West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) (25 page)

Roundy hunched into the corner. Irritably, he was thinking of the talk. They never let up. Always after a man. , Todd Boysee ... no longer a youngster. That meant a cagey and straight-shooting man. But what kind of a man? Was he like Jeff Milton or Jim Gillette, who shot only when absolutely necessary? Or was he a reputation hunter like Old John Selman who had killed more than one man under doubtful, to say the least, circumstances. Some of those hard-bitten old town marshals felt the simplest way to maintain their position was to kill any man who threatened it, even by his presence.

He wanted no trouble, but it would pay to be careful. Once a man had a reputation with a gun there was no rest short of the grave.

The stage rumbled on through the night. During a momentary stop he got blankets out and spread them over the knees of Peg and Armodel. Then he relaxed again in his corner. There was the estate to settle, or he would just ride on through Willowspring. He suddenly knew he did not want to stop. Yet, even if he did not want to, he must. If the idea got around that he had taken water for any man, he would have to kill a half dozen who would want to build reputations at his expense.

He settled down to get some sleep. Outside the snow fell and the wind rocked the stage, moving slowly to keep to the ill-defined trail.

Old Todd Boysee was a grim and hard-bitten man. He had found Willowspring a roistering boomtown with two and three killings a night. He had killed four men during his first month on the job, and two later that year. After that there had been little trouble.

Occasionally he laid a pistol barrel over the head of some malcontent who believed he could tree the town, and once he had faced down a mob who intended to lynch a prisoner. Lately, it was becoming difficult. Twice in the past year men had come to town hunting him, one a pink-faced youngster who believed himself a dangerous man, the other a burly loudmouth who believed, and said, that Todd Boysee was too old for his job.

Both of them were buried now, out on Boot Hill. The boy had too much nerve for his skill, and the loudmouth, who might have backed down at the last minute, might also have come back to tarke a shot from ambush. Todd Boysee had not lived to become fifty-four by taking chances. By the ages of gunmen he was an old man, but his hand was sure, his aim straight.

It was snowing lightly and the wind was blowing when he walked down to the Gold Star. A snow-covered rider was at the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey. He glanced up at Boysee. "Here he is now," he said. "Ask him."

A heavy-set rancher with ill-fitting false teeth turned to Boysee. "Todd," he said, "we was just a-talkin. Who do you reckon is best man with a gun? Wyatt Earp or Scott Roundy?"

Boysee pulled the end of his white mustache and his cold eyes measured the rancher. He did not like talkative men. "I have no idea," he said coldly.

A thin-legged man with amazingly narrow hips and a long, loose jaw said, "Roundy's comin' up the trail. Jess seen him gettin' on the stage."

The rancher was watching Boysee, his watery blue eyes eager. "Wonder what he's comin' here for? He used to be a Ranger, but this ain't Texas."

Boysee ignored them, waiting for the bartender to set up his evening drink. They were loafing, loose-mouthed men who would be better off at home. The rancher had been one of those in the lynch mob he had stopped, and Todd Boysee had not forgotten it. Yet when he found a rustler on his place he ran for help instead of bracing the man then -and there.

Yet, what was Scott Roundy coming here for? This was far from his usual haunts. It made no kind of sense, and Todd Boysee had made it his business to know about men like Roundy. The man's reputation was good. He had never killed but in performance of his duty, although he was always in the dangerous spots. A couple of times he had not even fired until shot at. A man who did that had a streak of weakness in him. Given a break, men would kill you sooner or later. You had to shoot first, and shoot to kill.

"You still goin' to meet the stage?" Jess asked.

The word "still" angered Boysee. His cold blue eyes flashed. 'Til meet it," he said. He took up the bottle and poured a drink. It was the one drink he permitted himself.

When he closed the door behind him he heard the buzz of excited voices. The fools! What did they know!

Bitterly, he stared into the night and the snow. There idea got around that he had taken water for any man, he would have to kill a half dozen who would want to build reputations at his expense.

He settled down to get some sleep. Outside the snow fell and the wind rocked the stage, moving slowly to keep to the ill-defined trail.

Old Todd Boysee was a grim and hard-bitten man. He had found Willowspring a roistering boomtown with two and three killings a night. He had killed four men during his first month on the job, and two later that year. After that there had been little trouble.

Occasionally he laid a pistol barrel over the head of some malcontent who believed he could tree the town, and once he had faced down a mob who intended to lynch a prisoner. Lately, it was becoming difficult. Twice in the past year men had come to town hunting him, one a pink-faced youngster who believed himself a dangerous man, the other a burly loudmouth who believed, and said, that Todd Boysee was too old for his job.

Both of them were buried now, out on Boot Hill. The boy had too much nerve for his skill, and the loudmouth, who might have backed down at the last minute, might also have come back to take a shot from ambush. Todd Boysee had not lived to become fifty-four by taking chances. By the ages of gunmen he was an old man, but his hand was sure, his aim straight.

It was snowing lightly and the wind was blowing when he walked down to the Gold Star. A snow-covered rider was at the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey. He glanced up at Boysee. "Here he is now," he said. "Ask him."

A heavy-set rancher with ill-fitting false teeth turned to Boysee. "Todd," he said, "we was just a-talkin. Who do you with a gun? Wyatt Earp or Scott reckon is best man Roundy?"

Boysee pulled the end of his white mustache and his cold eyes measured the rancher. He did not like talkative men. "I have no idea," he said coldly.

A thin-legged man with amazingly narrow hips and a long, loose jaw said, "Roundy's comin' up the trail. Jess seen him gettin' on the stage."

The rancher was watching Boysee, his watery blue eyes eager. "Wonder what he's comin' here for? He used to be a Ranger, but this ain't Texas."

