Return of the Mountain Man (3 page)

“Yeah,” the marshal said drily. “I'm sure that's it.”

A
s he stood facing the two men in the saloon, it occurred to Buck that perhaps the marshal just might have been right. Buck had entered the saloon, ordered a beer, and had nursed it for about fifteen minutes before the cowboy with a loud and arrogant mouth had begun needling him.

“You gonna drink that beer or stand there and look at it with your face hangin' out?”

Buck ignored him.

“Boy, you better talk to me!” the cowhand said.

“I intend to drink this beer,” Buck said, “in my own good time. Not that it's any of your business.”

The cowboy took a step backward, a puzzled look on his face. Buck knew the type. He was big and broad and solid with muscle. And he was used to getting his way.

He had been a bully all his life. He belittled anything he was too stupid to comprehend—which was nearly everything.

“That's Harry Carson, stranger,” the barkeep whispered.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Buck said, not bothering to keep his voice to a whisper.

“And his buddy is Wade Phillips,” the barkeep plunged ahead.

“I wonder if either one of them can spell ‘unimpressed,'” Buck said. He felt the old familiar rage fill him. He had never been able to tolerate bullies; not even as a boy back in Missouri.

The deputy who had been with Marshal Dooley earlier that day leaned against the bar, silently watching the show unfold before him. Carson and Phillips were both loud-mouthed troublemakers. But he felt he had pegged this tall young man right. If he was correct in his assumption, Carson and Phillips would never pick another fight after this night.

The deputy slipped out of the line of possible gunfire and sipped his beer.

“What'd you say, buddy?” Carson stuck his chin out belligerently.

Buck fought back his anger. “Go on, Carson. Back off, drink your drink, and leave me be.”

“You got a smart mouth, buddy.” Phillips stuck his ugly, broad-nosed and boozy face into it.

Upon entering the place, Buck had slipped the hammer thongs off his .44s. He slowly turned to face the twin loudmouths.

“I'm saying now I'm not looking for trouble. But if I'm pushed into it, so be it.”

“Talks fancy, don't he?” Phillips's laugh was ugly. But so was he, so it rounded out.

“Yeah,” Carson said. “And got them fancy guns on, too. But I betcha he ain't got the sand in him to duke it out.”

Buck's smile was faint. He had pegged the men accurately. Both men probably realized that neither one of them could beat Buck in a gunfight, so they would push him into a fight with fists and boots. And if he didn't fight them at their own game, he would be branded a coward.

The bully's way.

Buck took off his gunbelt and laid it on the bar. Spotting the deputy, he slid the hardware down the bar to him. “Look after those, will you, please?”

“Be glad to, West. Watch 'em. They're both dirty at the game.”

Buck drained his beer mug and said, “Not nearly as dirty as I am.”

Then Buck smashed the mug into Carson's face. The heavy mug broke the man's nose on impact. Buck then jabbed the jagged broken edges into the man's cheek and lips, sending the bully screaming and bleeding to the sawdust-covered floor.

Buck hit Phillips a combination left and right, glazing the man's eyes with the short, brutal punches. Buck did not like to fight with his bare fists, knowing it was a fool's game. But sometimes that was the only immediate option. Until other objects could be brought into play.

Phillips jumped to his boots, in a crouch. Buck stepped close and brought one knee up, at the same time bringing both hands down. As his hands grabbed the man's neck, his knee came in contact with the man's face. The crunch of breaking bones was loud in the saloon.

The fight was over. Carson lay squalling and bleeding on the floor beside the unconscious Phillips. Buck turned around. Marshal Dooley was standing by his deputy.

“Any law against a fair fight, Marshal?” Buck asked. “It was two against one.”

“And they were outnumbered at those odds,” Dooley said. “No, West, there is no law against it. Yet,” he added. “But someday there will be.”

Buck retrieved his guns and buckled them around his waist. “Not as long as there are people so stupid as to place and praise physical brawn over the capacity of reason.”

Dooley blinked. “Who are you, West? You're no drifting gunhand. You've got intelligence.”

“Anybody who wishes to do so can read, Marshal. And most of us can think and reason. That's who I am. Good night, Marshal.”

Buck picked up his hat from the bar and walked out into the night.

“More to him than meets the eyes, Marshal,” the deputy observed.

“Yeah,” said the marshal. “But it's that unknown about him that I'm afraid of.”

 

Buck spent the next three days loafing and listening around Challis. He read a dozen six-month-old newspapers, bought a well-worn book of verse by Shelley and began reading that. He played a little poker, winning some, losing some, and ending up breaking about even. Twice he saw a couple of the most disreputable-looking men he'd seen in years. He knew they were mountain men, and he knew they were checking on him. The men had to be close to seventy years old, but they still looked like they could wrestle a grizzly bear. And probably win.

Some of the so-called “good people” of the community sniffed disdainfully at the sight of the buckskin-clad old men, snubbing them, having highly uncomplimentary things to say about them. Buck wanted to say, “But these men opened the way west. These men faced the dangers, most of the time alone. And many of their compadres were killed opening the way west. Had it not been for them, you folks would still be waiting to make the trek westward. These men are some of the true heroes of our time; living legends. You should welcome them, praise them, not snub and insult them.”

But Buck kept his mouth shut, knowing he would be wasting his words. He recalled the words of that fellow called Thoreau: If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

But Buck knew there was more to it than that. And he silently cursed his lack of education, vowing to read and retain more wisdom of words. He had left his books, his precious books, back at the cabin in that lovely lonely meadow, where he had buried his wife and son. Nicole and Arthur. He knew someday he'd return to that valley. If he lived through his mission.

