Jim crawled up beside Wolf Paw and lay flat on his belly. The rock outcropping they lay upon was still warm from the sun, even though it was late in the afternoon. It went unnoticed by Jim. His mind was on the line of Indian warriors filing by silently near the river below them. “Sioux,” Wolf Paw said softly, “Lakota Sioux.”
Jim counted seventeen riders, all warriors, wearing paint. “They’re a little out of their usual territory, aren’t they?” He knew the Sioux and Crows were natural enemies.
Newt Plummer crawled up behind them in time to hear Jim’s question. “Here lately they’ve been sending out scouting parties damn near ever’where,” he said. They watched in silence for a while, until the war party moved on down the valley. “I wonder where the hell they’re goin’,” Newt muttered. “They’re mighty damn close to Iron Bow’s camp. Might be they’re thinkin’ about stealin’ some Crow ponies. Maybe we oughta warn Iron Bow.”
While they watched, Newt explained the volatile situation to Jim. “The army’s been threatening to go to war agin’ the Sioux for over a year now. They told all the Sioux to go back to the reservation and stay there. Some of ’em are staying. But a helluva lot of ’em ain’t about to give up their way of life to go rot on a reservation. Sittin’ Bull and his bunch, and Crazy Horse and his crowd, they ain’t signed no treaties with anybody, and they’re staying out. Our scouts say that Sittin’ Bull is calling for the reservation Injuns to come join him—not only the Sioux, but the Cheyenne and Arapahos too. I’d be surprised if the army really knows just how many warriors they’re gonna have to fight.” He scratched his head, considering his own words. “Trouble is, the Crows is been friends with the army for as long as I can remember, and they might catch some hell from the damn Sioux, too.”
“You think we should go back to warn Iron Bow?” Jim asked, concerned now for his new friends in the Crow camp.
Newt scratched his head again, thinking. “Well, seventeen ain’t enough to worry about if they’ve got fightin’ on their mind. But they might be planning to go after the horses. Maybe I oughta go on back. I’m just going with you because I’ve got a cravin’ for a drink of whiskey. But there ain’t no need for you to come back with me. Go on and trade your hides.”
“I’ll go,” Leads His Horses volunteered. “I can follow them until they make camp. Then I’ll go around them and alert the village.”
“I’ll go with you,” Wolf Paw said.
The issue decided, Jim and Newt continued on toward the Yellowstone while their two Crow friends followed the Sioux war party.
* * *
“Well, lookee here what the cat drug in,” the man sitting by the short step of the storeroom called out in a halfhearted attempt to sound cordial. “I was wondering when you’d pay us another visit.” He got up from his seat on a three-legged stool and took a few steps forward to greet the visitors. A man known only by the name Chambers, he was one of the original company of men who had built the trading post.
“I see you fellers ain’t been run off yet by the Injuns,” Newt replied, grinning.
“Why, hell, no,” Chambers responded. “We’re doing business with all of ’em—Crow, Sioux, Blackfoot.” He craned his neck to look around Newt. “I see you brought somebody with you. You fellers step down, and let’s have a look at them hides you got there.” He nodded briefly at the tall young man, dressed in buckskins with a bow strapped on his back, and walked past him to examine the buffalo hides on the packhorse.
“This here’s Jim Culver,” Newt said. “Them hides is his. I’ve just got a few plews I’m lookin’ to trade for some of your rotgut firewater.”
Chambers stopped short and took a closer look at the stranger still seated in the Indian saddle. “Damn,” he exclaimed apologetically. “I’m sorry, young feller. I took you for one of Newt’s Crow friends. Jim Culver, is it?” He extended his hand, which Jim reached down to accept. “My name’s Chambers. Always glad to see a new face, especially with a load of hides like these. Looks like you come to do a heap of trading. If the ones on the bottom look as prime as those on top, you could buy a helluva lot of whiskey.”
“I need a new outfit,” Jim said. “I don’t need any whiskey.”
Chambers looked surprised. “Well, come on in the store. I expect we’ve got most anything you need. Like I said, those hides look in fair shape.” He glanced at the two bundles of fox and beaver pelts slung over Newt’s saddle. “Them plews you got, Newt, ain’t worth much more than a couple of jugs of whiskey, but I reckon it’ll be enough to scald your gizzard.”
