Novel 1963 - How The West Was Won (v5.0) Read online

  Was the bullet inside him? He felt cautiously for a bullet hole where it might have come out, and found none. Then he touched a lump pushing hard against the skin…a broken rib? He felt again.

  It was the bullet…he could not feel it properly and could not see it, but he was sure it was the bullet.

  Cautiously, he crawled from under the dead-fall and pulled himself erect. His back was stiff, probably as much from caked blood as anything. He knelt and picked up his spare gun; then, leaning against the dead-fall, he reloaded the empty chambers.

  His mind was curiously clear, but it seemed to work very slowly—too slowly.

  Suddenly, through the trees, he saw his mustang feeding out on the meadow near the stream. There were several horses there together, at least one of them saddled.

  He worked his way through the trees until he could get a glimpse of the campsite. Nothing stirred there. He could make out objects though not colors. The sun would be coming up in a few minutes. He waited, keeping his eyes on the campsite.

  Zeke Ralls…what had happened to him? It wasn’t going to be a bad thing if that grizzly had got him. A grizzly at close range was nothing to trifle with—why, that one looked big enough to weigh eight, nine hundred pounds.

  Might save Zeb and Julie a peck of trouble, sometime, if that grizzly had gone for Zeke. He was thoroughly bad…would even kill kinfolk. Now, that wasn’t right, even in a murdering skunk like Zeke Ralls.

  Now, that old man…the other one. If anybody made it out of this, it would be him. He was off to one side and in the dark.

  It grew lighter. Jethro’s throat was dry and his head ached. He ought to be resting and treating that wound. The Shoshones, now. They had some sort of herb…or was it the Pimas? He couldn’t remember.

  He moved up to the camp, which was a shambles…looked like a hurricane had struck it.

  Red was the first one he saw, his face torn half away by one great swipe of a taloned paw. Badly mauled, Red lay as he had fallen…must have died within minutes.

  The Kid was dead, too. Jethro’s bullet had cut right through him—right through the heart by the look of it.

  Jethro held himself close to a tree and looked around slowly.

  Two more…now, where were they? He strained his eyes into the darkness under the trees, but he could see nothing beyond the two bodies which lay where the dim light fell.

  He told himself that he should care for his wound, then get on a horse and start back to Harvey’s place. Yet even as he thought it, he knew he did not want to go back. He had come here to stay, and stay he would.

  Slowly the light filtered through the trees. Birds were singing in the brush along the stream, and somewhere down the valley an elk bugled. There was no sign of the bear.

  His packs had been tumbled down, and one had been ripped open. Then he saw his Winchester leaning against a tree and started forward.

  He had almost reached it when a voice said, “I thought that would do it.”

  Jethro still held the spare six-shooter in his right hand. It hung down beside his leg, and there was a chance Zeke had not seen it. For it was Zeke.

  “You take a horse,” Jethro said, “and ride out of here. You’ve got no reason to kill me.”

  “You brought that bear down on us. You done it a-purpose.”

  Jethro said nothing. There was nothing that could be said, and he felt a curious lack of interest. He strained his eyes into the shadows, trying to locate Zeke Ralls.

  “Sure,” he said at last, wanting to make Zeke speak again, “I knew he was there. But you were fixing to kill me.”

  He cleared his throat. “You take a horse and ride out of here,” he said once more.

  Why didn’t Zeke shoot, if he was going to? Jethro waited, but there was no further sound. The sun was showing above the mountaintop now, and the snow along the far ridge was bright, dazzling to the eyes.

  He sat down where he was, holding the pistol across his lap. Suddenly, a shot exploded, and instantly, Jethro fired. He fired, and fired again.

  Silence.…

  That shot had had an odd sound.

  Jethro got to his feet by clinging to the tree trunk, and holding the gun ready, he walked across the small opening. Zeke was sitting against a fallen log, and he was dead. The shot had been fired into the ground, probably by the final contraction of his fingers.

  The grizzly had done its work well. One leg was horribly lacerated and the ground was dark with blood. Zeke’s left arm was askew, obviously broken. Jethro’s two bullets had both scored, but he had shot into a dead man.

