

### The Reluctant Gunfighter

### Published by Buck Immov

### Copyright 2013 Marion Patton

### License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or otherwise, is purely coincidental. Similarly, any resemblance to actual events is coincidental. You better believe it.

### 'Gunfighter' silhouette on cover by Wizards of Metal - Custom Metal Art

### Contents

Chapter 1 - Ready for Trouble

Chapter 2 – Cherchez la Femme

Chapter 3 – Old Man Quarll

Chapter 4 – Dime Novel

Chapter 5 – Jailhouse

Chapter 6 – The Enemy Way

Chapter 7 - Posse

Chapter 8 - Buscadero

Chapter 9 – Cutting a Rusty

Glossary
Author's Note

It all started with Grandpa. When I was a kid growing up in the Colorado Rockies, and I wasn't hunting or fishing, I'd go over to Grandpa's house. He always wore his ten-gallon hat and his moustache because he was a famous old western cowboy, albeit one of the bad guys. He would sit as close to the kitchen stove as he could get and Grandma would be sit as far away from the stove as she could get and still be in the room.

I'd climb up on his knee and he'd tell me bear stories, mountain lion stories and stories about gunfights, stampedes, and massacres.

Grandma she'd listen and she'd listen and finally she'd say, "Ohh, stuff! You shouldn't tell him those things." Boy, if a pickle could talk it would sound just like her.

Grandpa, he'd laugh, "Ho, ho, ho," and I knew who I believed. I never will forget the day I found out he was getting them all out of western history magazines. He was good, though. He got going, you could smell the gun smoke and hear the snarls. Most of the stories were true, too, except for the part about him being there when they happened.

I don't remember any of his stories except for a few phrases, e.g., "We'z a'comin' along the side-hill." or "I seen that rabbit a'settin' there." I remember enough of his technique to use it though. I have had a lot of fun looking up things that did happen in the Old West and putting them in my stories. I hope you have as much fun reading them.

P.S. Some of Grandpa's words might be hard to understand, so I have included a.

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GLOSSARY

Ain'tagonna – Refers to an unlikely or exceedingly improbable event, i.e., viz., to wit, 'Never happen'.

Beeyuny – Buena Vista, a small town located far above most places. Foreign languages are never spoken there and their English bears only a passing resemblance to that spoken by Elizabeth the Second or any other member of the royal family, for that matter. Pronounced Bee-you-knee.

Bone orchard - Graveyard

Counter-jumper - Clerk

Cutting a Rusty - Engaging in courtship behavior. The intentions thereof may be marital or simply a fuller involvement in the joys life has to offer.

Mudsill – Reprobate, degenerate, depraved, and disadvantaged, i.e., 'Not our sort'.

Rainch - Rural establishment for the purpose of raising livestock, particularly bovids. For the correct intonation, a non-native needs must compress the nostrils with thumb and forefinger while pronouncing this word.

Stainchable - Durable and able to withstand strain. Again, a non-native must hold his or her nose to attain the correct pronunciation.

Talking iron – A pistol, i.e., a small, hand-held firearm without a shoulder stock, especially one with a rotating cylinder holding several projectiles. (The projectiles usually number six. (This is perhaps a reflection of the sexigesimal system of numbers used in ancient Sumer (See Samuel Noah Kramer: _History Begins at Sumer_ ).))

Too much mustard – Said of egregiously boastful statements

Waddie – An individual living in a bucolic environment who is involved in the care of bovine quadrupeds, particularly if they go 'Moo'.

Whyncha – Used to indicate an advantageous course of action.

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### Chapter 1 – Ready for Trouble

_I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a-hand on. I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same from them._

\- John Wayne

The tallest rider raised his hand and all three drew rein and stopped. They heard the 'toc, toc, toc' of a hammer and the 'spang' of a staple flying. The tall rider gestured to a pile of granite boulders. They rode over behind the boulders and peered down into the shallow canyon. The oldest rider looked back to make sure that they weren't skylined, but the dark firs on the mountain hid them well enough. The wind that had covered the sound of their approach hissed in the branches of the dark green piñon pines and the gray sagebrush. The horses shifted restlessly with high heads and twitching tails; the older riders soothed their mounts with soft words and gentle pats. The youngest rider, a gangly teenage boy, ignored his horse and started to pull his rifle out of its scabbard.

The rider next to him wore an old-fashioned high-crowned hat over his white hair. He held out an admonitory hand and said to the boy, "No! Not yet, Chuckie. Rub your horse's neck, talk to him low, and breathe deep and slow yourself." The boy did.

The tall rider was a strongly built man with a short black beard flecked with gray. As soon as his horse was calm again, he reached for a worn leather case attached to his saddlebow. The case had an inscription on the corner of its lid, 'Sgt. Roy Craddock, 4th Cavalry, US Army'. He opened it and pulled out a pair of brass binoculars bound in leather. The top parts of the barrels of the binoculars were conical and only the eyepieces moved when he turned the knurled knob.

He first looked at the buckboard tied in the shade of a cottonwood tree next to a big granite boulder. A gust of wind made the cottonwood leaves jerk and twist. The buckboard carried coils of barbed wire and a small water barrel. A shotgun was lashed to one side of the seat with a slipknot that could easily be jerked loose. He saw a 30-30 Winchester lying on the seat. He shifted his gaze to the men working next to the buckboard. Another Winchester rifle was propped up on a stump close behind them. A heavy-set man inexpertly nailing barbed wire to a fence post carried a pistol in his back pocket; the corner of the pocket was torn and the gun barrel protruded. A slight youth digging with a shovel wore an enormous Colt .45. It was so heavy that he had to lean sideways to balance himself.

The third cowboy was a wiry man of middle height with wavy blond hair. He wore a hat with a flat crown and a tear in the brim. The cuffs of his pants were frayed and muddy. He was carrying two .38 pocket pistols in snakeskin holsters, which rode low on his hips and fit the guns exactly. Craddock had never seen pocket pistols with such long barrels. This man was evidently the boss, because, when the boy said something, he put down his coil of barbwire, walked over, inspected the hole, and, after a glancing back and forth, pointed to a spot on the ground and the boy began digging there.

The old man tugged his moustache and said, "Roy, you don't want to let them catch you lookin' like you're spyin' on them."

Young Chuckie grinned. "Yeah, especially since that's exactly what you're doin'."

Craddock put the binoculars back in their case. "They're using that devil's rope for fence all right. And the one in the middle is wearing custom-made pistols."

Chuckie piped up again, "Well anybody can buy a custom pistol. Maybe he's just putting on the style. Putting on the agony. Showing off."

"Don't go with the rest of his clothes," Craddock replied.

"So what does that mean?" said Chuckie.

"It means," admonished the old man, "that we are real careful until we see how the land lies."

"Pete, you ever see that horse before?" said Craddock. "You, Chuckie?" The two other riders shook their heads.

"I wouldn't even know what to call it," said Chuckie. The horse had a white coat peppered with reddish freckles.

"Flea-bitten gray," said old Pete.

Craddock backed his horse and the other two followed. Once they were out of sight, he pulled up and slowly rolled a cigarette.

"Wait," said Pete, "give me those lookers a minute, Roy." Pete rode back up to the boulders and used the binoculars to take a second look at the fencing crew. Then he came back and returned the binoculars. "That big waddie has a scar from a bullet on his left arm. Little one is missin' the top of his near ear. Seems to me, I heard about a couple a waddies, partners, that looked jist about exactly like those two hands down there. Got into a shoot-out with four or five hard cases up above Rock Springs. They were the only ones walked away. Yeah, and they said one of them had a funny looking shotgun that turned out to be a repeater. Looked about like the one on the buckboard."

Craddock lighted his cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "OK," he said, "we ride down there openly. We go through the sagebrush so they can see us easy. We jack a shell into our rifles now, unfasten the thongs across our pistols, and put a live round under the hammers. _But_. We keep our hands away from our guns until I say otherwise." He looked at Chuckie. "You hear that?"

"Yes sir," said Chuckie, "I listen for the word 'Otherwise'."

"Don't you act smart." said the oldster.

"And we act polite and friendly," said Craddock.

"Friendly?" said Chuckie, "I thought this was serious business!"

The old man turned to him, "Looky here. The more serious the business, the friendlier you act in the beginnin'!"

"Throw them off guard, huh?" replied Chuckie.

"Whether the business is serious or not," said Craddock, "ye always look for a way to keep away from gunplay. And look real careful. If ye don't, ye ain't never going to ride with me again. Ever."

Chuckie looked abashed and held up both palms, "OK, OK got it."

Craddock rode around the boulders, and began descending. As soon as they crossed the ridge, the saddle horse tied to the buckboard raised her head and looked at them. The blond boss caught the movement and looked also. He turned sideways and said something to his crew. He dropped his off hand down by his holster and evidently unfastened the thong across his pistol, because the slight youth with the shovel loosened his pistol in its holster, something that evidently drew a rebuke from the two older men because he quickly moved his hand away and started shoveling again, though he didn't move much dirt. The heavy man put down his hammer and walked very casually over to the buckboard and got a drink from the cup chained to the barrel. He leaned back against the wagon so that the shotgun was right at his elbow. Craddock noticed that he had untied the lashing on the shotgun, though he had not seen him do it. The blond boss raised his right hand and waved to the riders in a friendly fashion. Then he walked over to his horse and dug a bottle of whiskey out of a saddlebag and waved it at them. Craddock figured he had undone the thong on his left holster at some point. The youth stopped digging and leaned on his shovel without putting much weight on it.

Craddock said to Chuckie, "Pete and I got to drink, but ye just smile and say no. When ye dismount, hold your pistol in your holster with your elbow. Don't fasten the thong."

"OK," said Chuckie.

The riders pulled up when they reached the fencing crew.

"Good afternoon," said their boss. "I'm real glad to meet you on this fine afternoon. This here is Tim Sholtz and the stalwart young man is Eddy Koffpot. My name's McMurtry. I bought a little land up in here. Going to run cattle."

Craddock thought a 'little' land meant a lot. If he had bought a small amount of land he would of said 'some land'. It was good, too, that he intended to run cattle. That made an understanding more likely.

"This here," said Craddock, "is Pete Grey and the kid is Chuckie Quarll. I'm Roy Craddock. We work for Old Man Quarll at the Salt Works Ranch."

"Well then," said McMurtry, "we're going to be neighbors. And like the good book says, neighbors should allus be friendly, get along, and help one another. Nothing in all the world more important. Nothing. And what do you say we step over in the shade and drink to that?"

"Sounds good to me," said Craddock and all dismounted.

McMurtry turned to his crew, "That includes you boys too. Knock off for a little and have a drink."

Little Eddy Koffpot stuck his shovel in the ground and grinned. "Now I call that real kind. I will witness to all the world, it's a real pleasure to work for... _Snakeskin McMurtry_."

Craddock had heard that name before. He frowned at Pete, but quickly put a friendly look back on his face. Young Chuckie looked puzzled. Tim Sholtz suppressed a grin. There was no change in McMurtry's calm amiability. They all walked over to the wagon. Craddock set his right heel against the boulder, and leaned back a little. He used his left hand for his cigarette, however, and let his right hand hang near his pistol. The others followed suit; the fencing crew set their backs against the wagon, the Salt Works men, against the boulder.

The bottle went around and finally came to Chuckie Quarll. He was thinking that the other kid had had a drink and didn't look any older than he was. He held up a hand. "Bit early in the day for me, thanks." He thought of something else he had heard. "Last night is too clear in my memory, what I remember of it. Last Saturday night, I mean." He rubbed the side of his forehead with two fingers.

Koffpot grinned, "I've woke up a few Sundays myself ready to take the pledge. Almost." Neither boy had ever done any heavy drinking.

"That's real good whisky, thanks," said Craddock. "So ye bought land, instead of free grazing?"

"Yeah," said Snakeskin, "and there's a sad story connected with that. I went to a big cattleman's conference in Denver. I'm afraid your free grazing is about done."

"Yeah?" said Craddock.

"They had," Snakeskin went on, "all the big cattlemen there. I saw Chisum, Shanghai Pierce, Goodnight, Ora Haley, even Old' Man Clanton. And there were forest service people, eastern money, college professors, and politicians. I never saw so many politicians."

"Politicians!" snorted old Pete.

"Yeah, well," said Snakeskin, nodding his head, "I know how they are."

"I'd about rather have six Redskins than one dang politicians," said Old Pete.

"Trouble with them," said Snakeskin, "you shoot an Indian you're done with him, but if you shoot a politician you get another one before the body is cold. Any way, believe it or not, the politicians were doing more listening than talking."

Pete lowered his head, "I'd have to see _that_ before I believed it".

"I was amazed myself," said Snakeskin. "Any way the cattlemen weren't saying anything everybody here doesn't know about. We've all seen overgrazed range. Nothing but Texas croton, tumbleweed, and gullies. No use for anything. Can't even fish for trout. Water's too muddy."

Pete stood up straight and stuck his thumbs in his belt, "An how are them there politicians especially those double-danged _federal_ politicians goin' to help. They're all bought with eastern money and you know that eastern money."

"Yeah," said Craddock. "Those eastern tycoons, they buy some cattle and want their profits whether it ruins the range or not. And if the caporal doesn't follow their dirty orders, they fire him."

"Yeah," said Snakeskin, nodding again, "if they'd jis leave it up to men that actually ran the cattle, there wouldn't be a problem. Any way I saw some of your caporals and cattlemen going to dinner and I says, excuse me gentlemen, but I'm jis a young man wanting to start up in the cattle business and it sounds like the rules have changed. I'd be happy to buy you dinner if you'd give me your opinions on that.' Well, they wouldn't let me buy anything but a round of drinks, but I made sure they got the best whisky."

"And?" said Craddock.

"Well, they were trying to _ask_ the politicians to pass laws cutting back on free grazing. They all thought that, any more, the only way to raise cattle is to buy ranch land and take care of it. Irrigate and raise hay for the winter. Then you got to spread your hay out so all the cow pies ain't all in one place. I mean _aren't_ in one place. Mom was a schoolmarm and she was allus saying, 'There ain't no such word as ain't. But I keep forgetting."

"Why do you want the cow pies spread out?"

"It's fertilizer. Too little fertilizer is bad and so is too much. I don't mean to give you the all overs, but you got to be a little bit of a plow chaser."

"Farmin' hay ain'tagonna hurt anybody," said Old Pete, "but looky here, how you goin' to make enough money to make _that_ worth while?"

"What you do, you get a Hereford bull and breed him to your longhorn cows. The cross will gain two-three hundred pounds more than a longhorn. And you get better beef. It's a lot more work, though. You jis' can't shoot a cow that can't deliver her calf. Too valuable. You got to get in there with a pigging string, rawhide lariat's too rough, and help it get born. And if your calf dies and rots inside, you got to pull it out with a hay hook. Talk about a nasty job. And you allus got to keep track of your cows. If a cow can't give birth right, she'll pass that on to her heifers so you got to sell them. This Scotchman there was amazed we didn't know all our cows by sight. And give them _names_. It's going to be a lot less fun." He pursed his lips for a second, then looked straight at Craddock, "One thing you got to remember. You got to control your breeding. Breed a cross-bred cow to a longhorn bull, you get a longhorn and you're back where you started."

Snakeskin paused, stood up straight with his legs slightly spread, and looked Craddock straight between the eyes, turned his eyes to look at Pete, and then back to Craddock. "So," he said, "you can see why you got to put up fences. You can't have stray cattle eating up your hay and you can't have stray bulls breeding your cows. I spent half my life raising money for this ranch, went into debt, and I'll do whatever I got to protect it."

The horse's heads, which had begun to droop, came up again, their tails started switching, their mouths tightened, and wrinkles appeared above their eyes. The kids, who had been decorously silent, hooked both thumbs into their belts and eyed each other. Tim Sholtz stood up straight and put his hand on the buckboard near the shotgun. Old Pete remained leaning up against the boulder, but with a motion of his hip, moved his gun to where he could easily draw it. Snakeskin stayed relaxed, but his hands were at his sides and close to his guns.

Craddock dropped his cigarette, moved his boot off the boulder, and ground the cigarette out with its heel. He put both feet on the ground, stood up straight, and looked back at Snakeskin. "Ye know," he said with ominous quietness, "people get down on cattlemen when they run out the homesteaders, but what your plow chasers will do is fence off the water so the cows can't get to it. That ain't _never_ right." A gust of wind hurled leaves and sand and cracked a branch in the cottonwood. None of the cowboys paid any attention.

Snakeskin gave a half-nod without taking his eyes off the Salt Works men. "There is nothing more dumb in all the world than that sort of thing," he said. "That can lead to real difficulties, shooting difficulties. And there's nothing worse than shooting difficulties. It ain't...isn't good morals and it isn't good sense. Take Butch Cassidy. No smarter outlaw anywhere and he never shot anybody. Then there was this forest ranger in Brown's Hole trying to patrol this reserve they set up to cut down on grazing and he saw a cookfire. Did he ride up and talk to them and explain? Did he say, 'Go ahead for now, but we're going to have to start enforcing the rules?' No. He pulled a gun and made the cook put three buckets of water on a one-bucket campfire. And you know what happened? Not only did that forest ranger get shot later, but there was no more overgrazed place in all Brown's Hole than that reserve. No, gunplay is the last thing I want to see happen. You can't put weight on a cow with a gun."

"I'm glad ye feel like that," said Craddock, "cause Old Man Quarll worries about his water. We always watered in Saddleback Creek here. And need to."

Snakeskin gestured with his left hand, palm turned up. "That all," he said. "Well, I own the land and the creek," said Snakeskin, "but getting water to my neighbor's cows? Nothing more important in all the world. Nothing." He picked up a stick in his left hand. "Now, I own the land, but suppose I do this. Here's Saddleback Creek." He drew a line in the dirt. "Suppose I put the fence in like this." He drew an imaginary fence line that crossed the creek and crossed back. "This way everybody's cows get water. And I'll be willing to run the fence back across the creek jis about anywhere he wants it." He put down the stick and spread his hands with the palms facing the Salt Works cowboys. "That look reasonable to you?"

Craddoc studied the map Snakeskin had drawn. "Looks fine," he said. "If ye don't mind me asking, what land did you buy?"

Snakeskin drew on the ground, "Don't mind at all. I'm going to run fence along Saddleback Creek like this, cross the creek and go north here, come back east jis this side of north Cottonwood Creek, then south along the Arkansas, and back here. I didn't buy all of that though, some of it I leased." He looked up. "Well now," he said. "Is that going to interfere at all?"

"Doesn't look it to me," said Craddock. "Pete?"

"It don't look it to me, either. Cuts down on the grazin', but they's plenty more. They ain't nothin' for Old' Man Quarll to get his back up over. Not that it takes much to rile him. Especially lately."

Craddock hesitated, "Yeah. Old Quarll won't mind this but... He's down on that devil's rope fence. Ye sure ye got to use that?"

Snakeskin spread his hands with his palms up, "Why, barb wire's the only way we can afford to fence on a big ranch. A rail fence would take forever to put up. You know how bad cowboys are at splitting rails or using an axe for anything. One drive I was on, we had to build kind of a log bridge over a river with a quicksand bottom. There were plenty of trees, but boy you should of seen those waddies try to turn them into logs. If the cook hadn't of been good with an axe, we'd be there yet. And your cows will rub up against a rail fence an knock it down. You know that."

Craddock sighed and said, "Yeah I know that." He looked at the horizon and back towards Snakeskin. "Look, ye had better go see Old Man Quarll," he said. "He'll want to hear about that Cattlemen's confab. And Herefords. Start with that and work into fence. Treat him easy and we might keep away from difficulties."

"And, chariots of fire, don't never mention no _sheep_ ," put in Old Pete.

