Chapter 16: Gunfight

 

Mac and Joel purchased food, nails, and ammunition at one of the stores Nate had recommended, then steered their horses and mules out of the fort and toward their claim. On the first evening after leaving the fort, they made camp by a small stream and started a fire. The woods around them rustled in the autumn wind.

As they finished eating, a tree branch cracked. “Think a raccoon wants to share our supper?” Joel asked, nodding in the direction of the sound.

“I hope that’s all it is,” Mac said. “There was a man on the trail this afternoon. Kept an even distance behind us. When we stopped, he stopped. We might be in for trouble.”

“We’re rid of our gold now. No reason for anyone to follow us.”

“Unless they want to know where we found gold and are tracking us back to our claim. Or maybe they want the horses.” Mac stood up. “I think we should stand guard tonight.”

Joel snorted. “Still trying to be trail boss, ain’t you?”

Mac didn’t want to argue. “I’ll take the first watch.” He picked up his gun and moved away from the fire into the shadows. “I’ll wake you later.”

Mac sat quietly while Joel slept. Maybe he was being overly cautious. They didn’t have anything except food to steal. And two horses and the mules. But whoever was following hadn’t approached them to share a camp for the night. Maybe the man was merely a loner, not a thief. Still, a little vigilance couldn’t hurt.

Mac woke Joel shortly after midnight. Joel grudgingly sat guard. Mac slept lightly and awoke at first light. “Might as well head out,” he said. “We’ll be back to the claim about midday if we start now.”

They traveled quickly. Mac kept an eye out for other men on the trail, but saw no sign of followers.

Mac and Joel arrived at their mining shack not long after noon. Huntington came running out of a ravine. “Found a new lode. A pure vein and nuggets a-plenty,” Huntington shouted. “Up this here gully.” He gestured back toward the ravine he’d just exited.

A shot rang out from behind Mac. Huntington’s hat blew off his head. The old man dropped to the ground and rolled behind a clump of trees.

“Take cover,” Mac yelled. He jumped off Valiente, grabbed his rifle, and ducked behind a large rock.

Joel hid behind a boulder near Mac. “You were right,” he said. “We were followed. But I never saw ’em today.”

More shots sounded across the clearing. Bullets twanged into rocks and chips flew. Valiente, Joel’s gelding, and the mules still laden with provisions bolted into the woods.

Then the clearing went quiet, but Mac knew the bandits were still there. He thought there were three attackers, but he wasn’t positive. “Can you see anything?” he whispered.

Joel shook his head.

It felt like forever, but could only have been a minute or two before Mac saw a hat poke out from behind a tree. It looked like the beaver hat their recent foppish visitor had worn.

A rifle barrel followed the hat. Mac aimed right beneath the gun barrel and took his shot.

A man cried out, then toppled to the ground near the tree.

Mac quickly reloaded his gun rifle as a volley of shots sounded. Gunsmoke rose from behind two trees—only two attackers left, he assumed.

“I’m going around behind ’em,” Joel said in a low voice. “Cover me.”

“Stay down,” Mac hissed. He stuck his rifle out over the rock, raised his head slightly, and aimed near a tree where he thought the shots came from.

Huntington stood up and yelled, firing his pistol. In response, a shadow moved in the trees. Mac took another shot.

A man screamed. The rustle of feet followed by thundering hooves sounded through the brush. A horse whinnied, and a man on horseback hurtled through the trees. Another man scrambled away, firing back toward them, until Mac heard a second horse gallop off.

Joel appeared at the edge of the clearing beside the first man Mac had shot. “He’s dead,” he said in disgust. “Other two got away. No telling who they were.”

“Dead?” Mac’s throat went dry. “I killed him?” He looked down at the body. “It’s our visitor from a few weeks back. There’s his beaver hat.” It was lying on the ground beside the dead dandy.

Huntington ran up beside Mac and Joel. “You done some fine shootin’, boys.” He clapped Mac on the back.

Mac’s gut lurched, and he barely kept his breakfast down.

“I knew you’d be good pardners,” Huntington continued. “McDougall, you shot him square in the chest. He went down like a felled tree.”

“Either of you remember his name? Jones, was it?” Mac asked. “Tobias?”

Joel and Huntington shook their heads. “Don’t matter, now he’s dead,” Joel said.

Mac looked through the man’s pockets. No letters, not even a lock of braided hair. “We’d best bury him,” he said.

“Wonder who his pals were,” Joel said. “One was a big fellow. Might have been the surly bastard with this ’un when he was here before.” He tapped the body with his foot. “Smith, was it?”

Mac and Joel went after their horses and mules. When they returned with their animals, the three partners dug a grave at the side of the clearing away from their shed. As they hacked through the tree roots and rocky ground, Huntington recounted the battle over and over. Before they moved the body, Huntington removed the dead man’s boots and clapped the beaver hat on his own head. “Too bad you shot up his vest,” Huntington said. “It’s a nice brocade.”

“What are you doing?” Mac asked, pausing to lean on his shovel and wipe his forehead.

“Haven’t been in a gunfight since thirty-six.” Huntington chortled and held up the boots. “These’ll make a nice trophy. Bring us luck, for sure.”

Mac still felt queasy when they lowered the body into the ground. Luck? He’d killed a man.

He’d been in skirmishes as a soldier in the Oregon militia, but he was only sure of killing one man before—on the day he’d met Jenny in Arrow Rock, Missouri. He and Valiente had ridden into town and stopped at the tavern Jenny’s stepfather owned. Two men harassed Jenny as she cleared the table after dinner. When Mac tried to stop them, one pulled a gun. Mac shot then in self-defense, just like today, but it didn’t make the killing any easier.

The partners kept watch all night, in case the remaining bandits returned. After Mac climbed in his bedroll, he couldn’t sleep. He lay wide-eyed, worrying again whether he’d done the right thing taking Jenny away from her home. She needed to leave Arrow Rock, but he’d brought her all the way to Oregon, only to abandon her. He wondered how she was doing on the farm.

“Joel?” Mac called in the dark.

“Huh?” Joel grunted.

“Have you heard from your family?”

“Nope. Sent another letter to Pa from Sutter’s, telling him to write me care of the fort. They ain’t known where to write before. Did you write Miz Jenny?”

“No.”

The next morning Mac was up early. He sat beside the stream with a mug of coffee and his journal.

 

September 1, 1848. I killed a man yesterday in a fight over our claim. He attacked us, but this killing was no easier than my first. Gold takes plenty out of a man, from both body and soul.

After the gunfight, the three partners kept their rifles beside them while they worked. But there was no more trouble.

“I wonder who the two men what run off were,” Huntington mused. “You ain’t seen ’em at the fort?”

“Not to notice,” Mac said. He wished Huntington would let the matter drop. He’d been justified in defending himself, his partners, and their claim, but Mac still didn’t like having killed the dandified thief.

Huntington coughed and spat. “Wonder why they picked on us.”

“Maybe because you yelled about finding a new lode,” Mac replied.