Collection 1990 - Grub Line Rider (v5.0) Read online

  Prince swung his gun up, and Sabre’s left palm slapped down, knocking the gun aside and gripping the hand across the thumb. His right hand came up under the gun barrel, twisting it back over and out of McCarran’s hands. Then he shoved him back and dropped the gun, slapping him across the mouth with his open palm.

  It was a free swing, and it cracked like a pistol shot. McCarran’s face went white from the blow, and he rushed, swinging, but Sabre brought up his knee in the charging man’s groin. Then he smashed him in the face with his elbow, pushing him over and back. McCarran dived past him, blood streaming from his crushed nose, and grabbed wildly at the papers. His hand came up with a bulldog .41.

  Matt saw the hand shoot for the papers, and, even as the .41 appeared, his own gun was lifting. He fired first, three times, at a range of four feet.

  Prince McCarran stiffened, lifted to his tiptoes, then plunged over on his face, and lay still among the litter of papers and broken glass.

  Sabre swayed drunkenly. He recalled what Sikes had said about the desk. He caught the edge and jerked it aside, swinging the desk away from the wall. Behind it was a small panel with a knob. It was locked, but a bullet smashed the lock. He jerked it open. Athick wad of bills, a small sack of gold coins, a sheaf of papers.

  A glance sufficed. These were the papers Simpson had mentioned. The thick parchment of the original grant, the information on the conflicting Sonoma grant, and then…He glanced swiftly through them, then, at a pound of horses’ hoofs, he stuffed them inside his shirt. He stopped, stared. His shirt was soaked with blood.

  Fumbling, he got the papers into his pocket, then stared down at himself. Sikes had hit him. Funny, he had never felt it. Only a shock, a numbness. Now Reed was coming back.

  Catching up a sawed-off express shotgun, he started for the door, weaving like a drunken man. He never even got to the door.

  The sound of galloping horses was all he could hear—galloping horses, and then a faint smell of something that reminded him of a time he had been wounded in North Africa. His eyes flickered open, and the first thing he saw was a room’s wall with the picture of a man with muttonchop whiskers and spectacles.

  He turned his head and saw Jenny Curtin watching him. “So? You’ve decided to wake up. You’re getting lazy, Matt. Mister Sabre. On the ranch you always were the first one up.”

  He stared at her. She had never looked half so charming, and that was bad. It was bad because it was time to be out of here and on a horse.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Only about a day and a half. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “What happened at the ranch? Did Keys get there in time?”

  “Yes, and I stayed. The others left right away.”

  “You stayed?”

  “The others,” she said quietly, “went down the road about two miles. There were Camp Gordon, Tom Judson, Pepito, and Keys. And Rado, of course. They went down the road while I stood out in the ranch yard and let them see me. The boys ambushed them.”

  “Was it much of a fight?”

  “None at all. The surprise was so great that they broke and ran. Only three weren’t able, and four were badly wounded.”

  “You found the papers? Including the one about McCarran sending the five thousand in marked bills to El Paso?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “We found that. He planned on having Billy arrested and charged with theft. He planned that, and then, if he got killed, so much the better. It was only you he didn’t count on.”

  “No.” Matt Sabre stared at his hands, strangely white now. “He didn’t count on me.”

  So it was all over now. She had her ranch, she was a free woman, and people would leave her alone. There was only one thing left. He had to tell her. To tell her that he was the one who had killed her husband.

  He turned his head on the pillow. “One thing more,” he began. “I…”

  “Not now. You need rest.”

  “Wait. I have to tell you this. It’s about…about Billy.”

  “You mean that you…you were the one who…?”

  “Yes, I…” He hesitated, reluctant at last to say it.

  “I know. I know you did, Matt. I’ve known from the beginning, even without all the things you said.”

  “I talked when I was delirious?”

  “A little. But I knew, Matt. Call it intuition, anything you like, but I knew. You see, you told me how his eyes were when he was drawing his gun. Who could have known that but the man who shot him?”