"Never do. I should of gone before this," said Snakeskin. "Maybe I'll go now."

The horses had lost the wrinkles above their eyes, their heads had dropped back down, and their tails now twitched only to flies. One horse pulled against his reins to get at a bunch of clover. The men had taken their thumbs out of their belts and leaned back again.

"OK," said Snakeskin, "I'll go see Mr. Quarll now." He turned to his men, "You guys leave the fencing where it is, take the wire back to the barn, and start work on that reservoir we were talking about. I might be late coming back so don't forget to knock off for supper." He turned back to the Salt Works riders. "We're going to dam that little north fork of Saddleback Creek. Any objection to that?"

"Nope."

All the riders mounted up and the fencing crew gathered their tools. They all fastened the thongs on their holsters so their guns didn't fall out as they mounted. Snakeskin's horse danced around as if eager for the exercise. Craddock thought Snakeskin had used the movement to unfasten the thong on his left-hand gun again. He noticed that Snakeskin choose to ride on the left. Craddock also saw that Snakeskin carried two rifles. He did a double take and quickly looked away. Snakeskin's second rifle was a Whitworth. Craddock knew Whitworths. " _Custom-made pistols_ , _a long-range rifle, a Winchester rifle, and two gun hands. By the great horn spoon, he's ready for trouble,"_ Craddock thought.

### Chapter 2 – Cherchez la Femme

_It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife._

-Jane Austen

The four riders rode abreast, when they could. At the first narrow place, Old Pete and Chuckie fell in behind. Snakeskin, outwardly calm, glanced back twice and moved to the left of the other riders as soon as he could. Craddock noticed. "Better let him and me ride behind after this," he thought.

Pete muttered to his horse, "I sure hope the old man is in a good mood." He shook his head. His horse put its ears back to listen and tensed up a little. Pete patted him until he relaxed.

The canyon opened out onto a broad ridge. Snakeskin moved up so that he was abreast of the other riders again. "Luddy Mussy this is pretty country. I like the big boulders and the moun'ens up here. And the aspen in the fall," he said.

"Yeah," said Craddock. "I always liked it."

"I found a waterfall up Saddleback Creek," went on Snakeskin. "White rocks and a round pool in the stream, you know. And flowers. Good place to take a girl, if I had one."

"Umph," said Pete.

"He eased his horse next to Snakeskin and said. "You building a rainch house to go with that there rainch of yours?"

"Yup," said Snakeskin. "House, barn, bunkhouse, corrals. Got three carpenters working. Down by the river."

"Long ways from most of your ranch," said Craddock.

"Well," said Snakeskin, "keep this dry, but the railroad is putting a stockyard in there."

Pete looked at Snakeskin with his eyebrows up, "Boy howdy," he said, "you're jist one gold mine of information! You know I 'm thinkin' we're lucky you decided on here."

"Thanks," said Snakeskin.

"You're how old?" said Pete.

"Thirty-four."

Pete gave Snakeskin a considering look, then took the plunge. "You know, my opinion, what you need now is a nice little wife to go with it all,"

Craddock was surprised that Pete was talking about women. He wasn't sure it was a good idea in this situation.

Pete went on, "You know, I tried it both ways, and your married men might complain, but a good wife makes life a lot more comfortable and a lot less work. I tell you it's worth havin' to scrape your feet before you go into the house. You got to get the right woman, though. City girl jist wouldn't be the best idea. I know a waddie that married a city girl. You know how we go and have a few drinks after we ship off the cows? Celebrate the end of the year's work? Well he got drunk with us like always and did she throw a hissy fit? He had to pry her off the ceilin' with a crowbar. And she couldn't stand the smell or the mud or the cowpies. Nothing pleased her. And she was jis' bound and determined that her husband was going to move into town and be a _counter-jumper_ for her old man."

"Jesus!" said Craddock.

"Man oh man," said Chuckie, "I ain't never getting married."

"Well," said Pete severely, "if your main interest is whores, saloons, and rustlin' cattle from the man you work for, then maybe you shouldn't get married."

Chuckie reddened and subsided into an angry silence.

"Now it is true," says Pete, turning back to Snakeskin, "that you don't want to marry too young. But, you know you don't want to marry too _late_ either. You get set in your ways, and you can't be set in your ways when you have kids. Boy howdy. But a good, warm-hearted, hard-workin', fairly reasonal woman ain't somethin' you want to miss out on."

"What happen to the city girl?"

"Left him." Pete mused a while. Tapped his saddle horn with his fingers and decided to go on. "But now, your woman has got to have good judgment and a little _sand_."

"Ah, um!" said Craddock and banged his forehead with his palm and covered the gesture by adjusting his hat. "Yeah," he agreed, "There'll be people and things to stand up to."

"Yup," said Pete slowly, "and looky here, you know why the Good Lord give men and women different points of view? I 'll tell you. Ain't it better to look at problem from more than one point of view?"

"Yup," said Snakeskin.

"Man should be the boss, sure. Easier on the kids. But a man would have to be a dang fool not to listen to a wife. Unless she was a fool."

"An' ye wouldn't want to marry a fool," chimed in Craddock.

"Ain't a man alive," Pete went on, "that ain't never got a crazy idea. I remember one time I was all for selling out and going to the Klondike to mine gold. And I knew perfectly well, from the fifty-nine Colorado rush that the only ones that does any good in a gold rush is them that's already there before the rush. Well Aggie, God rest her soul, put her little foot down. And I have been _eternally_ grateful. Because I'm a cowboy. Not a miner."

"Never thought about it that way," said Snakeskin, "but it sounds right."

"Trouble, is, not a lot of good women around. Not many women, period." Pete glanced at Snakeskin. "When you get to the rainch, make sure you meet his daughter, Annawest."

Snakeskin turned his head to look at Pete. "She pretty?"

"Chariots of fire, yes," Pete replied. "Good woman, too. You'll never meet a better _rainch_ woman than Anna West Quarll."

" _He'd have to be awful fussy if doesn't like her looks_ ," said Craddock to himself. Annawest always reminded Craddock of a pronghorn antelope. Anna's chin and lips were firm, but her eyes were large and dark. Her hair and complexion were fawn-colored and she was tall, restless, and graceful. Her legs and arms were slim, but her movements suggested a hidden strength.

Chuckie had finally forgotten his pique. "Too tarnal pretty if you ask me. We wore out more horses running off those sapheads she'd take up with than we ever did punching cows." He straightened up and looked over his shoulder. "Well, well, speak of the devil and who should appear." They all looked. There was a lone rider on a little buckskin also headed for the Salt Works ranch.

Pete chewed his moustache, "You know, whyncha...ain't no time like the present."

"Borrow your binoculars a second?" said Snakeskin.

"Sure," said Craddock with a small grin.

"Luddy Mussy!" said Snakeskin after a moment. He handed the binoculars back. "I wonder if you gentlemen would excuse me for a minute."

"Surely."

"What did you call her? Annett?"

"No," said Craddock. "Anna _West_. Her mother's name was Anna, so we had to give Annawest another name. It stuck." Snakeskin started down the hill at an easy lope.

The lone rider saw him coming and looked down for a moment. Craddock knew she was looking at her shotgun. It was double-barreled and 20-gauge, slightly smaller than the usual twelve-gauge. Craddock knew that one barrel was loaded with dried beans and rock salt. "I have got to have a load I will not hesitate to fire," she would say, "and the other barrel, needless to say, is buckshot."

"Might be a good thing after all," said Craddock, "her gettin' kicked out of that eastern school."

They all knew Annawest had been expelled for a display of trick riding that had stunned and terrified her audience. It would not have been so bad if it had not been a formal horse show wherein both women and horses had all loose hair in tight buns and all fingernails and hooves were brightly varnished. Further, the women wore top hats and face veils. Annawest been informed that, though indeed it took skill to take a jump at a gallop whilst standing on the saddle, it still just wasn't done in polite society. And putting a top hat and a face veil on a horse was, furthermore, not funny. Anna's reply was not done in polite society, either.

Craddock watched Snakeskin pull his horse to a walk as he approached the girl, then he stopped removed his hat and bowed from the saddle. He gestured back at the Salt Works riders with his hat while the two horses blew companionably into each other's nostrils. The girl looked up and all three Salt Works riders waved reassurance. After a moment the couple resumed their ride to the ranch house. Their horses had relaxed, oval outlines, and only swished their tails at flies.

"Cross your fingers," said Pete. "We might jist solve more than _one_ problem for Old Man Quarll."

"Yeah," said Craddock.

Chuckie straightened up. His horse jerked up its head, tightened its mouth, and gave a crow-hop. "You mean it'll give my dad somebody to leave the ranch to. That jis' bites my hind end! As if he hadn't rustled cattle by the herd himself. And run with outlaws. It isn't fair. And that isn't fair what you said, Mr. Pete. Even if there were some of his cows in that herd we rustled, it was because Old' Ruction had stole them from him. And I wouldn't have let him sell them. Or if they did, I would have give Dad the money. He is just so tarnal quick to believe the worst of me. It isn't fair. It isn't. Maybe I deserved a whipping, but I did _not_ deserve to lose my whole share of the ranch!"

"Lord, cool off," said Craddock. "I meant ye won't have to keep runnin' off them four-flushers and hard-cases ye was cryin' about."

"And too," said Pete, "it ain't jist you. Lately he's been a lot rougher on all of us. Used to be a lot easier to get along with. I don't know." He chewed his moustache. "Worries me."

Chuckie calmed down. His forehead wrinkled. "You think..."

"I don't know, I jist don't."

The three riders were closer to the girl now and a high and carrying voice reached them, "You mean you're _him_?"

Pete looked that way and grinned, "Least he's enough of a desperado to suit her. I never knowed a respectable woman pick out men the way she did. You'd think she'd learn after the first fifteen or twenty. Well, Snakeskin will run them off all right. You think even Laughin' Sam Cary would go up against him?"

"Not if he was smart," said Craddock.

"What I've heard, said Pete, "he's am-bye-dex-tie-russ. That means you can use one hand jist as easy as the other. So he shoots quick with one and careful with the other. He's supposed to be as fast as Luke Short and as good with Kentucky windage as Wild Bill Hickok. I got that from Waco L'Amour. Yeah, Waco said he wouldn't go up against him. 'Bout only time I ever heared Waco say that."

"What's Kentucky windage?" said Chuckie.

"When your bullet leaves the gun, it starts to drop, so you got to aim high at long range. But it's real hard to figure how much. Not a lot of men can do it. Need a good gun, too. You remember those custom-made pistols."

"Seems a nice, peaceful fella," said Chuckie.

"Might be a curry-combed wolf, though," said Craddock. "Looks good on the outside, but mean as a snake on the inside."

Pete chewed his moustache. "From what I heard, that's going a little far," he said. "Probably not a good idea to push him too hard, though."

"I wonder how he's doing?" said Chuckie. "Loan me the binoculars, Roy and let me get behind you. She'd bite my head off if she caught me looking." He watched a minute. "Oh-oh, I know that look." He lowered the binoculars, ducked his head, raised his hand to his throat, pulled his shirt open slightly, fluttered his eyelashes, and curled his lips into a smile.

The men grinned. "OK," said Craddock, "probably be better if she took him in to Old Man Quarll instead of us. Let's check the east windmill before we go in."

### Chapter 3 – Old Man Quarll

_For we like sheep!_

Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

('Coyote Chorus' from Handel's Messiah)

It was late afternoon when the three cowboys rode into the stables. They groomed their horses thoroughly, leaning heavily on the brushes to remove loose hairs and dead skin. They didn't use the usual currycombs because Quarll believed in treating horses as gently as possible. They used hoof picks to scrape the mud and straw out of their horse's hooves and then examined the hooves for stones and loose nails. Only then did they saunter up to the ranch house.

The central part of the house stood two stories tall and was made of hand-planed white clapboards. A porch with white pillars ran the length of the center house. The porch had a gable end portico over the central door. A matching cross gable was set into the main roof over the portico. Dark green gingerbread decoration lined all the eaves. Connected to the side of the main house was the original cabin. It was made of unpainted hand-hewn logs fitted with dovetail notches at the ends. The logs were dark brown with age and seamed with cracks. The clay calking had fallen out in several places. An open dogtrot connected the other side of the central house to a white clapboard cookhouse.

The three Salt Works cowboys went in through the back door of the central house. They walked across the main house to the door of the old cabin. The floor between the cabin and the back door was the only part of the central house that showed any wear at all.

Inside the cabin, the air smelled of gun oil. Quarll's desk was an old faro table with small drawers. The cards had been worn off, mostly. There was enough gold paint left so that it was just possible to make out 'Buck the Tiger' across the customer's side of the table. Only the tail was left of the tiger itself. The desk was covered with guns and gun cleaning equipment. A pipe rack with six pipes with their stems bitten through had been pushed to the front of the desk. The bowl of one pipe was carved like the head of a longhorn steer; one of the horns was missing.

Next to Quarll's desk was big round table made of warped pine. Piled on this table were ancient bills and letters, leather folders full of papers, mason jars full of horseshoe nails and buckles, seven spurs (three broken four not), two boxes of shells that did not fit any gun in the house, a cigar box holding six broken arrowheads, two rattlesnake rattles and three mousetraps, and an open brown leather account book with lines labeled "steers, cows, heifers, calves, and doggies" followed by dozens of tally-marks in pencil. Behind the table, a pair of elk horns were nailed to wall. Three quirts, two suits of unmentionables, and a high-crowned hat hung from these horns.

Annawest was leaning against the pine table. She had taken off her hat and released a flood of blond hair. She had appropriated the wastebasket, a wooden barrel with no top, which was filled with oily rags and newspapers. She had also excavated six stained coffee cups and stacked them at her elbow.

Quarll was of middle height, but looked shorter because his body was so broad. His hands were big and seamed with scars and rope burns. He had a rattrap mouth under a thick, gray moustache, and hard black eyes that could turn mean in an instant. His skull was broader at the back and flattened behind giving his head a triangular appearance. Some called him 'Old Horny Toad', but never to his face. One waddie had said of him, "He looks like he means it." He still did, though age had added fat to his belly, several chins to his throat, and left him bald except for a horseshoe fringe of white hair over his ears and around the back of his head.

As they came in, Quarll was saying, " _John Chisum_ said that?"

"Yup," said Snakeskin, " _And_ there was real general agreement."

"Unh," growled Quarll, "times always do change. Sure ain't like it was when I come out here." He sighed and scratched gave a sideways nod. "And you got to change with them. Like it or not."

Craddock was amazed; he had never heard the old man come within a million miles of admitting he was wrong before. The Salt Works waddies shuffled their feet and removed their hats in honor of Annawest.

Snakeskin glanced at them and turned to Quarll. "Say, you mind if I look around your ranch? I imagine you got plenty of ideas that'd help a young man starting out."

"Sure," Quarll nodded, his thoughts elsewhere.

Snakeskin leaned forward and clasped his hands in a parody of eagerness. "Can I choose my own guide?"

The corner of Quarll's mouth twitched, "Yeah, you two go ahead." Snakeskin and Annawest left. Annawest carried the cups. Snakeskin, at her direction, carried the wastebasket.

The Salt Works cowboys moved forward to tell Quarll about their formidable new neighbor. When they finished, Quarll frowned and said, "So it's him using that devils rope, eh? Chuckie, go get him and bring him back in right now."

As soon as Snakeskin came back in, followed by Annawest, Quarll straightened up in his chair, crossed his arms, and started in. "How come you use that devil's rope for your fences? Why not just rails?"

"Well, bob wire's a lot quicker and then too cows will rub themselves against a rail fence and knock it down. And like I said, if you got good stock, you got to control their breeding or you'll lose your investment," returned Snakeskin.

"Why you'll lose your investment anyway if they stampede into the bob wire and get tore up."

"Your cows may be dumb," said Snakeskin, "but they aren't that dumb. Otherwise you couldn't raise them in cactus country. They bump into that bob-wire fence once, they won't do it again. You'll have trouble driving them between two posts with no wire on them, even."

"You get a grizzly come around they'd run into the fence alright." Quarll was still looking straight at Snakeskin.

"Oh Daddy," said Annawest, "any more, you don't have grizzly in the moun'ens, much less down here. That's just specious. That means it doesn't hold water."

Quarll turned his head and frowned at this daughter. "Wah Annawest," he said, "that's the third time you've took his side. A girl would have to have a jo-fired silly head to have it turned by a pair of fancy holsters." He turned to Snakeskin. "How much did you give for them anyway?"

"Nothing at all. I made them myself after chores. Never cared for checkers. My dad showed me leatherwork when I was a kid and one day a guy brought in this big old' diamondback he jis shot. Well I hate to see anything killed for nothing, even a rattlesnake. So I tanned it up and made hatbands for everybody for Christmas. That's where I got the 'Snakeskin'. And I made my Auntie a vest, too. She really liked it." He smiled at Annawest. "Be glad to make one for you," he said. She smiled, put her hands on the table behind her and leaned back. Quarll looked at Snakeskin's frayed clothing and frowned.

Pete quickly spoke up, "Speaking of clothes, Snakeskin, you ought to wear at least four maybe five lines of stitchin' on your boots. I mean you're going to fence a good fifty thousand acres of land."

"Well," said Snakeskin, scratching his head, "I never was much for putting on the style."

"Now looky here," said Pete, "a man that owns that much rainch and dresses like a pore puncher is kind of like puttin' on the style too!"

"Yeah," said Chuckie, "It looks like you're proud of your humility. I learned about that in school. Ben Franklin." Instead of ignoring him as usual, the Salt Works cowboys gave him sagacious nods, which he found immensely gratifying.

"And," said Craddock, "it makes it easier on the other fella if ye dress like what ye are. When we first saw ye, we thought that ye might be an outlaw that stole the guns and holsters."

"Well," said Snakeskin. I ain't given up my jeans."

"Well now looky here," said Pete, "you could get them sewed so they fit more or less. You got them turned up a good four inches at the bottom."

Annawest smiled at Snakeskin. "I'd be happy to do it," she said. "They'll stay sewed, too. Stainchable seams are my métier." That's your long suit, a métier."

" _Lord, what a smile_ ," thought Craddock. " _Ever since she was in diapers_."

Snakeskin smiled and gave his open-palms gesture. "Well, nothing more important in all the world than getting along with your neighbors. I suppose I could put on the dog a little," he said.

Quarll had been sitting stroking his chin with his thumb and looking out the window. Now he dropped his arms to the desk, "We better try it. I ain't spendin' my last dollar on it, but we better try it. Can you get me some of them Herefords? And bob wire?"

"Sure enough. I'll loan you the bob wire."

"OK thanks," said Quarll. "Listen Mr. McMurtry, its gettin' late. Whyncha stay for dinner. We can serve you up the best chicken and dumplin's in Chaffee County, or Lake either."

Well, I would be proud, happy, and honored to take you up on that. And jis call me 'Snakeskin or 'Skin' for short. I couldn't stand 'Mr. McMurtry' if I owned half of Colorado."

"Jist call me 'Quarll'; 'Horny Toad' ain't polite," said Quarll. "Jist a little joke."

Snakeskin's smile was dutiful, but puzzled. There was more relief than anything else in the smiles of the Salt Works people.

### Chapter 4 – Dime Novel

_Make good scouts of yourselves, become good rifle shots so that if it becomes necessary that you defend your families...you can do it._

\- Lord Baden-Powell, Scouting For Boys

Old Man Quarll dropped his napkin on the table, leaned back and loosened his belt. "Now I got to tell both of you womenfolk, that that was a jo-fired fine dinner. And it's rare I find it justified to swear in the presence of ladies."

"Thank you, Daddy," said Annawest, "but maybe you shouldn't swear at all."

