Winchester 1886 (15 page)

He stood up, shattering three more bottles into specks of blue and green glass. Now, his shoulder did hurt, and he sat back down.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Didn't think so.” She sighed. “You're goin' after him, I take it.”

His head nodded.

“Any idea where to look?”

He shrugged. “Deadwood. Miles City.” He let out a heavy sigh. “This is all new country to me.”

“Yeah. It's winter. Might be a long one. I don't reckon you'd like to ride up to Fort Meade—that's in South Dakota—with me?”

“Oh.” He was reloading the .45-70 again. “I'd like to, Shirley, but . . . I'd best go it alone.”

“Figured. Don't make no never-mind to me.” She had sent the boys on up to Sturgis after they had arrived. She knew Colonel Tom C. Curtis would be mad at her for not going along with them, but she had hoped . . . well . . . that's what a sharpshooting girl from Zanesville, Ohio, gets for hoping.

“There's a pack train headin' that way in a week,” Shirley said. “I'll hitch up with 'em.” She opened her valise and pulled out a purse. “But you'll need money.”

“I've got some. Don't you—”

“Hush.” She handed over a wad of bills. “You take this. I won it off Danny Waco. I don't want it. I got plenty.”

“You won it?”

She grinned. “I cheated.”

He almost laughed, but he took the money and slipped it inside his coat.

“You'll take the Winchester, too.”

“That I can't do.”

“Yeah, you can. All that cannon does is sit in that crate. Only time I ever take it out is to clean it. Take it. And welcome. I shoot bottles, Jimmy Mann, and targets, and smokes out of mayors' mouths. I ain't no big woman. That's too much rifle for me. In my line of work.”

He looked at the rifle, then at her, and leaned over and kissed her. She kissed him back. Again, Jimmy Mann wished that all of him could be dead like his left hand. He pulled away, sighed. “We best get back to town.”

He'd be gone by daylight. He knew that. Back after Danny Waco. Likely, he would never see this girl again. Yep. He knew that. So did Shirley Sweet. Jimmy could tell by the tears in her eyes.

 

 

 

The way McNally figured things, that soddy out in the middle of nowhere saved their lives.

Why, they had merely stumbled upon it, just about when McNally and Tyron figured they were done for. Blizzard in full force, them lost, nowhere near Nebraska as far as they could tell, and lo and behold, the sod house appeared.

They kicked open the door. Wasn't much of a door. Had two big old holes in it. They led their horses inside, along with the pack mule.

“It's a blessin',” Tyron said. “Blessin' from the Lord.”

In answer, the mule began peeing on the dirt floor.

“Ain't nobody home,” McNally said.

“Not in no long while.” Tyron sat on what passed for a bed. A bed that had been ripped apart by thick claws of skunks, coyotes, wolves and maybe a badger or weasel over the past week or two or month or year. Hard to tell with the snow coming down sideways, and the soddy dark as McNally's soul.

“Get a fire started, Tyron,” McNally said.

“Start it yerself,” Tyron chimed back.

“You wanna freeze t' death?”

“I ain't cold.”

“Start that fire, Tyron, else I'll—” McNally saw it first, laying on the floor by the fire. He ran forward, bent over, and heard his pard say, “That's mine!”

But McNally snatched up that rifle and said, “Ya want it. Come a-take it from me.” He worked the lever, surprised to see a fresh cartridge ram into the chamber.

“It's a Winchester!” Tyron cried out.

“An' it's got bullets!” At least, McNally knew, it had one.

“Golly.”

“Get that fire started, Tyron!”

“Don't ya point no gun at me.”

McNally brought the rifle up, laughing. Even Tyron managed to cackle some.

“Wolves is a-gonna regret that I found this here Winchester,” McNally said.

“All of Nebrasky is.” Tyron busied himself trying to gather enough kindling and wood to put in the fireplace. “We'll make a passel with pelts come spring.”

“Once we get to Nebrasky.”

Tyron laughed. “Can't wait till this blizzard ends.”

“When ya gets that fire a-goin', let's celebrate. Gots some liquor in my saddle bag.”

“Ya been hoggin', McNally.”

“Savin' it for a special occasion!”

He studied the rifle, reading the numbers. “It's a big one.” He couldn't read his letters, couldn't tell A from Z, but he did know his numbers and could even cipher things like 2 plus 2 and 5 minus 1.