Jim looked around him in the small stockade. There were perhaps a dozen white men engaged in various activities. Two of them were stacking wood against the side of the store. Beyond them, toward the open end of the fort, a blacksmith was busy shoeing a horse while his partner brought up another from the corral. One of the others was involved in an animated discussion with several wildly gesturing Indians as they argued over the value of a couple of buffalo robes. The rest seemed to be busy with nothing more than taking their ease in the morning sun. All paused to take an inquisitive glance at the two new customers.
After Chambers inspected Jim’s hides, he set a price on the lot, then led Jim and Newt into the store, where Jim went about selecting items to replace those lost to Johnny Malotte. After his basic supplies, he had plenty left to buy a good skinning knife, as well as a .45 single-action pistol and ammunition. But the only rifles Chambers had to offer were some late-model flintlocks and one single-shot Springfield. Jim decided to save his money, still determined to recover his own Winchester from Johnny Malotte. Satisfied that he had done the best he could for himself, he figured he was ready to start back down the Bighorn. He hadn’t figured on Newt’s thirst for firewater.
Before Jim got into serious trading with Chambers, Newt cashed his plews in for two jugs of whiskey. He watched the dickering between Chambers and Jim for only a few minutes before retiring to take a seat on a large sack of coffee beans, and began the long-awaited reacquaintance with what he lovingly referred to as Fort Pease panther piss. What Jim was to learn, and Chambers already knew, was that Newt was good-natured and entertaining after a few drinks of the prairie poison Chambers sold. Unfortunately, Newt was never content to limit himself to those few mellowing drinks. Larger doses of whiskey would tend to gradually transform the easygoing old trapper until, by degrees, he would become every tavern owner’s nightmare.
With each additional drink, Newt’s view of his world narrowed to focus upon nothing but the bitter reflections of every rotten deal life had dealt him—from the final days of the rendezvous when beaver had lost its shine and once-hospitable Indian tribes came to look upon the white man as competition for the very land they hunted upon, to the evil sickness that had taken his Crow wife from him. Lost from his mind’s eye were the simple joys of his life with Iron Bow’s people and the honored position he enjoyed as a medicine man. There reached a point, usually after more than half a jug had been consumed, where the bitterness became a galling serpent in the pit of his belly. And each additional drink taken to drown it only intensified the misery it caused. It was a battle over which Newt had no control. To Chambers and his men at Fort Pease, he was simply a mean drunk.
Knowing what to expect, Chambers gently suggested to Jim that it might be best for him and his friend to take their trade goods and ride on down the river. “If you ain’t of a mind to start back home before morning,” he suggested, “there’s a good place to camp about four miles south on the east side of the river.”
At first Jim didn’t understand. Chambers seemed like a friendly enough fellow. Why, he wondered, was the trader inclined to withdraw the welcome mat he had so cordially spread earlier? He glanced over at Newt, still perched on the sack of coffee beans. The old trapper’s face was strangely devoid of expression. His eyes narrowed and he stared unblinking at the jug, now empty, at his feet. Jim glanced back at Chambers, who smiled and slowly nodded. It was Newt, then, that Chambers would have depart. But why? Surely Chambers could not expect to sell a man whiskey and not expect him to drink it? In the next instant, Newt himself answered the question.
Jim had already turned back to face Chambers when he heard the thud of the empty whiskey jug as it collided with the log wall of the store and bounced unbroken to the floor. He quickly turned back to discover the old man standing now, although none too steadily. His face a twisted mask of rage, apparently because the jug had failed to shatter, he pulled his pistol from his belt and started shooting at the offending vessel. In the close confinement of the store, the shots sounded like cannon fire. Chambers dived for cover behind the rough plank counter as Newt’s slugs slammed into the log walls, each one wildly missing the jug. Chambers’s men came running from all directions, and as soon as Newt’s firing pin clicked on an empty cylinder, they descended upon him, pinning him to the floor. Cursing and flailing like a captured mountain lion, Newt struggled against his captors until he ran out of steam. Subdued at last, he settled unresisting on the floor.
Jim, completely stunned by the wild display that had caught him by surprise, watched in fascination as his friend was restrained. He looked at Chambers, astonished. “Happens every time,” Chambers replied to Jim’s unspoken question. “The man just can’t handle his liquor.” He nodded toward a heavyset man with a bushy black beard who was presently sitting astraddle Newt’s chest. “Broke Blackie’s nose when he was in here a couple of months ago, caught him square in the face with his rifle barrel. Blackie was ready to kill him right then and there, and I reckon he would have if I hadn’t stopped him.”
