|
The two thugs exchanged glances at this. I must have guessed correctly. Stories I had heard of the gangs that hung out in Brown's Hole came to mind, and if my information was correct, a man from West Virginia named Dud Heskins was the old he-bear at this time. In the next decade Butch Cassidy and the wild bunch would come to rule the roost, Robber' Roost, that is, but for now Heskins and his clan were the bunch to be reckoned with.
When Heskins was just a boy, he raided both North and South with impunity. It was said he was a fair man—regardless of race, creed or color, he would kill you and steal what you had. If you didn't have much, he would steal it anyway and then throw it away down the road. Everybody said that someone should shoot him and save the world a heap of trouble, but no one seemed to find the time. I was kind of busy today, myself.
He had a big clan that varied greatly in numbers according to how much moonshine was brewed. The only reason the Heskins weren't a force to be reckoned with throughout the West was that they did so much infighting. They were all pretty good with guns and knives, because they practiced constantly. It was said on some days that the echo of gunfire was constant from their home canyon.
So was the sound of shovels, for when the moonshine flowed like water, trivial beefs became shooting matters, and cousins, brothers, uncles and pas were all gunned down with gaiety. Lord knows what they did with the aunts and nieces.
These two looked more or less inbred, so I was quite sure I had guessed right.
"You know, you boys look a lot like a fellow I used to know name of Deacon Heskins. Of course, he's dead now."
The two exchanged more glances at this... nervous glances. I had not personally known Deacon Heskins, but I knew the story. He had been the prodigal son, but when he tried to buffalo a simple storekeep in Billings, Montana, that doltish store owner and three customers had started blasting, shooting Heskins to doll rags. He had only managed to get off one shot that went into the floor. For all these fellows knew, I was one of those customers.
"Now I wouldn't be one to say that you fellows are confused, but if you happen to work for Heskins instead of Carter, then my advice would be to run the outlaw trail east into Wyoming and then keep going. Of course, that's just my opinion, but I sure wouldn't want to have Big John after me."
"Ah, he's nuts," said the blond haired man, "Let's get out of here."
The other one couldn't resist throwing a threat as they started to leave. "You better watch out who you're jawing to, or you might get it shot off."
"That one bears watching," I thought, "He will remember the slight a long time, waiting for a chance at my back."
I had misjudged his patience. As I turned back up the slope, something made me look back. The dude had waited long enough, and his gun was just clearing leather. I felt the vibration of a bullet striking a tree at the same time that I heard the gun's report.
Then I had my .45 shucked and was driving a slug through his chest before he got his horse back under control. Big Horse had stood solid as a rock through all this activity.
The other man was just a clatter of pounding hooves rapidly departing, leaving his unfortunate partner lying on the ground.
I approached the man gingerly, for he went down so fast that I wasn't sure but what he was playing possum. He was dead, though, and I was wondering if a reaction would set in. I had heard how sick some fellows get upon shooting a man, but it never hit me. I suppose when you know it is him or you, it makes a difference. I felt a degree of satisfaction like when you shoot a fox that has been killing chickens.
What little identification the body had on it showed that this had been one Opie Heskins. I didn't find anything of value except the shiny new pistol that he had fired at me. It was a nickel plated Colt Lightning of 1877 chambered in .38 Long Colt. It was quite a bit smaller revolver than the Single Action
Army and felt like it weighed about half as much. I wasn't sure of the lighter caliber. The 45 Colt is barely enough caliber at times, although where you hit something is usually more important than the size of the bullet.
The Lightning had an unusual feature in that it was double action. With a double action the cylinder rotates as you squeeze the trigger, and there is no need to cock it first. You could also cock it with the hammer and shoot it single action. This was considered to be more accurate. You would think double action would be faster, too, but some of the gunfighters spend countless hours perfecting their skill and could do nearly unbelievable things with a single action..
I have personally seen a man named Reed that can draw and hipshoot a gallon-sized target at sixty yards. No, he can't hit it every time, but he doesn't miss by much. If the target was a man, he would be on one hundred per cent of the time. Most people would have to walk the bullets in, watching the shots hit the dirt and counteracting accordingly.
I didn't know what else to do with it, so I stuck the Lightning and the ammo that went with it into my saddlebag.
I buried Heskins in a small clearing beside the trail and erected a simple cross that stated:
Here lies Opie Heskins
He tried to backshoot Jess Clay.
I knew I might be setting myself up for trouble when I did this, but I didn't feel like hiding under a rock. People like the Heskins clan that lived by stealing what other people had worked hard for rubbed me the wrong way. Some people talked about "taming" the West, but I was not anxious to see this come about. I did think, however, that a man should be able to run a few cattle or work a claim without worrying about getting shot in the back and having his belongings stolen. If it took risk to accomplish this then I was ready.
I put on another ten miles before a threatening sky made me seek an early shelter. I found such in an undercut rock face, where Big Horse could keep me company and stay out of the potential storm. Once I had laid camp to my satisfaction, I broke out the Lightning for a trial.
