July 31…
At least, that’s how I felt. Or the dead living. However you want to put it. All I knew was I didn’t feel good, and it wasn’t because of a scratch on my little finger.
Let’s pick me up off the ground and pick up the tale from where that slimeball left me.
Gutless’s bullet—I obviously didn’t know who shot me and the only fellow who does know is the guy who wrote this book, so I’ll call him Gutless—hit me in the forehead, just under the hairline. It tore a good three inch crease out of my hide and so it wasn’t too surprising that Gutless found my face covered with red stuff when he decided to abscond with my possessions. I have no idea how long I lay on the ground, but it must have been several hours, and if anybody happened along the road during that time, they must have been a priest or a Levite and not a Good Samaritan because nobody stopped to help. It was dusk when I finally opened my eyes.
Or at least tried to. My eyelids were caked with my own dried blood and I had to rub them vigorously to clear away enough of the stuff so I could see. But the vigorous rubbing didn’t help the rest of me. My head felt like a raging volcano. I had been lying on my back, and, with a groan, I rolled onto my left side. And even that caused me to see stars. I gingerly felt of my head, running the tips of my fingers along my wound. I knew I had been shot and I thanked the Lord that He had given me a granite noggin.
But that granite noggin still hurt like the dickens and the world was spiraling round and round. I took several deep breaths and that helped, and then I tried to look around. The first thing I saw was Ol’ Paint standing faithfully about five yards from me. I motioned to him with my hand. “Come here, boy,”
He walked over, his head low. I was going to try to reach up, take hold of the reins, and pull myself to my feet. With his help, I managed—but it took me five minutes and several attempts. I think I passed out for a few seconds once, but I finally managed to stay on my wobbly legs, but only by leaning against the saddle. Which I did for at least two or three minutes. I remembered I had a canteen hanging from the saddle horn. I moved nothing but my arm, feeling for canteen with my hand. When I found it, I opened it, and dumped the contents on my head. That made me feel an iota better, and I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped as much of the blood as I could off my face. I suspect that I still wouldn’t have won any Mr. Handsome contests at the moment. Not that I would have before, either.
I had enough of my wits about me to figure that bullet hit me hard enough to give me a concussion. I’d had one before and this is what it felt like, though this one was worse. But I couldn’t stand there leaning against my horse for the rest of my life. Or even for the rest of the day. So, gritting my teeth and groaning in utter agony, I put a foot into a stirrup and yanked myself onto Ol’ Paint’s back. It’s a wonder, the way the world was going round and round, that I didn’t end up either sitting facing his backside, or, more likely, on the ground on the other side of him.
I was in no mood to sit upright, however, so I leaned forward and lay against his neck. “Find us some water, boy. I’m thirsty.” I doubt he understood a word I said, but I also doubt that he had ever left my side the whole time I was lying on the ground—he knew I was alive—so I suspect he was thirsty, too. Regardless, within 20 minutes, he was standing next to a very lovely, cold stream, in a small, flat, rocky clearing. I virtually fell off his back and buried my head in the water. That felt as good as anything I had felt in a long, long time.
I took a long drink of the stuff and then washed my face, and ran some water over my hair and the back of my neck. I was a little careless and winced when my hand touched the crease the bullet had made in my forehead, but I gently cleaned it as well. Then, still with an effort, but a little easier than before, I rose to my feet. Ol’ Paint was nearby so I reached for him and he stood there while I searched through my things and found a towel. I knelt down and wet the towel in the water, wringed it out, and wrapped it around my head. That felt better than anything I had done yet.
But my head remained a throbbing rock and I was still woozy and wobbling. I looked around. I couldn’t see the road so I assumed Ol’ Paint had led us a ways off the trail. I also figured he could get us back, but I was in no hurry. About 50 yards to my left, the woods start, scant at first, then thicker as the terrain began rising. On other side of the creek the mountains rose precipitously after about 30 yards, but there was plenty of timber for a fire, and I even spied some fish in the stream. At the moment, I didn’t especially feel like jumping in and chasing them.
Ol’ Paint helped me walk over to a fairly nice campsite, about 10 yards off the stream. Water from the wet towel was dripping down my face and onto my clothes, but that didn’t bother me a whole lot. I took a few minutes—it took a few minutes—to relieve Ol’ Paint of all the burdens on his back. I turned him loose, as I always did, and he found a nice patch of grass to munch on. I had some jerky, beans, dried fruit, and coffee among my junk, and I found myself wishing mightily that Kelly Kramer was with me. I thought I’d rest a few minutes before I tried to build a fire and eat anything, so I spread my blanket on the ground, laid down with my coat for a pillow, and sighed. And fell asleep.