Jim looked at the man called Blackie. He was a good bit younger than Newt and looked to be three times as big. Then he looked again at Newt. The old man’s eyes were glazed as he stared up helplessly, his arms and legs pinned to the floor with Blackie on top of him. He was spent.
“Are you all right, Newt?” Jim asked. Newt didn’t reply, but blinked a couple of times, then continued to stare at the ceiling. Jim couldn’t help but be reminded of the dazed look of an animal caught in a trap. “Looks to me like it’s all over,” he said to Chambers.
“Not yet it ain’t,” Blackie remarked. His heavy beard was parted now by a wide, surly grin. “I reckon it’s time to teach the old bastard how to behave—time to pay for breakin’ my nose.” He drew his fist back.
“I reckon not,” Jim softly stated. In a flash like a striking rattler, his hand clamped onto Blackie’s wrist, stopping the punch in midair. “Let him up,” he ordered.
Blackie, unaccustomed to being challenged by any man, was startled at first. Then, angry, he strained against Jim’s grip, but found the lean young man’s arm unyielding. Enraged and shamed to find he was unable to overpower this unexpected adversary, he started to reach for a large skinning knife in his belt. With reactions a step faster, Jim drew his newly purchased pistol with his free hand and had the muzzle against Blackie’s ear before the big man cleared his knife from his belt.
Slow to react before, the men holding Newt’s arms and legs suddenly came alive at the sight of the drawn pistol. Quickly now, they scrambled up and stepped back. One of them gave brief consideration to pulling his own pistol, but a warning glance and a slow shake of Jim’s head convinced him it would be folly to try.
Blackie, frozen with his hand still on the handle of his knife, the hard, cool barrel of the pistol bumping his ear, burned inside with anger and humiliation. But he was in no position to resist. Chambers, an astonished spectator up to that point, finally spoke. “Let him up, Blackie.” He then turned to Jim. “No harm done, I reckon, if you’ll just get him the hell outta here before he goes crazy again.”
Jim nodded, still keeping his eye on Blackie. “We’re already on our way.” He took a couple of steps back, the pistol still trained on the big man.
“You’re lucky Chambers is here,” Blackie mumbled in a feeble attempt to save face at having been bested in the standoff. “He’s the boss, so I reckon he saved your ass this time.” He slowly removed his bulky frame from Newt’s chest and got to his feet, his eyes now glowing black coals of hatred.
“Just a little misunderstanding,” Chambers said, directing his words toward his own men. “We don’t want any bloodshed here. When all’s said and done, nobody got killed.” Chambers was a fair man, and he could understand that Jim was doing what he had to. He moved over to stand beside Jim while the young man helped Newt to his feet. “You’ll be all right, young fellow. Nobody’s gonna take a shot at you.” He looked again at Newt, standing reeling and exhausted. “Some people just can’t handle whiskey,” he said. “Mostly it’s the Injuns that go crazy with it. Maybe old Newt’s been living with them Crows too long. You’re welcome back here anytime.” He smiled. “But I don’t reckon I’ll sell Newt any more firewater.”
“Much obliged,” Jim replied, but continued to hold the pistol in his hand. “Come on, Newt,” he said, leading a subdued and confused old man toward the door.
Chambers instructed his men to stay put until Jim and Newt were out of the stockade and on their way. Blackie paced back and forth across the floor, his face twisted and scowling with anger. Finally he stopped and confronted his employer. “We could have jumped that son of a bitch and settled his hash before he got to the door.”
“I told you, that ain’t the way I do things. It was just a little misunderstanding that almost got out of hand—wasn’t worth somebody getting shot over. I don’t want the word spreading that we’re a bunch of outlaws and murderers. We’ll have folks afraid to come trade with us.”
Blackie’s pride was not satisfied by the explanation. “I was just gonna fix the old coot’s nose the way he done mine,” he grumbled. “But I’da kilt that young feller for pulling a gun on me. He was just lucky he sneaked it out on me.”
Chambers laughed. He couldn’t resist chiding his angry employee. “If you’d have been in here when he packed up his plunder, you mighta noticed he hadn’t opened up that box of forty-five cartridges yet. His pistol wasn’t even loaded.”
It was the same as if Chambers had hit him in the head with a limb. Blackie’s face flushed scarlet behind his whiskers, and for a long moment he was speechless. Glaring at the men standing around, he silently dared anyone to make a comment. Knowing his temper, none were foolish enough to remark. Finally words came to him. “You knew that?” he demanded of Chambers.
