Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (22 page)

On the days when Bris took a load of logs into the sawmill, he hitched all six mules to the heavy log train, leaving Carson with free time. He could have hitched his horses up to the logs, but he felt that was not a proper job for a cow pony, at least not
his
cow pony. Besides, he felt the time was better spent hunting for something to eat besides salt pork. His talent with a rifle was greatly appreciated by his gnarly little partner, because Bris openly admitted he wasn't much a shot. He was surprised, however, that Carson seemed to have no interest in riding into town with him. He never pried into Carson's history, but after spending the long winter months working so closely with the young man, he decided for himself that Carson had a reason for shunning the town. He figured it was Carson's business, and not his. All he was concerned with was the man's work ethic, and he decided he'd never had a partner who worked as hard and as steady as Carson.

A Montana winter in the wild will change most men, and Carson was no exception. The physical change was more evident to Bris than it was to him, however. By springtime, Carson seemed to have gained strength as well as size, thanks to his heavy laboring that added tough muscle to his shoulders and arms. It was hard for Bris to believe he was looking at the same man Jim Saylor had introduced at the end of summer. As for Carson, he was aware of the feeling that he was fit, but he didn't suspect that he had changed that much.

When the snow began melting on the mountaintops, Carson figured it was time to move on, and he told Jim Saylor of his intention. It was at a time when Bris wanted to move the camp, since they had cleared most of the trees that the two-man team could reasonably get to. So they packed up the tent and moved their camp several miles farther along the mountain range. Carson agreed to stay on to help Bris and Jim through the summer, or at least until Jim could find a replacement for him. One year turned into two, with Carson still content to remain, although he began to catch himself wondering what it was like beyond the mountains they were cutting timber in. But thoughts of a different nature also began to enter his idle moments. He found himself wondering if the crew at the M/C came through the hard winter without losing too many cattle—and if Frank and Nancy were glad they had made the hazardous journey from the Black Hills—and Millie, although he couldn't explain why he thought of her at all. And without realizing it, he was missing working with the cattle. The day finally arrived when he changed his mind and accepted Bris's invitation to ride into town with him.

“Well, I'll be . . . ,” Bris marveled. “What changed your mind?”

“I don't know,” Carson said. “I just ain't been in a long time. I reckon I just wanna see if the town's grown any since I saw it last. Besides, I've got a birthday sometime this month and I think I oughta have myself a drink to celebrate it, maybe two drinks, since I forgot it last year.” He paused to make sure of the month. “This is August, ain't it? At least I think that's what Jim said when he brought those last supplies.”

“I believe he did,” Bris replied, “but I ain't got no notion what day it is.”

“Doesn't matter,” Carson said, “as long as it's the right month.”

So Bris hitched up the mules and they set out for town, Bris sitting on top of the load of pine logs, driving the team, with Carson riding alongside. Reluctant to leave the black horse back in their wilderness camp unprotected, Carson tied it on behind the logs. Impatient with the pace set by the team of mules, he often loped along ahead of Bris, working some of the rust from his horse, acquired after many days of doing nothing more than grazing on the lush meadow grass of the high plains. He realized at once that he had accumulated some rust himself, and realized how much he missed his days in the saddle. It caused some serious thinking about returning somehow to the business of raising cattle. These were thoughts he had to keep to himself, because talk of such plans tended to make Bris melancholy.

It was after dark by the time they unloaded the logs at Saylor's sawmill and went home with Jim to enjoy one of Rena's fine suppers. It was a strange sensation for Carson to be in a house after so long a time camping in the pine-covered hills. And it was hard to disagree with Bris's claim that Rena Saylor was the best cook in Montana Territory. It was a pleasant evening, and Carson would have been content to bed down for the night and call his birthday celebration complete, but Bris insisted that wouldn't do. “John here deserves to go get a drink on his birthday,” he said.

“There's no need to go down to a saloon,” Saylor offered. “I've got a bottle right here.”

“That wouldn't be the proper thing to do,” Bris was quick to remark. “I mean, drinkin' in front of Rena. That don't show her no respect at all.”