"Well," said Snakeskin, "I'll know when I get to heaven because they'll serve me apple pie jis like that! Keep that up and you might see more of me around here."

"We better make sure we don't run out of apples, huh Annawest?" said Chuckie. It earned him a hardish look from his sister.

"Listen Waypatoo," said Quarll to the Navajo cook, "whyncha bring us a few of them Dutch cigars."

"I bring cigars on _porch_ ," said the cook firmly and Annawest backed her up with a straight look. Quarll produced the tight grimace that served him for a grin, rose and headed porchward, followed by all of his gender. They sat down in split-bottom chairs and wooden stools and lighted up. The women gathered plates and headed for the cookshack.

Snakeskin declined the cigar, "No thanks, I think you can size up a man better if you can smell him." He took out a pocketknife with a cutting edge that had been whetted into a concave curve and started whittling on a piece of stove wood. "Smell can help you hunting too."

As soon as all cigars were burning well, Chuckie piped up, "How did you ever get to be a gunfighter, Snakeskin?"

Snakeskin frowned and looked down. Pete misinterpreted the gesture. "Maybe you ought to call him _Mister_ McMurtry," he said.

Snakeskin looked up, "Oh no I....I guess I would rather stay 'Snakeskin' to everybody, but times have changed, I guess. I mean...if people heard a kid...a man your age call a guy with five lines of stitching on his boots 'Snakeskin', it would make you look like a smart-aleck. And you really don't want to look like a smart aleck. Nothing more important in all the world." He thought a minute. "How about we compromise. Call me 'Mister Snakeskin'. How about that?"

"OK," said Chuckie. "Say Mister Snakeskin, how'd you ever get to be a gunfighter? You are one aren't you?"

"Well, I suppose I have become a buscadero for my sins. It all come of them tarnal dime novels. They make a killer that thinks no more of shooting a man than shooting a tin can into a hero. He ain't and it isn't. Some of those killers are crazy but most of them... Something is left out. Like a windmill that has pieces missing and doesn't turn right. I was talking to Jim Miller once. He was pretty drunk and he didn't know it, but I'd taken the bullets out of his gun. Just for safety. I asked him why he killed people and he said it was so he could feel something because mostly he didn't feel anything at all. If you ask me, a man with no emotions ain't really human."

"But how did you git started?" said the irrepressible Chuckie.

"My mother got a disease...of the stomach from drinking river water. I was raised mostly by my Aunt Zee."

His listeners took easier postures. A story was coming up. Storytelling is an art much appreciated among cowboys. There are very few forms of entertainment out on the trail.

_______________________________

"My Auntie took real good care of me. She hugged me when I needed hugging, and tanned my hide when I needed that. Which was a lot. We lived up in Saint Elmo, which was a big mining town at that time. It's a lot higher than Buena Vista; I guess I'm going to have to get used to calling Buena Vista 'Beeyuny' again. Any way we had long, cold winters up at Saint Elmo, but it didn't bother us kids. We spent the winter sliding on things: sleds, barrel-stave skis, old iron signs, you name it. Summers we'd fish and climb rocks and float sticks down the sluice boxes.

I had a pretty good time until my Aunt got married to a guy with the name of Crate. He wasn't that bad a guy in the beginning. When he said jump, you had better jump, but he wasn't that bad a guy until he struck it rich. He made all this money so he didn't have to work, so he'd sit around and drink. It made him mean. He'd come home at four in the morning and tell my Aunt to cook dinner for him and his friends. If she said no, he'd drag her out by the hair. He was real sorry when he sobered up, shed tears even, but then he'd do it again. I tried to defend her once when I was about twelve. It was a good thing I was small enough to crawl under the house and he wasn't.

Anyway we decided, me and my Aunt, that I'd better get out of there so I took a job at the Hayden ranch, working jis' for my keep. If you do that, you want to work harder than anybody. That way, when somebody quits or gets killed, you get hired on.

Well, I was working up there until I was about sixteen. Auntie had her troubles, but there was nothing I could do. One day I went back on a visit, took the train up from Beeyuny, got there about nine in the morning. Got to my house first thing I saw was a broken milk bottle standing up on the porch and a lot of blood. I jis' froze. I didn't want to go in. I was afraid of what I might find.

Then I heard the doc say, "She's out of danger now, but another inch to the left..."

Then a neighbor lady chimed in, "She should leave him!"

The doc didn't answer for a minute. Then he said, "She had better be careful. Women get killed when they try to leave a man like that."

Well, there's a lot of things that can be done in a situation like that, but I could only think of one. I was no smarter than anybody is at that age. And I'd been reading those dime novels. I had this big .45; Deadwood Dick carried a .45. I got special heavy loads for the bullets. Been jis the bullets for elephant. First time I shot it, I sprained my wrist. Lucky I could use my left hand for work. I used lighter loads when I got older and got so I could shoot straight without hurting myself. I took that pistol and went looking for Crate.

I didn't even think about Crate being related to me but it turned out he wasn't because he had another wife. She'd heard of him striking it rich all the way up in Oregon. I saw her later. She hadn't got all the face paint off her neck, quite, so she was a...a professional woman. Her showing up is what started the trouble. Him drunk and Auntie Zee and that old madam yelling at him from both sides. So he got mad and started punching. Swung at the madam, his first wife, but she was ready for him. She had this umbrella with an iron shaft and lead in the handle she used in her place of business and she knocked out one of his teeth with it. He went for that madam and when Auntie Zee tried to pull him off, he rounded on her. He knocked Auntie Zee down and she landed with her neck on a milk bottle. It broke and cut her wide open. Carried that scar to her dying day. If she'd of stayed out of it, that old madam would of cold cocked him and nothing else would of happened.

Any way, I found Crate down by the creek. He was setting on a log with this drunk he used to buy liquor for. They had a pistol lying on the log between them; they'd been throwing bottles in the creek and shooting at them. Now, I want you to know I didn't realize they were drunk. It was bright morning and they had the bottle down behind the log, and I was young and stupid.

When I think back I can't remember the two men at all. I can see the log, ponderosa with that orangish bark, the willow behind with new leaves and spring catkins, and the old shed at my elbow. I remember boards on that shed, dark brown like your unpainted pine gets after a year or two. I even remember the yellow jackets chewing wood off of the shed. Kind of funny because all I was aware of at the time was Crate. I came around the shed and stopped facing him about twenty feet away.

The drunk says, "You traveling somewhere?"

I'd forgot to put down my valise. I dropped it now and said, "Draw you cowardly, murdering, four-flushing whelp." That's what Deadwood Dick said before a gunfight. No, it was Calamity Jane. They jis sat there and kind of grinned. That made me mad so I went for my gun. Only it didn't work out like I figured. I had the holster strapped down like Deadwood Dick did for the fast draw. I had loosened the strap when I was riding the train to keep my leg from going to sleep and I forgot to tighten it up again when I got off. Not only that, I forgot to unfasten the thong that goes across the top of the pistol to keep it from falling out of the holster when you sit down. So when I tried to pull my gun, the holster came up too and that strap caught me right in the crotch. I about nutted myself. Luddy Mussy, that hurt.

Crate and that drunk started laughing and that made me even madder. I was a kid, you know. So as soon as I could, I unfastened the thong and pulled my gun and pointed it at them. And then I did what's got a lot of boys killed. And men too for that matter. I hesitated. The difference between shooting at a bottle and shooting at a man isn't like the difference between night and day; it's like the difference between a Sunday-school picnic And...and the apocalypse.

He looked at Chuckie, "Lot of people think they can do it. Lot of people find out too late that they can't. And there is no way of knowing in advance. If they had stood up, turned their backs and walked away, I would of jis stood there until they were gone. But when I cocked my pistol, both Crate and that drunk grabbed for their gun at the same time and threw it straight up in the air trying to get hold of it. And Crate caught it and started to turn it toward me.

I heard somebody off to the side yell, "Don't!" but I didn't pay any attention. I swear I don't remember pulling the trigger but I must of because the bullet threw Crate backwards off the log.

Well that fool drunk hollers, "You little — — —. And picks up the gun and points it at me.

I remember pulling the trigger on him. I aimed right square in the middle of his body. It threw him back over the log, too. A colt .45 hits hard. I couldn't see either body, but I could hear an awful sound. Like somebody trying to scream and gargle at the same time. I didn't know what it was until later.

Then I heard somebody say, "Well, least we don't have to try to arrest him now."

I looked up and there were three miners on the bluff looking down at us. "She was like a mother to me!" I said. "He would of killed her."

The guy in the middle, he had a bulldog build, short and square with tan clothes and one of those hats with a flat brim and four dents in the crown, he says, "Yeah, he probably would have. You might want to put your gun away now." I looked down and I was still holding it. I holstered it and fastened the thong.

"All right," said the stocky miner. "Crate has a brother Max that runs with the Cotopaxi gang. There's a price on his head, but he might come looking for you anyway. Then too, there are some men in town that are going to resent you cutting off all that free liquor Crate was buying. Ten years ago, I would have told you to leave the country, but... Do you have any money?"

"My pay."

"Then I think the thing for you to do is to catch the train back down to Beeyuny. Once you're there, go back west along the main street. Turn right on the first street after you cross the creek. About a block or so down, you will see a white house will yellow trim and a shingle that says 'Taylor Wrighter, Attorney At Law'. You go in there and tell Mr. Wrighter the whole thing. He'll get you off if anybody can. We saw it all. It was self-defense, or near enough. I'm Ed Murtree and this is Preston and Hiram Turner."

"Keep an eye out for Max Crate, though," said one of the Turners. "He's a big man like his brother, but he's a lot fatter. His cheeks are so fat you can hardly see his eyes. His hair is black and real greasy and usually down to his collar. I ain't never seen him with a beard, but he always looks like he needs a shave."

I started off, but the other Turner said, "Don't forget your valise."

I got it and caught the train. I don't remember the trip; I was kind of stunned. I found the house all right. It was on a dirt road that had a big pine tree in the middle of it. I went up and knocked on the door and the man that answered it was tall and bald. He was wearing a white linen suit with a black tie and a monocle with a black ribbon that went down to a button in his vest. He had a lot of wrinkles on his forehead. I remember thinking that he could use them to screw his hat on in the morning.

"Come in, young man, come right in. Seat yourself in my exedra. Are you acquainted with the word 'exedra' sir?"

"No."

"E' from the Greek language. 'R' from the Roman language and 'X', it is my firm belief from ancient Persian. The word itself refers to a semicircular niche in a long hall, a niche designed for relaxed conversation. And it is my belief that relaxed conversation is the best kind. Do you not agree, sir?"

"I don't know."

"Well sir, put down your valise, take a seat, and unburden yourself of the troubles that have brought you to my door." He sat down at an oval table in the back of his 'exedra' and gestured me to a brown leather armchair in front of it.

"She was like a mother to me," I said. "He would of killed her."

"Perhaps, young man, if you would begin at the beginning?" He open an ivory stationary box, removed two sheets of fine, smooth vellum, picked up a white goose quill pen dipped it in and inkwell and paused, looking at me.

"I...I"

"Take your time."

I told him the whole story and he took it down. At the end he, wiped the pen, put it down, sanded the document and returned the sand to the caster and handed me the document. "Peruse that document for accuracy, if you would please. That is, if you can decipher my clumsy hieroglyphics."

Well, he had the finest handwriting I ever did see. A page written by him was a ver-it-able work of art. I apologize for that word. I think of him, I start using fancy words like he did. Anyway, he told me that it, the handwriting, was 'Irish Uncle'. It was invented by the Irish monks back when they were the only people in Europe that could read and write. He said the Irish saved civilization, because at one time they were the only ones making books. You see, them Dutchy types that pulled down the Roman Empire were illiterate – couldn't read or write, I mean... Well, You get him started, he did run on. Any way, I signed that statement and gave him a good month's wages. I didn't grudge it. I never liked a tight bandanna, even.

That done, we walked down to the sheriff's office. It was a two-story red brick building on the corner next to a little restaurant. The bricks had a few bullet holes in them. There was a worn wooden stairway running up between the buildings leading to rented rooms over the jail and the place where the restaurant people lived. There was a spit and whittle club sitting on the bottom steps and they followed us to the sheriff's office asking questions which Lawyer Wrighter didn't really answer though he used a good few words doing it. There were three stone steps up to a corner door of the sheriff's office. I remember wondering if I would ever walk back down those steps.

The sheriff was a short man, a little pudgy. The jail cells were in the same room as his office and he was down on one knee fiddling with a lock on a jail door when we came in. He got up when he heard us at the door. I noticed that his movements were real smooth, graceful, even. I remember thinking, " _Heaven help the man who tries to shoot it out with him._ " You can tell. He gestured us to a couple of hand-made split-bottom chairs and sat down behind a scarred brown desk made of some kind of soft wood.

Sheriff looked up at us. "What's the deal?" he said.

"In summary sir, in concise summary, it is a clear case of self-defense and justifiable homicide."

"How many dead?"

"Two, sir, in all probability. This young man, on the advice of his elders, left Saint Elmo immediately, there being some possibility of vigilante justice and I use that term loosely."

"No chance of that here. Any witnesses?" said the sheriff.

Lawyer Wrighter drew my confession from his inner coat pocked and handed it to the sheriff. "Three, sir, as I am informed and reliably informed as I sincerely believe. Here is a signed account of the matter."

The sheriff took my confession and said, "Excuse me a minute," and read it over. When he had finished, it didn't take him long, he pulled out a folder, labeled it McMurtry and filed my confession away in it.

"I would like to ask that the young man be released on his own recognizance," said Lawyer Wright.

"If it was up to me, I'd do it. But the new judge says that, these days, we have to do things according to the law. He says, 'The rule of law, is the only thing that stands between us a _utter barbarism._ ' I said to him, 'You're right, they should stick to cutting hair.' But he didn't get it."

"Our esteemed guardian of justice is honest, fair, and reasonably well learned, but he lacks entirely the risible facility. I myself never indulge in humor in his presence," said Lawyer Wright. "I take it that the young man must remain in jail until such time as the judge may be consulted?"

"That's right and it might be a while since the judge is in Pueblo," returned the sheriff.

"It is my rather unfortunate duty to remind you-all of what you-all already know: That he has a right to a speedy trial."

"We'll give him as speedy a trial as we can," said the sheriff, rising and opening a cell. I walked in and sat down.

"Excuse me, my young man, but it is traditional to surrender any weapons in your possession," said Lawyer Wrighter.

"Put them in the valise and give me the valise," said the sheriff.

"Might I remind you-all that he has a right to a receipt?" said Wrighter.

The sheriff did not quite cast his eyeballs toward heaven, but wrote out the receipt without comment. I stuffed it in my back pocket.

"The budget for jail food will get you beans and bacon and not much else," said the sheriff. "I can get you better food from the restaurant next door but you have to pay for it."

"I'll pay," I said, "I've had too much of that diet trailing cows."

"OK," said the sheriff. "Anything else?"

"Something to read," I said

"See what I can do," said the Sheriff.

### Chapter 5 – Jailhouse

_Yew know whatsamatter witchew? Yew ain't got no dream!_

-E. Presley, 'Jailhouse Rock'

Jail was pretty boring, though the food wasn't that bad. Auntie Zee used to come by ever so often with cakes and what have you. They had to move her down to Beeyuny because she had lost so much blood that she couldn't catch her breath at Saint Elmo, which is pretty high-altitude. I kept telling her that she should be resting rather than cooking for me, but she never paid me any attention.

We neither of us mentioned Crate but it was pretty clear she had the same feelings everybody else did, that I shouldn't of shot Crate because, when his first wife showed up, Aunt Zee's troubles were probably over. He, I mean Crate, couldn't have hurt her if he was in jail for bigamy.

I probably wouldn't of shot him except for those tarnal dime novels. They brought me Don Quixote to read and Lawyer Wrighter said I had the same problem that Don did: believing what I read. Not that I am down on reading. In the immortal words of the Revered William Ellery Channing, 'It is chiefly through books that we enjoy intercourse with superior minds.' Lawyer Wrighter told me that one. It's a joke because...Oh-oh, here come the women.

Well, any way, uh...the sheriff had some fishing poles on the wall. Couple of ash rods and one of those Leonard split bamboo rods. You ever see one of those? They glue six long, skinny split pieces of bamboo together. They're light and real easy to cast with. He had some fishing books, too that he loaned me. I remember one was about fly-fishing by a Scotchman by the name of Stewart. Me and the sheriff used to talk fishing. He had some lures made by tying leather and feathers on a hook so that it looked like a grasshopper to a trout. He said it was harder to catch fish with the lure than a real grasshopper, but you didn't have to catch the grasshopper. And that is useful, because there are plenty of places with a lot of fish, but dang few grasshoppers. He said, too, it was a better way to fish because it took skill. Made a believer of me. One good thing that came out of my time in jail.

Second day I was in jail, right after the train from Saint Elmo came in, I heard some guys making a ruckus outside. The sheriff didn't even get up from his chair. He jis' turned around and looked at out the door a minute and they quieted right down. I heard them asking some kind of a question and he shook his head no and went back to his paperwork. They went away, or so I thought.

A minute later, though, I heard them out the window in back of the jail. It jis had bars on it, no glass. I heard one of them say, "Hey kid, we got something you want to look at."

Well I was bored, so I went up to the window and looked. And what did they do but slam old Crate's corpse into my face. That was awful. That .45 had taken off his whole lower jaw. There was nothing between his upper jaw and his Adam's apple but blood and gristle. I still remember how white his teeth were sticking out of all that clotted blood. His teeth were set wide apart and there were black whiskers stuck between them. That was awful. One reason I stopped using a .45; can't stand the mess.

Anyway they got the reaction they wanted. I jis barely made it to the bucket before I started throwing up. The sheriff stood up and got his shotgun. It was a double-barreled twelve gauge. He went around back of the jail. Now wherever you go in Beeyuny, there are boulders sticking out of the ground. There was a big, flat one right behind the jail and the sheriff went and fired at that rock. The shotgun pellets hit the rock bounced up and caught them in the shins. I never saw such dancing. You see, he was loaded with small pellets, the kind you'd use for shooting birds, only he used copper so they would bounce. He watched a minute and then said, "That was just my first barrel." They took the hint and hobbled back to St. Elmo, leaving the corpse there. I heard later, it got a decent burial.

The sheriff came back in and said, "Jesus! Wipe your face!" He handed me a rag and I did what he said and when I saw what was on it, I threw it away from me so hard I nearly broke my hand on the bars.

I was in terrible shape after that. I had these God-awful headaches. I sure saved a lot of money on food, though. I couldn't eat a thing but what it came back up. I couldn't even keep water down. I came near to dying of thirst right next to a well. I couldn't sleep but what I saw that jawless corpse and I would wake up again and so would everybody else within three blocks. Then I got an awful headache that wouldn't go away. They called the doctor, but all he could do was give me opium. Only way I could keep things down, but that couldn't go on forever.

Auntie Zee used to bring in the local preacher to pray over me, and that helped a little if he prayed especially hard and long. The problem with him, though, he figured he had to mention those parts of the Holy Writ that said I shouldn't have killed those guys in the first place. Exactly right of course, but it was exactly the wrong thing to say to a boy with my problem.

I hardly even noticed when the sheriff brought Max Crate in wearing handcuffs. I knew there was this fat, sloppy guy in the cell across from mine that kept looking at me, but didn't act friendly at all. I didn't make the connection until men from the state prison came and took him away. "I appreciate you doing this," said the sheriff to the state man. "Be quite a mob if Max Crate's enemies and the kid's showed up at the same time."