“I knew,” Chambers calmly replied. “Now let’s everybody get back to their own business.” He stood there watching his men disperse, a sharp eye on the brooding monster who gave him a long, hard stare before turning to do as he was told. The simpleminded brute was going to give him trouble one day. Chambers could feel it in the insolent stare. That may have been a big mistake, he thought. That and that gun-happy Larson—I should have never hired those two. Out of a total complement of just under fifty men, when everybody was in camp, two bad apples were probably nothing to complain about.
* * *
Jim held to a steady pace after leaving Fort Pease behind them. Chambers seemed to be a sensible and coolheaded man, and Jim was convinced that he was sincere in his efforts to preserve peace. Still, there was no sense in taking any chances. Some of his crew didn’t look to be as forgiving as their boss, especially the one called Blackie. For that reason, Jim had planned to keep riding until almost dark before making camp, and he would have, had it not been for Newt.
Still in a daze when Jim helped him climb onto his horse, Newt was fairly wobbling in the saddle, not really fit to ride. Jim had never seen a man so drunk. He was unable to hold the reins, so Jim led his horse and trailed the packhorse behind Newt’s. Before passing through the gates of the stockade, Newt had keeled over forward, lying on his horse’s neck. He seemed secure there, so Jim let him be. Newt rode that way for almost seven miles before sliding over sideways and landing in a heap on the hard, rocky ground. Jim dismounted and walked back to pick him up. A disgusting sight, the old man lay crumpled, sick as a dog. His gray whiskers were streaked with vomit, mixed with red flecks of blood. Glancing up at his horse, Jim saw a long reddish-green trail down the side of the animal’s neck where Newt had vomited before falling off. The poor old man was literally poisoning himself with rotgut whiskey. Jim shook his head sadly at the sight. Too many years of drinking bad whiskey, he supposed.
“Newt,” Jim asked, “can you stand up?” There was no answer from the old trapper. He just lay there as though he were dead. For a moment Jim feared that he was. But then Newt uttered a low moan, and his eyes flickered briefly. “Can you stand up?” Jim asked again. When there was still no response, Jim shrugged and sighed. “All right, then; this is as good a place to camp as any, I reckon.” He reached down and rolled Newt over onto his back. Taking his wrists, he pulled him up on his feet. Then, crouching, he let Newt fall across his shoulder. When he straightened up with the drunken man on his shoulder, the pressure against Newt’s belly caused the poor man to lose the rest of the whiskey down the middle of Jim’s back.
“Damn!” Jim yelped, and came very close to dumping the old man back on the ground. Realizing the damage was already done, however, he told himself that Newt couldn’t help it. So he grabbed his horse’s reins and started walking toward the edge of the river, cursing Newt, and Chambers and his rotgut whiskey.
Selecting a spot among some willows, Jim dropped the reins and started to lower Newt to the ground. He hesitated for a few moments, looking now at the shallow water a few feet away. The foul stench of Newt’s stomach contents served to help him make up his mind. Moving down to the water, he stepped in up to his knees before rolling Newt off his shoulder and dropping him in the current. Newt’s limp body flopped with a loud splash and immediately sank to the bottom. Jim waited for a few seconds, but Newt failed to bob up to the surface. Afraid now that he had drowned the old man, Jim scrambled to pull him up again.
At last showing signs of life, Newt started sputtering and spitting as Jim dragged him up on the bank. “What happened?” Newt asked, his mind in a state of complete confusion.
“You fell in the river,” Jim immediately answered.
“Oh,” Newt replied, bewildered by it all. He rolled over on his side and coughed up some of the river water he had consumed, still fighting a need to vomit again. “Well, much obliged for pulling me out,” he mumbled, and sank back against the cool sand of the bank.
“Anytime,” Jim said with a smile, amazed that the old man had no idea how he happened to land in the river, and seemed not to care one way or the other.
While Newt lay there on the side of the river, apparently having passed out again, Jim peeled off the deerskin shirt that White Feather had made for him and scrubbed the remnants of Newt’s stomach contents from it. When it was as clean as he could get it, he hung it on a willow, spreading the arms to help it dry faster. That done, he glanced again at Newt to make sure the old-timer was still breathing before going about the business of building a fire and scaring up something to eat.
