Blood and Gold

Sitting with his back against the trunk of a cottonwood, the lawman drank his coffee and then went to checking his guns, thumbing more loads into his Winchester.

Taking my cue from him, I did the same. I didn’t feel much like talking. I tried to analyze why I had a knot in my belly and decided it wasn’t fear, but something else. But what?

Then I understood what was eating at me—I was mighty worried that I would fail to play a man’s part in whatever lay ahead. Had my gun battle with Clem Kennedy and Luke Butler proved that I could stand up, take my hits and go on fighting?

Maybe. Maybe not. That scrap had been almighty sudden and I’d had no time to think about it.

What I didn’t want was to look into Bass Reeves’ eyes when this was all over and see only contempt and accusation. There would be no living with myself after that.

As though reading my thoughts, Reeves looked over at me and smiled. “You’re mighty quiet, Dusty. You scared?”

This was no time for lies and I answered his question straight up. “I don’t know, Bass. I feel something, like crawling worms in my gut.” I shrugged. “I don’t reckon I’m scared, but maybe I am. Anyhow, that’s what I think.”

The lawman nodded. “It’s all right to be scared. It’s the ability to swallow fear and step up to the fight that makes a man.”

“You scared, Bass?”

Reeves smiled. “Hell, boy, when I’m out here I’m scared all the time.”

“I won’t let you down, Bass,” I said, knowing how lame that sounded.

“I know you won’t, Dusty,” the lawman said. “If it comes to a fight, I reckon you’ll stand up just fine.”

He tossed away the dregs from his cup and rose to his feet. “Let’s ride, boy.”

I glanced into Reeves’ eyes at that moment . . . and saw with a shock they were guarded and wary. That look could have been caused by doubt, uncertainty, like he was having second thoughts about something . . . or somebody.

And that somebody could only be me.

We rode steadily west for a day and night, closing on Sandy Creek, where Reeves hoped Bully Yates and his outlaws were still camped.

The days grew hot as the sun climbed into the sky and sweat trickled from under my hat brim into my eyes, the salt making them sting, and I felt rivulets ooze down my back.

The heat did not seem to affect Reeves and he rode erect and dry in the saddle, his careful black eyes probing the way ahead, restlessly studying every hill and timber-choked arroyo of that wild and beautiful country.

On the morning of the second day, as the Wichita Mountains loomed in the distance, he pointed to the ruin of a sod cabin a short way off the trail, all that remained of the structure a couple of walls and a sagging doorway covered by a ragged canvas tacked to the top of the jamb.

“Let’s stop over there for a spell and get ready,” Reeves said. “I reckon we’re real close.”

Whoever had built this cabin, probably a sodbuster, had given up and moved on, or it had been destroyed by Indians. Whatever had happened, the sad ruin provided mute testimony to a vanished dream and now even the lingering shadows of the people who had once lived here were long gone from the place.

I swung out of the saddle, eased the girth on the buckskin, then squatted beside Reeves in the meager shade of a tumbled wall.

The lawman rolled a smoke and I did likewise, happy that my hands were not trembling.

“Dusty, we’re going to ride right into Yates’ camp,” Reeves said. “Nothing fancy, just straight up and honest.” He turned and looked at me, his eyes boring into mine. “You fine with that?”

I nodded. “I reckon.”

Reeves nodded, drew deep on his cigarette and studied its glowing tip, his face thoughtful. “Now maybe Bully doesn’t have the sand I think he has and will just throw up his hands. If that happens, though I doubt it will, the rest should be easy. But if he doesn’t show the white flag, what happens next will be almighty sudden. I’ve seen Bully Yates work, and he’ll make fancy moves and be powerful fast.”

He turned to me again. “It will be a close-in business, so go to your Colt. Don’t try to reload because you won’t have time. If there are men still standing after your short gun runs dry, only then go to your rifle. Don’t try head shots. Aim low for the belly. A bullet in the brisket will drop even the toughest hard case nine times out of ten. Don’t rush your fire, but even so, shoot just as quick as you can.” His eyes probed mine, like he was looking for an answer to a question he had yet to ask. “If you’re hit, don’t drop out of the fight. Hit or no, you must stand on your two feet and keep getting in your work.” Now he asked his question. “You understand what I’m telling you, boy?”

My mouth was suddenly parched and I took a quick swallow of coffee. Even then, my voice when I could finally form words was a feeble croak. “I understand what you’re saying, Bass.” I touched the side of my head. “I got it all wrote down in here.”

The lawman smiled. “You’ll do, Dusty.” He nodded, but only to himself. “Damn right.” He rose to his feet. “Now let’s go and get her done.”