Galloway (1970) Read online

  Tying their horses they crossed the boardwalk and entered the saloon. Outside it had a false front, behind it a peaked roof, and inside there was no ceiling, just the heavy beams overhead.

  There was a long bar, a dozen tables, and chairs. The bartender was a broad-faced man with corn yellow hair, massive forearms resting on the bar. At the end of the bar was a wiry old man with a thin face and high cheekbones, in buckskins.

  At a table were three men, obviously cowhands.

  “Rye,” Shadow said, “for two.”

  The bartender reached down for a bottle without taking the other arm off the bar and came up with the bottle and two glasses. He put the glasses down and poured, all with his left hand.

  Galloway glanced at him thoughtfully, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good country around here,” he said, speaking to Shadow. “I can see why Tell liked it.”

  “Tell?” The bartender asked. “You don’t mean Tell Sackett?”

  “I do mean him.” Galloway said. “You know him?”

  “Sure do … and a good man, too. You mean to say he’s been in this country?”

  “Several years back. Fact is, Tyrel rode through here one time, too. He’d taken off and was riding around the country, before he got married. And his pa was here long before that, back around 1840.”

  One of the men at the table, a pugnacious, curly-baked boy of about Galloway’s age turned sharply around. “1840? There was nobody here that early.”

  “My uncle,” Galloway said, “was a mountain man. He came down from the north with some other trappers, hunting beaver peltries. He described all of this country to us.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Shadow commented, “there were many here earlier than that. Rivera was up here as early as 1769, and Father Escalante traveled right through here when he was looking for a trail to Monterey, in California.”

  The young man looked sullen. “I never heard of that. I don’t believe it.”

  “Your privilege,” Shadow said. “I realize that education is hard to come by in this part of the country.”

  The young man had started to turn back to his table. Now he turned sharply around. “What do you mean by that? You sayin’ I got no education?”

  Nick Shadow smiled. “Of course not. I assumed you were a rather bright young man, and you assumed I was mistaken about Rivera and Escalante. No doubt we were both mistaken.”

  Shadow turned his back on him, and Galloway said to the bartender, who was trying to hide a smile. “I’m hunting my brother. He got away from the ‘Paches away down south of here and headed into the mountains. He’d be in mighty bad shape. Have you heard anything of such a man?”

  “No. And I would have heard, I’m sure. There aren’t many people around here.

  There’s the Dunn outfit you were just talking to, and there’s Lute Pitcher … he’s got a place a couple of miles over in the hills beyond the river.”

  “If he shows up, lend a hand. I’ll stand good for anything he wants.”

  The curly-headed man looked around. He had the feeling he had been made a fool of and it rankled. “An’ who’ll stand good for you?”

  Galloway Sackett smiled. “Just me. I think that’s enough.”

  “I don’t think it is,” the curly-haired one said, “I don’t think that’s enough at all.”

  “It is for me,” the bartender said calmly. “Sackett is a respected name.” And then he added, “Curly, I’d let it alone if I were you.”

  Curly Dunn got to his feet. “You ain’t me, and I don’t think much of the name of Sackett.” He put his gaze on Galloway. “You want to make something out of that?”

  Galloway grinned. “When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He turned to Shadow. “Shall we ride?”

  They started for the door, and Curly Dunn shouted after them. “If you’re thinkin’ of land in this country, you’d better think again. This here is Dunn country!”

  Galloway turned. “Are you Dunn?”

  “You’re durned tootin’ I am!”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m just beginning.” He went out and let the door swing to behind him. Crossing the street to the general store they entered, buying what supplies they needed. The owner of the store was a slender young man, loose-jointed and friendly.

  “My first business,” he said. “Pa, he doesn’t think I can cut the mustard, but he offered to set me up. Well, I’d saved some, and the rest I borrowed under my own name. I plan to succeed without his help.

  “Not,” he added, “that there’s trouble between us. It’s just that I wanted to make it without his help.” He grinned. “All I need is more customers.”

  “We’re moving into this country,” Galloway said. “We mean to run cattle.”

  Johnny Kyme glanced at him. “Have you talked to the Dunns about that? They say this is Dunn country.”

  “We met Curly over yonder,” Galloway said dryly. “He sort of led us to believe they figured thataway, but we sort of left the thought with him that we figured to stick around.”

  Galloway explained about Flagan. “If he shows up, give him whatever he wants.

  It’s good.”

  They made camp that night in a hollow alongside the rushing waters of the La Plata, with a scattering of aspen about them.

  When they had their blankets spread Galloway pulled off his boots and placed them carefully beside him and within easy reach. “I take it kindly, Nick, that you’ve come along with me.”

  “I like to ride lonesome country. It’s built in me, I guess.”

  “You born in a castle, and all, I’d figure you for the big towns.”

  “It wasn’t my castle, Sackett. My father owned it and had the title. My mother was the daughter of a younger son who had gone off to sea, lost a leg in a sea battle and came back to set himself up as a woodworker.