Well, I don't know how long I was sick. I couldn't keep track of time. One day the sheriff came up to me and says, "There's a bunch of Indians outside that say they want to talk to you." That gave me hope because had a pretty good idea who they were. And I was right. They were men I had been friendly with since I was a boy. My dad had a trading post down close to Navajo Mountain in Utah. I did a lot of growing up there before mom got sick. I got to know the Navajo fairly well. Saved a life once when I was just a shirttail kid. But that's another story.

### 6 – The Enemy Way

_Ah-uh nayah oh-wa oh-wa_

Shon-day oh-wa oh-wa

Shon-day can-non non noha (noha)

-Traditional

It was Atsidi Sani, Billy Chon, and a third one I didn't know. I hadn't seen them since I left the trading post down on the San Juan River. They introduced the third Navajo as Yiska Klah, who was some kind of a relative of Atsidi Sani. His first name was really Maurice, but he didn't use it much.

Atsidi Sani was jis about the first Dineh, I mean Navajo, silversmith. He used to melt down Mexican coins and hammer and file them into all sorts of ornaments. The Navajo had been wearing Mexican silver ornaments for a long time and, being Navajo, had figured out how to do silversmithing for himself.

Mom took an interest and stocked stuff for jewelry making in the trading post. The Navajo could make stuff like flux themselves, but the stuff mom stocked worked a lot better. She did pretty well trading flux and files and like that for jewelry. Good Navajo jewelry allus sold.

Billy Chon was a silversmith too. He was one of Mom's pupils. He went back to St. Louie one summer to study silversmithing, so he could talk English pretty well.

Any way they had been mining turquoise on a claim up above Leadville. I said to Billy, "What brings you here?"

"Well, you." said Billy. "My mom was so worried about us being up here outside Navajo country and away from the four sacred mountains that she sent a Haatáli, Yiska Klah here, all the way up here to sing a Blessing Way so that we could get back in balance. You know how the Blessing Way Medicine Bundle has dirt from the four sacred mountains."

"That's a long way to travel for jis one sing," I said.

"Yeah it is but, you remember Speaks-Her-Mind-No-Matter-Who-Is-Listening-Woman?" said Billy. I did remember that name; it's only one word in Navajo, by the way. She had cooked for Billy and Atsidi for a while. She'd gotten around a fair amount buying food for them. The locals couldn't pronounce her name so they called her Empress Jillian. She had a very regal manner.

"Yeah, but I never met her," I said.

"Well," said Billy, "she went back to Navajo Mountain and told everybodys that the minings around here were knocking hózhó into a cocked hat and we were going to come a real cropper if somebody didn't do somethings. So Yiska Klah came up here. Anyway, we were just finishing up the Blessing Way sing at dawn of the second day when somethings happened to me. All of a sudden I felt all these emotions and all my muscles cramped up. I was scared. It felt like my muscles were crushing my bones. I could hardly breathe. I went into a panic and started crying. I didn't know what to do. But somehow I knew deep down inside that it would come out all right. After I came out of it, I told Yiska Klah, and he said that I was a hand trembler now."

So I said, "So you can sense things now? Tell what is making somebody sick and what chant to use?"

"Well," says Billy, "let me tell you. That night after prayers, Yiska Klah said that there might be a reason why I got that hand trembler gift when I was so far away from the sacred mountains. So as soon as we were rested up, we did the sing for the hand trembler and I did the... I guess your ma would call it a divination. I rolled up my sleeve and sprinkled the corn pollens on it, said a prayer to Gila Monster Spirit, and we did the little bit of singing that you do for that.

As soon as we started to sing, I had the experience. My left hand started to shake and an amazing feeling of calmness came over me. My heart and my breathing slowed down and I felt peaceful. My hand kept trembling and I started to notice the energys in the people around me and I started to know things about them that I had never been told, things about their lives and what made them sick or hurting.

But then something weird happened. I began to feel energys, bad energys and it was coming from that belt you made me. I felt the same thing coming from that hatband you made for Atsidi Sani and I thought we had angered Dusty Body Youth Chief, that's a rattlesnake you know, but I noticed that there was no energys coming from the rattlesnake rattles we got in Brown's Canyon so it couldn't be that. So then I noticed energys coming from a bag of turquoises. None of the other turquoises, just that bag. Now turquoises are powerful, you know, but it took me a minute to realize what was different about that bag. It was the bag we had set aside for you. Right then, my hand stopped shaking and I knew you were in trouble. I told them that. Yiska Klah said it was very unusual for hand trembling to work at a distance like that so the trouble must be very bad. Now we knew you were In Beeyuny, so..."

"How did you find that out way up in the woods like you were?" I said.

"Uhh, I don't know, we just did. So we paid Pine Cone Ray to watch the claim and we caught the next train down. But anyway, what kind of trouble are you in?"

So I told them the whole story. Luddy, did they wince and gasp when I told them about those mudsills throwing Crate's body at me. There is nothing a Navajo is more scared of than a fresh dead body. They think that all the bad a man has done in his whole life hangs around as a ghost, a chindi they call it, waiting to pounce on the next man that comes by. When a man dies in a hogan, everybody lights out for the horizon and they never come back until the body is real well rotted and the chindi has left. Then the women carry the remains down canyon and pile rocks on it and they pull the hogan down and keep away from it for years.

They said I was really in for it if I didn't get an Enemy Way. Now that was a problem. There was no way they could bring enough Navajo up here for a dance and half measures wouldn't do for a real bad chindi like Crate's. All I could think of was to send them down to Lawyer Wrighter and off they went.

They were back within an hour and they brought a guy with them that was a stranger to me, a short, sour man with iron-gray whiskers.

"Good afternoon Sheriff," said Lawyer Wrighter. "I trust you and your family are enjoying the best of health?"

"Everybody's fine," said the Sheriff, "and your family?"

"Excellent, sir, excellent and I thank you for asking," replied Lawyer Wright. "I am here and on behalf of my client. It is an open secret, soon to become more open I have no doubt, that our esteemed judge is now incarcerated in Alamosa for public drunkenness."

"Finally," said the sheriff.

"This has precipitated a dilemma, as I am sure you can appreciate."

"What's the deal?" said the sheriff.

"My client, as I am sure you will agree, has a right to a speedy trial; this will be difficult due to the incarceration and, I suspect, imminent replacement of the aforementioned guardian of justice. Said replacement will require more time than is fair to my client. Particularly since his health has seriously deteriorated whilst he has been in durance."

"He needs a Hataalii, a singer to do a Enemy Way," said Billy. "That ghost is going to kill him if he doesn't get it."

The sheriff looked at Billy, "They call that the squaw, dance, don't they?"

Billy quickly covered his irritation. "Sometimes," he said.

"There is logic to that sir, logic," said Lawyer Wrighter. "A young woman is bound to be good for whatever is ailing a young man."

"You really believe in that sort of thing?" said the sheriff.

"Well sir," said Lawyer Wright. He turned to the two Navajo. "I hope I may be forgiven for speaking from the point of view of a Belanga? I certainly would never speak with disrespect of any man's heartfelt beliefs."

"We're used to it," said Billy.

"Then," said Lawyer Wright, turning back to the sheriff. "I will point out that, as a lawyer, I have learned that the mind can play strange tricks on its owner. Our young Mister McMurtry spent his formative years in company of the Navajo. It is possible, even likely, he has absorbed some of their beliefs without even realizing it. I have known such things to happen. If this is the source of the problem, then perhaps it is also the solution. An Enemy Way ritual may be just what is required." He turned back to the Navajo, "Indeed I have often seen men suffer severely after killing a man. It is a pity in my opinion, that the Belanga lack such a ceremony as yours. The Navajo may well have a point when they say that the evil a man does will live long after him. Indeed there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in any man's philosophy."

"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark all right," said Billy, but we're not going to act like Hamlet, we're going to do something about it."

"May I compliment you on your erudition?"

"Thanks, but everybody knows Shakespeares," said Billy. "Half the mines around here are named after his characters."

"The only problem," said the sheriff. "Is that the judge can't set his bail if he is in jail in Alamosa."

"That problem," said Lawyer Wright. "I believe I have solved. In such a case as this, I believe, a Justice of the Peace may set bail." He nodded towards our silent and whiskered companion. "The law is reasonably clear on the point and such an action a can hardly harm you personally, since public opinion, now that the facts are known, is decidedly in favor of my young client."

"I can go along with you there," said the sheriff, "but it might be a strain on Mrs. Crate to come up with the money. Crate drank up most of his fortune or spent it on calico queens."

"That problem has been solved by my young clients faithful Indian companions. They are prepared to offer a good deal of very valuable turquoise as bail. Our esteemed Justice of the Peace has agreed." Whiskers nodded. The deal wasn't that much of a stretch since gold dust was used in place of money all the time. Billy put a cigar box on the Sheriff's desk and opened it. It was full of rough turquoise.

The Sheriff shrugged, placed the box in a drawer of his desk, took some papers out of a second drawer, picked up his pen and said, "OK, how long are we talking about?"

"Well any way," said Snakeskin, "he gave me two months out since I wanted to go down to Navajo Moun'en and he didn't feel right about leaving me sitting in jail because the judge was drunk. First thing we did, me and the Navajo, was to ride out into the piñons and do another Blessing Way ceremony jis for me. It helped a lot. Afterwards I could keep water down no problem and usually soup, but I still couldn't handle solid food much. The Navajo said that was right since the Blessing Way is to restore harmony and balance, so it helps, but jis isn't good enough for a chindi. Like I said, you need an Enemy Way for that.

Before we took off, though, we went up to Saint Elmo to say goodbye to my Aunt Zee. I thought Billy Chon and Atsidi Sani would go back up to their mine and Klah would head back home, but no they all three wanted to go up to Saint Elmo with me. Well, I said OK of course.

Yiska Klah wouldn't ride the railroad. He said there was no balance or harmony in it. There was too much smoke and too much noise. "It does not," he said, "bring peace to the heart of a man. The white man always wants too much." We left him to ride his black horse up there and went down to the station.

There was a bit of trouble when we were waiting to get on the  Denver, South Park and Pacific Railroad at Beeyuny. I went to get the tickets and when I came back there were two or three rough-looking miners glaring at the Navajo.

As I walked up one of them said, "I ain't ridin' on a train with no dang Indians." He had a six shooter and a big old' bowie knife in his belt.

I put the tickets away and said to him, "Say could I borrow that knife a minute, there's something I haven't been able to get around to doing." He hesitated, but he handed me the knife. I took the knife in my right hand, reached across my body with my left and pulled out my pistol, holding it by the middle so they could see I wasn't going to shoot with it. I carved two notches on the handle, being real obvious about it and held it out so they could see. "That look alright?" I said. "Much obliged. Jis got out of jail. It'll be self defense when they get the judge sobered up enough to have the trial. Especially since there were two of them and only one of me."

"You the kid that shot his uncle?" said one.

"That tarnal ...so and so was no kin of mine! He already had a wife he forgot to mention, so he and my Aunt were never really married. I probably would of shot him anyway, though." I opened the loading gate on my pistol and put a sixth bullet in. Holding it where they could see what I was doing, of course. That looked kind of businesslike since most guys kept the hammer on an empty chamber for safety. I holstered my six-gun, but I didn't fasten the thong. I picked up Billy's shotgun, loaded it and looked up with kind of a half grin. "Those Indians," I said, "are with me." The miner's expressions changed. Somehow they didn't look quite as tough as they did a minute ago.

Then up came the conductor, "Gentlemen, gentlemen. There are two passenger cars. Might I _humbly_ suggest that your party take the front car and the other party take the back car. If you do not do that, I am afraid that I can't allow any of you to board. The sheriff's office is very close and three blasts on the whistle will bring him and several deputies and, let me tell you, the sheriff is not a man to stand for any nonsense."

The miners backed off and climbed into the front car, trying not to look relieved. We took the back car and got up to my Aunt's house with no further trouble, except that little tiny bit of business wore me out completely. Slept most of the way.

We made it up to St. Elmo by noon. Right after we got in, we had to go down to Chalk Creek to wash off all the soot from the train. Billy had a cinder burn a hole in some new pants. I had a cinder hit me in the eye, good thing it was closed, but I still got a burn on my eyelid, which I sure didn't need. Yiska Klah showed up at sundown. He didn't look tired at all and he had four rabbits tied to his saddlebow. I asked him how he got the rabbits without a bow or a gun and he said he found a stick. I was tired so I let it go.

Aunt Zee sure threw a fit over how skinny I was. We had a hard time convincing her that I couldn't keep solid food down very well. After we did, she soon was making the thickest soups known to mankind. I had a hard time keeping the soups down, too, though I was pretty successful in convincing her that I could.

She put me in my old room on the second story. She put the Navajo in an old bunkhouse we mostly used for storage and tools. There wasn't room for them in the main house on account of she'd turned the whole first floor into a laundry.

I went to bed early and woke up in the middle of the night and looked out the window. I could see the bunkhouse and it looked like the Navajo were putting some shovels away. I couldn't figure that one out, but I was tired and went back to bed. By the time morning came, I had forgotten about it. Later, I remembered.

I wanted to get right down to Navajo Moun'en, so we didn't stay long. Billy Chon and Atsidi Sani were going back to their mine, but Yiska Klah was going to Navajo Moun'en with me. Klah wanted to ride his horse the whole way, but I wanted to take the railway as far as we could because it was quicker. I knew I wouldn't be able to get him to ride the Denver and Rio Grande down to Santa Fe and across to Flagstaff, but the Colorado Midland ran to Grand Junction and the Denver and Rio Grande ran from there into Utah. I thought I could get him to take the railroad to Green River and then ride horseback down the Green to Navajo Moun'en. It was hard talking him into it, though.

"Look," I said in Navajo, "If we rode horses the whole way it would take a month or so and a pretty rough month, too. I don't know if I can do it. I might collapse on the road and die. Besides, Captain Jack's Utes haven't settled down yet. Mark my words; they'll be back off that reservation within the year. You want to run into them? Look, a train burns wood, that's natural, steam is natural. That trip would probably help your harmony and the balance you talk about because you would see the inside of the moun'en as well as the outside."

"The railroad seats are too small for my horse," said Yiska Klah. "And if the white man objects to a Navajo riding the train, he will object even more to a horse."

"A horse doesn't ride in a car for humans! They don't put horses in houses do they? No, they put them in stables. There is a special car for horses."

"Do these cars have feed and water for the horses?" said Yiska Klah. "I have seen cattle dragged out dead from those cars."

"Well, they got to stop to feed us, don't they? We can see to the horses at the same time. And besides, we can go through the Hagarman tunnel. It's the eighth wonder of the world. It goes all the way through a huge moun'en up above Turquoise Lake. To get up there the engine has to cross a trestle a higher than the tallest tree. Longer than ten of the tallest trees you ever saw stacked end to end."

"It is very clear that such a sight would help someone understand the importance of harmony and balance," said Yiska Klah and we headed for the train station.

We were in luck because the Colorado Midland Railroad had jis put together a train to carry miners and gear to a new gold rush in Utah. Brigham Young discouraged mining because he figured a gold rush would bring in a lot of non-Mormons, but a Colonel Connor that was stationed out there wanted a gold rush for the same reason. So what does Connor do but send out a lot of his soldiers to look for gold and silver. They found it and Connor got his gold rush alright, even though less than one out of a hundred mines ever paid and it didn't hurt Brother Brigham at all, really. He still kept all of his wives. Had 52 or 57 last I heard. Probably loses track himself. But any way, the miners were headed west and we went along.

We put, BettyBea and Klah's black in the cattle cars. We checked the cars out and they looked OK. The stalls were rough but sturdy, there were no nails sticking out. The mangers were well padded. They'd sanded the floors and laid down straw and the water barrels had those circular baffles at the top to keep the water from splashing out. We took off the horseshoes so that if the horses hit their legs together trying to keep their balance they wouldn't cut themselves. We got some strong rope halters and padded them with flannel to keep them from chafing. On the advice of the porter we put in padded tail ropes too. Lot of times horses will back up as far as they can and rub themselves raw on the back wall of the rail car and a tail rope at jis the right height will stop that. BettyBea had been trained, so she walked up the ramp right away, but Yiska Klah's black balked. I tried all the things I knew with no luck.

Then Klah said, "A person's way with a horse is patience." He knelt down and, petting the horse and talking to it, he got his horse in there by moving each hoof six inches at a time. Once in, he made a fuss over him, told him what good horse he was, and gave him grain and carrots and fastened a heavy quilted horse blanket over him. I followed suit of course. We made sure they had plenty of hay and headed over to the passenger car.

Before we got there we ran into this porter. "I saw de trouble you having with that black horse," he said. "Maybe you ought to ride with him as far as Granite. Dats de first stop on de line. If a hoss gwine to make trouble, it's when you starting up." Well we followed his advice and it was a good thing we did, since both horses tried to rear up when the train started. We got them calmed down and could sit in the door and admire the country.

I allus liked watching the country change going up a pass. I liked it even better this time since the outside of a calaboose looks a lot better after you have been inside one. The river down by Beeyuny has rapids and big pools. The further up you get, the more rapids and the less pools until, up above Turquoise Lake the creek is jis about all one roaring waterfall.

The trees change, too. You start with little, bushy piñon pines. Then at Granite, you get those tall ponderosa pines with their round crowns. Further up you get thick, dark woods of Doug fir and Engelmann spruce. They are pointed like Christmas trees. There is sure a lot more of that harmony and balance Klah was talking about in the woods than there is in town. Myself I don't think man was meant to live in a town. I mean how many buildings were there in the Garden of Eden?

Jis before we hit timberline on this trip, we saw the trestle. It was big and impressive all right. I was admiring it when I saw Yiska Klah looking at the slopes around it. They'd cut all the nearby trees down to make the trestle, scalped the hillside, and the trees had been growing on soft, yellow sand that had washed away jis' as soon as the trees were gone. Made a huge scar on the hillside with stumps sticking up balanced on their roots and trees falling in on both sides. Well, Klah didn't say anything, but you could tell it didn't look too good to him. Me either, really.

They stopped below Hagarman and put on two engines because of the slope. The track there below Hagarman has three switchbacks, it zigzags up the hill you know, and at every switchback they had to have a big loop of track since a train can't turn very sharp. We were moving slow because of the grade. You could sit on the edge of the boxcar door and look away down on the track below. But then we got into the snowsheds. Up on top there is so much snow, twenty-thirty feet sometimes, that they can't clear it with snowplows so somebody got the bright idea of covering the tracks with sheds. The sheds kept the snow off the tracks, alright, but they caught the smoke and kept it right next to the train. You get a lot of smoke an cinders from a double engine train anyway, but when the train is moving slow under the snowsheds, it gets really bad, really quick. I pulled off my bandanna and soaked in water from the canteen and tied it over my mouth and nose and Klah did the same with his headband. That helped a little. Then we got into the tunnel. It was worse in there and the further we went the worse it got.

"Luddy Mussy," I said, "how do those railroaders stand this! Hang on, though, we ought to be out of the tunnel in a few minutes." Just then the train stopped. We could both hardly breathe for coughing and I started to get dizzy. I thought I heard somebody outside the train, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face, and I hollered, "What in the devil is going on!"

A voice came back, "De tunnel blocked."

We chewed that over a minute and Yiska said, "The horses," and jumped out of the passenger car.

"Wait," I said, "If the train moves you'll get crushed!" Then I thought that I would rather be crushed than suffocated and I joined him.

I hadn't gone too far when I heard Klah stumble over something and a voice say, "Stay down sir, stay down on you hands and knees. The lower air be cleaner. Stay down I say, don't you know de smoke rises?"

"OK," I says. "We better tell those miners."

"Dey all passed out and de engineer and de fireman too. Now listen and listen good. You know how to set de brakes and let them off?"

