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Herb Crumb was perplexed. That Nason fellow sitting on top of the bluff was supposed to be an
ally, and yet everybody was acting half afraid of him. Why this should be Crumb had no idea. But if Nason needed to be taken out, then he guessed he was the man for the job.
Herb Crumb was a want-to-be gunfighter. He was convinced that a tougher and faster man than himself did not exist. In truth he was just a mixed up kid of
17, one with no guidance in growing up. All kids dream of being gunfighters, but most realize that there are more important goals to shoot for. Young Herb did not. His daydreams were all of standing in the street and being renowned for the speed of his draw. He had no way of knowing that the respect he imagined receiving did not come with the job. Any young man heading down his path would be lucky to make the age of
21.
Maybe this was his chance. He had visions of victoriously standing at the head of the makeshift town while the people congratulated him in awe. Herb had never even seen a gunfight. Perhaps if he had his enthusiasm would not have been so bright.
Crumb had been lucky in the matter of armament. He had been riding two summers ago towards Montana, for he had heard there were more gold fields there just waiting to be found. By the time he had left the Utah Territory he was growing tired of the whole idea. This was especially true when a large grizzly bear reared up fifty yards from the trail. He was armed only with an old Dance revolver that had its roots in the losing side of the Civil War.
He had earned the sidearm by taking care of the horses of two men who had stopped by the Hole for two days while they rested up before riding on to Robber's Roost. He never caught their names, and nobody in camp bothered to inquire, but the meanest looking of the two gave him the gun in exchange for his help. The man said he had taken it off the body of a man he had killed down in the Nations. Young Herb had no trouble believing this when he looked at the man's wild eyes and gunfighter mustache. Yet instead of being afraid, the boy was fascinated. The things the man must have seen! The courage he had shown when stepping out into a street where another armed man was waiting to attempt to kill him. Where else was there excitement such as this?
The boy had practiced with that Dance, practiced hard. What little money he could come by he spent on caps, powder, and lead, for he cast the balls himself just like everybody else did. Only in the largest of cities could you find pre-cast balls (bullets) for sale. He had become fairly quick on the draw and quite accurate. It was his only gun, and with it he shot cottontail rabbits, the larger jack rabbits, gray squirrels and blue and ruffed grouse. These birds were possible to take because in the wilder areas they sit so long on the ground before flying that they are called fool hens. Still, the head of even a sitting bird is not an easy target.
Keeping the pistol in operation was the hard part, for cap and ball revolvers are notorious for failing to fire at crucial moments due to moisture in the cap or powder or a piece of dirt in the nipple. If the balls didn't fit good and tight these guns were subject to setting off more than one charge at once. This was usually more hazardous to bystanders than to the shooter. If he was using two hands to shoot he might get shot through the off hand. The ball should have a ring of lead shaved off its side as it is levered into the cylinder. This makes for a pretty good seal. Herb's outfit didn't leave much lead, so he went the extra distance and smeared the end of the cylinder with tallow. He had tried bacon fat but had switched because of the annoying smell and the fact that bacon grease melted off too easily. It was not that Crumb was all that safety conscious, just that powder and lead were quite dear to a boy as poor as he was.
The boy liked the Dance and was glad to have it, but he yearned for the day when he could afford a Colt Single Action Army, the old peacemaker that was the right arm of the West. Sure there were other brands like the Smith and Wesson American and Russian models, as well as Merwin and Herbert, Remington, and many imports from Belgium. The old Colt Model 1873 was the favorite hands down. For a working cowboy a heavy pistol made a lot more sense than a rifle, for if his foot got caught in a stirrup or a roped beef critter got him pinned down then he needed a gun on his person, not in a scabbard on his horse. That's why a lot cowboys didn't own any gun except their Peacemaker.
