Sackett (1961) (5 page)

After rolling my bed for travel, I went down to the corral, shook out a loop, and caught up the horses. They were frosty and wild-eyed and suspected my notions, liking their corral.

Before there was a light in the house I had those horses out and tied to the corral with their pack saddles on them. Then I stepped into the leather on my appaloosa to top him off and get the kinks out of him. By the time I had him stopped pitching and bucking, Cap was around.

The door opened, throwing a rectangle of light into the yard. It was Brasilia, Tyrel's wife. "Come and get it," she said, and I never heard a prettier sound.

Cap and me, we came in out of the dark, our guns belted on, and wearing jackets. We hung our hats on pegs and rinsed our hands off in the wash basin. Cap had a face on that would sour milk.

Tyrel was at table, fresh-shaved and looking fit as a man could. How he found the time, I didn't know, but sizing him up, I decided it was mighty becoming in a man to be fresh-shaved at breakfast. Seemed like if I was going to fit myself for living with a woman I'd have to tone up my manners.

Women-folks were something I'd seen little of, and having them around was unsettling, sort of. But I could see the advantages. It's a comforting feeling to hear a woman about tinkling dishes, and stepping light, and looking pretty.

Ma was up, too. She was no youngster any more, and some crippled by rheumatism, but Ma would never be abed when one of us boys was taking off. The room was warm from the fire and there was a fine smell of bacon frying and coffee steaming. Drusilla had been raised right. She had a mug of steaming coffee before Cap and me as soon as we set down to table.

Drusilla looked slim and pretty as a three-month-old fawn, her eyes big and dark and warm. That Tyrel was a lucky man.

Cap was a good eater and he leaned into his food. I ate seven eggs, nine strips of bacon and six hot-cakes, and drank five cups of coffee. Tyrel watched me, no smile on his face. Then he looked over at Dru. "I'd sooner buy his clothes than feed him," he said.

Finally I got up and took up my Winchester. At the door I stopped and looked at Ma, then around the room. It was warm, comfortable, friendly. It was home. Ma'd never had much until now, and what she had now wasn't riches, but it was better than ever before, and she was happy. The boys had done well by her, and well by themselves.

Me? The least I could do was try to make something of myself. The eldest-born, the last to amount to anything, if ever.

Tyrel came outside when I stepped into the saddle and handed me up that copy of Blackstone he'd seen me looking at. "Give it study, Tell," he said. "It's the law we live by, and a lot of men did a lot of thinking for a lot of years to make it so." I'd never owned a book before, or had the loan of one, but it was a friendly feeling, knowing it was there in my saddlebag, waiting to give me its message over a lot of campfires to come.

The proper route to the country where we were headed was up the old Spanish Trail, but Cap suggested we head north for San Luis and old Fort Massachusetts, to avoid anybody who might be laying for us. We made camp that night in the pines a half-mile back from Black Lake.

Earlier, we had ridden through the village of Guadalupita without stopping. In a country where folks are few they make up for it with curiosity. News is a scarce thing in the far hills. Two men riding north with six pack horses were bound to cause comment.

It was a quiet night, and we weren't to see too many of that kind for a long, long time.

Coyotes talked inquiringly to the moon and cocked their ears for the echo of their own voices. Somewhere up the slope an old grizzly poked around in the brush, but he paid us no mind, muttering to himself like a grouchy old man.

About the time coffee water was on, Cap opened up and started to talk. He had his pipe going and I had some steaks broiling.

"Coolest man I ever saw in a difficulty is your brother Tyrel. Only time he had me worried was when he faced up to Tom Sunday.

"You've heard tell of Sunday? He was our friend. As good a man as ever stretched a buffalo hide, but when Orrin commenced getting the things Tom Sunday figured should come to him, trouble showed its hand.

"Sunday was a big, handsome, laughing man, a man of education and background, but hell on wheels in any kind of a fight. Only when Orrin edged him out on things, though Orrin wanted to share everything, or even step aside for him, Tom turned mean and Tye had to get tough with him."

