After a moment he walked on, his big head swaying to his step, and then from the brush came a cow and a yearling, and they followed him across the clearing and out of the valley.
“Go ahead, old fellow,” I said. “We could use the meat, but you belong to this place more than I do, so go along, and the best of luck to you.”
They walked solemnly ahead, seeming to guess that I held no designs against them.
The cattle were up and day had come while I watched. A bird was twittering in the bushes nearby, and I saw the bright crimson of a cardinal as it flitted off.
Swinging my horse, I had started toward camp when I glanced once more toward the buffalo. They were up on the low hill that bordered the basin where we had camped and bedded the herd, and they had stopped there, heads up, peering off toward the west. As I looked, they suddenly tossed their heads and turned, trotting off toward the east.
My rifle slid into my hand and I walked the buckskin toward the place where the buffalo had been. There I slid from the saddle, trailing the bridle reins. My boots made hardly a sound in the grass, only the faintest of whispers. At the crest of the hill I flattened out, and eased my head up beside a clump of butterfly bush.
I saw a man out there, staggering roughly in my direction. As I looked, he fell, lay still a moment, and then heaved himself up and came on. His shirt was bloody and he looked about gone; there was a familiar way about him that made me come to my feet. Then he fell again, and a rider came over the hill.
The rider had not seen me. He came on down with his rifle ready, and it was plain to see that he meant to kill the wounded man. I started toward them, walking carefully. The wounded man was closer to me than to the other man. When the killer was about thirty yards off, the wounded man tried to rise up.
“Leave me be!” he shouted hoarsely. “Leave me be, damn you!”
The rider drew up and lifted his rifle. “You’re the last of them, old man, an’ I’m going to cut you down. I’m going to make buzzard bait of you.”
“Hello, Rad,” I said, and he turned as if he’d been stabbed.
I walked a couple of steps toward him. “Rad, you said Wild Bill was protecting me in Abilene. Well, there’s no Wild Bill around now. Just you, me, and that old man you’re itchin’ to kill.”
He didn’t like it. He’d figured me for a yellow-belly, a tenderfoot that he could take without trouble; but now I was ready, asking for it, and it bothered him.
The old man on the ground had lost his gun, and was unarmed. It was just between Rad and me.
“What’s the matter, Rad?” I said. “You just like killing old men? Are you afraid to tackle a full-grown man in broad daylight?”
Oh, he didn’t like it—he didn’t like it a-tall. I’d come up within about twenty-five yards of him now, almost abreast of him and on his right side. Now, it’s a mighty easy thing to swing a rifle to cover your left, but sitting a horse when you have to bring it around to your right, it’s slow … and he knew it.
He was starting to sweat, but I had no feeling of mercy for him. If he had me in that spot he’d have killed me as quick as he’d wink, and he had surely intended to kill that wounded man.
“You boys opened the ball,” I said, “now you can dance to the music.”
Deliberately, I was baiting him. This was a chance to lower the odds against us, so I took a step forward, moving a little farther into range. He thought he had me then, and he whipped up his rifle, turning halfway around as he swung to cover me.
I took a step back and shot him right through the body above the hips. I worked the lever action and shot into him again, and he fell from the saddle. His horse started forward, circled around, and stopped.
Rifle at the ready, I swept the country around, for he might not be alone. The prairie was empty, so I walked toward him. He stared up at me, hatred in his eyes. It was a wonder he was still alive.
“You wait,” he said. “Andy will kill you for this.”
“Maybe. That’s what you figured to do, didn’t you? And I’m still alive.”
“You goin’ to let me die here?”
“Mister,” I said, “You’re here because you chased an old man to kill him. I’m going to see to that old man. If you’re still alive when I get back to you, 111 see what I can do.”
Walking over to where the wounded old man had fallen, I thought at first he was dead; but when I came up to him his eyes turned toward me. It was Harvey Bowers. He was badly shot up—how he had come any distance at all was more than I could see.
“Follered me, he done,” Bowers said. “Follered me an’ shot into me. The rest is dead— they come upon us at night … we figured there’d be no trouble. They opened up on us.” The words came slowly. “Gates was killed first off … Queenie done it.”
“She was with them?” I asked.
“You bet—she shot Noah herself. That girl’s a mean one…” His voice was getting fainter.
He had taken three big ones right through the mid-section. There was nothing I could do, and he wasn’t asking it.
With a slight movement of his eyes he indicated Rad Miller. “Is he dead?”
“He will be. I hit him hard.”
“Serves him … right …”
It was the last thing he said, and as I straightened up I heard horses coming. It was Handy Corbin and Jim Bigbear. Jim knew both the old man and Rad, and he needed no explanation. But Corbin wanted to know about the shooting, so I told him.
“Smart,” he said, “you comin’ up on him like that.”
“It was pure accident,” I said, “and he didn’t see me until I called out to him.”
He gave me a wry look. “I’ve seen those accidents before. They only happen with a man who’s careful.”
We buried them on the hillside in shallow graves, and marked both graves with crosses. I said a few words over them, the murderer and the murdered, and then we rode back to our cattle, knowing trouble was coming upon us. There was a sadness in me for old Harvey Bowers, and for Gates as well.
They had not liked me, nor had I cared for them, but we had shared some work together, some days and nights of trouble; and I knew something of their problems and they knew something of mine. They were good men, but worn by years and trouble—there are many such. All the good men who work hard and try to save do not end up with wealth or the good things of this world. I imagine that Noah Gates and Harvey Bowers had done much in their own way to open the way west. They had pioneered where Indians roamed, and where there was no law but what they could provide for themselves. And now they would lie in graves soon forgotten, their trails no longer marked; their few relatives would wait, and wait, and then gradually would cease to wonder about them. It is not only those who have put down foundations who have built upon the land, for such men as Noah Gates had given of blood and sweat and added their flesh to the soil.
We got back to the herd and moved westward. The cattle grazed as they went along, pausing for a bite here, a bite there. The coolness passed and the day grew warm. Restlessly, I watched the country around.
Kelsey and Miller would begin wondering what had become of Rad. It would be only a matter of hours until they started hunting him, and they would surely come upon the graves. Rad’s was marked with his name, as best we could scratch it on with a knife point. Somebody would have been there to bury them, and Andy Miller would want to know who it had been.
We drove into a stream and followed it up for half a mile, with Jim or me scouting ahead to be sure there was no quicksand. We drove out, dragged brush over our trail for another half-mile or so, and then went into another stream. The streams were all shallow around here, it seemed, and neither of these had been as much as knee-deep. When we came out of the water we drove north. The Saline River was behind us, the South Branch not far ahead to the north.