  “I see.” His face was white. “Then I’d better rest. I’ve got some traveling to do.”

  She was standing beside him. “Traveling? Do you have to go on, Matt? From all you said last night, I thought…I thought”— her face flushed—“maybe you…didn’t want to travel any more. Stay with us, Matt, if you want to. We would like to have you, and Billy’s been asking for you. He wants to know where his spurs are.”

  After a while, he admitted carefully: “Well, I guess I should stay and see that he gets them. A fellow should always make good on his promises to kids, I reckon.”

  “You’ll stay, then? You won’t leave?”

  Matt stared up at her. “I reckon,” he said quietly, “I’ll never leave unless you send me away.”

  She smiled and touched his hair. “Then you’ll be here a long time, Mathurin Sabre…a very long time.”

  War Party

  We buried Pa on a side hill out west of camp, buried him high up so his ghost could look down the trail he’d planned to travel.

  We piled the grave high with rocks because of the coyotes, and we dug the grave deep, and some of it I dug myself, and Mr. Sampson helped, and some others.

  Folks in the wagon train figured Ma would turn back, but they hadn’t known Ma so long as I had. Once she set her mind to something, she wasn’t about to quit.

  She was a young woman and pretty, but there was strength in her. She was a lone woman with two children, but she was of no mind to turn back. She’d come through the Little Crow massacre in Minnesota and she knew what trouble was. Yet it was like her that she put it up to me.

  “Bud,” she said, when we were alone, “we can turn back, but we’ve nobody there who cares about us, and it’s of you and Jeanie that I’m thinking. If we go West, you will have to be the man of the house, and you’ll have to work hard to make up for Pa.”

  “We’ll go West,” I said. Aboy those days took it for granted that he had work to do, and the men couldn’t do it all. No boy ever thought of himself as only twelve or thirteen or whatever he was, being anxious to prove himself and take a man’s place and responsibilities.

  Ryerson and his wife were going back. She was a complaining woman and he was a man who was always ailing when there was work to be done. Four or five wagons were turning back, folks with their tails betwixt their legs running for the shelter of towns where their own littleness wouldn’t stand out so plain.

  When a body crossed the Mississippi and left the settlements behind, something happened to him. The world seemed to bust wide open, and suddenly the horizons spread out and a man wasn’t cramped any more. The pinched-up villages and the narrowness of towns, all that was gone. The horizons simply exploded and rolled back into the enormous distance, with nothing around but prairie and sky.

  Some folks couldn’t stand it. They’d cringe into

  themselves and start hunting excuses to go back where they came from. This was a big country needing big men and women to live in it, and there was no place out here for the frightened or the mean.

  The prairie and sky had a way of trimming folks down to size, or changing them to giants to whom nothing seemed impossible. Men who had cut a wide swath back in the States found themselves nothing out here. They were folks who were used to doing a lot of talking who suddenly found that no one was listening any more, and things that seemed mighty important back home, like family and money, they amounted to nothing alongside character and courage.

  There was John
Sampson from our town. He was a man used to being told to do things, used to looking up to wealth and power, but when he crossed the Mississippi, he began to lift his head and look around. He squared his shoulders, put more crack to his whip, and began to make his own tracks in the land.

  Pa was always strong, an independent man given to reading at night from one of the four or five books we had, to speaking up on matters of principle, and to straight shooting with a rifle. Pa had fought the Comanches and lived with the Sioux, but he wasn’t strong enough to last more than two days with a Kiowa arrow through his lung. But he died knowing Ma had stood by the rear wheel and shot the Kiowa whose arrow was in him.

  Right then I knew that neither Indians nor country was going to get the better of Ma. Shooting that Kiowa was the first time Ma had shot anything but some chicken-killing varmint—which she’d done time to time when Pa was away from home.

  Only Ma wouldn’t let Jeanie and me call it home. “We came here from Illinois,” she said, “but we’re going home now.”

  “But Ma,” I protested, “I thought home was where we came from?”

  “Home is where we’re going now,” Ma said, “and we’ll know it when we find it. Now that Pa is gone, we’ll have to build that home ourselves.”