  He got a fire going and put on the coffee pot. He took his Winchester and placed it on the ground beside him, and he hung a blanket over his shoulders, for he felt chilled from the long night. He was going to have some coffee to set him up, and then he’d have a look at that wound. He’d get that bullet out of him and treat the wound.

  He looked toward the stream. The horses had smelled the fire and were working up the slope toward him. Jethro listened to the water boiling and then he remembered to throw the coffee into the pot.

  He put on more fuel. Then taking the coffee from the fire he dropped in a little cold water to settle the grounds. His hand was shaking when he filled the cup. He lifted it with both hands and tasted the coffee. Nothing ever tasted better.

  The sun was over the ridge now, but it didn’t seem to be warming him up much. He drank more of the coffee, and put the cup down carefully.

  He looked up, searching through the mist to find the horses.

  Mist?…

  It was then he knew that he was going to die. Somehow the thought did not disturb him. After all, didn’t everybody, sooner or later?

  He chuckled suddenly. “All the way back here,” he said, “only to die.”

  He tried to fill the cup again, but his hand would not hold the pot and it fell on its side.

  “Maybe that was why,” he said aloud.

  He felt the coldness in him then. He was dying; but was a man ever truly dead who left somebody behind? He was leaving Julie…yes, and Zeb Rawlings and their get.

  “Julie?” he said loudly. “Julie…?”

  And then he was dead.

  The old outlaw waited a few minutes longer, and then he came down out of the rocks and walked slowly up to the grove. He glanced around, picked up the coffee pot and started to fill the dead man’s cup, then dropped it and hunted around for his own.

  He filled his cup and stood there drinking the coffee. Thoughtfully he looked down at Jethro.

  “Worth the whole passel of them,” he said aloud.

  He put down the cup and went around gathering up the guns. Then very carefully he went through the pockets of each of them, touching nothing but the money. He pocketed this and made a bundle of the weapons and ammunition, and then he went down on the flat and caught the saddled horse.

  He led the horse back to the edge of the grove and tied the bundle of weapons, all of which represented money, behind the saddle. He rousted through the supplies and made a couple of packs. Then, riding the horse, he went down by the stream and put a loop over a couple of pack horses. Returning, he loaded them up.

  There was one other thing to do. With cinch rings from a saddle, heated red-hot, he burned the names into the side of a tree:

  JETHRO STUART 1883

  ZEKE RALLS 1883

  RED HART 1883

  KID 1883

  Dropping the cinch rings, he stepped into the saddle. He had found a dim trail over the rocks near where he had been hiding, and he started out.

  It was noon when he stopped out on the first ridge, and he looked back. The valley lay quiet under the sun, the stream a strip of silver through the green.

  “I ain’t a-comin’ back,” he said.

  Chapter 20

  *

  THE STATION WAS two rooms. The railroad agent was in one of them with his telegraph key and his tickets. A window opened into the waiting room itself, which had benches along the walls and a pot-b
ellied stove. The waiting room was twelve by fourteen feet, and much too large for the business.

  Several giant cottonwood trees shaded the station and a patch of grass nearby. Their leaves rustled constantly, chafing their pale green surfaces together. Zeb Rawlings was used to the sound and he liked it.

  Julie had spread a checkered cloth on the grass and was laying out their lunch. Zeb leaned against the trunk of the nearest cottonwood, half asleep.

  The children kept running out and looking up the railroad track in the direction from which the train would come. Eve, who was five, helped her mother. Linus, who was seven, and Prescott, nine years old, played Indians among the trees.

  “Have you ever seen the ranch?” Julie asked.

  “No,” Zeb answered, “but I rode through that country once. Green grass right up to your stirrups, all over that valley. You’ll like it, Julie.”

  “I’d like it if there was no grass at all.”

  Prescott yelled from the tree he had climbed. “Hey, pa, look!”

  Glancing around, they saw Linus hanging by one arm from a limb of the cottonwood, while with his other hand he gripped his throat, his tongue protruding to simulate a hanging man.