“Says here fifty, one hundred, four fifty.”

Tyron looked up. “What's that mean?”

“Fifty caliber, I reckon.”

“In a repeatin' rifle?” Tyron clucked his tongue.

“That's what it say.”

Tyron laughed. So did McNally. “'Em wolves up in Nebrasky is really gonna regret us happenin' 'pon this here homestead.”

Tyron's head bobbed. “It's a blessin' from the Lord.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

 

Even to a couple of weasels like McNally and Tyron, there wasn't much to Hay Springs, just a collection of shanties, tents, and soddies on both sides of a trail that seemingly led to nowhere. The only way to tell what each place sold came from reading the sloppily scribbled or badly carved signs stuck in front of the businesses, but neither man had ever learned how to read.

Of course, there were other ways of telling.

Like the banjo music, laughter, and cusses coming out of a big tent structure on the north side of the muddy street, and all the horses tethered out front, peeing and crapping in the frozen mud and snow.

The town had sprung up some years back when folks were grading railroad track to Chadron. The depot was about the only thing permanent to Hay Springs, if anyone would call an old boxcar converted into a business,
permanent
. But the town had plenty of springs nearby, and those springs and the railroad had been bringing in farmers to grow hay—hence, the town's name—and ranchers, and cowboys, and on that bitterly cold January morning, a couple wolfers up from Texas named McNally and Tyron.

They tethered their horses and mule, stamped their feet in the hard-frozen ground to get their blood flowing again, and walked through the flap into the warmth of Hay Springs's biggest tent saloon.

“Caint I carry the big Winchester, McNally?” Tyron asked.

“No.”

“Well, ya been a-hoggin' it since we was in Kansas.”

“It be mine.”

“Ain't so.”

“Well I gots it.”

“Well I just mights take it from ya.”

McNally laughed and pointed the barrel at an empty table. There they sat, enjoying the warmth of the pot-belly stove, listening to the banjo player claw out that song about Jesse James, and picking lice out of their hair until a barmaid came wandering by, stopping a few feet from them because of their smell.

“What'll you have?” she asked.

“How much do a whiskey cost?” Tyron asked.

“Twenty cents a shot.”

He frowned.

“Two beers then. They's only a nickel, right?”

“Right.” She quickly left.

When she returned, sliding two mugs of warm porter in front of the wolfers, McNally said, “We's lookin' fer someone.”

She stepped back, waiting. Each man drank about half his beer. McNally wiped his beard with his filthy coat sleeve, and said, “Name Clements.”

She waited and did not answer.

“Big rancher in these parts.”

Still, she said nothing.

“Ya gots a hearin' problem, lady?” Tyron asked. “We's a-waitin'.”

“I'm waiting,” she said, “for ten cents for those two beers.”

Cursing, McNally unbuttoned his coat, reached inside his vest pocket, and withdrew a pouch, and counted out ten pennies, which he stacked on the side of the table.

The waitress stared at the pouch. “What is that thing?”

“Bull-wolf scrotum,” Tyron answered. “We's wolfers.” He said it proudly.

“Clements,” she said, her face showing disgust, “runs the Circle C-7 down by Box Butte southwest of here. He ain't here.”

“Didn't expect luck t' favor us,” Tyron said.

“But his foreman is,” she said.

“Well, ain't that somethin'. Ya mind sendin' 'em over here. Tell him we's the wolfers Clements sent fer. Wants t' discuss the particulars an' such.”

She left.

“An' have 'im brings a bottle if he's a-mind,” McNally called out. “Talkin' business works up a body's thirst.”

She did not answer.

“Hey, lady!” Tyron shouted.

She stopped and turned.

Tyron pointed at the ten pennies. “Ya forget yer money for our beers.”

“I'll get it later.” She made a beeline for the bar, which was nothing more than a two-by-twelve plank stretched across two whiskey kegs.

Laughing, McNally picked up his pennies, dropped them into the smelly pouch. “Works ever' time, don't it, Tyron?”

“Shor does.” He sipped his beer and then dropped his hand on the table.

“Don't touch my rifle, Tyron,” McNally warned him.

The Circle C-7 foreman brought his own beer, but no bottle, introduced himself as Ferdig, and pulled up a chair. “Mr. Clements didn't say nothing to me about hiring a couple wolfers.”