He leaned back in his chair on the boardwalk, his back to a storefront, and pondered away a few moments, wondering why so many people built false and unworthy idols. These old mountain men were, in some cases, like military men. Looked down on and cursed until the need for them arises, then, as that moment passes, they are once more shunted aside. Like those signs Buck had been seeing on some stores: No Irish wanted here.

Buck's philosophical meanderings were shoved aside as his eyes found the two men walking slowly down the center of the dirt main street.

Phillips and Carson. Both of them wearing two pistols. Their hands were near the pistols, ready to draw. With a sigh, Buck stood up and looked around him. Then he remembered: Marshal Dooley and his deputy had left that morning to ride out to a ranch; something about rustling.

“Get out in the street, West!” pig-face Phillips yelled.

Buck stepped off the boardwalk, slipping the leather thongs from the hammers of his .44s as he walked.

Front doors and windows facing the street banged shut as the residents headed for cover. Gunfights were nothing new to these people. They just wanted to view it from a safe place.

“It doesn't have to be this way, boys!” Buck called. But he knew it did. With people like Carson and Phillips, winning was the only way. So-called “loss of face” was totally unacceptable. Reasoning was beyond their comprehension.

Something is wrong with this method of settling disputes, Buck thought. And something is very wrong with my own personal vendetta. But the young man, self-educated as far as his education went, knew that, at this point in the advancement of civilization, a dusty street and the smell of gunsmoke was judge and jury.

But he also knew that lawyers weren't the final answer, either. They mucked matters up too much, twisting and reshaping the truth.

There had to be a better middle ground. But damned if he knew what it was.

“You ready to die, boy?” Carson yelled.

Buck cut his eyes for just an instant. Standing in front of a saloon was one of the men from back at the trading post. What was his name? Jerry. Yeah. Big Jack's buddy. And standing a few yards from him, an old buckskin-dressed mountain man. The mountain man, old and big and still solid, cradled a Henry repeating rifle in the crook of one massive arm.

“We all have to see the elephant sometime,” Buck said. He could tell the men facing him were nervous. Since he had whipped them that night, Buck had heard stories about Carson and Phillips. They were thugs and ne'er-do-wells. Shiftless troublemakers. Buck had heard that the pair had used guns before, but were not gunhands, per se. They were back-shooters, cowards. But of course, as Buck knew well, most bullies were cowards.

Buck stood in the center of the street, standing tall and straight, his big hands, rough and work-hardened, close to his guns.

There was fifty feet between the men when Carson and pig-face Phillips stopped. Buck could see the sweat on the men's faces. Buck knew he could not afford to draw first. Even though the men were trash, this was their town; Buck was a stranger. They had to draw first in order for it to be called self-defense. Even if it was two on one.

Buck stood quietly, waiting.

“You had no call to scar us up like you did,” Carson yelled. “You don't fight fair.”

Buck waited.

Then Buck knew what had been wrong with his philosophical thinking of a few moments ago. These men were mentally ill-equipped to face the day-to-day struggles of living peacefully. But was that Buck's fault? Was he, and others like him, responsible for Carson and Phillips and others like them? What would happen if he presented them with an armload of books, saying to them, “Here, gentlemen, within these pages lie the answers. Here is a thousand years of wisdom. Understand this and you'll learn how to cope; how to live decently…” Buck shook those thoughts away.

We are all put here on this earth with the capability to learn to reason. These men, and others like them, don't want to learn. Therefore, it lies on their head, not mine. We come into this world naked and helpless and squalling. Yes. But we are equal to the task of learning.

Buck mentally settled it.

To hell with them!

“Ain't you got no tongue?” Phillips hollered. “Cain't you talk?”

“What do you want me to say?” Buck asked.

“Beg and we'll let you turn tail and run on out of here!” Carson yelled.

“I beg to no man,” Buck's words were softly offered.

“Then die!” Phillips screamed. He reached for his gun.

Buck let him clear leather before he drew his right-hand .44. He fired twice, one slug taking Phillips in the belly, the second slug hitting the man in the center of his chest. Phillips fell backward, mortally wounded.

Carson had not drawn. The man's face was chalky white. He watched as Buck holstered his .44. Buck waited patiently.

The street was silent as a hundred pairs of eyes watched in awe and disbelief, the incredible speed of the tall young man an astonishing thing to witness. His hand had been like a blur as he drew, cocked, and fired.

“Back off, Carson,” Buck said. “Just turn around and walk away and it's over. How about it?”

A hundred pairs of ears heard him offer the man his life.

A hundred pairs of ears heard Carson refuse the offer. “Hell with you!” Carson snarled, and went for his gun.

Born with the gift of ambidextrousness, Buck was as fast with his left hand as with his right. In a heartbeat, Carson lay dead on the dusty street. The man's bootheels and spurs beat a death march on the dirt as his spirit joined that of Phillips, winging their way to their just rewards.

Buck reloaded his .44s and holstered them. He walked across the street to his chair and sat down.

People began streaming out of offices and stores and saloons. They gathered around the fallen pair of would-be gunhands. They looked at Buck, sitting calmly on the boardwalk.

“Mind if we get the man to take your picture?” some called.

Buck didn't mind at all. He wanted Stratton and Potter and Richards to hear of this.

The town's only photographer gathered up his bulky equipment and came on a run.

Buck sat calmly, waiting for the marshal.