"Yeah," I said. We'd been watching brakemen do that. It was quite a sight to see. Each car had its own brakes that you set by turning a wheel at the top of one end of each car. When you turn that wheel, you got to stand on a platform the size of a postage stamp. The cars had a wood walkway on top about three feet wide. The brakemen had to set the brakes on the first car, run across the top of that car, jump the gap to the second car, set the brakes on it and so on until he came to the end of the train. The tracks were uneven in a lot of places so the cars would lurch and twist when the train moved. The brakemen also had to line up the couplings when they were hooking the cars together and that particular job would usually leave them with less than ten fingers to hold on with when they were setting the brakes. You didn't see many old brakemen, I can tell you.

"OK den," said the porter, "Im'a uncouple de train so it rolls back out of de tunnel. Once we get out, we got to set de brakes again or she be running away with us. You got dat? I hopes you do. I'm going to take de tender car and you take this one. Lawd help us."

"Where's the brakeman?" I yelled after him.

"Dead," he hollers back.

"Get back on the train," I said to Yiska. I had no idea if he heard me. I crawled along outside of the tracks feeling my way hitting my head on the car and the tunnel every few feet. I felt around until I found the ladder and took a deep breath and climbed up. Those brake wheels stuck up above the top of the car and the first thing I did was hit my head on the rocks at the top of the tunnel and inhale a big lungful of smoke. "Keep your head way down Yiska," I hollered between coughs.

I started seeing white spots before my eyes and I thought I was going to pass out. That scared me. If I fell off, I'd go belly up for sure. I shoved my foot through the second rung on the ladder and hooked my boot on the third. I figured if I passed out, I'd dangle there for a while anyway. Finally, the train began to move. I couldn't catch my breath for coughing and my vision was nearly solid with white spots. And then, bingo, we were out of the tunnel. Luddy Mussy, that was a relief. I could still hardly see for the spots in front of my eyes, but it got better with every breath. And then I noticed the train was picking up speed.

Then I heard the porter holler, "She be running away with us! And dey ain't no rabbit before de turn. We got to anchor up a lot more!"

The thought came to me that there probably weren't any rabbits around, but there probably would be a snowshoe hare or two. But I figured out he couldn't mean that. And then, since we weren't riding a boat, that 'anchor up' business probably meant 'put the brakes on'. Luddy, I don't know why those railroaders got to stretch the blanket and talk slang like that. They must be blind as a snubbing post not to know that palaver would leave a bull nurse all down but nine and that's sound on the goose. Why can't they talk straight like a waddie?

I had the devil's own time turning that first brake wheel. It was jammed. It was slippery, too. I found out later, it was slippery because the brakeman hadn't kept his head down low enough. I hooked my hands over the wheel spokes and gave a mighty heave, the wheel popped loose, and I started falling. I thought I was a goner, but I went over grabbing and jis by luck caught the top rung on the side ladder. Slammed into the side of the car.

I pulled myself up and looked back. The porter was running along the top of the cars in a half crouch. When the train lurched, he wouldn't fight it but kind of moved with it so he ran in a zigzag. The porter had that three-foot club they use to tighten the brakes and I didn't, but I figured I would do what I could my hands. Bound to help. I was scared, but I climbed up and got started.

The tracks were pretty uneven in places because the ground is allus sliding downhill up there. I've been on a fantail horse that didn't buck as bad as those cars did. We couldn't work fast and we didn't seem to be slowing that train down much and I could see that hairpin turn getting closer and closer.

I looked around and got ready to jump off, but the porter hollered, "Keep at it, we gettin' there." I buckled down and by the time we hit the curve we had slowed down. We still had to drop flat and hang on for dear life going round the curve, but the train stayed on the track. Once we were around, the grade leveled out and we finally got her stopped.

Then we had to jump down and see if we could revive the other men. The miners were pretty much all right. Drunk mostly. The fireman and the engineer were worse off. We though they were both dead, but I remembered something my mother had taught me and I took my coat off, opened it, put it down, and laid the engineer on it. Then we crossed the coat arms across the engineer's chest. We pulled on the coat arms to squeeze his chest and push the air out of his lungs and then we let go and let his chest expand to pull the air back into his lungs. Over and over, you know. We were lucky, because he started coughing in a few minutes and half sat up and cussed us and told us to stop it.

Yiska Klah had been over next to the fireman. We smelled him lighting up his tobacco and wondered what in Sam Hill he was doing, but in a minute the fireman started coughing too. It turned out Klah had a small piece of brass pipe in his medicine bag. It was narrow and the ends were sanded smooth. Klah had got it out, greased it up, and blown smoke...Uh-oh. I'm real...really sorry I got carried away with my story. I jis can't tell you exactly where he blew the smoke, but was an old Indian remedy and it worked.

After the engineer and the fireman were pretty well back on their feet, we went to see how the miners were doing. They had sobered up and were looking around. One of them looked at me and Klah. We were all sooty and bloody. "Thunderation," he says, "look at that kid and that Redskin! There's a pair to draw to."

"I be craving you gentlemen's indulgence," says the porter, "to inform you dat you owe your lives to dat pair. If it weren't for them we'd all be lying back in dat tunnel dead."

"Giving credit where credit is mostly due," I said. "We all owe our lives to the man wearing the porter's hat. I tell you he is really a man you'd want to ride the river with."

Then the miners all thanked us and asked what happened and we told them and they thanked us again.

Then Klah turned to me and said in English, "You say looking at the insides of the mountain will give us balance of spirit. I think maybe we not get enough balance in tunnel. Maybe we go find another tunnel and go through that. Humph?"

I was glad to see that the men were recovered enough to grin over that. I said, "I think maybe we better get our horses out of the boxcar and ride over the pass. Luddy Mussy I hope they are all right." I turned to the engineer. "There any way could we catch a train over there for not too much extra dinero?"

The engineer said, "I'll writecha a note. Won't costcha a dime. You can stay at Hagarman Station. Brother-in-law runs it. I can probably get him to putcha up for free if you let him know the problem and give him a hand if he needs it. We're going to have to put a rag waver down the line on our side to stop trains coming up."

"How are you going to get the engine out?" I wondered.

"Oh a sloping tunnel like that'll clear itself in a day or two," said the engineer. "'Specially if it warms up."

"We got to get poor old McKelvie out too or what's left of him," said the porter.

"Married?" I said.

'Wife and kids. She goin' to have to milk another man's cows all de livelong day to make de two bits it's going to take to feed them. And dey goin' to go hungry sometimes anyway. Dey goin' to hate Christmas all dey lives because dey going to remember de Christmases when they only got a ten-cent top. You know I heard that big bug Vanderbilt, de man what owns de railroads, is worth two hundred million dollars."

"Well," said the engineer, "they ain't no way we can support all the brakeman's widows, there's just too many of them. But still we can chip in for McKelvie's kid's Christmas presents. Let's all remind each other come Christmas."

"I don't know," said the porter, "railroad life bein' what it is, our troubles is going to make us all forget by Christmas. Let's be getting de gifts now and put them in a box at de station."

Well, we all chipped in and Yiska Klah says, "I will make them bows and arrows while I wait at Hagerman. You tell those kids they're real Redskin bows and arrows. They'll give some big war whoops then."

"Well," I said, "if things are so bad, why don't the brakemen form an association and pay into a fund to support widows and orphans for a while."

"De owners wouldn't like dat!" said the porter. "Too much like a union. They figure once we get any way organized we might start asking for crazy things like decent wages or working conditions that'll let us live more than a year or two."

"If it was me," I said, "my talking iron might get a little use." I pointed at my pistol with my thumb.

"It's happened," said the engineer. "And it'll happen again before things get straightened out. But we ain't organizing no unions today. It ain't even safe to talk about it much. Not with you weedbenders around. Now, can we help you with your horses?"

Well, the horses were ok, thanks to goodness. Better than we were. Hadn't even been in the tunnel. We got them out without too much trouble and put horseshoes back on them. I was glad to get out in the fresh air. I kept smelling something rotten in that cattle car where the horses were.

It was quite a ride over Hagarman Pass. That's a good twelve thousand feet. There was a trail over there, but it went through snowbanks and rockslides and it was washed out part of the way. It's tarnal hard to get a horse to walk over a snowbank because the first few steps they'll break through the snow and their hooves come down with a thump. And once they get on top of the snowbank, it's slippery. Horses will stop in front of a snowbank and look at it and worry until the cows come home. There are waddies that ride across, but they're jis playing to the gallery. Me, I get off and lead. Same way with a rockslide. The rockslide rocks aren't round like stream rocks; they're all over sharp angles. Hard enough for a man to walk on. There was a bit of a trail through and it was high up so the rocks were small and we got through without too much trouble.

It sure is pretty up above timberline, though. The boulders are almost white, none of that brown granite you get down lower, and they're spotted with moss and lichen, green, black and white. When your going along the side-hill you can look down into a valley like half a bowl with jagged peaks all around it with snowbanks and patches of evergreens, and green grass and brush. The air up there is real clear and the light is whiter than it is anywhere else. It makes the colors brighter. The snowbanks are whiter, the spruces look black and the flowers are like to knock your eye out. When we finished that last steep climb and got up on the pass and looked back and down, we saw this little cloud riding a stiff breeze up the valley about 200 feet below us. It came scudding right at us until it hit the updraft and it flew up and over us and down the other side. Yiska Klah was sure happy about that. He said a spirit had gone ahead to clear the way for us and that our troubles were about over.

We made it down to Hagarman Station and the accommodations weren't at all bad. The beds were a mule's breakfast, I mean straw, but better than sleeping on the ground like we usually did. Soon as I got to that station, though, I about collapsed. The excitement kept me going, but as soon as it was over I was like a puppet with the strings cut. Good thing I had Klah along. He did some sings for me and even built a sweat lodge down by the creek. That got me on my feet again and I could keep water and some food down. Worst thing was, the station master could make bear sign and there ain't ...isn't anything a cowboy likes better than bear sign, donuts that is, and I couldn't keep them down. I had to go down and sit by the creek in the rain while he was cooking them. I felt like a newborn baby trying to nurse from his daddy.

Soon as they got the tunnel repaired, we got back on the same train and rode down the moun'en. We got into Green River in a couple days. They had quite a railroad yard there. They had engine houses, coal sheds, a water tower, a depot, and a switching yard. Everything was built on black cinders and smutched with smoke and coal dust and everything was painted that awful tomcat yellow the railroads like so much. Maybe they think it doesn't show the dirt or something. Only it does. And Luddy Mussy the noise. Coal roaring down the chutes, hammering and chugging and whistles and cussing. And it was hot, too. In summer the railroad tracks are the hottest place and winter they're the coldest place. Yiska Klah and I couldn't get out of that town fast enough.

That's an alkali desert down there. The ground looked kind of' whitish and there wasn't much growing on it. Patches of short little gray plants growing about three feet apart. We had to follow the river because that's the only water and grazing. You see a lot of those book cliffs in the distance as you go down the river. They look a little blue in the haze. I suppose it's pretty in a quiet kind of way. It ain't...isn't a patch on Mount Massive, but at least it is peaceful. I appreciated that.

As soon as we got out of town Klah saw a yucca growing on the canyon wall and nothing would do but we had to dig up that yucca root, pound it into a lather on a rock, wash up, and wash the horses. That water was dang cold, but we all felt better afterwards, especially BettyBea.

The only other thing I remember about the trip is one night when we camped under a rock overhang near a spring. The Indians had left picture writing on the walls. I asked Klah what they meant, but he didn't know.

"Nobody knows," he said. "Maybe they were made by spirits. Except for the Ute scrawls. This place was very dangerous for the Navajo before the Utes were rounded up and sent to that little reservation."

"The Utes were foolish to kill Meeker and those other people," I said.

"Meeker was foolish to tell them to kill some of their horses. He would have fared no better if he tried to make Vanderbilt burn some of his money. The Utes are like the white men. They both think there is only one thing that makes a man important. With the Utes it is horses. With the Belanga it is money. The Navajo would say, 'That is a fine blanket.' The Ute would say, 'That is a fine blanket. It would be worth a horse.' The Belanga would say, 'That is a fine blanket. It is worth ten dollars.' There is more than one important thing in this world. The Utes and Belanga do not know how to say 'too much'," Klah continued. "That is not good. I think McKelvie would not have died if Vanderbilt did not want too much. There should be a balance in what men own. One man should not have much more than his neighbors. Among the Dineh, those who have less will turn to the black evil of witchcraft. The Belanga turn to murder."

Not long after that the country started to look like home. We got out of the alkali and started seeing red rocks and red dirt. You get real deep canyons with that red sandstone. You'll be riding along and come around a tree and, bingo, you can see a half-mile down and three miles across. There'd be pale cap rock and under that hundreds of feet of red cliff. You'd get dark green piñon and light green cottonwood against the red rocks. The red and the green seemed to form kind of a balance to me. Maybe that's where the Navajo got the idea. We saw an eagle riding the updraft in front of a cliff. He'd circle around, swing up right next to his shadow on that red cliff and swing away again. Klah said that was our helpful spirit again.

We headed for my folk's trading post on the San Juan. I'd sent word so they knew we were coming. When we started getting close, we started seeing Navajo. Only they looked different, now. Not much buckskin any more. The men were wearing those Mexican pants with the silver conchos along the sides and the women full skirts and blouses instead of those blankets that were laced at the shoulders. Lot of' the men's shirts and women's blouses were velvet. They seemed to like purple.

"The Navajo women must of learned how to sew, somehow," I said to Klah.

We got to the trading post and there were enough Navajo to do the Enemy Way dance. They had that special hogan they use about half built already and had completely finished the cooking hogan. Well, me and Yiska Klah kept meeting old friends and stopping to palaver so it took me a while to get up to the trading post. Dad was about the same. He was a little stiff from rheumatism, but still as straight a man for his years that you'd see anywhere. He was about ready for the ceremony, too. There's a lot of cooking and eating involved in an Enemy Way, since it lasts about three days. It's worse than Thanksgiving or dinner for a threshing crew since there are a lot more people involved, but it's potluck so it ain't so hard on any one woman. Dad had a yearling steer he was going to butcher. Kept calling it the fatted calf.

Mom had changed a lot, thanks to goodness. When I last saw her she was so thin she would of blown away in a strong breeze. Now she was sitting up with eyes a bright as a jaybird's teaching the Navajo women how to sew. She also had a silversmithing class going, too. Taught sandcasting. "Luddy Mussy Mom," I said, "five minutes after you get up there with the angels you'll set up a flying school."

I suppose I should say that it wasn't jis Mom that taught the Navajo how to sew. A lot of them learned to sew when they were slaves to the Mexicans and brought the skill back and spread it around when they came home. Only the Navajo could get something good out of slavery.

Mom knew how to improve the weary hour, too. She had cloth for sale all over the place, especially that purple velvet, only she called it velveteen. That's one of the reasons our trading post survived the hard times, her ideas. That and Dad's honesty and that he didn't stand for any nonsense.

We had a pretty good time there at the trading post, but I don't suppose it was any different from any other family reunion. They really pitched a fit about me being so thin. Wanted to do the Enemy Way right now.

It takes three medicine men to do an Enemy way. One to make the rattlestick, one to receive the rattlestick, and one, the Haatáli, to do the sing. A rattlestick is a juniper branch about a foot and a half long. It has to be carved jis right and decorated jis right. They put a two eagle feathers tied with a buckskin thong and four small deer toes on one end. On the other end they tie a yellow turkey feather and a bundle of sacred herbs or a scalp. Next they wrap it with yarn and paint it with burned herbs and the blood of sacred animals. They sing sacred songs while they make the stick and sprinkle pollen.

The patient carries rattlestick to the hogan of the medicine man who receives the stick. The stick receiver is the man in charge of the ceremony. He inspects the rattlestick to see that it is made right, makes sure they get a good Haatáli that can do the sing, sees to it that the right people get the right gifts, and consults with the women about feeding everybody. It is a big responsibility and you want a good man.

The first night is meeting night and everybody goes to the ceremonial hogan and decides who is to do what. When they came to picking out the rattlestick receiver, I looked right away at Yiska Klah, but he said, "No, I cannot. I also need this sing."

"How come?" I said. "You didn't kill anybody."

"I got Crate's scalp and collar-bone for the ceremony. You will need strong medicine for a bad Chindi."

"You went over to the bone orchard, dug him up and... So that's where the smell was coming from. Where did you carry them? Luddy Mussy you were taking quite a risk. They would of fit you with a California Collar for a Texas cakewalk and that's sound on the goose. And what about the Chindi?"

"I carried them in my horse's tail. As for the risk, it is wrong not to help someone who needs it."

After we got everything decided, we went to eat. Mom and Dad put on quite a feed. Dad broiled beefsteaks. Dad knew how to do it. You sear them on a grill over a hot fire and then smoke them until they're done. Nothing better in the whole wide world. And they'd cook potatoes by burying them in the ashes. That's the best way to cook them. They're black on the outside, but Luddy Mussy do they taste good. And roasting ears! They were right by the cornfield and there wasn't five minutes between picking and cooking. Maw liked newfangled ideas so she wrapped them in in these real thin sheets of tin and put them in the coals with the shucks still on. Your tin sheets, they call them tinfoil, weren't used much in those days except in cigarette packages, but Mom had read about how royalty was allus cooking things in gold foil and she jis had to try it. She had some tinfoil shipped out from Saint Louie and tried them on turkey. She said it would keep the juices in. It kept the turkey juicy all right, but it gave it a bit of a funny flavor. It worked real well on corn though. Nothing better in the whole wide world. We had a real boss feast; don't think we didn't.

Afterwards we got the rattlestick made and the sacred songs sung and sent Billy out at dawn to ask a famous medicine man, I forget his name, to be the rattlestick receiver and got a yes answer and three days later we all set out for his hogan. It was quite a procession; everybody had got all the yarn they could buy or pawn from the post and decorated their horses with it. Some would jis wrap the yarn around leaving all kinds of tassels. Some of them would weave two colors together to make patterns. Everybody wore all the conchos and silver and blankets and fine velvet they could scrape together and off we went at a full gallop. I had the rattlestick and when we reached the stick receiver's hogan, I took it in and gave it to him. He looked it over and he sang the receiving song. Everybody else was socializing.

At dusk we had another feed, Navajo food this time, roast mutton and that atoo' stew I told you about and fry bread and chiilchin pudding. Then the drumming started and the girls went out and picked their partners for the dance. The girls stands behind her partner, grabs him by the side, and they circle around dancing and singing. They would change partners every so often. Every time they changed partners, the girl got a little present. They kept it up until midnight and then everybody went to bed. The next two days were about like that. Ride, eat, dance, give presents, and do those ritual sings.

The second day they brought in the third medicine man, the Haatáli, to sing the Enemy Way. It's a long song, it takes all day and it has to be done jis exactly right and there ain't...aren't that many that can do it. At noon they painted me and Klah up. First they ground up juniper, yarrow, meadow rue, and pine needles in water and rubbed that all over us. Next one of the assistant medicine men chewed up pennyroyal and foxtail grass and spit it on his hands and laid those hands on us four times. They painted us all over with sheep tallow and spread ashes of sacred herbs over that so our bodies were all black. Next they painted our faces red and black and had us put our feet in dirt dug up by a gopher. Left foot first and then right foot. Your gopher, by the way, is a guardian spirit for the Navajo; you see it the sand paintings. They tied a roadrunner feather to our heads, braided yucca around our wrists, fastened cross belts of beaded buckskin across our chests, and tied crow bills to our right hands so we could scratch. It wasn't considered proper to scratch with your fingers during the ceremony.