“Ya got wolves, don't you?” McNally finished his beer. “I knowed that even jus' from the string a carcasses we seed ridin' up here.”

Mr. Clements had not exactly sent for the two wolfers, but a cowhand who had quit the Circle C-7 and lighted down Tascosa way for the winter, had mentioned the wolf problem on the ranges of western Nebraska.

When Ferdig did not answer, McNally laughed. “Word come all the way down t' Tascosa 'bout yer troubles with wolves. 'Em wolves can be a pest. 'Specially when a winter's bad as this'n.”

“Might be,” Tyron chimed in, “that when yer steers start birthin' baby cows, ya won't have no little cows to round up. They'll all be breakfast fer a pack of vicious wolves.”

“Steers don't birth baby cows,” Ferdig told them.

“Well, ya gets our meanin'.” McNally flagged the waitress over. “Three more beers, lady. Ain't that right, Mr. Ferdig?”

He didn't like it, but the foreman nodded at the waitress, and finished his own beer.

“What's your price?” Ferdig asked.

“Well,” McNally said, “I hear the bounty is—”

“No bounties. Tails or pelts. Two years back, we found some wolfers we hired were showing a part to one of the magistrates for payment, then going to the next county and showing another part of the same wolf to collect from that magistrate. Mr. Clements pays per pelt or tail.”

“I swan,” Tyron sang out, “some wolfers ain't got no pride, an' give us honest tradesmen a poor name.”

“What's your price?” Ferdig repeated.

McNally chuckled. “We ain't greedy. Goin' rate's five dollars a pelt an' ten cents a tail. Don't want no advance. We'll take our pay when we brings in our haul first a spring.”

Ferdig leaned forward. “The going rate is two dollars a pelt and half a cent per tail.”

Leaning back in his chair, McNally shook his head, then turned to look at his partner. “Ya hear that, Tyron?”

“I heard. Reckon the markets a-glut since we left Texas.”

“Reckon so.”

Ferdig leaned back and let the waitress deliver the three beers. “On my tab, Charlotte.”

“Thanks, Mr. Ferdig,” Tyron said as he practically lunged for the beer.

The waitress left. Ferdig did not drink.

“You use wolfhounds?” Ferdig asked.

“Nah.” McNally sipped his beer. “Dogs cost money. Eat too much. Rough work, too, ridin' hard, tryin' t' keep up with a pack a wolfhounds.” He laughed and gestured toward his partner. “'Sides, Tyron here, he don't eat as much as dogs, though he does have just as many fleas.”

“Shut up, McNally. Ya's one t' talk.”

“Ya best hold yer tongue, Tyron.” He patted the Winchester's stock.

Ferdig waited until the two men had sipped more beer, letting the tension pass.

“Mr. Clements don't like strychnine,” the foreman told them. “I don't neither. You can trap the wolves, but come spring, you take your traps with you. And if you use poison, Mr. Clements and me and our boys will ride you down and make you two eat it.”

“Trappin's fine,” McNally said. “Tyron an' me, we don't cotton to strychnine, neither. Hate the stuff. Ain't no sport in p'isonin' no deer or cow carcass. Tyron an' me, we's professionals. An' I got this.” He patted the Winchester's stock.

Ferdig merely glanced at the rifle, then pushed himself up from his chair. “I'll see you come spring.” He strode back to the bar, leaving McNally and Tyron to finish their beer and wait for that bar gal with the poor attitude to return. She never did.

 

 

They set up camp a few miles southeast of town near the two lakes—imaginatively named East Lake and West Lake—that some land developers had connected with a four- to six-feet-deep ditch.

Camp was a Sibley tent they had stolen when Tyron had deserted from some infantry outfit stationed in Missouri. They picketed their animals near the ditch, breaking the ice so the horses and mule could drink. They laid out their traps, figuring they would find likely spots to distribute them the next morning, cooked a supper of salt pork and beans, and then retired to the tent to finish the bottle of whiskey they had splurged on down in Alliance.

“Dead deer on tuther side of that ditch,” McNally said. “Ya see it?”

Tyron shook his head and blew on his fingers. The little stove he had stolen from a mercantile in St. Francis had yet to heat up the tent. “Expect it froze t' death.”