The gunfighter favored this model as a rule. Sure, there were exceptions. Billy the Kid had a Lightning and Pat Garrett used a Thunderer, both of which were the new fangled double actions. Hickcock carried a pair of cap and ball Navy Colts long after most others were at least using old models bored through for centerfire cartridges. Some men known as gunfighters were actually hired killers, and this type often favored rifles and shotguns.
Crumb had kept his horse at a canter for two miles after he saw that grizzly. When he figured he was in the clear he ambled off to the more open land to the east. Still unnerved by his sighting of the bear, he looked for an open rise on which to make camp. The very place he had in mind came into view and nearing it he spotted the white shine of old bones in the rocks. Herb was pretty good at reading sign considering his age, and what he found was the story of one man's last stand.
The skeletons of three ponies littered the landscape in front. That meant three Indians must have been shot by their cornered foe. Maybe more, for Indians took their dead away for burial. On top of the knoll Herb found the bones of one lone rifleman. This skeleton showed no signs of mutilation, which meant the man had put up a good fight and earned the Indians' respect. If he had not he would have been scalped and possibly dismembered. If Indians took a live prisoner they were apt to torture him just to see what he would do. If he took it stoically and didn't scream and beg they knew he was a brave man and they could count more coup. Similarly, it he put up a good fight like this one his body was left undisturbed.
Crumb could find no sign of a handgun, but laying at the unknown fighter's side was a Winchester 1873 rifle. This showed a little surface rust that cleaned right off. A good oiling was all that was needed to make the rifle function as new. In a town called Blue Rock in Montana he found a gunsmith that was willing to trade the Winchester for a Colt Peacemaker even up. Herb couldn't believe his good luck, especially when the smith threw in one hundred rounds of ammo and a set of tong tools for reloading. The boy could hardly read, which is why he didn't understand the gunsmith's haste to clinch the deal. Marked on the top of the barrel were the magic words, "One of One Thousand."
Young Crumb came close to strutting when he walked down the street towards the bar with his new single action strapped on his side. Talk from a group of townsman stopped him in his tracks.
"Yeah, the Vigillantes are at it again. They hung three gold thieves at Benscross last week."
"Yeah, and one might have been guilty," said another. "The trouble with lynching parties is that they take everybody that gets in the way. Lord knows how many innocent people have been hung."
"Well, I'll bet they deserved it," replied the first man. "Anybody that hangs around with thieves should hang with thieves."
"Roy, how would you like to traveling with some strangers and then all of a sudden find yourself on the end of a rope? I don't think so. It ain't right for people to set themselves up as judge and jury."
That was enough for Herb Crumb. Wyoming had not been a friendly place to him so far, and he decided not to press his luck. He returned to Utah a bit more cautious young man, at least for a while. Back in Brown's Hole, though, he was soon strutting around the camp with his new big iron predominately displayed on his hip. A chance to put the gun into action had not presented itself, until today. He would go see old man Heskins. Maybe he would pay him to shoot
Nason.
At first Amos Heskins thought George Nason was watching the Hole because Jess Clay had somehow escaped the trap and was inside the camp. Based on this he took a careful sneak around the back sides of the cabins. He saw nothing of interest and returned to his shack.
The more Heskins looked the more convinced he became that Nason was not the man sitting on that rock. George Nason was patient, but not that patient. His patience was more with legal papers that exposing himself on an open hillside. He was a man who operated from the background instead of on an open hillside.
Who else, then? The slender body could belong to Elijah or that thorn in the side Jess Clay. If something had happed to Elijah then it must be that miserable Clay. He picked up a Model 73 Winchester from the corner. A half a dozen times he sighted in at the man on the hill, then lowered the rifle. He was not a man quick on the shoot when he wasn't sure of his target. He hadn't lived this long without a large dose of patience. He would wait a while longer.
He saw Herb Crumb coming before he heard the rap on the door. This kid was just trouble looking for a place to happen. Heskins figured the world would be a better place if Crumb would just up and shoot himself. It would save someone else the trouble. Aloud he said, "What's up, Herbie? You look like a one man gunfight."
