“Could be, ma’am,” I said politely, not being one to argue with a lady. “Only that horse surely hit me a wallop to be part of something imaginary. And they sure enough called him Curly.”
“Did you see any tracks, Meg?”
She hesitated, her eyes bright and angry. Reluctantly, she said, “Yes, I did. There were some tracks. Two horses, I think. Possibly three. But it wasn’t Curly Dunn! It couldn’t have been!”
“Maybe I was wrong,” I said. “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings, ma’am.”
“If I were you, Meg,” Rossiter said, “I’d give that a good deal of thought. There’s a lot of talk about Curly, and not much of it is good.”
“They’re jealous!” she said pertly. “Jealous of him because he’s so handsome, and of the Dunns because they’ve taken so much land. I don’t believe any of it.”
“Mr. Rossiter,” I said, “if you could lend me some clothes, a horse and a gun, I’ll be on my way. I don’t like to saddle myself on you folks.”
“Don’t be silly!” Meg said sharply. “You’re not well enough to travel. Why, you look half-starved!”
“I can make out, ma’am. I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.”
“You be still,” she said. “I’ll get you some soup.”
When she had gone, Rossiter hesitated a moment and then asked, “This man called Curly? Can you describe him?”
“Big, strong young feller, rosy color to his cheeks, brown wavy hair and he favors them big Mexican spurs. He was riding a handsome gray horse … no cowhand’s horse.”
“Yes, that’s Curly.” Rossiter got up suddenly. “Damn it, man, don’t ever try to raise a daughter in a country where men are scarce! I’ve heard talk about Curly Dunn. He’s hard on his horses, and he’s a quarrelsome man who’s forever picking fights. Most people are afraid of him because of Rocker.”
“Rocker Dunn?” I knew that name, as a good many did. Rocker Dunn was said to have ridden with Quantrill, and for a time he’d been a known man down in the Cherokee Nation and in East Texas. He was tough and strong and had the name of being a dead shot who would sooner be shooting than talking.
“That’s the one. You know of him?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve heard the name.”
“Sackett,” Rossiter said, “I want you to stay on until you’re strong again. When you’re ready to go I’ll outfit you. We don’t have much, but we’ll share what we have.”
He pointed toward the closet. “There’s a six-shooter in there if you should need it. It is an old gun but a good one and I trust you’ll use it with judgment.”
After he’d gone I lay there awhile, just a-thinking. Seems we Sacketts were never going to be shut of trouble. We had started for this wild, new country to build us a home, and it was country like nobody ever saw before. It was mountain country, which suited us, but the mountains were giants compared to what we’d been used to. Clingman’s Dome was a mighty beautiful peak, but would be lost in the shadow of most of those around me.
Running water, lakes, aspen, pines, spruce, and so much fish and game the stuff fairly jumped at a man … there was hay in the meadows, flowers on the slopes, and timber for the cutting. It was our kind of country, and here we Sacketts would stay.
I eased myself out of bed and started to stand up, but felt giddy of a sudden and sat down, my head all aswim. I’d have to take it easy. I’d have to wait it out. There was no place in this country for a man who couldn’t walk tall down the trails or sit a saddle where the long wind blows.
The pistol was one of those made in Texas during the War Between the States. It was a Dance & Park percussion pistol, .44 calibre, that had been worked over to handle Colt cartridges. Somebody had worked on that gun who knew what he was doing. It had balance and felt right to a man’s hand. The pistol was loaded and the loops in the belt were filled. I taken it down and hung it by the bed.
A good gun is a thing to have, and a body never knows when he’ll need it. There’s a saying that when guns are outlawed, only the outlaws will have guns.
Chapter VII
It was a mark of my weakness that I was almighty glad to get back into bed, and I dozed off after awhile and only awakened when Meg Rossiter came into my room with a tray to put on the bedside table.
Now this was a new thing for me. I’d never been waited on much. Not since Ma died. Or when I paid for it in some roadside eating place.
This here was something, to set up in bed with pillows propped behind, and good food there for you. “Ma’am, you could plumb spoil a man, doin’ for him like this.”
“You’re sick,” she said, and I figured there was a mite of edge to her tone. She didn’t set so much store by me since I’d told what happened on the trail. But I’d no idea she was sweet on this Curly fellow … and it was too bad. Any man who would do to me what he’d done had something rotten inside.
All right. He had no cause to help me, but he’d no cause to come back and knock me down, either. The first time might have been an accident, although I was no longer sure of that. The second time was not.
“I know you don’t think much of me, ma’am, and as soon as I’m able I’ll ride out of here. You’ll be shut of me.”
“But not what you said! You’ll leave that behind! You’ll leave it with Pa!”
“I only told the truth, ma’am, and when I spoke I had no idea you was sweet on him.”
“I’m not! I’m not what you said! You probably think if Curly were out of the way I’d look at you!”
“No, ma’am,” I said honestly, “I think nothing of the kind. I know I’m a homely man, ma’am, just a long tall mountain boy. Now Galloway … he’s my brother … womenfolk pay him mind, but none of them ever looked twice at me, and I’ve come not to expect it.”
She looked at me suddenly, as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re not homely,” she said. “Maybe you aren’t handsome, but you’re not homely, either.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I reckon I decided long ago that I’d have to run in single harness. I like the high, lonesome country, so maybe it fits. Nobody ever wanted a home more than me, and nobody ever had one less, least it was Galloway. Gals like the high-spirited, high-headed kind, I’ve noticed. If they can break them to harness they aren’t at all what the gal wanted in the beginning, and if she can’t break them they usually break her. But that’s the way of it.”
She went back into the other room, wherever it was, and I ate my soup. It was good soup, and I thought how I’d lied in my voice if not in my heart. I did so think about her. When a big, homely man like me has a woman do for him it softens him up, and me being lonely like so much of the time, it was just natural I’d think of how fine it would be, but there’s no harm in thinking, and I knew all the time it was impossible. Still, I wished it was somebody else than that Curly.
I wished it was anybody else than Curly.
After I’d eaten, I slept. What awakened me I don’t know, but it must have been the sound of horses’ hoofs in the ranch yard. Rising up on one elbow, I listened and heard voices.
Reaching over to that holster I drew out that Dance & Park pistol and brought it back into bed with me, taking it under the covers and alongside my right leg. With a man like Curly Dunn you have no idea, and after what he’d done I had a hunch that had he met me out on the trail alone he would have killed me … just for the hell of it.
With his friend along I guess he just didn’t want to be that ornery. Nobody looks on cold-blooded killing with favor, not even those liable to do it themselves … a body never knows when he’ll be the victim with a man like that. Anyway, it gave me a right comforting feeling to have that old six-shooter under my hand.
There was talk in the other rooms that I could hear vaguely, talk and laughter and some singing. Meg was playing a banjo and singing soft and low, so I could not hear the words. It would have been a good sound to go to sleep by, only I daren’t. Soon or late she was going to tell him about the man she found alongside the trail, and he would come to look.