“Afore ya go t' sleep t'night, ya stick some strychnine in 'im.”

Tyron lowered his fingers. “Didn't ya hear what that ramrod tol' us 'bout p'isonin' such things?”

“Yeah. But we gots all that strychnine we taken from that outfit on the Pecos River.”

Tyron shook his head.

“Two dollars a pelt and half a penny a tail,” McNally reminded him.

Tyron grinned. “It's a blessin' from the Lord.”

 

 

The way Tyron and McNally decided things over half the bottle of forty-rod liquor that would blind most men, they'd only use a little bit of the strychnine. Unless there came a real hard blizzard or cold front. If they came across a dead carcass, they would just naturally poison it. Make things easy.

They planned to set traps along the ditch and on the two ponds where they found any wolf tracks or droppings in the snow.

“We gonna do things like we done down in Texas?” Tyron asked.

“Certain-shore,” McNally said. “We come 'cross a she-wolf with some pups, we jus' kill the pups. Let that she-wolf find herself a mate this spring or summer, an' give us some more business.”

“Providin' we stick around here,” Tyron said— which meant providing the good citizens and upstanding ranchers around Hay Springs didn't run them out of the state.

 

 

Down in Texas, they had laid down a line of strychnine more than a hundred miles north to south, but it was a right smart warmer down in Texas than it was around East Lake and West Lake. And those Texians weren't so high and mighty when it came to things like strychnine as that Ferdig and Mr. Clements seemed to be.

So McNally and Tyron used the poison modestly. They did shoot one steer, even saw it branded the Circle C-7, and packed it with strychnine, but not until after they had carved up some beef and removed the hide that revealed the Hereford's brand. A rich rancher like Mr. Clements could spare one bony steer.

When the cold front broke, lifting the temperature to thirty degrees, and the sun reappeared, Tyron and McNally left camp. They had managed to poison twelve wolves, but the carcasses were too frozen to skin, so they piled the bodies behind the tent, and covered them with snow.

A week or so later, they rode to West Lake and followed wolf tracks in the snow, hoping the tracks would lead to a den. There, they could kill any pups, and let the mama live to bring them more business.

No such luck, though. They found the wolf, a he-wolf, by one of the springs. Upwind of the cur, McNally slid from the saddle and tugged out the big Winchester. He aimed over the saddle—his horse was seasoned to gunfire, and he wasn't walking anywhere in that snow. He pulled the trigger.

The wolf fell dead.

Tyron pulled his fingers from his ears, shaking his head. “That sounds louder than the cannon they used t' fire at that fort in Missouri.” He whistled, then saw McNally on his knees, rubbing his shoulder. “Ya hurt?”

McNally's ears were ringing, and his shoulder throbbed from the Winchester's savage kick. He cursed the rifle, which lay in the snow in front of him, and looked up at Tyron. “Gun like t' 've tore my arm off at the shoulder.”

“Ya gots to hold it tight agen yer shoulder, pard. Won't kick so hard iffen you does that.”

“Ya ain't tellin' Rafe McNally how t' shoot no rifle, you two-bit peckerwood.”

“Well, ya's the one a-writhin' on the ground.”

“Ain't writhin'. Gun jes kicks like a mule.”

“Maybe ya should lets me shoot it. I knows how to handle a rifle.”

“I'll give you tuther end of this 'ere gun.” He grimaced, had to bite back the pain, wondering if that .50-caliber cannon had broken his collarbone, but managed to pick the Winchester out of the snow. Still, he had to use the rifle, butting it against the ground, to push himself back to his feet.

Still on his horse, Tyron cackled.

“Shuts yer trap!” McNally told him.

“Ya's a sight,” Tyron said, still laughing. “Ain't seen ya hurtin' so since that barkeep in Abilene broke ya nose with 'is bung starter.”

“I whupped him, though. Sure as I'll whup ya.”

“Yeah. Sure ya did. That's how come I had to drag yer carcass out of that bucket o' blood to the livery stable in town.”

“Shuts yer trap.” McNally brought the Winchester up, even though bracing that hard crescent-shaped butt against his shoulder pained him something fierce, and jacked a round into the chamber. “Ya gets to that wolf I jus' kilt—or I'll be stuffin' yer carcass with p'ison for 'em wolves t' feed on.”