* * *
“They didn’t git far.” Blackie chuckled to himself when he caught sight of a flame in the fading light, flickering through a stand of willows along the riverbank. He drew up on the reins and listened. There was no sound that would indicate that the horses in the camp had discovered his presence. He decided it best to leave his horse there and make his way on foot from that point. Sliding his rifle out of the sling, he stepped down from the saddle and carefully moved through a sparse line of cottonwoods that bordered the willows.
Making his way through the brush as quietly as a man his size could, he stopped suddenly when he spotted something in the trees beside the campfire. It took a few moments before he realized what he was seeing. When it hit him, he grinned, for he recognized the buckskins that Jim Culver was wearing, still new and bright. It was too good a target to pass up. Culver seemed to be standing in front of the fire, his arms spread to each side as if telling some wild story to the man on the ground. Blackie couldn’t have asked for better. He could take care of Culver before the old man could even start to get out of his blankets. Then it would be a pleasure to settle Newt’s hash.
Jim studied the new tin coffee cup in his hand without really turning his mind to it. Sitting with his back to a V-shaped willow trunk, he slowly chewed the last bite of salt pork and let his mind wander to the cabin on the banks of Canyon Creek and a certain young lady who dwelled there. It was the first time in a while that he had allowed his mind to linger in that recess. He had been gone now for much longer than he had planned. He wondered if Lettie might have decided he had left for good. The thought worried his mind, for he realized that he would very much like to see her again. What would stop him from heading out for Canyon Creek the very next day? He glanced over at Newt, still sleeping soundly—only now there was no question that he was alive, unless dead men snored like a bull elk in rutting season. He could see that Newt got back to the village safely, then start out for Canyon Creek. But then thoughts of Johnny Malotte crept into his mind, and he knew he couldn’t go back without Toby and his Winchester. Just the name Johnny Malotte was enough to make his muscles tense, and he knew there was no question where his priorities lay. Further thought on the subject was interrupted by the sudden report of a rifle and the distinct snap of a bullet passing close overhead.
Like a startled mountain cat, Jim was on his belly, his eyes searching the trees behind him, looking for the source of the attack. At first he could see no one, his vision obstructed by the willows between him and the cottonwoods. He glanced up to notice the neat hole through his buckskin shirt. “Damn,” he swore, then immediately returned his gaze to the trees behind him, his pistol ready. Within seconds another shot was fired, and he looked up to discover another hole in his shirt, this one close to the shoulder. “Dammit, that’s enough,” he muttered, his ire totally aroused now. He reached up and pulled the shirt down before their unknown assailant made a sieve out of it. Concerned now for Newt, he looked back to find his friend sleeping through the attack. With what happened in the next few seconds, Jim didn’t have time to alert Newt.
When Blackie saw the shirt disappear from the willows, he naturally assumed he had hit his target. He scrambled up from his position behind a tree and charged through the brush like a runaway moose, intent upon rushing the old man. A man of his immense proportions created a sizable racket as he crashed through the scrub before the river; even so, Jim determined that there was only one assailant, in spite of the noise. So he simply rolled out of his path and waited. His main concern at that point was that Newt might finally awaken and get in the way.
A triumphant grin stretching his thick black beard, Blackie burst into the small clearing, his rifle searching for a target. Seeing Newt still rolled up in his blanket, he brought his rifle to bear on the sleeping man. Before he could take aim to shoot, he heard his name called.
“Blackie!” Jim commanded.
Startled, Blackie jerked his head around to discover Jim lying almost at his feet. His expression of astonishment was forever frozen on his face when Jim pumped three slugs into his chest. Already dead, the huge man stood for a few long moments, his eyes staring but unseeing, before collapsing heavily to the ground. Jim had to roll out of the way to keep from being crushed by the falling body.
After the noisy confusion of the assault, everything was suddenly still, accented by the quiet gurgle of the river’s current. “Son of a bitch,” Jim uttered softly, amazed by the events of the prior few seconds. Hearing grunting sounds from Newt, he glanced over as the old trapper raised himself up on one elbow.
“What’s all the fuss?” Newt inquired, scratching his tangled gray hair. “I swear, whiskey gives a man a terrible thirst.” Paying no attention to the corpse sprawled on the ground no more than fifteen feet from his blanket, the old man crawled down to the edge of the river and dunked his head in the cool water. Jim was too astonished to speak.
“Who the hell’s that?” Newt wanted to know when he staggered back to the campfire.