When it got dark, they finished up the big sing, unwrapped the stick, gave it to Billy to hide it out in the desert with the proper prayers, and they unwrapped me and Klah and we went out to the desert. The Haatáli put Crate's scalp and collarbone on the ground and everybody else formed a circle around them. After we three scattered ashes on Crate's remains, three or four of the toughest warriors came charging in and blew those remains to pieces with shotguns. Then all the men and boys ran around yelling and charging at each other with firebrands and singing about how fierce me and Klah were.

When they got tired of that, they had another dance. It didn't last as long as the others as everybody was pretty well played out. All the main people, us and the medicine men, got up at dawn the next day and sang closing songs and everybody went home.

When they first started the ceremony, I was worried about whether it would work or not, but by the end I had forgotten all about my worries and chowed down on three bowls of mutton stew and four chunks of fried bread without thinking twice about it. They hadn't let me or Klah eat but very little those last two days. We were supposed get our energy by breathing in the sun. I will admit that I didn't feel hungry until the ceremony was over. And then I laid down and slept for about twelve hours.

Next few days I spent horse racing, gambling, and trying to get a little cooperation out of the gir...Uhh. Any way before too long, in rode a man with a telegram from Beeyuny. The judge was back, had decided that the turquoise wasn't good enough for bail, and I had to get back right away. Nothing for it, so I thanked everybody, said goodbye and headed back. I didn't hurry, and by the time I got back the judge was off on another bender and I had to sit in the calaboose some more while they tried to get thing arranged. Again.

### Chapter 8 – Buscadero

_Well, there are some things a man just can't run away from._

-John Wayne

It wasn't as boring this time because I had the sense to bring my leatherworking kit, so I could make belts and stuff while I was in there. Something else that helped was when the sheriff had a locksmith in to put in new jail locks. They were pretty much wore out. I watched him and paid him a few bucks to give me lessons while he was there. Took my mind off things. That locksmith sold me a book on it, too and I got the sheriff to let me practice on the old locks they were going to throw out. I took particular interest in learning how to pick...uhh pick out the right kind of lock to use. It's interesting locksmithing, if you like that sort of thing. I'd rather be outdoors, though. Fishing or punching cattle. I don't think God made man to live inside a house and that's sound on the goose.

The chuck was OK, too, but I was starting to get restless, like a horse that's been stalled too long. The sheriff had a couple regular deputies, but one was down sick and the other got himself shot, so the sheriff had to leave me alone a lot and that didn't help. One day he left right after breakfast and when dinnertime came, he still wasn't back. I was bored and hungry so I looked around and saw that I could reach one of his fishing rods in the wall rack. Once I got hold of the rod I could reach out and get the keys he left on his desk. A minute later I was out. I left him a note and locked everything up so nothing would get stolen and went next door to the restaurant.

Every time Aunt Zee came to town, she would have a big palaver with Mrs. Krymble who ran the eatery. And every time they had a palaver, they'd take on about how thin I was and start discussing plans to fatten me up. I don't know what the fuss was. All I had to do was eat. Any way when I dropped in, Mrs. Krymble brought me a big plate of kidney stew and some of that boss cornbread of hers and I tucked in. I even got a beer on the condition that I had a second helping of stew. No hardship there. I was about halfway through the stew, and thinking about going over to the bar afterwards to see if they would trust me for a little of the Oh-be-Joyful, when here comes the sheriff heading for his office. He looked a little put out. He didn't see me. A minute later, here he comes back and, Luddy Mussy, was he all horns and rattles. I waved at him as he went by and stopped short and came in."

"What the ...the heck are you doing here?" he said.

"Well, I got hungry and thought I'd get something to eat. I left you a note."

He drew a deep breath and started to cuss me out but he didn't hardly get started when Mrs. Krymble snapped out, "Watch your language!" That stopped him, of course, and she says, "Take it easy on the boy Sheriff, he was just hungry and you know he wasn't going to run off. Look, how about a nice plate of stew, you look like you could use it. Yes and I'll get you a beer, too."

"Its real good stew," I chimed in.

The sheriff let out a big sigh, nodded, took off his hat, and sat down to his stew.

Mrs. Krymble let him get well into it and calmed down and she says, "Well, and what got you into such a state, Sheriff, that isn't like you."

"Keep this quiet, but I finally ran down Waco L'Amour."

"So you should be happy about that," says Mrs. Krymble.

"I know where he is, but I can't take him by myself. You can only watch two sides of a cabin at once and you know old Waco. He'd crawl out the other side and take off and I'd lose him. Or if he was in a bad mood, he'd sneak around and shoot me. It's a h...heck of a thing to finally locate him and have both my deputies down."

"There's plenty of men in town that can handle a gun," said Mrs. Krymble.

The sheriff frowned and shook his head. "You mean there's plenty of men in town that _think_ they can handle a gun. I need somebody I _know_ can shoot straight when somebody is shooting back. Anybody that can't do that is more danger to me than Waco."

Mrs. Krymble looked away and minute and looked at me.

"Oh no," I said, "you're not getting me in a situation where I might have to shoot somebody. I don't like doing that."

"And that," says Mrs. Krymble with a smile, "makes you a pearl of great price. A boy that can shoot straight that's not trigger-happy. We sure are lucky we have you."

"I don't want to go!" I said.

"Well, I'm sorry about this Snakeskin, but I'm afraid you have to. We can't let somebody like Waco run around loose and you're the only person that can help," said Mrs. Krymble.

"I tell you," I said, "I'm _not_ going to do it." I crossed my arms, stuck out my lower lip, lowered my head, and glared at them both.

_________________________________________

When we got to the sheriff's office he said to me, "Raise your right hand." I raised my right hand. "Do you swear to uphold the laws of the State of Colorado and the United States of America?"

"I guess," I said.

"Pin that on," said the sheriff, throwing me a star, "check the loads in your guns, and get your saddle. Get a wiggle on!"

We rode southeast and crossed the Arkansas River and rode up Trout Creek Pass a ways and turned north up a feeder creek coming down from behind Middlin' Hill. By that time we had a half moon. I like moonlight riding. The shadows on the mountains are real dark and the canyons look real deep. It was all those little piñons, so it was easy to see until we got a ways up that side creek. Up there, we started to get ponderosa pine and a few aspen and more shadow. We dismounted about a half-mile below the cabin and walked up to it.

It was pretty much an ordinary cabin except that it had been built on a flat rock. You build a log cabin on the ground the bottom logs will rot. Most cabins were built on piles of rocks and fell down in a few years, but this one had been there a while. It was about ten feet square built of notched pine logs with sawmill boards for door and window frames. The wood was unpainted, so it looked black in the moonlight. It had a back door with a small porch for stove wood.

The sheriff waited behind a stump where he could see the west and south sides of the cabin. I went around back to where I could see the other two sides of the cabin. I eased down through the sagebrush and crawled down slowly and got behind a couple of down aspen. When I was ready, I lowered my head down close to the ground to make it hard to tell where I was and hollered out, "OK Sheriff." We wanted Waco to know the sheriff wasn't alone.

And the sheriff he hollers, "OK Waco, it's over. That kid out there just took on two men in a gunfight and killed them both. And you know me. Come on out and don't move fast."

"Luddy, I hope you don't," I hollered. "Come on Waco try something. I'll have three notches on my gun then. Those guys 'll stop their joshing and give me respect finally. They'll say, 'Look out for that McMurtry kid. He's a real curly wolf'."

"Hobble your lip, kid," said the sheriff. "You coming out Waco or do we have to fire the cabin? We brought plenty of kerosene bottles." We hadn't brought a one.

Still nothing. Now I'd had a run of luck at cards and won a boss rifle, a lever action Winchester 1886. That gun was as fine as cream gravy. Like I said, I never liked checkers, so if the moon was bright I'd go out down in the river bottom where it was safe and hang tin can lids and anything shiny in the trees. Then I'd see if I could hit one. I used to bet with the boys about it. I usually lost my money, but I got pretty good at spotting things in the dark.

I was waiting hunkered down there when I saw something moving in the porch. I thought about it a minute and decided it was a gun barrel moving back and forth real slow...slowly. It looked thick for a rifle barrel. I thought it might be an over and under rifle and shotgun. " _Little bigger target,"_ I said to myself. It came forward and I thought I could see the stock under the barrels. _"Funny he's coming so far forward,"_ I thought, " _he'd be safer shooting out a window_." It gave me a target that was about three inches high. There was nothing but logs behind it so I wouldn't kill anybody if I missed. I figured I better be careful because if I did miss, he might fire at my muzzle flash. There were a couple of green branches sticking up out of the down tree right in front of me that were about an inch apart. I set the barrel of my rifle between them and slowly turned it sideways, pushing against the flex of the branches far enough to where I was aiming at Waco's gun. It was kind of like putting my rifle barrel in a vise. Steadied it real...really well. I took careful aim, pulled the trigger, and ducked down. Well, Waco didn't fire, but Luddy Mussy did he cuss. He was airing his lungs to beat the Dutch.

"What?" said the sheriff.

I said, "I think I hit his gun barrel."

The sheriff says, "Come on out Waco. You aren't going to do much fighting with your hand like that."

Well, Waco stopped cussing, thumped around in there, and started shooting.

"Don't shoot back, kid," said the sheriff. "Waco won't hit anything at this range with that pistol." Waco stopped shooting and started cussing. "Pistol jam on you again?" said the sheriff. "You got no chance of shooting your way out. You've got to know that."

After a minute Waco shoots a few more times, coming nowhere close, then stops. Heard him hammering on his gun. Trying to clear a jam again. Well, he kept that up for quite a while, hammer and shoot, hammer and shoot.

Finally the sheriff said, "You might as well give it up, Waco. We're not going to shoot you. You're not going to shoot us. I'll see to it that you sleep warm and dry and get the best of Mrs. Krymble's cookin'. She makes some real good stews."

"She makes boss cornbread, too," I chimed in. Waco was quiet for a while and I said, "We could offer him beer to go with it, Sheriff. Maybe even a little bit of the Oh-be-Joyful."

"Consider it offered, Waco," said the sheriff.

After a minute we hear Waco say, "Ahhhh, why not?" He opened the door and threw out his pistol. Then we hear him clumping around and he threw out the rifle too.

"OK," said the sheriff, "take off your coat and walk slowly out the front door and stop next to that little aspen stump." After a minute Waco came out. He was short, but the muscles in his legs stretched his pants and his shoulders stretched his shirt. His hair and his handlebar mustache were iron gray. When he walked, he leaned hard on his cane. He had quite a limp.

The sheriff had me come around and stand off to one side of Waco while he checked him for weapons. I had to get his lantern so we could look at his arm. His hand was jis sprained, so we tied it up in a sling. I got his traps, a blanket, a bible, and a spare suit of unmentionables. We packed them and his two guns up and started back. We had him ride between us, but we weren't worried about him trying to escape. I never did see anybody that cared so little about what happen to him. He seemed to have given up on life completely. Couple times he asked us to stop a minute while he rested. Jis riding seemed to hurt him.

We got back about midnight. The sheriff put us in two cells right next to each other. We got a boss breakfast next morning: hotcakes and honey and scrambled hen fruit and homemade sausage and good strong Arbuckle's. All cooked jis exactly right. Waco seemed to appreciate it.

We shot the breeze for a while. Waco wanted to know why I was a jailbird and a deputy too. I told him and asked him what he was in for. He told me all about it.

_________________________________________________

"I was top hand wunst. Caporal, too. Ah bossed one of the fust drives from Texas up to Kansas. That was back when we still had Indian trouble. Cross reservation land and you'd have to sit down and palaver with them for half a day over how many steers they would charge to cross their land. Usually give them strays. Crossin' them rivers, though, was the worst. Usually we'd wade the herd across, but the bottom of one river we hit was quicksand and if we'da tried to drive them over they'da got bogged. We had to spend better'n a week buildin' a bridge and then, when we fine'ly got the bridge built, them dumb cows wouldn't cross it. We'd drive them up to the bridge and they'd turn around and go into a mill and we would get nowhere. We tried runnin' them at it and we tried walkin' the chuckwagon oxen across for lead steers. Couldn't get nothin' to work. Fine'ly we roped a few calves and drug them across and held them jist on the other side. Those calves bawled and bawled and the mama cows came across and the herd followed.

Plenty grass in those days, though. Herd would gain weight on the drive. Those were the days. I worked as hard as anybody, but when I got done I didn't have nothin'. Spent my wages. And then I got hurt and couldn't work no more and cattle was all I knew. They warn't nothin' left but robbery and that didn't turn out too well.

We went and stopped a train in Texas that had a fancy car on the end of it. Real fluff-duff. But before we got finished robbin' it, this kid jumped outta that fancy car and started shootin' with a derringer. Now those derringers only got a range of about six feet, that's why they call them cathouse guns. Only place they're any use. So all we had to do was wait until he ran out of ammunition and walk up and take the gun away from him. He was jist a kid. But this guy we had with us started shootin' back. I knocked his gun hand up, but it was too late, the kid was down on the ground with a cracked skull. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't anywhere near 'right' after that. Couldn't talk, even. Jist sat there an stared at the wall. There was nothin' we could do for him, so we jist left him there. Did our robbin' and skedaddled."

"How did you skedaddle, the way you're crippled up?"

"Oh I had that figured out. The way I bellied through the brush was to hide up in an aspen grove a day or two, and then get myself all duded up, plug hat and all, and druv out in a buggy. Had it set up to where I could sorta kneel on pads and take some of the weight off my hind end so I could travel without it botherin' me too much. I made like I was a land speculator. Run across anybody, I'd whip out my maps and compass and feed them enough burro milk to float a side-wheeler. I'd talk water and grass and mineral rights 'til I was blue in the face. You ever in a situation like that, kid, the more you want to skedaddle, the more you act like you wanta stay.

"I'd of been alright, but those other bozos got themselves caught. They'd left some fresh horses in hobbles but they didn't have the sense to leave somebody to watch and they got stole. They were settin' in' the hoosegow watchin' them build the scaffold for a Texas cakewalk and one of them figgered he'd get hisself outta it, by rattin' on me. It worked. He got the hoosegow and not the bone orchard. More than I can say."

"You know, I got a real good lawyer," I said. "Maybe he can get you off."

" Ahhh, but it ain't no use," said Waco. "That kid they shot was as rich as you can git. Soon'uz they get me back to Texas, I'm a goner. And besides they ain't no way I can make a livin'. I cain't cowboy any more and that's all I know. Might as well cash in. To tell the truth, the only thing I enjoy any more is sleepin'. So why not sleep forever?"

"Well, if you'd get jail time instead of hanging, you might learn some way of making a living," I said. "Take me. I've made near half as much outta my leatherwork as I did punching. Mrs. Krymble sells them for me in her eatery, there."

"Takes a while to learn, don't it?"

I shrugged. "Well, we got nothing but time," I said. "I'll show you. Give you something to do. Take your mind off things. And maybe you could do me a favor some day." I hate to see a man that has the mulligrubs all the time. Sours my milk after a while.

"I dunno what I could ever do for you if I was in jail, but you wanta show me I'll listen."

I did show him and he didn't do too bad...too badly. Didn't do me any harm, either. You want to really learn something, you teach it to somebody.

One time when the sheriff was out, we were both working away. Waco was sitting at table carving little flowers into a belt with an incising knife. You've seen those; they look like a pencil with a quarter-inch blade on the bottom and a swivel on the top. I was sitting at the other end of the table fiddling with an old Barron lock my aunt had brought me.

We'd been talking and Waco said, "What I should have done, what yuh ought to do, is get your own spread soon as yuh can. Yuh goin' to be a bull nurse at all, it means long, hard days. No gettin' outta it. So yuh mizewell be workin' for yourself. You know the cattle business pretty good?"

"Yeah."

Waco put down the incising knife, brushed off the belt he was working on and held the belt up to the light. "Yeah?" he said. "Lot of kids jist do what they're told and never know why sos when they get on their own, they cain't plan nothin'."

I put another drop of oil on the lock and tapped it with a hammer to loosen it up. "Oh I was allus asking why. Made a bit of a pest of myself," I said.

"Oh yeah?" says Waco. "So how would yuh herd them through the woods?"

"I know what you mean," I said. "Lot of guys, kids especially, get to pushing them too hard so the calves fall behind and the mamas turn around to get back to the calves and pretty quick you have a mill that's going nowhere."

"Oh?" says Waco. "What would yuh do if there was bull down in the brush that didn't want to come out?"

"Sometimes you can jis set your horse for a while and he'll walk out. If that don't...doesn't work you can throw a rock at him. Me, I like to use what they call a Mexican sheepdog. That's jis a bunch of tin cans on a wire. You get behind him and give them cans a shake and he'll spook out of there. If he ain't used to it. Isn't."

"Crossin' water?"

"You jis herd them up to water and keep turning them back. They'll eventually give up and cross."

Waco put his leather back down on the table and started in on another flower. "OK. Sounds like yuh do know cattle. Now whatcha wanta do," Waco lowered his voice, though there was nobody else in the room, "Is gitcha a place next to a big ranch. Yuh wanta pick a ranch that has a brand you can change to look like your brand pretty easy. Yuh run brands and, too, you always wanta be lookin for mavericks. Sometimes yuh can make your own mavericks by herdin a few head off in an odd corner of the range jist before calving time. Soon as they're weaned, they're mavericks, and when they're mavericks, they're yours. A man that can shoot as good as yuh could build up a herd pretty easy. Jist as long as you didn't get in too much of a hurry."

"I don't know if you could get away with that any more." We both jumped. The sheriff had come in through the back. "You've got big ranches with eastern owners with bigger ideas. They want to own the whole range. What they'll do is to drive a big herd through your place and pick up your cows. Their steers will start riding your cows an', before you can get them cut out, they'll ride them right down. Even if you do get your cows cut out and back to your place, all your grazing is gone. They're determined to run out the little ranchers and they're pretty good at it."

"So what are yuh supposed to do? Get a ranch out in the middle of nowhere?" said Waco.

"Not much nowhere left these days," said the sheriff, dropping some papers on his desk and sitting down. "You could buy some land and fence it."

"Well," I said, "how do I get the money? It would take forever to roll up a decent stake on a puncher's pay. 'Specially since you only work part of the year, lot of times."

"Well," said the sheriff, "You could be a bounty hunter."

"I don't like shooting people," I said.

"Yeah, but," said Waco. "It's better'n bustin' your hind end for forty year and endin' up with nuthin'. Yuh know why I ain't that worried about gettin' hung? I'm lookin' forward to the rest."

Long story short. Getting late. I talked Waco into hiring lawyer Wrighter, loaned him the money, and lawyer Wrighter got him a change of ven-you so that they had the trial in Colorado 'stead of Texas.

Before the trial got going, though, these Texans came up and drug him out of jail. They were going to take him back to Texas and hang him. They chained him up good and then went to sleep. When they woke up, Waco was gone. He'd been studying my locksmithing book and had some lock picks hid...hidden on him. Can't imagine where he got them. Can't begin to imagine. Any way he picked some locks and jumped off the train in the canyon country. I ran into him later, but that's another story.

___________________________________________

I hadn't been in jail too long before Taylor Wrighter strode in, all six feet of him. He was wearing a white coat, trousers, and a white vest with whiter embroidery. The only thing black about him was his bow tie and the narrow band on his hat. "Good afternoon Sheriff," he said. "Ah trust that you and yours are enjoying the best of health."

"They are," says the sheriff.

"Ah have come," said Lawyer Wrighter, "to inform you of some legal actions Ah am about to take on behalf of mah client, as is indeed mah duty in law and in conscience."

"What?" said the sheriff.

"The business in hand chiefly involves the city council, but Ah felt in courtesy that Ah should inform you." The sheriff didn't say anything. "Mah client has a right to a speedy trial," Wrighter went on, "which has not been vouchsafed him. Further, he was employed as a deputy during his incarceration. He is, therefore, entitled to pecuniary compensation for the time he has spent in jail since he was deputized."