Boysee ignored them, waiting for the bartender to set up his evening drink. They were loafing, loose-mouthed men who would be better off at home. The rancher had been one of those in the lynch mob he had stopped, and Todd Boysee had not forgotten it. Yet when he found a rustler on his place he ran for help instead of bracing the' man then and there.

Yet, what was Scott Roundy coming here for? This was far from his usual haunts. It made no kind of sense, and Todd Boysee had made it his business to know about men like Roundy. The man's reputation was good. He had never killed but in performance of his duty, although he was always in the dangerous spots. A couple of times he had not even fired until shot at. A man who did that had a streak of weakness in him. Given a break, men would kill you sooner or later. You had to shoot first, and shoot to kill.

"You still goin' to meet the stage?" Jess asked.

The word "still" angered Boysee. His cold blue eyes flashed. 'Til meet it," he said. He took up the bottle and poured a drink. It was the one drink he permitted himself.

When he closed the door behind him he heard the buzz of excited voices. The fools! What did they know!

Bitterly, he stared into the night and the snow. There should be an easier way to make a living, but how? It was all he knew. He was too old now to punch cows, and who would give him a job? He had no money, only the little house and the garden behind it. Had Mary lived, he might have broken away from this life. She had wanted him to leave it.

What could he do, live on charity? Quitting was not an escape, anyway. The name would follow him, and they would still come hunting him, believing if they killed Todd Boysee it would make them feared. Little did they know.

He had been a buffalo hunter at seventeen, a scout with the Army at nineteen, an express messenger riding shotgun on the stages at twenty. At twenty-five he became a town marshal, and he had followed it since, working a dozen towns before he had settled in Willowspring. .

Gifted with natural speed of hand and eye, he had improved by constant practice. For a time he savored the reputation it had given him, and then it had turned to ashes in his mouth after he killed a man he need not have killed. Finally, even that memory grew dim and he killed to live, to survive.

Every cow outfit that came up the trail had at least one man who fancied himself a gunhand. You stopped them or they stopped you. It was too bad, he reflected again, that Mary had not lived. He was fifty-four now, but looked and acted ten years older.

Why was Roundy coming here? What was there for him in Willowspring? It was foolish to think he was coming here to hunt him . . . but was it? Those fools back in the saloon believed it.

He walked down the street, a tall, very straight man. In this town he was the Law. It was all he had left. He never touched a gun except against strangers. Here, all he ever needed to do was to speak, quietly, sternly. He took out his big silver watch. Mary had given it to him for his birthday.

He had been pleased. He had always wanted a watch. The wind moaned cold when he stopped at the corner. The sky was a flat black, without stars. It would be bitter cold on the plains tonight.

The stage was stopped when Armodel opened her eyes. Scott Roundy was gone, although she had not heard him go. Bell was sitting up, wide awake. "What is it?" she asked.

"We're lost. The stage has been circling."

"But how could they get off the trail?"

"No fences, no telegraph posts, just a couple of wheel tracks, mostly grassed over. We're the second stage since the Indians burned the White Creek Station, last summer."

Outside in the snow, Koons stood beside Avery and Roundy. "If you're sure we passed Three Oaks/' Roundy said, "we're south of the Wall."

"Didn't know you knew this country. The Wall's north of the trail, but circlin' wide as we done we'd have hit it."

"So we're south." Roundy was sure. "Bear south some more to North Fork Canyon."

"Don't know the place," Koons said.

"I'll find it." Roundy suggested to Avery, "We go, ahead and let Koons line up on us. That would keep us in a straight line."

It had been a long time. The wind moaned along the plains, stirring snow from the grass . . . this place he would not forget, he had never forgotten, no matter how many the years. His name was different, but he was the same.

"And when we get there?"

"A stone cabin and fuel. At least, there was fifteen years ago, and a stone cabin doesn't rot. Anyway, the place is sheltered."

Koons turned. "All right," he said.

The stage lurched into motion and headed south, away from the wind. When they had been proceeding slowly for almost an hour the ground suddenly began to slope away, and after awhile Roundy did not go on ahead but stood and waited, and when Avery came up they guided the coach into the arroyo.

The stage bumped along over frozen earth and occasional rocks, and then a black cliff reared before them, and against the face they could see the rock house. It was barely visible under the overhang.

"Bring the mules inside!" Roundy yelled. "There's a cave back of the house and room enough!"

The first mule balked at the dark opening, but when it finally entered the rest followed. Koons stabled them at a tie-pole in the cave and returned to find a fire going in the house. Roundy was kneeling beside it, and Armodel Chase stood beside him.

Koons stared at Roundy curiously. "Never knowed of this place," he said.

Roundy nodded at the bottom bunk in the tier of two. "I was born in that bed," he said, "in gold rush days."

Armodel stared at him, and looked again at the bunk. Her eyes went around the bare room. There were two tiers of beds, a table, two benches, a chair. There was an iron pot beside the fireplace. Her mind returned to her own comfortable home. Hers no more.

"My mother is buried in the trees across the creek," he said. "She only lived a few days."

Koons brought more fuel and added it, stick by stick, to the fire. "All Injun country then," he said. "Must have been."

"It was during a lull in an attack when I was born," Roundy said. "Wagon broke down up on the trail. The rest of them were gold-hungry and anxious. Only one wagon would stay with us."

Avery brought coffee from the stage and they started getting water hot over the fire. Gagnon was not talking, but Bell was curious. It was like so many tales he had heard, yet he never tired of listening. He probably had heard more Western history in his years of traveling than any man alive, and sometimes he passed the stories on.

"What happened?" Armodel searched the quiet face, thinking of how his mother must have felt, dying here, never knowing if her child would live, never knowing if he would grow up to become a man. Suddenly, she knew that gunfighter or not, his mother would have been proud.

"My father and the people who stayed," he said, "they started Willowspring."