“That’s what all the fuss was about,” Jim answered, amused that Newt seemingly had no idea what had taken place. “This is your friend Blackie, come to call.”
“Blackie,” Newt replied, showing some concern for the first time. “He’s a mean one. Is he dead?”
“I reckon. He ain’t moved in a while.”
A little steadier on his feet now, Newt walked over to examine the body. He placed a toe in Blackie’s side and attempted to roll him over, but the huge man was too heavy, so he reached down and grabbed him with both hands. After the corpse was faceup, Newt stood over it, staring thoughtfully at the remains of the man he had so thoroughly disliked. “Yessir, he was a mean one. What’s he doin’ here, anyway? Why’d you shoot him?”
“’cause he was fixing to shoot you,” Jim replied. “He’d already put a couple of airholes in my new buckskin shirt.” He held it up for Newt to see.
“Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Newt marveled. He shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, he was a mean one. Some folks is just born with the devil in ’em—don’t know why he would have it in for me, though.”
Jim couldn’t suppress a smile. “Maybe ’cause you broke his nose.”
Newt paused and gave that some thought. “Yeah, maybe, but that was a while back. Just no accountin’ for some folks, I reckon.” He studied the three, holes in Blackie’s chest. “Three holes pretty close together—looks like that pistol you bought shoots pretty straight.”
“Hell, he was almost standing on me. It would have been pretty hard to miss.”
Newt nodded, thinking about the confrontation that took place practically on top of him. “No wonder I woke up,” he muttered to himself.
“We were trying to be as quiet as we could, Blackie and me. We didn’t wanna disturb you if we could help it.” He couldn’t resist teasing the old man.
Jim’s humor was lost on Newt. It was the second time in as many encounters with demon whiskey that he had no recollection of what had occurred during his drunken state. Could be that whiskey was turning on him in his later years. Maybe, he thought, it was time he went back to his Crow village and stayed away from men like Chambers and his rotgut. But he had drunk a riverful of whiskey in his life. It was probably just a bad batch.
* * *
The following morning saw a fully recovered Newt Plummer, one without so much as a grain of remorse for the trouble his drinking had triggered. As far as he could see, the world was a better place without the likes of Blackie, and he was more than a little puzzled with Jim’s concern over the disposal of the huge body. “Hell, the buzzards and the wolves will take care of it,” he said, unable to understand Jim’s need to justify his actions. “A man ain’t held to account for it when he kills a rattlesnake.”
Jim could understand that his concern was highly unusual in a land where every man was his own judge and jury. But he had never killed a man unless that man had tried to kill him, and he felt it his responsibility to inform the company of traders at Fort Pease of the circumstances of Blackie’s demise. Against Newt’s argument that it didn’t make a fart’s worth of difference in a tornado, Jim held that he wanted it clearly understood that Blackie had jumped them, and not the other way around. For that reason he deemed it necessary to deliver Blackie’s body back to Fort Pease and let Chambers know how the man had met his death—and why Jim now claimed Blackie’s horse and rifle. Jim reasoned that he needed both, and since the rifle had been used in an attempt to take his life, and the horse delivered his assailant, then the two rightfully belonged to him. Newt still thought it to be a waste of time. But he helped him heft the heavy corpse onto Blackie’s horse and dutifully followed him back toward Fort Pease, the arms and legs of the stiffened body protruding on either side like oars from a rowboat.
* * *
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Chambers murmured as he walked out the door. He didn’t have to be told that the stiffened body lying across the packhorse was that of the missing Blackie. “So that’s where he went.” Chambers strode out to meet the two riders.
No one had noticed when Blackie rode out the day before shortly after Jim and Newt had departed. And he wasn’t missed early this morning. The sullen giant had few friends among the men of the company, Daniel Larson being the only one who had much to do with him. The other men kept their distance from the two bullies as much as possible—Blackie because of his intimidating size and mean streak, Larson because of his lightning-fast gun and his eagerness to have a reason to pull it. Blackie always had a habit of being scarce when the morning chores were being done. It wasn’t until breakfast that his absence was discovered, for Blackie seldom missed a meal.
Since most of the men were away, cutting firewood for the coming winter, there were only half a dozen left to greet the two riders. Jim pulled up in the middle of the small courtyard and waited while Chambers and the others gathered around him. Newt held back a respectable distance with the packhorses just in case there might be trouble and he had to cover his partner’s back.