"That's kind of a dumb law."

"Ah quite agree suh, that in this instance as in many others, the law is indeed an ass and an idiot. However, in this case it is, Ah firmly believe, also clear."

"Well, good luck in getting money out of that bunch," said the sheriff. "I would hate to see it come out of my budget. It's small enough as it is."

"Ah believe that they will see the wisdom of avoiding a case in law which they will surely lose. And you may rest assured that Ah will make every effort to avoid any inroads into the finances of the sheriff's office."

Well, I got the dinero and also a speedy trial since the city council did not like paying me wages for sitting in jail doing nothing. He was some lawyer, that Wrighter.

### Chapter 7 – Posse

_Out here a man settles his own problems._

-John Wayne

When I got out, there wasn't much cowboying to be done since the shove up was over. Lot of hands get laid off jis as soon as the cattle are up in the high meadows. They feed those laid-off hands so they'll stick around for next season, but they got to eat off dirty plates. The bosses save money on dishwasher wages that way. I could handle a hammer better'n most cowboys since some leatherwork needs a punch and a maul, so I got a job building sheds up at the Old Apple Ranch north of town. I got wages and clean plates, too.

I was hammering away one day and here comes the sheriff and a bunch of men. I tucked my hammer in my belt and sat down behind a pile of lumber where they couldn't see me. The carpenter give...gave me a funny look, but I put my finger to my lips and he shrugged went back to hammering. I figured they would ride on by. I was peeking around the lumber pile so I would know which way to move so as to stay outta their sight when I heard a voice behind me. It was the sheriff. "Git up Snakeskin," he said, "I got to swear you in." So much for hiding.

I tried to give him an argument, "Well why don't you take Buckshot Bale. He's as good in a gunfight as I ever could be."

"He's got a ranch to run."

"You mean if I owned a ranch and had a dozen lines of stitching on my boots, you wouldn't ask me to do this."

"Right," said the sheriff. "Now raise your right hand so I can swear you in."

A gang of robbers had stolen a gold shipment and headed up Chalk Creek. Jis about everybody in the posse could read a trail, but we about lost them all the same. The tracks led up to a meadow where there had been a herd of cattle. There were tracks leading up out of the meadow, but they all turned out to be false trails. We eventually came back to that same high meadow and were sitting our horses pretty much at sea when I noticed BettyBea sniffing and looking over to the other side of the creek. I went over there and saw the cattle had gone down the creek that way, walking along the side-hill. That didn't look right. Your cattle don't like a steep slope; you can tell that by looking at where the cow pies are.

"Y'know," I said, "you wouldn't think the cows would go this way if nobody was driving them. But I don't see any horse tracks up here."

They chewed on that a minute and decided to follow the cow tracks. It wasn't too long before somebody found a few black threads caught on a bush. We knew then, so we started on down. What the outlaws had done was rope a couple calves and drug them down the moun'en on the other side of the creek. The herd followed those bawling calves, of course, and all those cow tracks wiped out the tracks of their horses.

We figured we had them. The sides of the canyon were real crumbly chalk so even a man would kill himself trying to climb out, much less a horse. Once you were out of the canyon, you would be in Maxwell Park. There weren't any trees or any other kind of cover out there and we had Pine Cone Ray with us. Pine Cone was getting pretty old, but he could still ride well enough and he had his Sharps rifle with him. Them...those Sharps had a quite a range. Billy Dixon was supposed to of knocked a Kiowa off his horse at fifteen hundred yards at Adobe Walls. It didn't kill the Kiowa, but he was never the same man afterwards. The lever action Winchesters the outlaws were carrying didn't have a range of more than two hundred yards, so once they were out in the park, we had them.

When we started getting close, some guys got uneasy so they started acting cheerful to cover up. I remember one guy they called Elmo since his surname was 'Saint', saying, "Ol' Shiloh'll sure be glad to catch them. Hardnasty knocked him down when he was a foal. Hardnasty didn't mean to, he was jumping out of the way of a bucking horse, but he never could explain it to Shiloh. Whenever he gits around ol' Shiloh, Shiloh'll start measuring him for a kick."

"You know him by sight?" said the sheriff.

"Nope."

"Well," said the sheriff, "that means your horse is the only one that can recognize any of them. What you better do between now and the time we catch up with them is teach your horse to talk."

"I'll get started right away," says Elmo.

Jis about that time, a man rode out of the woods in the bottom of the canyon. He rode straight for us acting real calm. He was tall with a handlebar mustache. He was wearing a plug hat and a vest with a watch chain. He was armed with a six-gun and a Winchester rifle in a scabbard. Most of us were carrying our rifles across our saddle pommels. We spread out as much as we could and some of us lifted up our rifles.

He raised both hands to show they were empty and said, "Don't shoot, the fun's over. We got them." When he got close, we saw he was wearing a badge from the Pinkerton Detective agency. You've seen those, they kind of look like a shield with the name of the Agency on them along with a six-pointed star. I allus wondered if Pinkerton himself was Jewish. I did notice that the badge was quite a bit bigger than the ones they usually wore. We all lowered our guns, though most of us didn't put them back in our scabbards.

We all rode closer and he said. "Afternoon Gentlemen. My name's Tailer."

We all introduced ourselves and the sheriff said, "I didn't know the miners had hired Pinks."

"We were hired by the railroad," said the Pink "they got tired of having their gold shipments robbed. If you follow me, I'll introduce you to some very sad desperados." I noticed Tailer's horse wasn't all that calm; its nose looked pinched and his tail was clamped down.

We followed him and came out on a clearing by the creek. It was kind of a bench like you see sometimes next to a stream. I allus thought they were old streambeds. There were a couple of big pine trees in the clearing and a lot of thick oakbrush down by the creek. Mostly aspen up the creek, pretty thick. To the east was the park. Nothing but grass and sagebrush. It was getting to be late summer. The oakbrush had started to turn color. There was some red and orange amongst the green. The stream sounded like early fall, too. More of a gurgle than a roar.

There was another Pink standing there with a shotgun guarding three prisoners in handcuffs. That Pink grinned and waved. "I'm John...Jay Hardy," he said. He had black whiskers and that same real big badge the first Pink had. Their saddle horses and a couple packhorses were tethered off to the side.

"Hunh," said the sheriff, "good work. They match the descriptions. Are you sure you got them all, though? I heard there were more than three."

"They had some spare horses," said the first Pink. The sheriff didn't look like he was quite satisfied.

Elmo's horse pinned his ears back, whipped his tail around, curled his lip, and popped his teeth. Elmo swung him away from the prisoners and toward the Pink with the whiskers. That didn't improve the horse's mood.

Elmo says, "Hey wait a minute." Jis then his horse swung around and kicked with both feet...at the Pink with the beard. The Pink jumped back and the hooves grazed him but he tripped, fell down, and dropped his shotgun. "Hey," Elmo hollers. "They ain't Pinks; they're all outlaws!"

"Pull down on them," shouted the sheriff and we all did. The outlaws all dropped their guns and started to raise their hands. We'd of been all right, but Elmo's horse caught the mood, let out a squeal and lunged for Hardnasty with is neck stretched out and his mouth open. That scared the other horses and knocked the posse into a cocked hat. The three 'prisoners' shucked their handcuffs and ran for the trees. The sheriff fired over their heads and they stopped and threw up their hands. When we looked back, Tailer was still there, but Hardnasty, was gone. The only place he could of gone was through the oakbrush and down to the creek.

"You watch the prisoners, Snakeskin," said the sheriff.

At first the posse tried to ride their horses through the oakbrush, but that didn't work. Next they got off and tried to push their way through on foot. That didn't work either. You can crowd your way through willows or buckbrush without too much trouble, but oakbrush is another story. It grows too thick to push through. They didn't know that because you don't get much oakbrush on the eastern slope of the Rockies.

They finally figured out that Hardnasty had burrowed through a little dry feeder creek and they started go through there, but the sheriff said, "Hold it, hold it. It's too late now. We'll have to circle and round him up. Snakeskin, use Hardnasty's shotgun when you're watching the prisoners. We won't be far, Hardnasty's on foot. You need any help, fire a shot." He told the prisoners what a deadly gunfighter I was. I tried to look mean and went over and picked up the shotgun.

"Luddy Mussy," I said, "this is a Purdy. How'd he get such a boss gun?"

"He stole it from that guy that shoots those birds for ladies hats," somebody said. "He uses real little birdshot."

"Hobble your lip and come on!" said the sheriff. They all rode off including Elmo who was still cussing and having trouble with his horse.

I checked to make sure the shotgun was loaded and put my pistol on a live round and made the outlaws sit down under the pine and I leaned up against a rock with the shotgun. I tied BettyBea to a stump right behind me.

We jis sat there with them not looking too happy, me keeping a sharp eye on them, and BettyBea grazed on what grass she could reach. We could hear the sheriff and the posse hollering at one another ever so often. After a while the outlaws kind of sat up. And exchanged a few glances. Tailer made kind of a pushing down movement with his hand and they relaxed again.

One of them, Jay-bird I think they called him, said, "You must of really had fun on your time in jail, a little Nancy-boy like you." They all gave me kind of nasty grins. I jis gave about half a laugh and didn't say anything.

Next Tailer said, "I hear you spend a lot of time with them blanket-ass spruce monkeys. I'm surprised a white man would lower himself like that. You must be some kind 'a trash to associate with them. Ought to call you 'Chief', Chief."

"They're better than a lot of white men I could mention," I said.

"Why the worst white mudsill I ever met, Chief, was better than the best gut-eatin', dirt-worshiping Redskin, Chief."

Another outlaw chimed in," I heard the cavalry used to cut parts out of Indian women and wear them on they hats. Best use for them, Chief."

"Yeah, that's what they ought to do with all of em, Chief."

"I heard worse than that about you," said Jay-Bird. "I heard your mother usta live with them. Far as I'm concerned that makes her worse than the worst slommack in the worst bucket of blood in the country. They get so rotten inside you can smell them. And that explains you, Chief."

"She was captured!" I said. "After a fight."

"Bosh."

"Fudge."

"All my eye!"

"She went out there looking for them, Chief," says Jaybird. "Everybody knows it. White trash warn't dirty enough for her, chief. Black coon warn't dirty enough for her, Chief."

"They call them cherry spruce monkeys," said Tailor, "but they can't call her that, can they, Chief?"

If they wanted to make me mad, they sure were doing it. But now some part of every cowboy's mind is allus on his horse because he's helpless without one. All this time, BettyBea had been getting more and more jumpy. She stopped grazing, her body tensed up, she started jerking her head around and dancing this way and that. I thought it was jis me. An angry man scares a horse, especially if it's her owner. But I still threw a quick glance at BettyBea without thinking about it. I mean I didn't want her tangling herself up and breaking her reins or something. When I glanced, I noticed that she was looking at something behind me. I finally twigged and spun around and there was Hardnasty not five feet from me holding a knife you could of butchered a whale with. And he came for me.

I like to think that there wasn't time to aim, but maybe I was mad, too. Anyway I pulled the trigger on one barrel and hit him in the stomach and knocked him down. It didn't kill him though. He grunted and grabbed at his stomach. I couldn't tell whether he was going for his gun or not, so I shot him again. I hit him in the eyes. His face was nothing but blood from the mouth up. And still he didn't die. He grabbed his eyes and started screaming and thrashing around. It was jis awful. I couldn't understand it and then I could. Those stupid crooks had left those shells with the tiny birdshot in the shotgun they stole!

About that time I saw my danger, dropped the shotgun, and drew my talking iron and spun around. Jaybird was coming at me with a rock. He dropped it and threw up his hands. The other crooks were lighting out. They were trying to run through the oakbrush and bouncing off. Dumb as we were. I fired a shot over their heads and hit a pinecone that fell down and hit one of them. He let out a yell and they all stopped, turned around, and threw up their hands.

"You dirty...dirty...You made me kill him!" I said, "I ought to shoot you for that. I ought to, I ought to, I ought to! You deserve it! I hate killing people." I fired at the ground in front of them. The bullet hit a rock, it shattered and sprayed them with gravel. The gravel drew blood, but didn't kill anybody.

About that time, a couple boys from the posse rode back into the clearing. They couldn't stand Hardnasty screaming, so they threw a rope over a dead pine branch and hoisted him up by the neck. He couldn't scream, but he kicked and thrashed and grabbed at his eyes.

"Tie the rope off there," I yelled, "so he's two feet off the ground. I mean it." I fired a shot in their direction. I must of sounded pretty businesslike because they did it.

"Grab the slack," I said, "hoist him all the way up to the branch and let go. Break his neck. I mean it." They did it. There was an awful crack, but it was the branch that broke, not Hardnasty's neck. We jis stood there looking at him until the sheriff came up pistol-whipped Hardnasty in the back of the neck. Then he went quiet.

I turned around and started bellering again about what I was going to do to those crooks for making me kill Hardnasty. Suddenly there was the sheriff standing in front of me. "OK," he said. "We'll keep them covered while you put the handcuffs on. Put them on tight. Better give me your gun so they won't make a grab for it." I did as I was told.

The sheriff said, "Elmo, you and Ed see if you can find a blanket or something to wrap Hardnasty up in and tie him across one of the saddle horses. The rest of you make sure we have the gold and make a pack string of their horses and look around to make sure we got everything."

We got ready to go. The sheriff gave me my pistol back and said, "You get the Purdy?"

"No."

"Get the Purdy and we'll go."

Well, any way that's about all there is to tell except that I was throwing up all the way back down. I heard it took Hardnasty nearly a week to die of blood poisoning.

Soon as I got back, I had to quit my job and go through the whole curing thing again. Opium to keep water down, a Blessing Way, a sweat lodge, a trip back to Navajo Moun'en, and another Enemy Way. After that I didn't do much. Helped around the trading post. Ate and slept. Sat and stared at the moun'en. I wasn't sick at all, but that business with Hardnasty kind of kicked the stuffing out of me.

One thing that kept coming back to my mind. It was what Pine Cone said about Waco L'Amour. He said he never knew a more happier and more cheerful man than Waco L'Amour. Waco, he said, would tell jokes in a blizzard on an alkali flat. But when I knew Waco, he was so miserable he was looking forward to being hung. I sure didn't want to end up like that. And if I was a big sugar I could get out of going with them tarnal posses and having to shoot people.

About three weeks or so later, I was sitting out in the sagebrush looking at the moun'en when Billy Chon rode up and got off his horse and sat down. "What brings you here?" I said.

"Oh, I don't know. Just thought it was time to see familys and friends. But how are you doing?"

"OK, I guess."

"Really, now?" said Billy.

"I dunno. I can't seem to get interested in doing anything," I said.

"Oh yeah?" said Billy. I didn't say anything and we just sat and stared at the horizon for a while.

"I see," said Billy," that your folks bought you one of those fancy cane fishing poles."

"Yeah," I said.

"Well," said Billy, "maybe we could go up on The Mesa and try it out. Be the last chance before winter."

"I dunno," I said, "it's a long way." Billy didn't say anything for a while.

"You know," said Billy, "if we were up there fishing, they couldn't find you and make you go on a posse."

"That's true," I said. I thought it over a while. "OK, let's go."

Billy went over to his folks place to pack up. When he came back, he had his sister with him. I was glad of that because she was real...real... She could do Navajo cooking real...really well and that means she could find the stuff to cook like wild onions and yampa. Yampa roots are really good; taste kind of like parsnips only better. You steam them or bake them and they'll keep you on your feet for a long time. And she used to make a salad of the wild onions and sorrel you get up there. And there's the trout. They'd learned how to do ceviche from the Mexicans and brought some limes from our tree at the post.

We went all the way up there. Once I started going I didn't want to stop. Got into the aspens. Now that mesa is flat on top and steep on the sides. So you get a lot of lakes up on top with fairly slow little streams between them.

I never cared for lake fishing, but up on The Mesa the fish would swim quite a ways up those slow little streams. Sometimes you'd catch one out of a hole that you'd think was too small for him to turn around in. There was one, believe it or not, that used to sit with his back out of the water. I'd see him every time I went to get water for coffee.

Now the way you fish those little holes is what they call dapping. You know how a mayfly will lay eggs by flying up and down and dipping her tail in the water. Well, what you do is to let out about three feet of line or so and sneak up to a pool, it's best to crawl or scoot on your hind end. Then very slowly stick your pole out over the water and jis sorta tap your fly up and down. They'll hit it.

That was fall though, so there wasn't much water in those little streams and not a lot of fish either. I was feeling disappointed until I found out something. The sides of The Mesa are steep and the streams jis roar down there and cut steep valleys with a lot of brush in the bottom. Those streams are usually too hard to fish. With the brush and ths slope, thre's tarnal few places where you can stand. And then, too, to get to those few places, you got to down a steep slope and then scramble back up. Gets to be too much of a pain.

But I found out that trip that's it's completely different when the water is low because you get little pebble beaches in front of the willows so you don't have to crowd through the brush or climb up and down. Not only that, there is room to cast so you don't have to dap. You know how it is fly-fishing; you got to throw the line back over your shoulder to throw it forward. So you could come up on a hole and plan strategy. I'd say to myself, " _OK if I stand on that rock, my back cast could go there and I could put the fly there and the fish would be there_." Gives you a little problem to work out. Makes the day go faster.

And then you had the aspen. Those leaves turn yellow in the fall, gold really, with a little red sometimes. Sure cheered me up. There's nothing like walking through an aspen grove with all those gold leaves twisting and twirling. If they don't have trout streams and aspen in heaven, I ain't...am not going. I didn't really spend time looking at those leaves but they sure cheered me up all the same.

That was one boss fishing trip. I felt a lot better after that, so I hired on at the local ranches for the shove down. Once the cattle were down in the lower pastures I was laid off again. Then there was nothing to do but help around the trading post. I was getting restless until one day this Texas Ranger showed up. It was cold, clear day. There was deep snow all over Navajo moun'en, and about a three inches or so down where we were and all the creeks were frozen.

"Wait a minute Sna...I mean Mr. Snakeskin," said Annawest, "You're a boss raconteur all right, that's a storyteller, but if this next story of your is anythin' like as good as the ones we have just heard, we'll be here until midnight and dawn comes early in the mornin'. By definition."

Snakeskin looked up at the sky. "You're right. Luddy Mussy. You must think I'm a real flannel mouth the way I've been going on. I better get going." He folded his pocketknife and threw away the piece of firewood, which his whittling had given the rough shape of the head of a longhorn. "Your welcome to stay the night," said Annawest, "there's plenty of room in the bunkhouse."

"No, no I thank you kindly," said Snakeskin, "my boys won't know what to start on tomorrow if I'm not there. The moon's up and it's an easy ride. Maybe another time I'll tell you about how I started grubstaking miners and one struck it rich and I sold out for enough money to finish buying my ranch. I don't even have time to tell you about how you can buy government land at a dollar and twenty-five cents an acre under the Timber and Stone Act."

"What?" said Quarll.

"All you got to do is find some experts to swear that the land ain't ...I mean isn't suitable for farming and then get a bunch of Bohunks to file for it an you buy it from them. Your experts and your Bohunks both hire cheap. If we don't want big eastern money owning all the western land we better get started because they're sure doing it."

"But your land _is_ suitable for farmin'. Most of it."

"You know, it jis didn't look it to me. And another thing that eastern money is doing is getting twenty-year leases for one penny an acre. All they got to do is graze at least one cow for every 40 acres."

"What!" said Quarll.

"It's got to be desert land, though. You know, I noticed jis all kinds of cactus around here."

"That don't make it desert!"

"Now, that's a matter of opinion and you can buy opinions pretty cheap. You can use the same experts you hired to say that the land isn't farmable. Save money that way. And you can allus tell your conscience that you'll keep better care of the land than that the eastern money will."