It was the middle of the night before I woke up; I could tell by the stars. I felt…a little better…or maybe I didn’t. My head still hurt and the towel was almost dry, so I staggered over to the stream and wet it again. I did have enough strength to gather some firewood and build a fire; it was chilly, especially with that wet cloth bound around my skull. So the fire was pleasant. I then did something pretty stupid. I made some coffee and ate some fruit—and 10 minutes later deposited it all back on the ground. I was kinda disgusted; it’s your head that’s hurt, Conners, not your stomach, but concussions have a way of affecting the whole body, so I upchucked what I had tried to eat and drink. I could hold down some water, but after that, I lay back down and, weary and aching, I went back to sleep.
That was pretty much the way I spent the next several days—well over a week. Closer to two weeks. I didn’t bother counting the days, but I didn’t push anything. My head got better day by day, but the cloudy, blurred vision lingered a little longer than I liked, so I figured maybe the concussion was pretty bad. So, I didn’t risk going anywhere. I had a nice campsite, lots of wood, and I was able to supplement my meager supplies with some fish. I had a mirror and some ointment, so I kept my wound doctored and inspected, and it seemed to be coming along nicely, though it was pretty ugly. I didn’t think it would even leave a scar, but if it did, I wouldn’t have to look at it, so that didn’t concern me much. I just wanted to make sure it healed and didn’t get infected. And that seemed to be happening.
I would have been interested in knowing that, soon after the beginning of my encampment, Trent Tolliver and his men rode by on the main road. The stream was a couple of hundred yards from the road, however, so I didn’t see them and they didn’t see me. Let me detour for just a minute to that stench of human lawlessness and see what they were up to…
“Where we headed now, boss?” Hank Frobisher asked Trent Tolliver the day after their encounter with Allie Summer.
“Home, Hank. Back to the cabin.”
“Ain’t it the other di-rection?”
“You want to go back through River Bend?”
Hank thought on that a moment. “No, I reckon I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so. There’s a pass in the mountains about 15 miles up the road from here. We’ll take that and circle around River Bend. We should be at the hideout in a week to 10 days.”
“Are we gonna pull any jobs on the way?”
“If something looks tempting, we might. But it also might be a good idea to lay low for awhile. Once McConnell figures out his lady isn’t coming back, he’ll put out an alarm and every Ranger in the territory will be combing these mountains. I think we’d be wise to go underground for a few months. Maybe Gus is back at the cabin now. We can see what he came up with.”
“Gus is a good feller,” Hank said. “I’ll bet he brung in a pot load of gold.”
“Maybe so. Regardless, we’re going to spend a few weeks there, and then head southeast. It’s best we get out of this territory after the dust has settled.”
“Do you think they’ll ever find Allie Summer’s body?” Terrell asked.
“I doubt it. By now, I don’t imagine there’s anything left of it but bones. They won’t recognize her if they do find her. And if they do, they won’t know that we killed her.” Trent paused a moment. “Actually, they can’t really pin any of these killings on us. We left that headstone with our name on it, but nobody saw us kill Conners so they can’t really prove we did it. We could always say some lawman with a grudge against us made up that headstone. And that Atkins woman…she’s dead, so she can’t identify me, either.”
Terrell was skeptical. “I don’t know about that, Trent. That headstone bugs me. Not that I was opposed to doing it, but it might be enough to convict us, especially given our reputation.”
“Well, regardless, we’ll just make sure we never get caught.”
“What about that Nippo fellow?”
“He won’t talk. All I’ve got to do is threaten to pull out his tongue and he’ll clam up tight. If he becomes a concern, we’ll just kill him. Feed him to the wolves.”
As if on cue, “Mr. Tolliver! Mr. Tolliver! Wait up!”
The Tolliver party stopped and looked back. Five men, headed by Hardy Nippo, were riding towards them from the direction of River Bend. Terrell looked at Trent and saw disgust written on the oldest brother’s face. “What does he want?” Trent muttered.
Hardy, with his friends Duke, Rhino, Sampson, and Digger pulled up. “Mr. Tolliver, sir, can we ride with ye? We cain’t stay in River Bend, not after you…not after what happened. We was seen with you, and I mean, well, we did help you, pointing out the Atkins woman for you an’ all.”
There was absolutely no way Trent was going to let this motley bunch of losers be part of the Tolliver gang. So, thinking quickly, he said, “Hardy, with your men, we’d have 11 riding together, and that’s way too big a group. We’d be spotted by the law right off. But I’ll tell you what I need you to do. We’re a little short of money right now. Have you ever done a bank job before? If you want to be part of the Tolliver gang, you’re going to have to be able to rob banks.”
