Way of the Gun (9781101597804) by Charles G. West Page A

Shirt stalked past them on his way to the horses, cursing Crazy Jack for a cheating skinflint, and telling the three lounging men to get saddled. Less than an hour later, they were on their way, the one packhorse they kept loaded with supplies and cartridges Red Shirt had traded for the extra horses. Crossing over the fork of the Cheyenne, they continued north. According to Red Shirt’s reckoning, they could anticipate striking the Beaver River in half a day.
    Feeling as much a prisoner as he had felt while in the custody of Deputy Marshal Luther Moody, Carson rode silently, his thoughts of escape interrupted frequently by bantering between Tice and Swann. There was plenty of time to consider the two outlaws who followed their savage boss’s whims without protest, riding along behind him like brainless servants. The two men were as different as night and day. Tice seemed to always have something eating away at his insides that caused him to be constantly irritated. He was a tough, wiry man, whose face seemed to never have experienced a smile. Swann, on the other hand, wore a foolish grin for most of the time, seeming to be amused by most everything that happened. The trait the two men had in common was a callous disregard for human life and sympathy for no one. Fine lot I’m riding with, Carson thought, recalling Sarah’s words. Then it occurred to him that he would hate to have his grandmother see him riding with such evil vermin.
    It was the first time he had thought about his grandmother in many years. He didn’t recall very much about the woman who gave him birth, for he was only four years old when his mother died trying to give him a younger brother. The baby, a girl actually, didn’t make it, either. His father was hit pretty hard by the loss of his wife and, finding it too much to bear, left his four-year-old son with his grandmother and went back to work herding cattle. So Grandma Ryan raised the boy until she passed away when he was fourteen. With no reason to stay, Carson followed his father into the business of punching cattle. In the three years since he had gone to work for Mr. Bob Patterson, he never crossed paths with his father.
    * * *
    Upon reaching the Beaver, they decided it was still a little too early to camp for the night, so they stopped for a short while to rest the horses before continuing on. “We’ll just follow the river a ways yet,” Red Shirt decided. “We’ve got a good two hours of daylight left, so if we stay with the river, we’ll have a camp with plenty of water and grass.” They had not gone on for more than a couple of miles, however, before striking a fresh trail where a small party had crossed the river. Red Shirt immediately dismounted to study the tracks in the soft sand at the water’s edge. “Five horses,” the half-breed decided, “or four horses and a mule, maybe.” He stood up and looked to the east and the dark mountains called the Black Hills. “They came from the hills, headin’ west. Maybe some prospectors headin’ west with some gold.” His eyes narrowed, hiding the gleam that always came with the thought of a potential victim. “Maybe something to gain,” he announced.
    â€œMore likely some damn jackass that finally gave up and is headin’ for home with his pockets empty,” Tice remarked.
    â€œTice is probably right,” Carson quickly commented, alarmed that he might find himself involved in an attack upon some innocent prospectors. “Most likely a waste of our time.”
    Mildly surprised that Carson had offered an opinion, Red Shirt cocked an eyebrow as he gave the young man a sharp eye. “Won’t hurt to take a look,” he said. “Maybe something to gain.”
    There was no point in trying to argue, so there was nothing Carson could do but hope the party was long gone. This hope was crippled when Red Shirt said the tracks weren’t