Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (16 page)

Just as startled, Carson exclaimed, “Duke Slayton!” He recognized one of the others then. “And Johnny Briggs,” he added softly, his mind spinning in confusion.

Baffled more so than anyone, except possibly the other two men with Duke and Johnny, Shorty could only gape for a moment. Then he hurriedly pulled his Colt from his holster. Duke recovered his senses quickly. “Carson, boy, am I glad to see you got away from that army patrol! We was plenty worried about you and Lute. Ain't that right, Johnny?”

“That's a fact,” Johnny replied. “We was plenty worried.”

“You son of a bitch,” Carson said. “You ruined my life and damn near got me hung!” He was fighting hard to keep from pulling the trigger and knocking the lying murderer off his horse. But he was calm enough to know if he did there was a good chance he and Shorty might catch a bullet in the fight that would ensue. He had never really thought that he might someday run into Duke and Johnny, and when it happened so soon, he wasn't sure what to do about it. “I shoulda just shot you back there instead of warnin' you.”

“Now, look here, Carson,” Duke implored. “There wasn't never no hard feelin's about you. Hell, all the boys liked you, but it wouldn'ta done no good to tell you everythin'. We was just plannin' to part company when we got up here, and nobody would know the difference. We didn't count on that cavalry patrol ambushin' us. We didn't have no choice but to get the hell outta there. Ain't that right, Johnny?” Again Briggs nodded enthusiastically while Duke continued. “Look at my side of it. I lost a lot of good boys. Some of them fellers had been with me for a long time. Rufus, Skinny, Varner, Bad Eye. I ain't got no idea what happened to Bad Eye, but I heard the marshals run up on Lute all the way back down near Cheyenne. That crazy old fool shoulda had sense enough to head up this way like the rest of us. But hell, it was like losing family, losin' those boys.” Almost forgetting, he hastened to add, “And you, of course. I was worried about you. We was hopin' you and Lute had run for it. Ain't that right, Johnny?”

“That's right, Carson, we were hopin'.”

It was a touching performance, but Carson wasn't buying it. “Duke, you're a lyin' son of a bitch, and I oughta shoot you down right here, but I'm gonna let you and that trash ridin' with you ride on back to the Bar-T. But if I see you on this side of the river again, I'm not gonna stop to warn you. I
will
shoot you down. There will be no more M/C cattle stolen, or I will come on the Bar-T lookin' for you.”

“Them's mighty harsh words from somebody you rode with,” Duke said. “There mighta been different things said if you wasn't standin' there with that rifle pointed at me.”

“You're wastin' my time,” Carson said. “Get goin' and thank your lucky stars that you're able to ride away from here.”

“All right, we'll go, and no hard feelin's. I know you think you been double-crossed, but we didn't mean for it to happen like it did.” When there was no sign of mercy in Carson's face, Duke said, “Come on, boys, let's get back on our own range.”

One of the men riding with Duke and Johnny was not inclined to be kicked off the M/C range. A tall, thin fellow, wearing a bowler hat, and answering to the name Blackie was not willing to retreat without protest. “Just a damn minute, here,” he said, “who the hell do you think you are? You don't own this river. We'll go where the hell we please, this side or the other'n.”

“Let it go for now, Blackie,” Duke warned him. He had spent a short time with Carson Ryan, but it was enough to know that he didn't make meaningless threats. He also knew that it was highly unlikely that Carson would blatantly execute the four of them unless he was forced to. “There'll be another time,” he said softly to Blackie. “Ain't no use in any of us gettin' shot.”

The warning was wasted on Blackie. “To hell with him,” he said. “He still ain't but one man with a rifle. Him and his partner are two against four of us. If he pulls that trigger, he's a dead man for sure, 'cause one of us is gonna get the next shot.”

Carson's patience was threatening to expire. “Shorty,” he directed, “make sure you aim that pistol at Mr. Blackie there. If somebody pulls a trigger here, I wanna be damn sure he gets one of the first bullets.”