“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Chambers remarked casually while he moved past Jim to take a closer look at Blackie’s corpse. “Shot through the chest,” he said after a moment. Then he walked back to stand beside Jim’s stirrup and waited for the explanation. It did not escape his notice that Jim had exchanged his Indian saddle for Blackie’s. Chambers was a sensible man, and he had a fair idea of what had taken place. Blackie had obviously decided to take revenge, and it had cost him his life. It didn’t figure that Jim Culver would have brought the body back if it hadn’t happened that way, and he and Newt had lain in ambush for Blackie. Chambers couldn’t help but think he should thank Jim for taking care of a problem for him down the road.
“He jumped us and there wasn’t much choice but to shoot him,” Jim said. “I brought him back to let you know what happened, I reckon so you could bury him if you wanted to.” He sat there while Chambers’s men moved in closer to gawk at the body. “Anyway,” he continued, “we’ll be moving on now.” He pulled his horse around until he was beside Blackie’s horse. When he was even with the head, he reached over and shoved the body off of the horse’s back. Rigid in death, Blackie’s corpse landed on its feet and seemed to pause upright for a long moment, his evil scowl glaring unseeing, causing the few men closest to jump back, aghast. It was only for a second; then the massive body keeled over to land heavily, like a felled cottonwood. Jim touched his finger to his forehead in a casual salute to Chambers and started to leave. There was one, however, who was not ready to accept Jim’s explanation.
“Hold on!” Larson called out, and grabbed hold of Jim’s bridle. “You’ve got a heap more explaining to do, mister. You can’t just come riding in here with poor Blackie’s body and some tall tale about him jumping you. Blackie was a pretty stout man. I’d say you’da had to shoot him in the back. Might be that you and that old rumhead there murdered him for his horse and rifle.” He glanced around him to see if his argument was garnering support from the others. There was no evidence of commitment to his cause. Most of the men felt it good riddance to be done with the sullen bully.
Jim took a moment to take stock of this new threat. He noted the pistol carried in a holster that rode just about even with the man’s right hand. The leather was oiled and polished. He addressed Larson’s accusations then in a calm and even tone. “Any fool can see he was shot in the chest. It happened like I said, and now I’m done with it.” He attempted to pull his pony’s muzzle away from Larson’s grasp, but Larson held on, obviously working himself up for a confrontation.
“Let it go, Larson,” Chambers commanded. “Blackie made a mistake and paid for it. It was gonna happen sooner or later, anyway.”
Larson was reluctant. “Dammit, Chambers,” he whined, “you’re lettin’ a man get away with murder here.” Turning his hostile glare to Jim again, he challenged, “I’ll just take that there rifle you stole, and that horse, too.”
Jim was already tired of Larson’s complaints, but he maintained his calm. “I’m claiming the horse and the rifle as payment for these two holes in my shirt.” For emphasis, he cocked the rifle. “I’ll ask you to let go of that bridle unless you wanna lose that hand.”
Larson flared angrily and briefly considered reaching for his pistol. The sound of Newt cocking his rifle behind him was enough to give him pause, however, and he realized the foolishness of trying to make a move. Reluctantly he released Jim’s bridle and stepped back, but he wasn’t finished. Just as Jim had looked him over, Larson had pretty much sized Jim up as well. The tall man in buckskins might be handy with a rifle, and even with the bow he wore across his back. But Larson figured Jim, like most mountain men, had little use for his pistol. Added to that, the pistol was new, and Jim had not even had enough sense to load it right away, pulling an empty gun on Blackie the day before. Larson almost smiled at the thought. Men the likes of Jim Culver were just what he was looking for. A man could build a reputation on men like Jim Culver. After all, he had killed Blackie, as mean a son of a bitch as ever lived.
“Mister,” Larson said, “you’re mighty damn brave when you’ve got a rifle on a man, and another’n behind him.” He took a couple more steps back to give himself room, pulling his coat back from his holster. “Now I’m callin’ you out, you back-shootin’ son of a bitch. You’ve got a pistol. Step down off’n that horse, and let’s see if you’re man enough to use it.” He glanced back at Newt. “And keep that old fart out of it. This ain’t none of his affair.”
Being the sensible man that he was, Chambers was quick to step in. “Now hold on, Larson; there ain’t no call for this. You know Blackie better than most of us. You know he was spoiling for a fight.”
