to Tame a Land (1955) (5 page)

That was how I lived for a whole year after I lef t Mary and Logan. I lived away from men, riding, drifting , and reading Plutarch for the fourth time.

Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, an d down to Colorado.

Beside campfires under the icy Teton peaks, I rea d of Hannibal and of Cato. I smelled the smoke of a hundred campfires, as I drifted.

Rarely did I find a white man's fire, and only occasionally one left by an Indian. I saw the country o f the Nez Perces and the Blackfeet, of the Crows, th e Shoshones, and the Sioux. I wandered up the lost red canyons of the La Sal Mountains, and through the Abaj o Range.

The only sounds I heard were the sounds that the wilderness makes. The slap of warning from a beaver's tai l on water, the sudden crash and rush of an elk, the harsh , throaty snarl of a mountain lion . . . the wind, the water , and the storm.

The shelters I had were caves or corners among th e tree; or wickiups I built myself. All that Logan Pollar d had taught me came in handy, and I learned more.

And so after many days I came again to a town wher e there were people. I rode to the edge of the hill an d looked down, a little frightened, a little uncertain. An d I knew that I had changed. Some of the stillness of th e mountains was in me, some of the pace of the far forests , but there was also the old thing that lived in me always.

But I could be alone no longer. It was time to retur n to the world of people, and so I started Old Blue dow n the slope.

Chapter
5

MY SHIRT WAS BUCKSKIN. My breeches were buckskin.

My boots had long since worn to nothing and been replaced by moccasins. I still carried the old Joslyn carbine , and I still carried the Shawk & McLanahan .36. So I r ode into town to sell my furs.

Right then I was nigh seventeen. I was an inch over si x feet and I weighed one hundred and seventy pounds, an d no bit of fat on my bones. Lean and tough as any ol d catamount, wearing a torn and battered hat, I must hav e been a sight to see. Into that town I came, riding slow.

Old Blue was beginning to feel the miles. He was getting some years on him, too. But he loved the life as I di d and he could still run neck and neck with a buffalo while I s hot.

The town was a booming mine camp, the street line d with a jostling crowd of booted, belted men. Leaving Ol d Blue at the livery-stable hitch rail, I walked up the street , happy to be among people again, even if I knew non e of them. Yet I walked aloof, for I hesitated to meet people or to make friends. There was always in the back o f my mind the thought of the gun, and I did not wish t o fire in anger at any man.

Oddly enough, in those long wilderness months I ha d no trouble with Indians. I had wandered their country , shared their hunting grounds, but evaded contact wit h them. A few times I had gone into the Nez Perce village s to trade for things I needed.

It was warm and sunny in the street. Leaning agains t an awning post, I watched the people pass. Tents an d false-fronted stores, a long log bunkhouse that called itself a hotel, and a bigger log building that was a saloon.

Down the street a man sold whisky from a board lai d across two barrels, dipping the whisky with a tin cup.

And it was good to be there. These were tough. an d bearded men, a rough, roistering, and on the whole friendly crowd. They were men, and I was a man among them.

My face was lean and hard, and my body was lean, too.

Only my shoulders were wide, my chest deep, my arm s strong. Those long months in the mountains had pu t some beef on me, and tempered my strength.

A man came up the street wearing a badge. He ha d a broad brown face with strong cheek and jawbones , the skin of his face stretched tight. His eyes were deepsunk and gray to almost white.

He looked hard at me, then looked again. It was a long, slow look that measured and assayed me, but he continued to walk. Farther down the street he stopped and I s aw him standing alone, watching me.

Finally he moved on, but when he did a slim youn g man walked over and stopped beside me. "Don't kno w you, friend, but watch yourself.
Oll ie Burdette's got hi s eye on you."

"Trouble?"

"He's the marshal, and he shoots first and asks questions later. Killed a man last week."

"Thanks."

"My name's Kipp. Got a little spread out east o f town. Come out, if you've a mind to."

He walked on away from me, a quiet young man wit h quick intelligent eyes. But maybe too quick to warn me.

For a while I loafed where I was, thinking about it.

Right now I should ride on, but I'd just come into tow n and had done nothing, nor did I intend to get on th e wrong side of the law, ever. Sometimes the law can mak e mistakes, but usually it's right, and it's needed to regulat e those who haven't yet learned how to live with their fellow men.

Walking across the street, I went into the hotel. Th e dining room was only half full, so I found a table an d sat down.

After I'd ordered, I picked up an old newspaper an d browsed through it. I was just getting to the last pag e when a voice said, "Please? May I have it?"

Looking up from the paper, I saw a slender young girl.

She could have been no more than fourteen, but she ha d beautiful eyes and a nice smile.

I got to my feet quickly, embarrassed. "Yes, ma'am.

Of course. I just finished."

"It was Papa's paper. I put it down on the table an d forgot. He would be just furious if I didn't have it. H
e loves his newspaper."

"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't know."

Suddenly someone was beside us. Glancing aroun d I looked into those gray-white eyes of Ollie Burdette's'

They were cold and still. "This man botherin' you, youn g lady?"

His voice was harsh, commanding. There was something almost brutal in its tone and assurance. It wa s the voice of a man not only ready for trouble, but pushing it.

"Oh, no!" She smiled quickly. "Of course he isn't! H
e just gave me my newspaper. I'd have lost it otherwise."

"All right." He turned away almost reluctantly, givin g me a hard look, and I felt the hairs prickle on the bac k of my neck, and my mouth was dry. Yet it angered me , too. Burdette was very ready to find trouble.

"Are you looking for a job?"

My eyes went back to her. She was looking up at me , bright and eager. "Papa needs a man to break horses."

"I'd like that. Where's your place?"