Overhearing the conversation, Rena spoke up. “It won't bother me. I don't care if you all get drunk.”

Bris was insistent. “John's a young single man. He ain't been in a saloon in a coon's age. He might wanna kick up his heels a little.”

It was fairly evident to Carson and Jim that Bris was the one who wanted to visit a saloon. They exchanged knowing smiles and Carson remarked facetiously, “Yeah, that's right. I might wanna kick up my heels.” It brought a smile of satisfaction to Bris's whiskered face.

Rena paused a moment on her way to the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes. “I don't know who you men think you're fooling. Go on, if you're going, but I better not hear about Jim Saylor kicking up his heels, or I'll be the one doing the kicking tomorrow.”

“I'll see that he behaves hisself,” Bris volunteered. “And I'll get him home before too late.” He couldn't resist teasing the patient woman. “If you decide to kick him outta the house, remember that I still love you, so you've got an ace in the hole.”

This brought a laugh from both Jim and Carson, and Jim said, “Come on, Ace. Let's go get that drink. I've got to go to work in the morning.”

Hands on hips and assuming a mock expression of disgust, Rena watched the men file out the door. She didn't begrudge Bris his desire to ogle the whores who frequented some of the drinking establishments in town. The old man led a lonely existence. She was confident in her husband's ability to behave himself. Watching the last one out the door, the one who literally filled the doorway, she realized that she did not really know John Carson. Tonight was only the second time she had even seen him since Jim first hired him. The transformation of the quiet young man into the formidable, emotionless mystery that she saw on this occasion was difficult to believe. Had she not known for a fact, she might have refused to believe it was the same man.

Of the many saloons in Helena, there was no question as to which establishment Bris wanted to visit. Sullivan's Saloon was his favorite watering hole and the one he visited on every trip to town. Sullivan's was not one of the fanciest bars in town, but there were always a few painted ladies who worked the customers for drinks and whatever else they were interested in. And they were not above showering a little attention on stubby little gray-haired men like Bris.

“Howdy, Bris,” Bill Sullivan greeted them when they walked up to the bar. “You bring in a load of logs?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” Bris replied. “We need us a drink of whiskey.” While Sullivan reached for three shot glasses, Bris remarked to his two companions, “Man's got a helluva memory. I ain't been in here but once or twice before.”

Jim grinned at Carson. “Yeah, everybody talks about what a memory Sullivan's got.” He picked up his glass. “Let's sit down at that table over there. We might want another drink.” Bris and Carson followed him over to a table near the center of the barroom. Two men sitting at a table next to theirs looked up when they sat down. “Harvey,” Jim greeted one of them.

“Howdy, Jim,” Harvey returned. “You been busy at the sawmill?”

“Not as busy as I'd like to be,” Jim replied. He didn't bother to introduce Carson and Bris. It was all the same to Carson, and Bris was already eyeing a rather tired-looking woman two tables over. Catching his eye, she got up from the table and left the two prospectors who had seemed more interested in getting drunk even after she had invested fifteen minutes of her time.

“Hey, darlin',” she said to Bris, who was grinning from ear to ear. “My name's Annie. You lookin' for a little companionship?”

Bris just continued grinning for a long moment before answering, “No, honey. I'm just a looker, I ain't a doer. My pickle ain't good for nothin' no more but passin' a little water now and again, but I'll give you a quarter for a little peek at your merchandise.”

“Huh,” she snorted, disappointed. “Ain't you the big spender? For twenty-five cents you can take a look at my foot.” When his response was nothing more than a continuation of his happy smile, she nodded toward Carson. “What about him?”

“I don't know,” Bris answered. “Why don't you ask him?” He had a feeling he already knew what Carson's answer might be, but he was content to delay the woman's departure. He didn't have the opportunity to be this close to a woman as a rule.

“What about it, stud?” Annie asked Carson, who had been listening to the conversation between Saylor and Harvey Johnson, the postmaster.

Distracted momentarily when the woman jabbed him with her finger to get his attention, Carson said, “Reckon not, ma'am, but it's awful temptin'.” It was far from tempting, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings. Disgusted, she abruptly got up and returned to the table with the two prospectors where there was still hope as long as they continued to drink. His attention went immediately back to the conversation between Saylor and Johnson.