Hardy looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, no, we ain’t never done that, but I don’t reckon it’d be too difficult.”
“No, it’s not hard at all, if you’re careful. There’s a bank over in Idaho that gets a gold shipment in the first of every month. It’s in Redstone. You know it?”
Hardy didn’t, but he wasn’t going to let Trent know how ignorant he was. Not that Trent didn’t already know. “Yep. Know right where it is. Bottom of an outhouse if’n there ever was one.”
“That’s the place,” Trent said, “but that gold shipment is important and I’d like to have it. At the moment, for obvious reasons, me and my boys have got to lay low, so I want you to go over to Redstone and hit that bank. This is kind of a trial run for you, Nippo. I have to know that you’re worthy to ride with us Tollivers. You understand that, I’m sure. You do that bank job, and bring the gold over to our hideout. We’ve got a place in the Tetons where the law can never find us.” He gave Hardy directions that would have gotten a mountain goat lost. “You go get that gold and meet us at the hideout, ok?”
Hardy nodded. “Sounds good, Mr. Tolliver. We’ll be there in a few weeks.”
“That’s great. You do a good enough job and you’ll be riding with the Tolliver gang. I’ve got confidence in you. You did good work in River Bend and I know Top would recommend you, too.” Trent was laying on the slobber pretty thick, but Hardy was eating it up.
“Yessir, Mr. Tolliver. Me and Top was good friends. I was about to shoot that marshal myself, but there was 3 or 4 other lawmen around, so I thought I’d better not risk it. Live to fight another day, you know.”
“Of course, of course.” Trent knew that Hardy was lying. If there had been three or four other lawmen around, Top would never have tried to kill Ben Baker. But, better to play along. He said to Hardy, “Now, you boys get on to Redstone and get that gold. Hear? I’m counting on you.”
“Yessir, we’re on it. You can trust us. We’ll have that gold to you in no time.”
Trent waved them on and Hardy and his men headed west and soon disappeared from sight.
Not surprisingly, Hank Frobisher was the first to speak. “Boss, we ain’t got no hideout in the Tetons.”
Trent was used to Hank’s obtuseness. “We don’t?”
“No. Our hideout is in the Absarokas. You know that.”
“Oh, well, I just forgot for the moment. I guess I gave those fellows bum directions, didn’t I.”
“You shore did. They’ll never find us.”
Terrell was amused. He knew exactly what Trent had done. “They’ll never rob that bank in Redstone, either. There’s a Ranger station there and they protect that bank like it was Fort Knox.”
Trent looked at his brother. “Terrell, I doubt they’ll ever find Redstone. I’ve got a feeling Hardy Nippo couldn’t find his rear end with both hands.” And the men all laughed.
“You didn’t want them fellers ridin’ with us anyway, did you, Trent.” Hank had finally figured it out.
“No, I didn’t, Hank. But I’ll tell you what. If they show up at our Absaroka hideout in three weeks with the gold from the Redstone bank, I might change my mind. Now, let’s get back to the cabin, shall we?...”
August 15…Allie decides to go home, McConnell talks to Ben Baker, and….
I’d had my fill of sitting—I’d done three months of it at my cabin near Agua Caliente. So when my head was clear, I was ready to ride. And frankly, I was in a bit of a hurry because I had firmly resolved to return to River Bend. Maybe that bullet had knocked some sense into me, but I had had two weeks to think, and had decided to propose to Kelly Atkins and see if she’d have me. I doubted she would, but it wouldn’t do any harm to ask. All she could say was “no.” That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, of course, or I wouldn’t ask her in the first place. But I knew now that I loved Kelly Atkins and that I wanted to live, with her, in Clearwater Valley. I still had all that money in the River Bend bank and that enough to buy us a big ranch, and stock it with lots of cows and horses.
Yessir, my roaming days were done.
I pulled a wry face. As long as she hasn’t found somebody else in the interim…
But I remembered what that old timer had told me the day I left River Bend several months ago: “yore an idiot if’n you let her get away, Conners. She’d marry you tomorrer if you’d ask her.” I still wasn’t sure about that “marry you tomorrer” bit, but I was sure about that “yore an idiot if’n you let her get away” line.
Let’s go, Conners, time to get to River Bend and do something intelligent for a change…Straight to River Bend. No detours…
But if I had really been intelligent, I would have remembered what Robert Burns wrote 100 years ago: “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley…”
I don’t quite understand all of that, but I think what he was saying was, “Conners, you ain’t gonna…return to River Bend…not on this trip…”