  She had a way of saying home so it sounded like a rare and wonderful place and kept Jeanie and me looking always at the horizon, just knowing it was over there, waiting for us to see it. She had given us the dream, and even Jeanie, who was only six, she had it, too.

  She might tell us that home was where we were

  going, but I knew home was where Ma was, a warm and friendly place with biscuits on the table and fresh-made butter. We wouldn’t have a real home until Ma was there and we had a fire going. Only I’d build the fire.

  Mr. Buchanan, who was captain of the wagon train, came to us with Tryon Burt, who was guide. “We’ll help you,” Mr. Buchanan said. “I know you’ll be wanting to go back, and…”

  “But we are not going back.” Ma smiled at them. “And don’t be afraid we’ll be a burden. I know you have troubles of your own, and we will manage very well.”

  Mr. Buchanan looked uncomfortable, like he was trying to think of the right thing to say. “Now, see here,” he protested, “we started this trip with a rule. There has to be a man with every wagon.”

  Ma put her hand on my shoulder. “I have my man. Bud is almost thirteen and accepts responsibility. I could ask for no better man.”

  Ryerson came up. He was thin, stooped in the shoulder, and, whenever he looked at Ma, there was a greasy look to his eyes that I didn’t like. He was a man who looked dirty even when he’d just washed in the creek. “You come along with me, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  “Mister Ryerson”—Ma looked him right in the eye—“you have a wife who can use better care than she’s getting, and I have my son.”

  “He’s nothin’ but a boy.”

  “You are turning back, are you not? My son is going on. I believe that should indicate who is more the man. It is neither size nor age that makes a man, Mister Ryerson, but something he has inside. My son has it.”

  Ryerson might have said something unpleasant only Tryon Burt was standing there wishing he would, so he just looked ugly and hustled off.

  “I’d like to say you could come,” Mr. Buchanan said, “but the boy couldn’t stand up to a man’s work.”

  Ma smiled at him, chin up, the way she had. “I do not believe in gambling, Mister Buchanan, but I’ll wager a good Ballard rifle there isn’t a man in camp who could follow a child all day, running when it runs, squatting when it squats, bending when it bends, and wrestling when it wrestles, and not be played out long before the child is.”

  “You may be right, ma’am, but a rule is a rule.”

  “We are in Indian country, Mister Buchanan. If you are killed a week from now, I suppose your wife must return to the States?”

  “That’s different! Nobody could turn back from there!”

  “Then,” Ma said sweetly, “it seems a rule is only a rule within certain limits, and, if I recall correctly, no such limit was designated in the articles of travel. Whatever limits there were, Mister Buchanan, must have been passed sometime before the Indian attack that killed my husband.”

  “I can drive the wagon, and so can Ma,” I said. “For the past two days I’ve been driving, and nobody said anything until Pa died.”

  Mr. Buchanan didn’t know what to say, but a body could see he didn’t like it. Nor did he like a woman who talked up to him the way Ma did.

  Tryon Burt spoke up. “Let the boy drive. I’ve watched this youngster, and he’ll do. He has better judgment than most men in the outfit, and he stands up to his work. If need be, I’ll help.”

  Mr. Buchanan turned around and walked off with his back stiff the way it is when he’s mad. Ma looked at Burt, and she said: “Thank you, Mister Burt. That was nice of you.”

  Try Burt, he got all red around the gills and took off like somebody had put a burr under his saddle.

  Come morning, our wagon was the second one ready to take its place in line, with both horses saddled and tied behind the wagon, and me standing beside the off ox.

  Any direction a man wanted to look, there was nothing but grass and sky, only sometimes there’d be a buffalo wallow or a gopher hole. We made eleven miles the first day after Pa was buried, sixteen the next, then nineteen, thirteen, and twenty-one. At no time did the country change. On the sixth day after Pa died I killed a buffalo.