"There's another fighter up on top of that hill. I aim to have at him."
"George Nason? The man who works with us? Why do you want to shoot him?"
"Why, why, he's acting crazy. Must be something wrong with him>"
"Maybe he's got a toothache, Herbie. Do you think you should shoot him because he has a toothache?"
"Why, no, I just thought he was acting kind of funny, is all."
"So naturally you want to shoot him. Now let me tell you something, Crumb. Until you hear differently George Nason is our friend and ally. If I hear of you starting any gunplay with him I'll take it as a personal insult and I'll come gunning for you. For your information I'm faster from the draw that you will ever be and I could pin you to the wall before you knew what hit you. Now I want you to go back to your den and stay there until somebody else stirs up some trouble. Only then can you join it. And try not to shoot anybody that is on our side. Do you savvy?"
"I just..."
"BEAT IT."
Heskins was glad when the kid left. He doubted the boy knew enough to come in out of the rain. Or to run out of a fire. That was a more apt description, for when he finally found his gunfight he was likely to find himself neck deep in it. He would be halfway to perdition before he knew it.
The boy was probably right—it was unlikely if that was Nason on that hill. One thing was for sure—time would tell the story. He himself was ready for anything. If it came to it he was better primed for a fight that any other two men in the Hole. If things went the other way he had no qualms about leaving on the hidden trail running straight from the back of his cabin to the boulder strewn hillside
to the north. Trail wasn't exactly the right word. He had painstakingly fitted a three foot section of wall so that it was jammed in the building in back of the stove. From there trees and brush had been trimmed, rocks rolled and branches tied off until he had a good running start in case of unmanageable trouble. He had never used it and doubted he ever would. It was just a fancy he had picked up from the eastern groundhogs back in the hills.
He wished he knew what had become of Elijah. The lad was deadly and only a real died in the wool gunman could take him down. Was Clay such a man? Heskins had often sworn lately that he would kill Clay. If the man had killed Clay then Heskins knew he would make good on that threat. He would hunt Jess Clay until his hide was drying in the sun.
He was doing no good here. He left the shack and started around the back line of the cabins to see if he could gain any insight.
I didn't really have anything concrete in mind when I took my stand overlooking Brown's Hole. I just thought my presence should make them nervous, and nervous people make mistakes.
I made myself comfortable and in the warm sun I was soon starting to nod off. After fighting it for a while I decided that I really could use some sleep, so I made sure I was propped up well enough to stay put. My hat was down over my forehead anyway and all I had to do was close my eyes and off I drifted.
It may seem strange that I was able to sleep with Anne in my enemies' hands, but I could do her no good if I was too tired to move. I knew also that as long as they were confused about my presence up here they would make no move to harm her. It was doubtful she would be harmed anyway, for women in the West were treated as precious and rare. When men were streaming west in search of ores and cattle ranches women were very scarce. At dances many of the men had to be heifer branded to dance the part of the ladies. I had heard of cowboys riding fifty miles just to see a lady. The wave of dirt farmers that were beginning to wrestle out a place for themselves brought their women with them, but this did the average cowboy no good. It would not be until their daughters and their daughters in turn grew up that the shortage would begin to be alleviated.
A lot of men sent for mail order brides, but the idea never set well with me. I would hate to have to take up with a stranger that I might or might not like just because I happened to have the money for a train ticket. It was a moot point anyway, for deep inside I knew that Anne was the love of my life.
At any rate, I slept, and as the shadows shifted and still I didn't move more and more residents below came out into the street to gaze in my direction. I didn't stir upon waking, just looked down and analyzed on the situation.
It was obvious the people didn't know who I was. It would seem unlikely for Nason to be here, but who else would be wearing his suit? The shadows on the far side gave me the start of an idea. Come nightfall I would go down amongst them. I would show them what trouble was all about.
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