She told me, then added, "I'm Liza Hetrick. You as k for me."

When she was gone and my dinner finished I sat ther e thinking. What Kipp had said might be true. There wer e gunmen who deliberately hunted trouble, some becaus e of an urge to kill, some because they wanted to sto p trouble before it began, some who were building a reputation or whose only claim to recognition was a list of killings. But why pick on me? Because I was only a boy an d wore a man's gun?

Yet I was no longer a boy in Western consideration.

At seventeen and younger, a boy wore a man's boot s and a man's responsibilities. And was the better for it, I t hought.

Yet it would be a good idea to ride out of town.

Avoiding trouble was the best thing. I wasn't trying t o prove anything to anybody. I wasn't so insecure that I i had to make people realize I was a tough man, and n o man in his right mind hunts trouble.

Walking to the door after paying my check, I looke d down the street. Burdette was a block away, standin g in front of the barbershop. Stepping out of the door, I w alked down the street to my horse. As I gathered th e reins I heard his boots on the walk.

"You, there!" His voice was harsh. "Don't I know you?"

When I turned around it was very slowly. I could fee l a queer stillness in me, something I'd never felt before.

His cold eyes stared into mine.

"Don't believe you do, Mr. Burdette. Pm new here."

"I've seen you somewhere. I know that look."

I sat my horse and looked at him. "You've neve r seen me, Mr. Burdette. I'm only a boy and I've live d most of my life in the hills. But I think the look is on e you've seen before."

With that I touched my spurs and started away. Bu t he was not through. "Wait!"

Drawing up, I looked at him. All along the stree t movement had stopped. We were the center of attention.

That strange, cool, remote feeling was in me. That waiting. . . .

"What d'you mean by that?" He came into the street , but not close. "And where did you get my name?"

"Your name was told me," I said, "and also that yo u killed a man last week." Why I said it I'll never know , but it wasn't in me to be bullied, and Burdette was making me angry. "Don't ride me, Burdette. If you want t o kill a man this week, try somebody else!"

And then I rode out of town.

The trail wound upward into the tall pines. The gras s smelled good, and there were flowers along the way. A t the fifth turning, just four miles from town, I saw a rai l fence and back of it a barn bigger than any I'd ever seen , and a strongly built log house.

A dog ran out, barking. Then a tall, rough-hewn ma n with a shock of white hair came to the door. "Light an d set, stranger! I'm Frank Hetrick."

"My name is Ryan Tyler. I was told to ask for Liza."

He turned. "Liza! Here's your beau!"

She came to the door, poised and pretty, her cheek s pink under the tan. "Papa! You shouldn't say such things.

I told him you'd give him a job."

Hetrick looked at me from keen blue eyes. "Do yo u break horses, Tyler?"

"Yes, sir. If you want them broke gentle."

"Of course." The remark pleased him. "Get down an d come in."

At the door I took off my ragged black hat and ra n my fingers through my hair. There were carpets on th e floor and the furniture was finished off and varnished.

You didn't see much of that in pioneer country.

It was the first time I'd been inside a house in ove r a year, and I'd never been in one as nice as this before.

Not, at least, since Pap and I left home. There was a double row of books on shelves across the room, and whe n Hetrick left the room I walked over to look.

Some of them were books Logan Pollard had talke d about. Tacitus, Thucydides, Plato, and a dozen others tha t were mostly history.

Hetrick returned to the room and noticed my interest. "I see you like books. Do you read a lot?"

"No, sir. But I had a friend who talked about book s to me."

After supper we went out on the porch to sit and Hetrick built a smudge to fight off the mosquitoes. We sa t there talking for a while and watching the blac k shadows capture the mountains. But that smudge was almost as bad as the mosquitoes, so we went in.

Liza sat down beside me and started asking questions, and the first thing I knew I had told them abou t Logan Pollard and Mary, and how Pap died. But I didn'
t tell them about the Indians I killed, or about the Mexican rustlers, or about McGarry.

It wasn't that I wanted to hide anything, but I wasn'
t the kind to talk, and that was over and done. The on e thing I did not want was a gun-fighting reputation, an d besides, I liked these people. Somehow, I felt at hom e here. I liked Hetrick, and Liza was a mighty nice girl , even if she did look so big-eyed at me sometimes that I w as embarrassed.

The next day I went to work at forty a month. Ther e was one other hand on the place, a Mexican name d Miguel.

Hetrick came out and watched us that first day. An d from time to time in the days that followed he cam e around and watched, but he had no comment and mad e no suggestions. Only one day he stopped me. "Rye," h e said, "I like your work."

"Thanks, sir."

"You're working well and you're working fast."

"You've good stock," I said, and meant it. "Breedin g in these horses. It shows."

"Yes." He looked at me thoughtfully. "Breeding always shows through." He changed the subject suddenly.
a ye, Liza told me you had words with Ollie Burdette."

"It was nothing."

"Be careful. He's a killer, Rye. He's dangerous. You'v e known horses like that, and I've watched Burdette. He'
s got a drive in him, a drive to kill."

"Yes, sir."

Twice during the following month, Kipp came over.

He liked to talk and he liked Mrs. Hetrick's pies. S
o did I. He was over for my birthday, too, the day I wa s eighteen.

He looked at my old Shawk & McLanahan. "Yo u should have a Colt," he said. "They're a mighty fine gun."

"Heard of them," I admitted. "I'd like one."

The next morning when we went out, nine of Hetrick's best homes were gone. Stolen.

The story was all there, in the tracks around the corral where we held the freshly broken stock. Movin g around, careful to spoil no tracks, I worked it out.

"There's two, at least," I said. "Probably one or tw o more."