They came on, then drew up. “Hello, the fire! Can we come in?”
There was nothing he could do, so he said, “Ride in, if you’re peaceful.” Only one of them was young; the others must be not very many years younger than he was himself. Their leader was a long, lanky man with a lean face, handsome in a sort of off-brand way. He wore a tied-down gun on the right side, and a gun in his left holster with the butt forward.
Jethro knew then who he was. He had heard of that fast left-hand draw Zeke Rails could make … when everybody expected him to draw right-handed. It was a small advantage, but in a game that calls for split-second timing, that was enough. It was more than enough for Jethro Stuart, who had never been a fast man, anyway—only a dead shot with any kind of gun.
“I’m Zeke Rails.”
“Jethro Stuart.”
“You came on in here like you knew where you were going.”
“I’ve been here before, a long time back. I trapped this stream for fur.” The others were getting down. One was a big, wide-shouldered man with red hair—not tall but thick and powerful; and there was a slim older man who chewed tobacco. The young one might have been twenty-five—thin, blond, and with too narrow eyes.
They were looking around, sizing up his equipment. A knowing man, Jethro decided they were on the dodge, needed more horses, food, and probably ammunition. The chances were they dared not approach any nearby town. “Odd thing”—Jethro spoke his calculated words carefully—“us meeting here.”
“You’ve a lot of grub here,” the young one said. “Looks like you came to stay.”
“I did.”
“What do you mean,” Zeke asked, “an odd thing? What’s odd about it?”
“We being relatives, and all.”
He had their attention now. Most of all, he had Zeke’s attention. Jethro had used his trump card quickly, for he had an idea there was little nonsense about them, and that they had planned to kill him quickly and take what he had. “Relatives?”
“Zebulon Rawlings married my daughter.”
“What’s that mean?” the red-haired one asked. “I never heard of him.” “Shut up, Red.” Zeke was all attention now. “Tell us, Stuart. Who might Zebulon Rawlings be?”
“He’s a marshal down Arizona way, former United States cavalry officer. More’n that, he’s the son of Linus and Eve Rawlings.”
“That coffee hot?” Zeke said. “Maybe we should set up and talk.” “Why waste time, Zeke?” The young one was itching for action. “Let’s get it over with.”
Zeke looked around irritably. “Damn it, Kid, I want to talk. That’s my family he’s speaking of. Now saddle down and set up to the fire.” He squatted on his haunches and began to build a smoke. “So Linus and Eve had a family? More’n one?”
“Two … the other one’s still farming back on the Ohio place. Zeb fought through the war, then came west.”
“You know Lilith? What ever happened to her? Somebody said she was a dance-hall girl.”
“An actress and singer, which is a whole sight different. She was good, too.
Then she married Cleve van Valen.”
“Who?” Red almost shouted the word. “Why, that’s the dirty—! He put a reward on us.”
Jethro leaned back. His right hand was just above the hidden gun. “Well, he’s your brother-in-law, Zeke. Or was.”
Zeke poured a cup of coffee and Red walked back to his mount and began to unsaddle. The others followed.
Jethro was thinking back. The first time anybody heard of Zeke was when he showed up at Placerville … killed a man there in a saloon fight. There had been a second killing that same year at Whiskey Flat. Zeke would be about fifty-two now—close to that—with a dozen known killings behind him. And a thoroughly bad man.
“If you were here a long time back, trapping around, you must have been a mountain man.”
“That’s where I met Linus.”
“Linus!” Zeke spat. “Eve sure cottoned to him, but I never did. He was too damned sure of himself.”
The older man brought a grub sack and a frying pan to the fire. Squatting beside the fire, he began to prepare a meal.
As the talk continued, Jethro found himself almost amused. Zeke was obviously eager for news, as eager as the rest were to kill him. Jethro had a fairly good idea that he could take one of them with him, and perhaps two. The question was, which one or two? The Kid was the most anxious to get on with the killing, but which was the more determined?
Jethro knew that many an anxious one lost his ambition when the shooting started or he got a piece of lead into him. The determined kind, they would soak up punishment and still keeping shooting, and that was the man he wanted out of there first.
He found himself puzzling about Zeke. Here was a man from a pioneer family of good stock, and by all accounts the rest of them had done what had to be done in an honest, straightforward way. Zeke alone had been a bad apple. As far as Jethro could recall, he’d never heard of Zeke Rails doing an honest day’s work in his life. He was not only a killer, but at times a particularly vicious one. A curiously lucky one, too. He had ducked out and left the gang he had worked with along the Overland stage route where he’d been raiding stations, holding up stages, and stealing horses.
He had pulled out just as Jack Slade started the clean-up that resulted in twenty-odd dead thieves, most of them men who had been running with Zeke Rails. He had worked out of Virginia City with Henry Plummer, and left the country just as the vigilantes started the hanging spree that resulted in twenty-six dead outlaws.
Jethro Stuart sat up and poked sticks into the fire. “Sure is nice, runnin’ into you this way, Zeke,” he said blandly. “Not often a man comes up against a relation in this out-of-the-way country. Lilith was living out San Francisco way the last I heard.”
“Linus?”
Briefly, Jethro explained about the war and Linus, and related as much as Zeb had told him of how he died, and of Zeb returning to find his mother—that was Eve—dead.
“I’d another brother, too,” Zeke said; “just older than me. His name was Sam.” “Name rings a bell. Prescott? Was that it? Sam Prescott? I’d no call to know the names of Zeb’s family. He married my daughter after I pulled out. Ran into a man in Miles City told me of it.”
The Kid was sitting there looking sour, and the redhead was lying on his back looking up through the leaves. No telling what that redhead was thinking … a tough man, too.
The wind stirred the leaves overhead, and the flames fluttered. Zeke stared moodily into the fire, and Jethro held his silence. One of the horses snorted and Jethro started to get up, but Red was already on his feet. “You set still,” he said. “I’ll have a look.” After a few minutes he came back. “Mighty skittish. Must be a varmint around, or something.”
“Maybe we ought to go look,” Jethro said mildly. “Every man ought to see the varmint.”
Zeke chuckled, then grinned at him. “You’re kin, all right.” As the evening drew on, the men ate, and several times they threw glances toward Zeke which he ignored. The older man paid them no attention, nor did he have anything to say to Jethro. He minded his own affairs. This was an old outlaw, and a wise one, Jethro decided.
“You know this country?” Zeke said suddenly.
“Used to … it comes back to me.”
“Is there a way out of here into Montana?”
“Sure … a knowing man could find a way out to Yellowstone Lake. From there on there’s a sort of trail.”
“You want to show us the way?”
“Draw you a map,” Jethro said. “I’m staying right here.”
“Here?”
“Always aimed to come back. This here’s about the most beautiful spot I ever did see.”
Jethro was listening to the night. The horses were restless. Something was moving around out there, something that frightened them. Lion, maybe. Or a bear … that big, old silver-tip Harvey had mentioned was some place back in this country.
The wind off the snow-covered peaks was cold. He added sticks to the fire. The older man had gone off in the shadows and bedded down for the night. He was no fool. Whatever happened, he was going to be out of it … more than likely that was how he came to be so old.
Jethro was tired, but he dared not sleep. Zeke nursed a cup of coffee in his hands and said nothing. Red was dozing, and the Kid finally got up and got his blankets. He threw them angrily on the ground and rolled up and appeared to sleep.