"Tye's a good man with a gun."

"Shooting's the least of it," Cap said irritably. "Any man can shoot a gun, and with practice he can draw fast and shoot accurately, but that makes no difference. What counts is how you stand up when somebody is shooting back at you."

I hadn't heard Cap talk much before but Tyrel was one of his few enthusiasms, and I could see why.

Gold is a hard-kept secret.

The good, the bad, the strong, and the weak all flock to the kind of warmth that gold gives off.

Come daylight we moved out, and soon we had Angel Fire Mountain abreast of us, with Old Taos Pass cutting into the hills ahead and on our left. Cap was troubled in his mind about our back trail, and he was giving it attention.

Wind was talking in the pines along the long slopes when we rode into the high valley called Eagle Nest. The trail to Cimarron cut off into the mountains east of us, so I broke away from the pack train and scouted the ground where the trail came out into the valley. Several lone riders and at least one party had headed north toward Elizabeth-town.

We hauled rein and contemplated. We could follow Moreno Creek right into town, or we could cut around a mountain by following Comanche Creek, but it would be better to seem unconcerned and to ride right on into town and stop for a meal, giving out that we were bound up the trail for Idaho where I had a claim.

Elizabethtown was still a supply point for a few prospectors working the hills, and a rough crowd, left over from the Land Grant fighting, hung out there. We turned our stock into an abandoned corral and paid a Mexican to look after them and our outfits.

As we walked toward the nearest bar Cap told me that eight or ten men had been killed in there, and I could see why. There was twenty feet of bar in forty feet of room. The range was so short that a man could scarcely miss.

The grub's good," Cap said. They've got a cook who used to be chef in a big hotel back east--until he killed a man and had to light out."

The men at the bar were a rugged lot, which meant nothing, for good men can look as rough as bad men, and often do.

The one with the General Grant beard," Cap commented, "that's Ben Hobes . . . he's on the wanted list in Texas."

The bartender came over. "What's it for you?" He glanced at Cap Rountree. "Ain't seen you in a while."

"And you won't," Cap said, "not unless you come to Idaho. We got us a claim. . . . Who's that white-headed kid at the bar with Ben?"

The bartender shrugged. "Drifter . . . figures he should be considered a bad man. I ain't seen any graveyards yet."

"You got some of those oysters? Fix me up a stew."

"Same for me," I said, "only twice as much, and a chunk of beef, if you've got it."

"Cookie's got a roast on--best you ever ate."

The bartender walked away, and Cap said, "Sam's all right. He's neutral, the way he should be. Wants no trouble."

The white-headed kid that Cap had asked about leaned his elbows on the bar, hooking a heel over the brass rail. He was wearing two guns, tied down. He had a long, thin face, his eyes were close-set, and there was a twist to his mouth.

He said something to Ben Hobes, and the older man said, "Forget it." Cap looked at me, his eyes grim.

After a few minutes the bartender came in with the grub and we started to eat. Cap was right. This man could sure put the groceries together.

"He can cook, all right," I said to Cap. "How'd he kill that man?"

"Poisoned him," Cap said, and grinned at me.

Chapter
VI

We were hungry. Nobody savors his own cooking too much, and in the months to come we figured to have too much of ours, so we enjoyed that meal. Whatever else the cook was, he understood food.

All the time there was talk at the bar. Folks who live quiet in well-ordered communities probably never face up to such a situation. It was a time of free-moving, independent men, each jealous of his own pride, and touchy on points that everybody is touchy about.

And there are always those who want to be thought big men, who want to walk with great strides across the world, be pointed out, and looked up to. Trouble is, they all don't have what it takes to be like that.

Up there at the bar was this white-headed youngster they were calling Kid Newton, feeling his oats and wanting to stack up against somebody. Cap could see it just as I could; and Ben Hobes, who stood up there beside him, was made nervous by it.