“I got him covered,” Shorty replied. “I believe we can get all four of 'em before they can draw their guns. I'll take care of Blackie and that other feller beside him, so we don't waste time shootin' the same one.” He suspected that Carson was working a bluff, and he wanted to let him know that he was backing him.

“Fair enough,” Carson came back. “I'll take Duke and Johnny. When I count to three, we'll cut 'em down. You ready? One—”

“Wait! Damn it, wait a minute,” Duke protested. “We're goin'!” He wasn't ready to call Carson's bluff. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the young man was bitter enough to take out the revenge he threatened. One thing he knew, however, was the only two with weapons already drawn and aimed were Carson and his partner. And he was damn sure he was not fast enough to pull his weapon and fire before that first bullet hit him, and he had serious doubts that Blackie and Jake were, either. “Come on, boys,” he said, and reined his horse back toward the water. As he entered the river, he called back to Carson, “It was good to see you again, Carson. Looks like you won the first round. Next time might be different.”

“Keep your eye on 'em, Shorty,” Carson warned before answering Duke's warning. “There ain't no need for no next time,” he called back to Duke. “You just stay on that side of the river and we'll get along just fine.” With his rifle raised against his shoulder, and the front sight resting on Duke's back, he stood ready to fire as the four rustlers made their way toward the north bank of the river. When they were out of earshot, he told Shorty, “We better get outta here pretty damn quick as soon as they get outta sight.”

“You don't have to tell me that,” Shorty replied, his pistol still aimed at the departing four. “I thought for a minute back there we were gonna be ass-deep in a shootin' war, and I still ain't sure they won't be doublin' back on us.”

“I know damn well they will be,” Carson responded. “That's why we'd best find ourselves someplace to wait for 'em, someplace with some protection for us and our horses.” He had not ridden with Duke and his gang long enough to know the extent of his potential for ruthlessness, since he and the rest of his
cowboys
had tricked him for so long. But he had found out that they had murdered the original drovers of the herd they had stolen. The soldiers who had arrested him told him that, so he thought it in his and Shorty's best interests to assume the outlaws would be coming after them.

They continued to consider their options while both men kept their eyes on the four riders passing through the cottonwood grove on the other side of the river. “Whaddaya think we oughta do about these cows?” Shorty asked. “We can't fool around tryin' to drive cattle while that bunch is sneakin' around, lookin' to get a shot at us.”

Remembering then, Carson informed him, “Hell, I've got a dozen head I left around the bend of the river that I drove across from the other side, and they've all got Bar-T brands on 'em—right beside fresh sores where the old brands used to be.”

“Damn,” Shorty swore, just as the last of the four rustlers cleared the tree line and followed the others across the open prairie, “how we gonna handle that many strays?”

“I don't know,” Carson answered honestly. He was reluctant to leave the cattle for Duke and his partners to claim again, but the most important thing was not to get bushwhacked. He stood up in his stirrups and looked around him before settling on a low line of hills behind them. “We've got a little time before they'll take a chance on circlin' back on us. Let's see if we can drive those cows back up in those breaks back yonder and maybe find someplace to keep 'em bunched up for the night . . . ” He paused. “Unless you've got a better idea.”

“That sounds as good as any to me,” Shorty said. “Let's get started.”

One final look at the four riders, now in the distance, and the two partners headed the six strays along toward the bend of the river, where they picked up the dozen Carson had left grazing there. The cattle seemed more inclined toward milling around near the shallow water close to the bank, but the two drovers were finally able to herd them away toward the hills to the south. Daylight was fading rapidly by the time they reached the line of rugged, rocky breaks that led up to barren hilltops devoid of trees or grass. It was not an ideal place to bed a group of cattle for the night, but there was grass along the base of the hills and a spring that had almost dried up. “It'll have to do,” Shorty said. “We ain't got time for nothin' better.”

“We can drive 'em up to the back of that ravine,” Carson suggested, pointing to a pocket formed by the narrow walls. “Maybe we can cut enough of that sagebrush over yonder to make a fence to close 'em in. Whaddaya think?”

“Might work at that,” Shorty said.