  “Linus! You get down from there!” Julie ordered.

  “He’s Billy the Kid and I hung him, pa,” Prescott said.

  “Billy wasn’t hung, Press,” Zeb corrected. “Pat Garrett shot him. Two years ago come July.”

  “That’s the only hanging tree left in the Territory,” Julie said irritably. “I wish they’d cut it down.”

  “They might need it,” Zeb commented.

  “Zeb Rawlings, you know darned well that nobody ever gets lynched anymore. Not even horse thieves.”

  “It’s a beautiful tree, Julie, and it gives a lot of shade. And shade can be a mighty scarce item in this country.”

  “The shade of killing.”

  The children ran out to look up the track again, and Julie turned to Zeb. “Do you ever wonder about pa? Whatever became of him, I mean?”

  “Your pa,” Zeb said, “was a man who made mighty few mistakes. Whatever happened to him happened when he was doing the right thing. And whoever left those guns at the post office thought so, too.”

  “Zeb?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know anything you haven’t told me?”

  “Not to speak of. He left a note with those guns.” Zeb drew it from his pocket. “I’ve been meaning to show it to you—not that it says much.”

  She opened the folded bit of coarse wrapping paper. On it was written: Died game. Lamar Valley, Wyoming.

  “And nothing else?”

  “Porter Clark was up early that morning, and he saw a man riding through town. He knew the man and thought I ought to know he was around.”

  Zeb Rawlings stared thoughtfully at the dancing heat waves in the distance. “He was an old outlaw…one of the wild breed who ran with Dutch Henry down in the Panhandle, fought in the Lincoln County war, the Horrell-Higgins feud, most everything.”

  “Did you see him? Do you think he was the one who left those guns?”

  Zeb shrugged. “Who knows? Might be coincidence.”

  “Pa!” Prescott shouted from the tracks. “It’s comin’! I can hear the train comin’!”

  Zeb listened, and heard the far-off whistle. He got to his feet, then helped Julie up.

  “Oh, dear, I do hope your aunt likes us, Zeb.”

  He smiled at her. “Julie, how you talk! Was there ever anybody who didn’t like you?”

  Zeb took her elbow and together they walked to the platform where a few people were waiting for the incoming train. Zeb responded to little Eve’s reaching arms and lifted her up.

  The boys came running up the track, and Julie called to them. “Boys! You stand back here with us. Now, do what I tell you or you can’t come with us again.”

  Zeb looked down the platform and then very quietly put Eve down.

  “Pa!” she begged.

  “No, you stay there, Eve. Your pa has things to do.”

  Julie glanced at him quickly, but he seemed interested only in the train.

  A man was talking to the station agent, another stood nearby. Both men wore belt guns, which was not surprising, since almost half the men present wore them, too.

  “Do you know what she looks like, Zeb?” Julie asked.

  “What?”

  “Your Aunt Lilith—can you recognize her?”

  Julie looked at him, and glanced around her. She saw nothing to alarm her, yet she was uneasy.

  “Zeb, what’s the matter?”

  “Here she comes!” Zeb said, and the train pulled into the station, the big driver-wheels churning. It pulled past them, then backed up until the two passenger cars were right at the platform.

  From the corner of his eye Zeb could see that the men who had been with the station agent had joined a third man not far away. All glanced his way, then looked toward the train.

  The first man he had seen was a known outlaw, so there was at least a possibility the others were too. Neither of the others was familiar to him, but their manner was; and as he followed Prescott and Linus toward the cars he thought of the possibilities brought about by their presence.

  Prescott and Linus brought up short at the sight of Lilith. Lilith Van Valen had always been a beautiful woman, and she had not lost that beauty with the years. Moreover, she possessed that certain distinction which comes to one from being someone…not in the sense of wealth, but of personality and position. Dressed in her finest, and looking still youthful and graceful, she was an elegant figure, unlike anyone either of the boys had seen before.

  “Gosh!” Linus said.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am, are you our Great-aunt Lilith?” Prescott asked, still not quite believing it.