Ben Hobes was a hard man. Nobody needed to point that out, but a man should be wary of the company he keeps, because a trouble-hunter can get you into a bind you'd never get into by yourself. And that Kid Newton was hunting a handle for trouble. He wanted it, and wanted it bad, feeling if he could kill somebody folks would look up to him. And we were strangers.

The thing wrong with strangers, you never know who they are. Cap now, he was a thin old man, and to Newton he might look like somebody to ride over, instead of an old buffalo hunter and Indian fighter who'd seen a hundred youngsters like Kid Newton get taken down.

Me, I'm so tall and thin for my height (Ma says I should put on thirty pounds) that he might figure me as nothing to worry about.

Trouble was the last thing I wanted. Back in Uvalde I'd killed Bigelow in a showdown I couldn't get out of any other way--unless I wanted to die. That was likely to give me all the difficulty I'd want.

Newton was looking at Cap. He grinned, and I heard Hobes say again, "Forget it."

"Aw, what's the matter?" I heard the Kid say, "I'm just gonna have some fun." Ben whispered to him, but the Kid paid him no mind.

"Hey, old man! Ain't you kind of old to be traipsin' over the country?"

Cap didn't even look up, although the lines in his face deepened a little. I reached down real slow and taken my pistol out and laid it on the table. I mean I taken one pistol out. I was wearing another in my waist-band.

When I put that pistol on the table beside my plate, the Kid looked over at me, and so did Ben Hobes. He threw me a sharp look, and kind of half squared around toward us. Me, I didn't say anything or look around. I just kept eating.

The Kid looked at the gun and he looked at me. "What's that for?"

Surprised-like, I looked up. "What's what for?"

"The gun."

"Oh? That? That's for killing varmints, snakes, coyotes, and such-like. Sometimes frogs:"

"You aimin' that at me?" He was really asking for it

"Why, now. Why would I do a thing like that? A nice boy like you." He was young enough to get mad at being called a boy, but he couldn't make up his mind whether I was makin' fun, or what.

"Ill bet you got a home somewheres, and a mother." I looked at him thoughtfully. "Why, sure! I see no reason . . . exactly, why you shouldn't have a mother like anybody else."

Taking a big bite of bread, I chewed it for a minute while he was thinking of something to say. I waited until he was ready to say it and then said, "You had your supper, son? Why don't you set down here with us and have a bite? And when you go out of a night you should bundle up more. A body could catch his death of cold."

He was mad now, but ashamed, too. Everybody was starting to smile a little. He dearly wanted a fight, but it's pretty hard to draw a gun on a man who's worried about your welfare.

"Here ..." I pushed back a chair. "Come and set down. No doubt you've been long from home, and your mama is worried about you. Maybe you feel troubled in your mind, so you just set up and tell us about it. After you've had something to eat, you'll feel better."

Whatever he had fixed to say didn't fit any more, and he groped for words and finally said, I'm not hungry."

"Don't be bashful, son. We've got a-plenty. Cap here ... he has youngsters like you ... he must have, he's been gallopin' around over the country so much. He must have left some like you somewhere."

Somebody laughed out loud, and the Kid stiffened up. "What do you mean by that?" His voice shrilled a little, and that made him still madder. "Damn you--"

"Bartender," I said, "why don't you fix this boy a little warm broth? Something that will rest easy on his stomach?"

Pushing back my chair, I got up and holstered my gun. Cap got up, too, and I handed the bartender the money, then added an extra quarter. "This is for the broth. Make it hot, now."

Turning around, I looked at the Kid mildly and held out my hand. "Good-bye, son. Walk in the ways of righteousness, and don't forget your mother's teaching."

Almost automatically he took my hand, then jerked his back like it was bee-stung.

Cap had started toward the door, and I followed him. At the door I turned and looked back at the Kid again. I've got big eyes and they are serious most times. This time I tried to make them especially serious. "But really, son, you should bundle up more."