"By the great horn spoon, that's the truth," said Craddock. "That eastern money don't even know what's going on out here. How could they, sitting in those two-acre houses on Rhode Island in the middle of the Atlantic? And if they did know, they wouldn't care."

Well, like I say," Snakeskin, "I got to get going. Maybe I can come back some time and we can talk business."

"How about tomorrow!" said Quarll in a voice that brooked no dissension.

"I'll come over tomorrow afternoon, then. Jis as soon as I get the boys back working on that fence. We are in agreement about that fence now, ain't we...aren't we?"

"I said so," said Quarll.

That's jis bully," said Snakeskin. Then he touched his hat to the ladies and headed for the door.

"Just as soon as you find out about them Hereford bulls you're goin' to get for me, you let me know," said Quarll.

"Sure will," said Snakeskin.

Chuckie had not looked any too pleased during dinner. Now he said, "Excuse me" and followed Snakeskin. Nobody paid any attention. They figured he was going to the outhouse. Instead of that, he followed Snakeskin to his horse. "Um..." he said.

Snakeskin turned to him.

"I think the world of my sister," said Chuckie quietly. "There is dang little either me or anybody else can say against her." Chuckie hesitated. "I saw how you two were getting along. As far as I can tell you're a pretty decent sort. Better than anybody else she has ever took up with, anyway. But I always tell the truth. Ask anybody." He stopped again.

"Jis spit it out," said Snakeskin.

"Once...once she gets an idea in her head, you can't git it out with dynamite. It don't happen often, but when it does..." He shook his head. "One time she took up with this newspaper editor. She decided that he would be a safe sweetheart since he worked inside. And guess what. He was the kind of newspaper editor that tries to reform the world. Every time he saw somebody doing something that he figured wasn't quite right he would whale away at him in print, mind you, in print. He didn't care who it was either. I suppose you got to give him credit for sand but we knew it was just a matter of time. We all knew it. We all tried to tell her. She wouldn't listen. And, you know what happned." He paused. "Well, that's all I got to say. I ain't asking you not to tell her I told you, but I sure hope you don't."

"Why are you saying this?"

Chuckie just shrugged.

"Thanks," said Snakeskin shortly and turned to his horse. Chuckie went back in the house. Snakeskin rode away thoughtfully. " _Probably jis jealous_ ," he said to himself.

Preview: The Reluctant Gunfighter
Chapter 9 – Cutting a Rusty

_Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation._

\-  Charlotte Bronte

When Snakeskin rode over to the Salt Works ranch the next afternoon, he was wearing the same sort of clothes he wore for yesterday's fencing, only cleaner. Annawest excused herself when the civilities were over, but came back with paper and ink and sat down. "I'd better get some of this written down, she said.

Her father glared at her. "Dang it, Annawest, my memory is as good as it ever was."

"Well I don't know," said Snakeskin, "there's going to be a lot of numbers and names to write down. I'd feel better if she stayed. If you wrote to the wrong man, you might come gunning for me."

"Humph," said her father, "can't hurt. Now what about this here Timber and Rock Act?"

The palaver lasted all afternoon and Snakeskin again stayed to dinner. After dinner Annawest said, "You really got to attend church with me Sunday. It'll be a good chance to make the acquaintance of your neighbors. Get a little rapport goin'."

"Well. Good idea. But I don't have the right clothes. Pete was right. You got to wear the right clothes if you don't want to give people the wrong idea about what you are."

"Oh that's a daisy of a thought. We can catch the eight-fifteen into Leadville tomorrow and shop all mornin'. I know just what's au courant for men. It was in Godey's Lady's Book just last month. You'll be one plumb soigné puncher! And I know a daisy of a place for tiffin. We can have brioche and crêpes, that's buns and pancakes. We can catch the three-thirty-seven back in the afternoon."

"What's swan-yay?" said Snakeskin.

"That's clothes that make even the ducks cheer," said Chuckie. "But I tell you there ain't no arguing with her in that mood, Mr. Snakeskin. You'll just wear yourself out and get nowhere. That's as sure as a gun."

Snakeskin scratched his ear. "Well, I been figuring to get me some new clothes anyway. I guess tomorrow is as good a day as any." He leaned back and crossed his legs with his ankle on his knee and looked Annawest between the eyes. "But look," he said, "I don't want to look too dudish. I can't be the least bit fluff-duff. A ranch owner is more...dignified than that. If I was... _were_ too fashionable I'd give people the wrong idea."

"So you're sayin'," said Annawest, "a rainch owner can be soigné but not dernier cri."

"Denny creek?"

"Dernier cri, that means the latest scream" said Annawest.

"So I want to get something that makes the ducks cheer but doesn't make them scream. That sounds reasonable," said Snakeskin.

"You want good, quality, don't you?"

"The best."

It's all settled then. But wait, I can not think of a good men's tailor," said Annawest. Maybe..."

"That's all right. I know jis who to ask," said Snakeskin. "Say, they teach you much French at that eastern college of yours?"

"Until we were plum...azure in the face."

____________________________________________________________________

"Annawest...I mean Miss Quarll, this is Doc Holliday. Doc, Ann West Quarll."

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Quarll," said Doc Holliday bowing and removing his hat. "I trust your father is enjoying the best of health?"

"Quite well thank you. I trust that you also are well?"

"I find this mountain air extremely salubrious, thank you."

"You know that might be true, Doc," said Snakeskin. "I believe they have what they call sanatoriums for your problem way up in the Swiss Alps."

"Do they indeed? Perhaps if I stay here, I will die in bed after all. Wouldn't that be amusing? But I've no wish to bore you with my health problems. Have _you_ any problems that I might help you with?"

"We need expert advice, Doc, and I knew you were jis the man to come to."

"I would be very pleased to help in any way I can. Perhaps it is a question involving a game of chance?"

"No Doc it ain't...er, isn't. Maybe you heard I finally got my ranch."

"Indeed I did. Congratulations. Perhaps you need my advice on how to hold onto it?"

"I jis might, some day," said Snakeskin, "but right now I have another problem. I have been told that a big sugar's got to dress like a big sugar. Know a good place to get the right clothes?"

"Hah," said Holiday, "indeed I can help you there. Go to David Maye on Harrison Avenue. He is a Jew, but a man of skill and integrity. He feels that if the sale is not a good one for the customer, it is not a good one for his company. You can't do better."

"Thanks, Doc."

"Yes, thank you."

"You are quite welcome and now I must beg you to excuse me while I return to my profession. Business is business. I am very pleased to have met you, Miss Quarll." He bowed again.

"It was nice meetin' you, too. Good day."

__________________________________________________________

The first thing Snakeskin saw when he entered the Maye Company was a big mirror. He wished he hadn't. Annawest looked very stylish. Her hair was pulled back at the sides and ended in a cluster of ringlets and her bangs were frizzled over her forehead in Josephine curls. Her hat had a curvy brim, a sky-blue band, and a bunch of artificial flowers on the back. She wore a tight basque jacket flared at the waist. Beneath the jacket was a sky-blue skirt fitted over a bustle. The skirt had a huge bow in back and ten lines of drapery coming around the front. Below the drapery were five rows of ruffles. The skirt was daringly short; it revealed her instep and three out of the ten buttons on her shoes. Completing the outfit was a pair of fine white gloves with a dozen buttons each, a matching bag, and an umbrella. It was a pretty outfit, but it slowed her down since she could only take very short steps.

He didn't match her at all. His cowboy outfit was all sweat-stained and about half worn out. He'd put on a snakeskin vest with the idea of dressing it up. The vest looked good, but it made the rest of his clothes look worse by contrast. Oh well, he'd come to buy clothes anyway. A counter-jumper, Snakeskin figured from his outfit he was probably the boss, moved forward. "Good morning," he said, how may I help you?"

"Morning," said Snakeskin, "you must be David Maye. My name's McMurtry. I jis bought a fair-sized ranch and have been informed by those who ought to know, that I ought to dress like a big sugar since I am one, any more. Doc Holliday told me you were jis the man to talk to."

"I am very glad to have Doctor Holliday's good opinion," said Maye

"Lot better than having his bad one, huh? I brought along another authority on the subject of good clothes, Ann West Quarll," Snakeskin removed his hat and gestured with it to Annawest. "I'd like to start with some church clothes."

"Certainly," said Maye. He removed a suit from the shelf and laid it out on the counter. "Now here is the new 'sack suit' or 'ditto suit'. It's replacing the old frock coat and contrasting vest."

"Mmm," said Annawest in approval.

"Huh," said Snakeskin eyeing the sack suit suspiciously. "You don't see a lot of men wearing anything like that."

"Well that's good," said Annawest, "you'll the first to set the new fashion trend."

"Well Annawest," said Snakeskin, scratching his neck, "I had better be honest. I'm jis not the kind of man that can set a new fashion trend. To do that you got to be able to strut down the street wearing something funny looking and act like you're proud of it. I can't do that. I'm not afraid of ghosts, gunfighters, or mean cows, much, but I am absolutely terrified of people laughing at my clothes. And it would show on my face. I couldn't wear that kind of suit if nobody else was. A cowboy has to be a little bit behind the fashions. Especially if he is a ranch owner."

"Men! Well I suppose it isn't a good idea to wear somethin' that makes you feel uncomfortable, no matter how chic."

"'Chic' probably means 'fashionable'," said Snakeskin to Maye. "Most of those French words of hers do."

"Now Mr. Snakeskin," said Annawest, "I hope you don't think me too pushy, but I have got to be honest, too. I do have a mind of my own and I will always express my opinion."

"Well, my Mom was like that. So I'm used to it," said Snakeskin. "I don't mean to be too picky, or can't take advice, but..."

"Might I make a suggestion?" said David Maye. "There is a compromise possible. This is a 'morning coat' it is reasonably fashionable, though it is not so extreme in its cut as the sack suit. It much resembles the frock coat, but it is cut a bit shorter. Also it is cut away at the sides. This particular kind of styling is more practical than the frock coat because it permits easier access to the vest pockets and to the pistols."

"Well now that, advantage would be worth risking a snicker or two. What do you think Annawest?"

"I like it. It lets you show off a handsome vest which the sack suit does not."

"OK," said Snakeskin, "two of them."

"Might I suggest one in black and one in dark gray."

"Sure," said Snakeskin.

"Matching trousers might be best," suggested Maye.

"Sounds good."

"Now," said Annawest, "we need to get you some vests. These silk ones are powerful soigné. How about this cerulean blue? That would make you stand out in the crowd."

"Well, it's real pretty, but I don't really want to stand out in the crowd. Not at a distance anyway."

"Why not?"

"Well there's jis no point in beating around the bush," said Snakeskin. "I used to be a bounty hunter. I've allus tried to work out a deal with any outlaw I brought in. Get them a lawyer, split the reward, take care of their family, sell them some lock picks..."

"Lock picks?"

"Nothing illegal about selling a man lock picks. I looked it up. Any way if they didn't want to deal, I'd thank them politely and ride off. But there have been times when they went for their guns instead of talking and I had to shoot. I hated doing that, but sometimes I had to. Now some of those guys I shot had relatives and some of those relatives are still after me, or say they are. That's why I don't want to wear anything that stands out. If I'm dressed about like everybody else, they'll have to get close before they know it's me. And I don't mean to brag but I figure I can recognize them first. A beautiful blue vest is jis too good a target."

"How...how many men are after you," said Annawest.

"Not that many and they're not that dangerous. And the waddies I hire are going to be boys that'll ride for the brand and can handle a gun as good...I mean as well as they can handle a cow. That Tim Sholtz, now he's a man to tie to in a gunfight and so is Koffpot. Koffpot ain't...isn't that big but neither is Doc Holiday. When I get my herd, I'll have a few more like him. Look, it's like anything else. If you understand the risk and use common sense you're safe enough."

"Oh. I...Well I guess we had best get the black vest then," said Annawest. "Though it does look dreadful somber."

"We can easily brighten it up with some gold embroidery," said David Maye, "that would not be conspicuous at a distance."

"Good idea and why don't we get this dark maroon one too," said Snakeskin, "put some embroidery on both of them. Sound OK Anna...Miss Quarll?"

"Yes,' She said. "Whynchya try the outfit on so we can appraise it."

"That is necessary anyway," said Maye, "I must mark those alterations appropriate to a proper fit."

Snakeskin amiably took the garments and retired to the dressing room. Soon he emerged dressed in the new garments. And wearing his gun belt.

"Oh mi vache!" cried Annawest. "There's no other way to say this and there's no gettin' away from it either. That gun belt looks just plain gauche with the rest of the outfit. That means silly."

"I jis told you...Well, some of those guys that have it in for me are cowards. They'll stay as gentle as lambs _if_ I stay armed."

Annawest made no reply. Her mood had changed. She frowned deeply and turned away.

"Might I point out that there is another problem here?" said Maye smoothly. "You have said that you wish to be fairly inconspicuous. Wearing a gun belt with a morning coat is no way to achieve that. There is, however, a simple solution. We can sew belt loops onto the trousers. Then holsters can be mounted on the belt so that the weapon rides just above the hip pocket. If the morning coat is worn unbuttoned the weapon can be easily drawn. Let me demonstrate." Maye donned a morning coat. "As you reach backward, your hand sweeps the tails of the coat out of the way and the pistol may be grasped and drawn. A reasonably fast draw is attainable with practice."

"Yeah. Yeah, doesn't look too bad," said Snakeskin. "People talk about a quick draw a lot, but I've never, or almost never, been in a situation where it would of made any difference."

"Accuracy first and speed a long way second?" said Maye.

"That's what Wyatt Earp allus used to say."

"There is one more point in favor of such an arrangement. In some situations, you might wish to slide the holsters back on the belt so that you would appear to be unarmed," said Maye.

Snakeskin smiled and nodded. "Like when you want to smoke somebody out that's jis waiting to catch you unarmed? Good point. Real good point. Be a lot better than trying to stay on your guard for ten years."

"I would suggest you obtain your holsters and your belt from Preston Becker. He owns a saddle shop two blocks north on Harrison right next to Doctor Holliday's faro game."

"Thanks. Well, what about hats?" inquired Snakeskin.

"I would suggest two bowler hats and one top hat. You would certainly wish to wear the top hat if you ever were to patronize our new opera house. Something I would indeed recommend." Maye handed Snakeskin the top hat.

"I like music," said Snakeskin, admiring the hat. 'Luke Short used to wear one of these kind of hats sometimes. What do you think Miss Quarll?"

Annawest was staring at a red bonnet with feather trim.

"You can have that bonnet if you want," said Snakeskin.

"What? What bonnet?" she replied.

"The bonnet you were looking at," said Snakeskin.

"What, this one?" said Annawest "No I don't want it and I wasn't really lookin' at it. I was thinkin' about somethin' else."

"Oh," said Snakeskin. He thought a minute. "You know the chances of somebody coming gunning for me over something that happened years ago are really pretty slim."

"I..." said Annawest. She looked at the hats Maye was holding. "Those bowler hats would entirely soigné for church and everyday town wear, but I think a top hat would be de rigueur for that opera house Tabor just put up. I have heard they put on a daisy of a show there. De rigueur means required for that kind of a slab-sided shindig."

Snakeskin nodded to Maye. "We'll take them. Now I need to get some riding clothes." As Maye was assembling riding outfits Snakeskin turned to Annawest. "What does 'Oh la wash!' mean?"

"Oh mi vache? Oh the cow."

"Hunh?"

"The French say it when they mean...'Con sarn it.'"

The riding clothes included, not only durable work clothes, but also two elegant white shirts embroidered with roses and little blue birds. One for Snakeskin and one for Annawest. Snakeskin felt uneasy about buying those white shirts. He could never dare wear his shirt if he wasn't riding with her and if he _was_ riding with her, matching shirts would look too sissy and he could not think of a polite way to ask her not to wear hers if he was wearing his. This problem occupied him all the way to Preston Becker's saddlery. Becker understood what Snakeskin wanted immediately and asked to see Snakeskin's guns. Snakeskin gave him both guns. That was foolish, since they were both alike.

Snakeskin was absently watching Becker make his measurements when he heard Annawest call from outside the shop, "Oh Snakeskin, come look!" Snakeskin hesitated; he hated to be without his pistols, but came out when she called again. "Look!" she said, "look at those beautiful chaps." Snakeskin looked through the big shop window. The chaps were pretty all right, but not practical, since they were white. Also, he wasn't going to be talked into buying matching chaps. Matching shirts were bad enough. He was trying to think of what to say, when he heard a horse stop abruptly behind him and a voice coming from its rider.

"Well if it ain't. Well if it ain't the lickspittle that bedded my brother down into the bone orchard. You better get ready to join him Snake, because you're about to." It was Max Crate.

"I'm not armed, Max," said Snakeskin.

"Well ain't it just my lucky day," said Max and drew his pistol with a slow and deliberate motion.

Snakeskin froze. He was helpless without his guns but if he ran back into the saddlery to get them, he would be deserting the lady. Deadwood Dick would never do that and neither would any other Victorian man. He didn't know what to do.

Max checked his loads and took careful aim.

###

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If you want to find out what happened, "Devil's Rope" is available right where you got "The Reluctant gunfighter: Part I".

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About the Author

I grew up in a small town in the middle of the Colorado Rockies. I fished and hunted and rode horses over Saddleback Pass to the upper Frying Pan River. Up there, Colorado was still Colorado. You could catch a hundred fish a day, if you wanted to. The deer would walk into camp, look around, shrug their shoulders, and walk on down to the lake. The Coloradoans were Coloradoans in those days, too. We took this sheepherder and his dogs along once. We were drinking coffee around the campfire and one of his dogs came up and put his foot in the sheepherder's coffee cup. The sheepherder reached down, grabbed the dog's foot, took it out of his coffee, set the foot down, then picked up his coffee and drank it. Loaned us some good horses, though.

I remember being a real little kid riding in Daddy's pickup when he was feeding his cows on the Hayden ranch. He would open one corner of the bag of oats, half-open open the pickup door, hang the bag outside, and drive along scattering oats with one hand and steering with the other. One time he got stuck and couldn't dig out. He told me to wait there and, in a little while, here came Mommy in the other car. What excitement!

I graduated from a couple colleges, Reed and the University of Oregon, and got a job as a professional diver, a marine biologist. We counted things or caught them: fish, sea fans, kelp, rocks, and mud. I learned about attending to business when the claw of the sea puss was hovering around my hind end. We used to set lines of 50 shark hooks inside the surf line to catch shovelnose sharks for research. You had to sit in the skiff and wait for a chance, then run in and set the lines before a big wave threw the boat, together with a tangle of shark hooks, shark lines, anchors, and weights, on top of us. Once I was about to pull the line and looked up and saw a huge wall of water coming. I remained calm and said calmly to the kid running the motor, "Point the boat toward the open sea and go that way."

And he said, "Hunh?"

Then I realized that calm had its drawbacks and did my D. Duck impression, "Go that way, go that way, go that way _fast_. Wak, wak, wak, wak !!!!!!!"

Just before a wave breaks, it throws up a little spray. We went over three of them before we got outside. After a while, we went back in and pulled the lines. Got enough sharks to go on with.

I taught college for a while because when a diver gets old and decrepit and can't do his job any more, they fire him. The very reverse is true for a teacher. Recently, I decided to take a break from teaching for a while and write a book or two.

I am grateful for the inspiration I got from Paul Newman's Butch Cassidy, Larry McMurtry, C. S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower, Ambrose Bierce, Suzy Kelly, Louis L'Amour, J. K. Rowling, J. R. R. Tolkien, Mark Twain, and, especially, my old Grandpa Bill Patton.