  “My father had two legitimate sons who looked nothing like him, nor acted it, either. I was his image. His wife met me outside the town once where I was exercising a horse for a man. She asked me to leave the country. My mother had passed on, and I’d no taste for woodworking, and she explained to me that I was too much like her husband not to cause comment. She said she loved her husband, and she offered to give me a good sum of money if I’d leave.

  “Well, I’d been wanting just that, though doubtful if I’d ever get it. I’d gone to good schools, but had no taste for business. So I thanked her, took the money and came to America.

  “I’ve never told anyone else that, and probably never will again.”

  “How about your grandpa?”

  “He hated to see me go, but he would have done the same. I’d have come to nothing there, unless it was trouble. I wrote to him, sent him money when I had it. He died a few years ago. The countess wrote and explained, asking if I wished to come back. One of her sons had been killed when he was thrown from a horse. Another got in trouble and left the country, and the third was not a well man.”

  “You could go back.”

  Shadow nodded. “She said my father would make me legitimate, which might mean I’d inherit. I’m no longer cut out for it, Sackett. This is my country. Besides, I’d have trouble back east. There was a little affair in Missouri, a corpse and cartridge occasion … his family was prominent and they would like to find me.”

  Neither man spoke for some time, and Shadow smoked in silence, then put out his pipe and crawled into his blankets.

  “Sackett,” Shadow said suddenly, “you’ve got to see the high country around here to believe it. There is nothing more fantastically beautiful. There are towering peaks, valleys no white man has ever seen, and streams that run to God knows where. I’ve seen the Alps and the Pyrenees, but there’s nothing anywhere like these mountains.”

  Galloway was silent. Somewhere out in these mountains, perhaps even within a few miles, Flagan was fighting for his life, for his very existence. Slowly he began once more, trying to picture in his brain what must have been happening.

  Flaga
n was a good runner, and he was always in excellent shape. He would have made good time, gotten enough of a lead so they would have a hard time catching up. Food would be harder to come by, but in the mountains they had often rustled their own food.

  Somehow Flagan would survive. He must survive.

  Chapter VI

  For just awhile I lay there shivering in the cold. It was in that last hour before dawn, judging by the few stars I could see. My muscles were stiff and sore, and my feet hurt. I pulled myself painfully to a sitting position and took a slow look around my little island.

  The only sound was the rustle of falling water, just loud enough to make it hard to hear anything else that might be stirring around. And then, far off over the mountains, I heard the deep rumble of thunder.

  The last thing I wanted right now was a rainstorm, me without any clothes, and cold as all get out. Worst of all, I seemed to be trapped in this place and from the looks of the cave walls around me the water in here sometimes rose several feet higher than I could stand. It didn’t even have to rain right here to make trouble for me. The water coming down that waterfall I could hear would pour into this basin.

  Time to time in my life I’d come up against trouble, but this here seemed about the worst. And my strength was drained by the poor food I’d had, and the beating I’d taken from both the Indians and the wilderness. I’d been bad off before, but at least I’d been out on solid ground where I could travel and maybe rustle a bite to eat. I’d gotten away from the Indians but I’d jumped right into a trap.

  Thunder growled deep in the faroff canyons, and I turned my head and began a slow, inch-by-inch check of this place in which I was trapped.

  I was on that small bit of sandy beach against the back wall of an overhang that seemed to be of solid rock. From where I sat I could see no break in the wall of the bowl into which I’d jumped, although as water poured into the basin, there must be a way for it to get out.

  Finally, I slipped off into the water. Once in the water I was warmer than on the beach, and slowly I swam out into the open air. The rocky edge above me was only a rough six feet above the water, but the wall was sheer, polished by water and worn smooth. Here and there were cracks in the walls, but they were vertical, and there was no way I could see that I could hang on until I could catch hold with the other hand.

  The largest one started a good four feet up the wall, and although I jumped a couple of times from the water my fingers wouldn’t hold in the slippery crack, so I swam back and stretched out on the sand, just about all in.

  Twice more I swam around that pool, trying to find a way out, but my only chance was that crack. Each time I went back to the beach I rested a little longer, for the days of scant food and struggling to cross the country and stay alive had about worn me put. Still, I always told myself, there was nothing a man couldn’t get out of if he was sober and didn’t panic, so I settled down to think.

  The water I’d heard falling wasn’t much of a fall, but the rock over which it fell was higher than the place from which I’d jumped, and the rocks were worn smooth.

  It began to rain.

  First there were scattered big drops, then a steady downpour that freckled the water about me. For awhile I just lay still, trying to get up energy to try again, and the falling water kind of lulled me to sleep. When I opened my eyes I was shaking with a chill and the water in that basin had raised by at least an inch.

  Cold and shivering, I studied the walls again, but always I came back to that crack.

  The bottom was a good four feet above the water, and the wall below it was smooth as silk. That crack was maybe four inches wide at the top, but it tapered down to nothing. If a man could have gotten up high enough to get both hands into it with his fingers pulling against opposite edges he might have worked himself to the top … he might have.

  Toward the bottom there wasn’t room to even get one finger into that crack, and I couldn’t pull myself up with one finger, anyway.