  “If you’re Zeb’s children, I am.” She put her hands on their shoulders and looked into their eyes with a mock seriousness that immediately won them both. “But don’t you dare call me your great-aunt in front of any young men!”

  “Lilith!”

  She looked at Zeb, and put out her hand. “You’ll be Zeb Rawlings. I declare, you favor Linus! I’d have known you anywhere, I think.”

  She looked at this tall, strongly built man, with warmth and a glint of humor in his eyes. Lilith, in her time, had looked upon many men in the hard world of the frontier and, looking now at Zeb, she felt tears coming to her eyes. How proud Eve would have been to see her son now! And how pleased, with her strong sense of family, she would have been to have them all together again.

  “Zeb…Zeb Rawlings!” She felt the tears coming and fought to hold them back. “Doggone it, Zeb! I swore up and down that I wasn’t going to cry!”

  “You’re even prettier than ma said you were. I’d like you to meet my wife Julie.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Julie said.

  “And I’m pleased to meet you, Julie. I just can’t tell you how pleased.”

  “You met the boys, Prescott…Linus. And this is Eve.”

  Prescott caught her hand. “Come on and meet Sam!”

  “Sam?” Lilith was startled.

  “He’s our horse. He could pull two wagons if he wanted. You haven’t come home until you know Sam.”

  Lilith took their hands. “Sorry,” she said to Zeb. “I’ve got to meet Sam. I want to be sure I’m at home.”

  “I think this means a lot to her,” Zeb said to Julie. “More than I’d have thought.”

  Then he glanced toward the three men, who had walked out to the cars. All three shook hands with a man who had just stepped from the train. Zeb Rawlings felt the skin tighten around his ears.

  Charlie Gant…

  At the same instant Gant, evidently warned by one of the three men, turned to look at him. Almost at once he started toward them.

  A tall man with a swagger and a challenging way, Charlie Gant was a flamboyant figure even on the frontier, where flamboyance was not uncommon. Gant had always favored good clothes, and he w
ore them now. That he was armed went without question.

  “Marshal! Don’t tell me you came all the way over here just to meet me? I hardly expected it.” He tipped his hat. “And the beautiful Mrs. Rawlings. What a pleasure this is!”

  “Let’s go, Zeb,” Julie said.

  “I envy you, Marshal. A well-favored, bright-eyed wife…as dazzling as that sun up there.”

  “Zeb…”

  Zeb Rawlings smiled. “Why, Charlie! This is a surprise! I had no idea you were still in the Territory. The last time I saw you—well, I got the impression you were leaving the country.”

  Charlie Gant’s smile remained, but his eyes turned ugly. “Having a fine family like this, Rawlings, it must make a man want to live.”

  Zeb Rawlings’ eyes were cold. “You wanted to live, didn’t you, Charlie?”

  Abruptly, Gant turned and walked away; and Julie, frightened, looked after him. She caught Zeb’s arm. “That was Charlie Gant, wasn’t it? I thought you said he was in Montana?”

  “Now stop your worrying. I’ll get the luggage.”

  When he returned with the hand luggage, Gant and his friends were no longer there. Zeb looked around carefully before he decided they were indeed gone. With a man like Gant, you could never afford to gamble. The one certainty was that he never would—not consciously, at least.

  To be a criminal, as Gant was, required certain peculiar attitudes of mind, attitudes that invariably led to failure and capture. One was contempt for people and for law; another was optimism. The criminal was invariably optimistic. He had to believe that everything was going to turn out right for him; and in addition to this he had to be enormously conceited, believing in his ability to outwit the law.

  Many a time Zeb had heard a criminal sneer, “I’m smarter than any sheriff. Nobody but a fool would work for the money they get.”

  What they did not realize was that they were not smarter than a dozen sheriffs, or a hundred. Law was organized now. Descriptions were mailed around from office to office, and there was cooperation between sheriffs and marshals.

  The very attributes that led them to become criminals were the attributes that betrayed them. Contempt, optimism, and conceit led to carelessness, and carelessness led to imprisonment or death.