard G.T.’s teeth chattering—his teeth always went to clacking when he was nervous or scared, whether it was a cold day or not.

  “By God, they’ve flushed that bear you mentioned, Seth,” Sheriff Baldy said—and it was the truth. The new bunch of ambushers had run right up on a large black bear that must have been taking a nap behind a rock. He woke up from his nap to find himself in the midst of a gun battle, which he didn’t want any part of. The ambushers were nearly on top of the bear before any of them saw him—they were too busy shooting at us. The sight of a bear square in their way startled them a good deal, and did worse than startle their horses, most of which flew into wild buckings.

  “Hold your fire,” Uncle Seth said. “Baldy, you need to deputize that bear—he’s doing our work better than we could do it.”

  That was easy to see. The bear ran through the horses and the horses went wild. Pretty soon riders were flying off in every direction—the horses, once shut of their riders, went tearing off toward Stumptown. Only one of the six riders managed to keep his seat.

  “That’s Little Billy Perkins. Hands off,” Mr. Hickok said, pointing at the one man who was still in the saddle. Mr. Hickok jumped on his horse—Little Billy Perkins spotted him at once and took off down the slope. He was mounted on a long-legged bay—soon they were nearly flying. Mr. Hickok tried to cut him off but his sorrel wasn’t fast enough—the bay had the lead and was widening it by the minute as the two riders headed for the distant trees.

  “That’s the horse you should have shot, Seth,” Sheriff Baldy said.

  “Too late now,” Uncle Seth said. “Wild Bill may have to break his Friday rule if he hopes to catch that fellow.”

  “What about the bear—I don’t see him,” G.T. said.

  “No, he probably went home,” Uncle Seth said. “I don’t think he appreciated having his nap interrupted.”

  “I expect he’s hiding somewhere, waiting to spring out,” G.T. said. That was my opinion too, although I didn’t say it.

  “Oh no, Mr. Bear won’t be back today,” Uncle Seth assured us. “We need to go arrest these killers. Baldy, are you hurt bad?”

  “No, the bullet hit the back of my saddle before it hit me, which is a good thing,” the sheriff said. “The ball fell out. I’m bloody but I ain’t in danger.”

  “Then let’s go handcuff this crew before they run off,” Uncle Seth said.

  “I see Jake Miller,” the sheriff said. “He’s squirming around as if he’s hurt, but it could be a trick.”

  “If he ain’t hurt, and it’s a trick, then I’ll hurt him,” Uncle Seth said. “I resent being ambushed by a Reb who won’t admit his side lost.”

  “We need to be careful, Seth,” the sheriff said. “Cut-Nose is on his feet but he’s favoring one ankle—I believe he lost his rifle in the fall.”

  “I’m always careful, Baldy,” Uncle Seth said. “You supply the handcuffs—I’ll supply the caution.”

  10

  CUT-NOSE Jones seemed dazed—he was under the impression that he was in Ohio. He put up no fight when the sheriff handcuffed him.

  “His own horse kicked him in the head—I seen it,” Lester Miller said. “Them horses was in a hurry to get away from that bear.”

  Two of the ambushers had hobbled off, but Lester, a boy the same age as G.T., had stayed to help his brother Jake, who had broken his leg in the fall. Even with Uncle Seth pointing his rifle right between the man’s eyes the sheriff had a tussle getting him securely handcuffed. Jake Miller hissed like a snake the whole time.

  “Don’t let him grab your gun—he’s got fight in him yet,” Uncle Seth warned; but Sheriff Baldy, despite being round as a barrel, was expert at handcuffing dangerous criminals: he gave Jake Miller a short sharp kick in his broken leg and got the cuffs on him while the man was yelling.

  Lester Miller was no problem to handcuff—I think he was glad the fight was over.

  “They gave me a poor gun,” he said. “The hammer’s just wired on, you see.”

  “I wasn’t allowed much in the way of guns when I was your age,” Uncle Seth said sociably.

  “Shut up, you whimpering brat!” Jake Miller said—then he actually tried to butt his little brother with his head.

  “Who were the men who ran away?” Sheriff Baldy asked.

  “Jody and Lyle, I don’t know their last names,” Lester said.

  With Jake Miller and Cut-Nose Jones safely handcuffed and disarmed, Uncle Seth got back on his horse and rode off toward Stumptown—some of the horses had run themselves out and were standing there looking tired. That left me and G.T. and the sheriff to watch the prisoners. Even though they were securely handcuffed and we had all the guns, I didn’t feel particularly comfortable with this responsibility
, and neither did G.T. Jake Miller was about as mad as a man can get—he looked at me with little hot eyes, the way a boar hog looks at you just before he charges. Just looking at him made me want to back up a step or two.

  “You two Yankee boys have made a big mistake,” he said.

  “No, I have never made a mistake in my life,” G.T. informed him. It was G.T.’s disputatious side coming out.

  “Don’t let him rattle you, boys,” Sheriff Baldy said—for some reason his voice trailed off, when he said “boys.”

  When I looked around Sheriff Baldy was lying flat on his back on the ground—he had either died or slipped into a faint.

  “He’s dead—good,” Jake Miller said matter-of-factly. “The son of a bitch was fatal shot and didn’t know it. Now you Yankee boys get these handcuffs off me, if you want to live.”

  I looked down the hill, hoping Uncle Seth was on his way back. But he wasn’t. The horse he was trying to catch was skittish, and wouldn’t quite let himself be caught. Uncle Seth wasn’t even looking our way, which meant that he didn’t know Sheriff Baldy had fainted or died.

  “You stay right where you are,” I told Jake Miller. I tried to sound determined, like Ma would have sounded. But I wasn’t Ma, and Jake Miller knew it.

  “Do as I say, you damned Yankee pup,” he said. “You pups had no business coming after me in the first place. Turn me loose or when I get out I’ll track you to the ends of the earth and cut your throats.”

  “I guess he’d do it, too,” Lester Miller said—he seemed a little shocked by his big brother’s savage talk.

  “We better shoot him, Shay,” G.T. said. “He’s got them mean eyes.”

  “No,” I said. “What can he do? He’s handcuffed and he’s got a broken leg.”

  I had no more than said it than Jake Miller launched himself at me, somehow—made a wild lunge. Broken leg or no broken leg he managed to jump at me and grab my gun barrel. But I had my finger on the trigger and when Jake tried to yank my gun out of my hand the yank caused me to pull the trigger. The shot hit Jake right in the chest and knocked him back across Sheriff Baldy’s body.