  There didn’t seem to be any way out of this fix I’d gotten myself into, and I went back and stretched on the sand again. Seemed to me there was less of it, and the rain was falling steadily.

  If I could just find something to wedge into that crevice to give myself a handhold … but there was nothing. Of a sudden, I thought of finding a stick, only there were no sticks, and my spear wasn’t strong enough to hold my weight even if the crack was deep enough to thrust it in, which it wasn’t.

  If only there was something…. There was!

  My fist.

  If I could jump high enough out of the water to wedge my doubled-up fist in that crack I could hang by it. If I opened my hand I’d slide right back in the water, but if I could keep my fist closed I could muscle myself up high enough to wedge the other fist crossways in the crack, and then I could grab for the rim.

  Something warned me that I had better try. The water running off the mountain in this rain had not yet reached the pool, but it would soon start pouring in from branch streams and runoff gullies, and I’d be forced to swim until I could swim no longer. My little beach would be covered within minutes.

  Also, my strength was slipping away. I’d had nothing to eat, and much of my strength had been used up in running, climbing, struggling for life and for food. If this failed there was no other way, so it had to work.

  Swimming across the basin I looked up at the crack, so close above me. Now when I was a youngster I’d managed to lunge pretty high out of the water many times in batting a gourd around the old swimming hole. This time I not only had to get about half my body out of the water but I had to wedge my fist in that narrow crack.

  First I carried my spear close to the side and threw it atop the wall. Next I threw up my bow and the quiver of arrows. On my first attempt I succeeded in hitting the wall and bruising myself. On the second my arm went high and my closed fist caught in the crack.

  Slowly, flexing my muscles, I lifted my body. It was like chinning myself with one hand, something I’d rarely tried, but my body did come up out of the water and I got my other fist into the crack, but crossways as the crack was wider there. Another lift and I got my other hand on the edge. Pulling myself up, I flopped over on the rocky edge and lay still, the rain pounding on my back.

  After a while, shaking with cold and exhaustion, I got my feet under me, recovered my weapons and started into the woods. That night, cowering among the pine needles, without even the elk hide to cover me, I shivered alone and cold.

  How much can a man endure? How long could a man continue? These things I asked myself, for I am a questioning man, yet even as I asked the answers were there before me. If he be a man indeed, he must always go on, he must always endure.

  Death is an end to torture, to struggle, to suffering, but it is also an end to warmth, light, the beauty of a running horse, the smell of damp leaves, of gunpowder, the walk of a woman when she knows someone watches … these things, too, are gone.

  In the morning I would have a fire. In the morning I would find food.

  The rain fell steadily, and in my huddle under the bushes the big drops came through and rolled coldly down my spine and down my chest. Stiff and cold, I crept out in the gray dawn. The rain had stopped but the ground was soggy under my feet. Wearing only moccasins and a breech clout I hunted for roots. Starting across a clearing I suddenly heard a rush of movement and looked up in time to be struck by a horse’s shoulder and knocked rolling.

  Desperately, I tried to get up, to call out, but the wind had been knocked out from me.

  A voice said, “That’s no Indian! Curly, that’s a white man!”

  “Aw, what difference does it make? Leave him lay!”

  It taken me a minute to get up and I called after him. “Help me. Get me to a ranch or somewhere. I’ll—”

  The rider called Curly spun his horse and came back at a run. He had a coil of rope in his hand and he was swinging it for a blow. Trying to step aside my feet skidded on the wet leaves and the horse hit me aga
in, knocking me into the brush. Curly rode away laughing.

  After a long while I got my knees under me and crawled to where my arrows were.

  The bowstring was wet and useless, but the spear might get me something. First I needed a fire. In a hollow near the river, I broke the dried-out twigs that were lowest on the tree trunks, gathered some inner bark from a deadfall and rigged a small shelter to keep the raindrops from my fire.

  With my stone knife I cut out a little hollow in a slab of wood broken loose when a tree fell, then a notch from the hollow to the edge. Powdering bark in my hands I fed the dust into the hollow, then used my bow and a blunt arrow-shaft to start the fire. It took several minutes of hard work to get a smoke and then a spark, but I worked on a bit, then managed to blow the spark into life. At last I had a fire.

  It is times such as this that show a man how much the simple things like food and warmth can mean. Slowly my fire blazed up, and the first warmth in a long time began to work its way into my stiff, cold muscles.

  Everything was damp. I’d nothing to cover my nakedness, but the fire brought a little warmth to me, and just having it made me feel better. My feet were in bad shape again, although not so bad as at first, and the bruises from the beating I’d taken showed up in great blotches over my hide. I huddled there by the fire, shivering, wishing for food, for warmth, for a blanket.

  It was unlikely any wild game would stir during the rain, so I must wait it out or try to find what roots there might be, but looking from where I sat I saw nothing I could eat. Yet I had lived long enough to know that nothing lasts forever, and men torture themselves who believe that it will. The one law that does not change is that everything changes, and the hardship I was bearing today was only a breath away from the pleasures I would have tomorrow, and those pleasures would be all the richer because of the memories of this I was enduring.