From a conventional draw I couldn't see much advantage. I had used a single action for so long that it was second nature to thumb cock a revolver as it was drawn. I was surprised to see that the 38 made a good left hand gun. Unless a person is truly ambidextrous, it is difficult to shoot anywhere as well with the weak hand. When I shoot my Single Action Army that way, I tend to pull the shots to the right. The double action Lightning was easier to use in that respect. When I rapidly squeezed the trigger, the pistol stayed aimed in a center plane, and I hit what I tried to.
Clearly this was something to look into further. When it looked like trouble might be looming, I could have it stuck under my belt from the left side, and I would have a formidable weapon that my aggressor knew nothing about. I cleaned and oiled both guns well and then had a small supper, after which I thoroughly covered the fire so that it wouldn't flare up and shine in the night.
The threatening clouds only produced light showers where I was, though I could see storms in the mountains in the last rays of light. With Big Horse on guard, I slept deeply through the night.
The morning dawned like the first one in creation. A person from back east would not believe the clarity of the air. Buffalo can be seen for miles, and a deer at six hundred yards is easy to pick out. It is safe to shoot in the air because you can see that the two miles in front of you are free of people or livestock. Even today when I wake up on a morning like this, I am in awe of my surroundings.
On the morning I finally rode up to Salt Lake City, it was not what I expected. I had heard about the Mormans but did not realize what a firm grip they had upon this city. I had known of the populace, to be sure, but I had thought the cattlemen had always held full sway. Now I found out differently. I was looking for lodging and a bath, and when I stopped to ask directions of a man with a dozen women in tow, he answered in a voice so severe that it would make a New England Puritan seem soft.
"The Walker House lies on the middle of this street, and it doesn't care who it takes in."
Hindsight is always a great asset, and later I would wish I had responded with something like, "Hope I didn't put you out." At the moment I was speechless and watched with open mouth as he walked away.
At the Walker House I struck up a conversation with a small rancher and found about more about local politics.
"Even though Brigham Young is dead now, polygamy has stayed on, and there are strong feelings on both sides of this issue. The practitioners are reluctant to give up their lifestyle, and the other side thinks it is just plain wrong. Oh, Hi, Bill, want you to meet Jess Clay. He's new around these parts, and I was telling him how things are in Salt Lake."
"Hi, Bill," I welcomed him. "I think that any man that can put up with the moods and wants of a dozen women is welcome to them."
"You've got a point. A lot of the anti folk just can't bear the thought of one man bedding all those women. Their imaginations run wild, and the wilder they run the more they denounce the practice."
"You're right," said the rancher. "Polygamy has been legally abolished, but it is no secret that the practice lives on. Many laws are easy to pass but hard to enforce."
I had not realized the extent of the problem before hearing about it first hand. Because of the bad feelings about the multi wife business, Utah would not gain its statehood for another decade.
The rancher was anxious to talk when he saw that I was interested. "Do you know that the Wyoming Territory is the only place in the United States where women have been given the right to vote? This happened in 1870, and they are still waiting in the rest of the country. Partly this is due to polygamy, but a lot of it has to do with the very nature of the West.
"Out here, horizons are big, and the chores people cut out for themselves are just as big. Some people come out here and can't cope with the vastness. They are soon overwhelmed and have to scurry back east.
"Other people, perhaps some that didn't amount to much in the organized states, come to the front out here and accomplish deeds that they had never even dreamed of before. Women naturally become stronger in this environment. If they can run a ranch and fight off Indian attacks, why shouldn't they have the same rights as men?"
It was a telling argument, one which was slowly winning them those rights.
"As to the Mormans and the cattlemen," said Bill, "Things could be a lot smoother. "When they first came to Salt Lake, the Mormans hoped to have a vast area all to themselves. Sounds good, but the way they went about it is a different story. Bent's Fort is a good example. It was a fur trading post owned by Jeremy Bent. The government didn't have anything to do with it—Bent just called it his fort. Well they decided they ought to have it so they just up and took it.
"There was no law at all back then except what a man could enforce by himself, and the Mormans had more guns. Taking the fort didn't do them much good, for the cattlemen were too strong a force to buck, and they were going to stay. The Mormans have been forced to get along with them."
"One word of warning," said my rancher friend, "That clan does a lot of mining when they can. If I were you I would buy my tools and supplies in another location. The town of Vernal is to the southeast of Carter's spread, and it's a lot closer to your claim than Salt Lake City."
I agreed with him and made ready to leave the next morning, but first I had to file my claim here if I wanted to make it legal. The look of greed in the clerk's eyes when I filed was a sight to see, and I knew I had better trod carefully from here on out A greedy man that smells gold is a dangerous man, especially if he doesn't care to keep a secret. I knew it was senseless to say anything. This fellow was already day dreaming about how impressed his friends would be with this new information.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