So they set to work building a sagebrush fence across the narrow foot of the ravine. As darkness approached, they drove the cattle inside their enclosure and turned their attention to making a camp. There were very few trees along the base of the hills, but they managed to find enough dead limbs and brush to build a fire. Shorty turned his attention toward making some coffee while Carson climbed up the back of the ravine to the top of the hill to take a look behind them for signs of Duke and his men. When he came back down, Shorty asked, “See anythin'?”

“Nope,” Carson answered, “and pretty soon it's gonna be too dark to see much if there is anything out there.”

“Well, you'd better try some of this coffee while you've got the chance. That little ol' trickle of a stream is so small that I had a hard time fillin' the pot. I got a little sand and rocks in it from scrapin' the bottom.” He took a sip from his cup and smacked his lips. “I swear, though, I believe it gives it a little body.”

“Anything would taste pretty good right now,” Carson said as he poured a cup for himself. “We'd best lay out our bedrolls and build up the fire a little.”

Shorty bit off a hunk from the strip of jerky he was eating and remarked, “Times like these sure makes you miss Lizzie's cookin', don't it?” He changed the subject abruptly then, having had no time before to satisfy his curiosity. “How come you know this Duke Slayton fellow?”

Carson shrugged, not wishing to go into any detail about his past. “I ran into him and his gang back before the end of the summer. They were movin' some cattle up Montana way. We parted company back in Wyomin' Territory.”

“From what I gathered, you two didn't get along too good,” Shorty said, hoping to learn more details.

“No, we didn't,” Carson remarked. “I expect we'd best finish up our supper and get ready for tonight.”

“I reckon you're right,” Shorty said, although disappointed that Carson was tight-lipped on the subject of Duke Slayton. Still, he posed one more question. “What did he call you when he first saw it was you? He said Carson, but didn't he call you somethin' else?”

“I don't know,” Carson replied. “That son of a bitch is likely to call you anything.”

* * *

There was still enough light to see the cow pies and hoofprints of the twelve cows that Carson had left on the riverbank, although it was fading rapidly. “Here's what happened to that bunch we changed the brands on this afternoon,” Johnny Briggs called out to the others.

Duke Slayton rode over to see for himself. “Ain't no doubt about that,” he confirmed after he dismounted and took a closer look. “The son of a bitch went across the river and drove 'em back.” Leading his horse, he followed the tracks for a couple of dozen yards before concluding, “They drove 'em back toward those hills.”

Blackie stared off in the direction Duke indicated. “Well, I expect they couldn'ta got too far before darkness set in, so let's get after 'em.”

“Just hold your horses a minute,” Duke said. Unlike Johnny Briggs, Blackie and Jake had not ridden with Duke long enough to know that he called the shots, and it was a source of some irritation to him if you didn't remember that. “If you can see those hills in this light, then they can see you comin' just as good. And I wanna be sure we get the jump on the two of 'em, so we'll wait till it gets a little darker. Then we'll catch 'em while they're sleepin'. It'll be easier to spot a campfire after dark, anyway.”

“Maybe you're right,” Blackie conceded.

“Sure he's right,” Johnny said. “That's why he's the boss.” He looked at Duke then and said, “We might as well take it easy. Right, Duke?”

“Might as well,” Duke replied. “Might even build us a little fire down under the bank and have a little coffee, give 'em a chance to crawl in their blankets.”

“I'll get some wood,” Jake volunteered.

It seemed a casual affair as the four outlaws relaxed on the south bank of the Musselshell River, drinking coffee, biding their time. To further enhance the atmosphere, Blackie brought out a bottle of rye whiskey from his saddlebag to spike the coffee. There was no feeling of concern on the part of any of them for what they intended to do—the cold-blooded murder of two men. For Duke, especially, there was no sense of guilt for killing anything or anyone that might hinder his going after what he wanted. There was no choice now as far as Carson was concerned. He had to be killed, because he could identify Johnny and him as rustlers. So his only concern beyond that was the possibility that too much of Blackie's rye whiskey might hamper their aim when the shooting started. For that reason, he halted the passing around of the bottle before it was totally empty. It might have been a little too late, for Jake had already fallen asleep.