“Stay out of it, Chambers,” Larson ordered. “This is between me and this murdering son of a bitch. I’m callin’ him out fair and square, man to man.” He turned back to Jim. “How ’bout it, back-shooter? You either throw that rifle down and hightail it outta here on that Injun pony, or stand up to me like a man.”
Chambers wasn’t willing to see what he knew would amount to murder. He pleaded with Jim. “Turn around and ride out of here, son. It ain’t a fair fight. Larson’s as fast as greased lightning with that pistol. He practices with it all the time. There won’t be any shame in riding out.”
Jim, silent to Larson’s challenge up to that point, smiled at Chambers and said, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be happy to accommodate this jackass.” Taking his time to dismount, he glanced over at Newt. “It’ll be all right, Newt. No need to take part in this. You just hold my horse over there. I don’t wanna take a chance on this jackass hitting him with a stray bullet.” His remark was met with a snide smile from Larson as he squared himself and got ready to draw.
Talking to Chambers, Jim said, “First, we’ve gotta set some rules.”
“Rules?” Larson exclaimed. “We don’t need no rules except you go for your gun and I’ll go for mine.”
“When you call a man out, I figure you mean to have a face-off, fair and square. I believe that’s what you said, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Larson replied, anxious to get on with it, “fair and square.”
“All right then,” Jim went on. “I see you don’t carry a bow. I’m pretty damn handy with a bow, so it wouldn’t be a fair fight if I insisted on bows and arrows. Same thing with pistols. I don’t practice shooting a pistol, and according to what Chambers just told me, you practice all the time.”
“What is this shit?” Larson interrupted, thinking Jim was trying to talk his way out of fighting him. “You ain’t gittin’ outta this now. You’ve done run your mouth off about standin’ up to me.”
“Oh, we’re gonna fight,” Jim assured him. “We’re just gonna have a fair fight, that’s all.” He looked at Chambers. “You can be the judge. “We’re both right-handed. So the only fair way to do it is to take some rope and tie our right arms behind us. Then we’ll both draw left-handed.”
Chambers almost laughed out loud. “By God, that’s fair enough, all right.” He turned to the men gathered around watching the drama. “Boys, somebody get me some rope.” There was an immediate scramble as several started to run toward the corral at the same time, anxious to comply. There was no one among them who had any use for Larson, and this fight had the makings for a promising outcome.
Standing dumbfounded for a moment, Larson finally found his voice. “What the hell . . . Wait a damn minute! I ain’t drawing left-handed.”
Newt chimed in. “What’s the matter, Larson? Seems fair to me. You’ve got just as good a chance as Jim has. Be a good time to find out what kinda guts you’ve got.”
Larson had no immediate reply. His brain was in a total state of confusion, and he began to fidget, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. In no time at all, one of the men was back with a couple of coils of rope. Jim’s confident smile, as he stepped forward and placed his arm behind him, didn’t serve to bolster Larson’s confidence. Jim’s arm was already in the process of being tied by the time one of the other men approached Larson and reached for his right arm.
“I’ll be damned,” Larson muttered, and jerked away from him. Shoving the man aside, he went for his gun. He was fast, but his pistol had not cleared the holster when Newt’s rifle ball smashed into his breastbone, knocking him backward. Flat on his back, Larson strained to raise his pistol. A second shot from Newt’s rifle split his forehead, and the belligerent bully lay still.
In the confusion that followed, Jim quickly freed his right arm and drew his pistol, ready to meet any counterattack toward Newt. There was none, the men gathered there having been shocked into stunned paralysis by the sudden gunfire. After a few moments, it became apparent that there was no thought of retribution. Such was the level of contempt the men of the company held for the late Daniel Larson.
“I reckon we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Newt remarked softly as Jim stepped up in the saddle.
Jim immediately turned his pony and slowly backed it toward the gate, keeping a wary eye on the handful of men watching him. While Jim led Blackie’s horse toward the entrance, Newt moved over to the gate and stood covering him.
“I’ve got no quarrel with you, Chambers,” Jim said in parting. “But if another one of your men comes after us, I ain’t gonna take the time to bring him back—just so you know.”
“I know,” Chambers answered. “We’ve got no quarrel.” He looked around him at the rest of his men. “I don’t think anybody here can say that Larson didn’t bring it on himself.”
When they had cleared the stockade, Newt reined his horse back and waited for Jim to come alongside. “I reckon you must be pretty good with your left hand to come up with a slick stunt like that.”
“Hell, no,” Jim replied. “I’d have probably shot myself in the foot.”