Indians when I was twelve."
"So. I've heard of such stories," he commented. "I g uess they're a part of the West. Men have to die t o build any country strong. All of them don't die in battle , though."
"Pap did," I said, and then I told him about it. Mustang had never heard the story, either, but he heard i t now. How Ma took sick and didn't really have no decen t care, though Pap did the best he could. Then she die d and when she was buried we started on West. I told hi m all that, and I told him about the last few hours, abou t the wagon train leaving us, about the fight in the ravine.
But I didn't tell them about what I did to the Indians , or about Jack McGarry.
He was a pleasant man, easy to talk to, and he wa s friendly. I told him about Logan Pollard, and abou t reading Plutarch.
"And did you read it five times?"
"Only four, so far. But I'll get to it."
"And this place you're going to . . . Mason Crossing?
Do you intend to stay there for a while?"
"Prob'ly," I said, "but I might move on."
After he left us I did some thinking about it. No la w that I knew about was looking for me. Woods was kille d in self-defense, and he was no account, anyway. Thos e days, men like him didn't attract much notice when the y died. Everybody figured the country was saved a hanging.
Nevertheless, this talk worried me some.
Tired of hanging around gambling joints, I bough t a dozen books and lay on my bed in my room throug h the long cold days and read. Outside the wind blew a lot , and every other day or so it snowed. All the passes wer e closed and nobody was traveling. The streets sounded wit h the jingle of sleigh bells and the stoves in the saloon s glowed cherry red.
At night sometimes we sat around a big stove in th e lobby and yarned. I didn't talk much, but I liked t o listen. There were mining men and cattlemen there, gamblers, drifters, and businessmen. There were drummers an d cattle buyers, and men just looking for something to pu t money into. Most of them had been around a lot an d they talked well.
Up in my room I read a couple of books by an Englis h writer named Dickens, and I read the Scarlet Letter, b y Hawthorne. There was some poetry, too, by an Englis h writer named Byron. This I liked a mighty lot.
One day when I came back to the hotel that lawye r was waiting for me. Mustang was out somewhere, but thi s fellow was sitting in a big leather chair in the almos t empty lobby.
He seemed anxious to talk private, so we went upstairs, and when my room door was closed, he turne d on me. "Tyler, I've been hearing some talk. Don't g o back to Mason Crossing."
This stopped me flat-footed, but I waited a long minute and then said, "Why not?" And I was pretty cool , for I want no stranger butting into my affairs.
"Burdette will kill you."
"I doubt it. Anyway," I looked him right in the eye , "I'm going back."
He said no more about that, walking up and down th e room a couple of times. Then suddenly he stopped an d looked at me. "How many men have you actually killed , Tyler?"
"None of your business."
He looked at me for a long time, his eyes sort o f searching my face. Yet there was something friendly abou t it all, and something worried, too. Almost as if he ha d an interest.
"Of course," he agreed finally, "you're right. It is non e of my business. Only . . . well, no matter."
He crossed to the door. "Whatever you do, take car e of yourself. And you may hear from me."
He went out and the next day I heard he had take n the stage for Cheyenne. Nobody in town knew much abou t him except that he had been investigating the titles t o some mining claims, and he had looked over some prospects. At least, looked them over as much as he coul d with the weather what it was.
Two days later the cold spell broke and I shook Mustang out of a sleep.
"Pack up, man. We're riding."
He didn't argue any. I expect town was getting on hi s nerves, too. Anyway, within the hour we were riding ou t of town, headed west.
The
"So. I've heard of such stories," he commented. "I g uess they're a part of the West. Men have to die t o build any country strong. All of them don't die in battle , though."
"Pap did," I said, and then I told him about it. Mustang had never heard the story, either, but he heard i t now. How Ma took sick and didn't really have no decen t care, though Pap did the best he could. Then she die d and when she was buried we started on West. I told hi m all that, and I told him about the last few hours, abou t the wagon train leaving us, about the fight in the ravine.
But I didn't tell them about what I did to the Indians , or about Jack McGarry.
He was a pleasant man, easy to talk to, and he wa s friendly. I told him about Logan Pollard, and abou t reading Plutarch.
"And did you read it five times?"
"Only four, so far. But I'll get to it."
"And this place you're going to . . . Mason Crossing?
Do you intend to stay there for a while?"
"Prob'ly," I said, "but I might move on."
After he left us I did some thinking about it. No la w that I knew about was looking for me. Woods was kille d in self-defense, and he was no account, anyway. Thos e days, men like him didn't attract much notice when the y died. Everybody figured the country was saved a hanging.
Nevertheless, this talk worried me some.
Tired of hanging around gambling joints, I bough t a dozen books and lay on my bed in my room throug h the long cold days and read. Outside the wind blew a lot , and every other day or so it snowed. All the passes wer e closed and nobody was traveling. The streets sounded wit h the jingle of sleigh bells and the stoves in the saloon s glowed cherry red.
At night sometimes we sat around a big stove in th e lobby and yarned. I didn't talk much, but I liked t o listen. There were mining men and cattlemen there, gamblers, drifters, and businessmen. There were drummers an d cattle buyers, and men just looking for something to pu t money into. Most of them had been around a lot an d they talked well.
Up in my room I read a couple of books by an Englis h writer named Dickens, and I read the Scarlet Letter, b y Hawthorne. There was some poetry, too, by an Englis h writer named Byron. This I liked a mighty lot.
One day when I came back to the hotel that lawye r was waiting for me. Mustang was out somewhere, but thi s fellow was sitting in a big leather chair in the almos t empty lobby.
He seemed anxious to talk private, so we went upstairs, and when my room door was closed, he turne d on me. "Tyler, I've been hearing some talk. Don't g o back to Mason Crossing."
This stopped me flat-footed, but I waited a long minute and then said, "Why not?" And I was pretty cool , for I want no stranger butting into my affairs.
"Burdette will kill you."
"I doubt it. Anyway," I looked him right in the eye , "I'm going back."
He said no more about that, walking up and down th e room a couple of times. Then suddenly he stopped an d looked at me. "How many men have you actually killed , Tyler?"
"None of your business."
He looked at me for a long time, his eyes sort o f searching my face. Yet there was something friendly abou t it all, and something worried, too. Almost as if he ha d an interest.
"Of course," he agreed finally, "you're right. It is non e of my business. Only . . . well, no matter."
He crossed to the door. "Whatever you do, take car e of yourself. And you may hear from me."
He went out and the next day I heard he had take n the stage for Cheyenne. Nobody in town knew much abou t him except that he had been investigating the titles t o some mining claims, and he had looked over some prospects. At least, looked them over as much as he coul d with the weather what it was.
Two days later the cold spell broke and I shook Mustang out of a sleep.
"Pack up, man. We're riding."
He didn't argue any. I expect town was getting on hi s nerves, too. Anyway, within the hour we were riding ou t of town, headed west.
The
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