“Want company?” Orrin asked.
“No, sir. I surely don’t. If the two of us went they might think we were
hunting. I’ll just mosey over and give them a chance.”
I strolled out and walked across the street. I opened the door and stepped into
the store. You could find its like in almost any western town. Bales of jeans,
barrels of flour, a coffee grinder and the smell of fresh-ground coffee, prunes,
dried apples, apricots, a barrel of crackers, and rows of canned goods.
Behind the counter there was a rack of rifles and shotguns; there were boots,
hats, saddles, bridles, spurs, bandanas, vests, gloves, and just about all a man
could want. It was my kind of store. In Saint Louis or New Orleans I could walk
into a store full of things I just didn’t want, but this was no city, and there
wasn’t a thing here a man wouldn’t have use for.
Except maybe those two cowhands standing up by the counter. So I walked along up
there, paying them no mind, and they turned to look.
There were things I truly needed, so I shuffled through the jeans, finding a
pair long enough for a man six foot three and lean in the hips and waist. I
stacked those jeans and a few things I needed whilst those gents dickered over
some buying of their own. They were trying to decide about a .44 Smith and
Wesson.
“But will it shoot straight?” one of them asked. “I used a Colt some, but this
here gun—”
Reaching over I took it from his hand, picked up a box of shells, and thumbed
some into the chambers, sayin’ meanwhile, very pleasantlike, “May I settle the
question for you gents? If you’ll come to the door—”
One of them had started to get mad, but, by the time he was makin’ up his mind,
I already had two shells in the gun and he sort of decided against arguing.
Nonetheless, they didn’t like it. I just turned and ambled off to the door, and
they traipsed after me, the storekeeper following along.
When I rode into town I’d noticed somebody had left a board standing against a
rock, kind of leaning there. Maybe somebody had figured on putting up a sign and
then got called away, but the board, which was about three by two, still sat
there. I’d also noticed there was a knot in the board, of slightly darker color.
I hefted that Smith and Wesson in my mitt, knowing they’d always made a
straight-shooting gun and knowing that I could rely on it to do what I asked.
That board was a good seventy yards off and the knot was not visible.
“Now you take that board yonder? See the knothole in it?”
“I don’t see no knothole,” the short one said, kind of irritated-like.
Well, I let ‘er drive, right from where I held it. “Now you just go look,” I
said. “If that’s not a hole, what is it?”
“Fact is—” I let her bang a couple more times, so fast it sounded like one shot,
“you go look and you’ll find three holes, yonder. If you don’t find one hole
atop with two on each side below it, you come back and I’ll buy the drinks.”
Then I turned around and went back into the store. The storekeeper went behind
the counter and picked up some field glasses. “Saves walking,” he said,
grinning. He was a young man with a nice smile. He walked outside again.
I was shoving some shells into those empty cylinders. I do hate an empty gun.
Seems almost everybody who gets shot accidentally gets it with an empty gun.
When I pull the trigger on a gun it’s no accident, and I never pulled one whilst
foolin’ around.
That storekeeper came back. “My name’s Johnny Kyme,” he said, “and you surely
put those bullets where you said. Was there really a knot there?”
“Uh-huh. There surely was, but you’ll not find it now, unless the edges.”
“You must have good eyesight.”
The two gents were coming back inside, growling a little and looking sour but
more respectful.
“No,” I said seriously, keeping a very straight face, “I shot it from memory.
That’s the way I do. I make a mental note of where the first shirt button above
a man’s belt is. Then I always know where to put the bullet.”
“That’s shootin’,” the short man grumbled. “I figure we should buy the drinks.”
“Thanks, gentlemen,” I said, “but the day is young. One of these days, if we all
live long enough, I’ll belly up to the bar and collect that drink—and buy one.”
I paid Kyme for the gun and the other things and turned to go. When I reached
the door, I turned and said, “When you boys see Charley McCaire, tell him Tell
Sackett sends his regards.”
I went across the street for more coffee. Later on, Johnny Kyme told me what was
said. That short one said, “Tell Sackett? Hell, that’s the man—”
“I never saw him before,” Kyme told them, “but he’s got two cousins here that
can shoot just about as good, maybe better. They just wound up a little
go-around with Curly Dunn’s outfit.”
“Dunn? I remember them. What happened?” they asked.
Kyme said, “Oh, the few that were left dragged their tails out of here, they
seemed to have the notion there were easier places to bulldoze.”
When they left, Kyme said they looked mighty sober like they had aplenty to
think about. I was never much for showin’ off, but if a bullet through a board
can prevent a shootout, why not do it? I hold nothing against any man unless he
comes at me, and I usually put that down to ignorance.
Now these here Three Eight hands would never have that excuse. If they came
they’d know what was waiting for them. Orrin was lounging in the door when I
walked back, “Did you read them from the book?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said, “I just showed ’em the pictures.”
CHAPTER XX
That night, a couple of hundred yards from town, we bedded down about a dozen
feet back from the La Plata, unrolling our blankets on the green grass near some
cottonwoods. We were cut off from sight of the town by a wall of cottonwood,
aspen, and pine trees. We picketed our horses on the grass and settled down to
sleep. Nell had gone to stay with the family who had been caring for her pa. He
was feeling better now and figuring on a place of his own.
The four of us were asleep, eased to our comfort by the rustling leaves and the
water running a few yards off. I don’t know what it was made me wake up, but
suddenlike in the middle of the night I was wide awake.
Our fire was down to red coals glowing, and beside it sat a man.
It took me a minute to adjust my mind to it, but sure enough, there he sat,
cross-legged by the fire and still as death. My fingers took hold of the butt of
my gun, but he seemed peaceful enough so I just lay and watched him for a
moment.
It was an Indian, and he was old. His hair hung in two braids, and even at a
distance I could see it was part gray. Indians have their ways and we have ours,
but a guest at my fire is always welcome to coffee, so I threw back the covers,
shoved my feet into the moccasins I keep handy for nightwork or for the woods,
and went over to the fire.
He didn’t look up or say anything. His hands were brown and old, with large
veins, and his nails were cut flat across. He wore a knife and there was a
Winchester alongside of him.
Poking some sticks into the coals, I edged the coffeepot a mite closer and got
some biscuits we’d bought in the store a few hours earlier.
He had his own cup and I filled it, then filled mine. The wind juttered the fire
a little and I added more fuel. The wind down that canyon could be right chill
on occasion.
His eyes were old, but their gaze was sharp and level when he looked at me. “I
am Tell Sackett,” I said. “You are Powder-Face?”
“You look for your papa?”
The word sounded strange on his lips, and I said, “It has been twenty years. He
is dead, I believe.”
He tasted his coffee. “Good!” he said. “Good!”
“I want to know what happened to him, and to find where he lies, if that is
possible.”
“He was a good man—two times. I knew him two times. The first time we shot at
him ourselves.”
“Did you kill him?”
He looked up. “No! He was good man—good! The first time, long ago, I did not