Noticing Carson's rapt attention, Harvey paused to say howdy to him. “Don't believe I've ever seen you in town before,” he said. “My name's Harvey Johnson. I'm the postmaster here in town. You a friend of Jim's?”

Saylor answered for him. “This is John Carson. He's been working with Bris, cuttin' timber. Been working for me for over two years. He just doesn't get into town much.”

Carson shook Harvey's offered hand. “Couldn't help hearin' what you were tellin' Jim a minute ago,” he remarked, “somethin' about a range war.”

“I reckon you could call it that,” Harvey replied. “From what I heard, there were some folks killed.” He paused to think. “Carson,” he repeated, “something familiar about that name.” Then he remembered. “I know what it is. I got a wanted notice for a fellow named Carson—only that was his first name—Carson Ryan, if I remember correctly. It's been up with the other notices for a long time.” He chuckled then. “He's wanted for murdering a U.S. deputy marshal. I don't reckon that was you, was it?”

The postmaster was obviously making a joke, but it caused the blood to chill in Carson's veins. He attempted a weak chuckle in response. “Well, I know I ain't ever shot a deputy,” he said. “Where was the range war you were talkin' about?”

“Oh, it wasn't around here,” Harvey replied. “It was on the other side of the Big Belt Mountains, on farther east somewhere around the Crazy Mountains is where I make it to be. It's a wonder there ain't more killing in that country, 'cause there isn't much in the way of law on the open range.”

Carson's brain was already frantically working over a variety of situations that he truly hoped had nothing to do with the friends he had left in that area. Harvey's next comment almost stunned him.

“Fellow name of Cain was one of the ones got killed, is what I heard,” Harvey said. “Owns a big spread south of the Musselshell.”

“Mathew Cain?” Carson blurted, unable to accept it as fact.

“Mighta been. In fact, I think that was the fellow's name,” Harvey said. Noticing the obvious impact his comment had made on Jim's friend, he asked, “You know him?”

Aware then that both Bris and Jim were watching him, waiting for his reply, Carson nodded slowly before uttering a simple statement. “I know him.” It was obvious that Jim and Bris wanted more, but that was all Carson cared to impart at that particular moment. His mind was racing. There was more to think about than Mathew Cain alone. Who else might have been killed? What about Justin, and Frank and Nancy, Shorty . . . Millie? He thought about Lon Tuttle. Had a full-blown war broken out between the two ranch owners? He knew that he had to have answers for those and many other questions. And even though his time at the M/C had been brief, he felt a deep obligation to help the people there. He looked up to find Bris studying him intently. The grizzled little man sensed that he was about to lose his partner. His concern spread rapidly to fill Jim Saylor's eyes as well, and both men waited silently for Carson to speak. “I've got to go,” he stated simply. “I owe them.”

He had never been a man to take obligations lightly, so he deeply regretted leaving Jim and Bris on such short notice. But in all fairness, he reminded himself, he had told them in the beginning that he might leave after the first spring. That fact did not help the feeling of guilt he was left with. Jim had provided a job for him when his prospects were slim, and Bris had proven to be a good man to work with, so it was hard to tell them he wasn't going back to the camp in the mountains. Jim made it easy for him, however, which Carson greatly appreciated. “I know you've gotta do what you've gotta do,” he told him after they left the saloon. “It ain't none of my business what you were doin' before you came to Helena, but I think I know you well enough to know that whatever you feel is right is what you'll do. So I wish you good luck. If you get back this way, come and see me.” He paid him all the wages he had earned and hadn't collected.

Bris surprised him. He had really expected him to be extremely disappointed that he was leaving so suddenly, but if that was in fact the case, the little man concealed it well. He seemed almost cheerful in his parting comments. “Well, John, I reckon you turned out to be a pretty good worker. If you hadn't, I'da run you off after the first week,” he said with a laugh. “Next one Jim sends me to break in, I ain't gonna let him come to town a'tall.” He stuck out his hand. “Don't go gettin' into no trouble.”