  It was a young bull, but a big one, and I spotted him coming up out of a draw and was off my horse and bellied down in the grass before Try Burt realized there was game in sight. That bull came up from the draw and stopped there, staring at the wagon train, which was a half mile off. Setting a sight behind his left shoulder, I took a long breath, took in the trigger slack, then squeezed off my shot so gentle-like the gun jumped in my hands before I was ready for it.

  The bull took a step back like something had surprised him, and I jacked another shell into the chamber and was sighting on him again when he went down on his knees, and rolled over on his side.

  “You got him, Bud!” Burt was more excited than I. “That was shootin’!”

  Try got down and showed me how to skin the bull, and lent me a hand. Then we cut out a lot of fresh meat and toted it back to the wagons.

  Ma was at the fire when we came up, a wisp of brown hair alongside her cheek and her face flushed from the heat of the fire, looking as pretty as a bay pony.

  “Bud killed his first buffalo,” Burt told her, looking at Ma like he could eat her with a spoon.

  “Why, Bud! That’s wonderful!” Her eyes started to dance with a kind of mischief in them, and she said: “Bud, why don’t you take a piece of that meat along to Mister Buchanan and the others?”

  With Burt to help, we cut the meat into eighteen pieces and distributed it around the wagons. It wasn’t much, but it was the first fresh meat in a couple of weeks.

  John Sampson squeezed my shoulder and said: “Seems to me you and your Ma are folks to travel with. This outfit needs some hunters.”

  Each night I staked out that buffalo hide, and each day I worked at curing it before rolling it up to pack on the wagon. Believe you me, I was some proud of that buffalo hide. Biggest thing I’d shot until then was a cottontail rabbit back in Illinois, where we lived when I was born. Try Burt told folks about that shot. “Two hundred yards,” he’d say, “right through the heart.”

  Only it wasn’t more than 150 yards the way I figured, and Pa used to make me pace off distances, so I’d learn to judge right. But I was nobody to argue with Try Burt telling a story—besides, 200 yards makes an awful lot better sound than 150.

  After supper, the menfolks would gather to talk plans. The season was late, and we weren’t making the time we ought if we hoped to beat the snow through the passes of the Sierras. When they talked, I was there because I was the man of my wagon, but nobody pa
id me no mind. Mr. Buchanan, he acted like he didn’t see me, but John Sampson would and Try Burt always smiled at me.

  Several spoke up for turning back, but Mr. Buchanan said he knew of an outfit that made it through later than this. One thing was sure. Our wagon wasn’t turning back. Like Ma said, home was somewhere ahead of us, and back in the States we’d have no money and nobody to turn to, nor any relatives, anywhere. It was the three of us.

  “We’re going on,” I said at one of these talks. “We don’t figure to turn back for anything.”

  Webb gave me a glance full of contempt. You’ll go where the rest of us go. You an’ your Ma would play hob gettin’ by on your own.”

  Next day it rained, dawn to dark it fairly poured, and we were lucky to make six miles. Day after that, with the wagon wheels sinking into the prairie and the rain still falling, we camped just two miles from where we started in the morning.

  Nobody talked much around the fires, and what was said was apt to be short and irritable. Most of these folks had put all they owned into the outfits they had, and, if they turned back now, they’d have nothing to live on and nothing left to make a fresh start. Except a few like Mr. Buchanan, who was well off.

  “It doesn’t have to be California,” Ma said once. “What most of us want is land, not gold.”

  “This here is Indian country,” John Sampson said, “and a sight too open for me. I’d like a valley in the hills, with running water close by.”

  “There will be valleys and meadows,” Ma replied, stirring the stew she was making, “and tall trees near running streams, and tall grass growing in the meadows, and there will be game in the forest and on the grassy plains, and places for homes.”

  “And where will we find all that?” Webb’s tone was slighting.

  “West,” Ma said, “over against the mountains.”

  “I suppose you’ve been there?” Webb scoffed.

  “No, Mister Webb, I haven’t been there, but I’ve been told of it. The land is there, and we will have some of it, my children and I, and we will stay through the winter, and in the spring we will plant our crops.”