Telegraph Days: A Novel Page 8

  The story of the Yazee battle was a good deal different from what I was used to writing. It wasn’t based on vapors in my head or flutterings in my bosom. There had been a real gunfight that happened on a real street in a real town. Many of the townspeople had observed it: Doc Siblee, Ted Bunsen, Hungry Billy, the blacksmith, and plenty of others. Later quite a few of these spectators complained that they deserved more attention than they got, but I was the one writing up the event and I did my best. The fact that there were hurt feelings on the part of a few soreheads for the next fifty years was merely one of the many aspects of life that were out of my control.

  Of course, right up I had to back my narrative up a few pages and explain who the Yazee brothers were, and why they needed killing. I had to get in Bert Yazee’s penchant for using a war club and all that.

  Also, I had to explain exactly where Rita Blanca was, no easy task. Since Rita Blanca wasn’t part of a regular state I finally resorted to Father’s pocket atlas and just put in the latitude and longitude as best I could work them out.

  Once those ticklish matters were out of the way I sailed right into the big charge of the Yazees. I didn’t hesitate to put myself into the story—after all, I had been in the story. I was already out in the street, facing the six horsemen, before Ted Bunsen came out and got shot in the collarbone. I had had to yell at Jackson, when once he appeared, just to get the boy awake enough to deal with our peril. If I hadn’t insisted that he draw his pistol and shoot, Jackson might have stood there with sleep in his eyes while the two of us were ridden down.

  Of course, I didn’t stint when it came to giving full credit to my brother for his exceptional shooting. Doc Siblee later told me confidentially that every member of the gang had been shot dead in the heart.

  “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” the Doc said. “Few gunshot wounds are instantly fatal—but those six were instantly fatal, and you can quote me on that.”

  I did quote him on that, only to have various experts from various countries weigh in on the matter, most of them contradicting our good doctor and claiming that nothing of the sort could have happened.

  All afternoon, while Beau and Hungry Billy took pictures, I stayed in the office and let my pen race. Oh, how it raced! Before it stopped racing I had more than fifty pages ready for the printer, who, inconveniently, did business some one hundred and fifty miles from where I sat.

  When I showed my manuscript to Beau he was quick to approve.

  “You’re a fine hand with the pen, Nellie,” Beau allowed. “What title are you going to fit onto this tale?”

  In my haste to get the facts down I had given no thought to a title, but I knew I had better come up with something quick or Beau would think of one and use it to claim fifty percent of the profits.

  “Banditti of No Man’s Land, how’s that?” I asked him.

  “Too short,” he ruled at once. “You need a little more than that.”

  I suppose that was fair. A little more weight in the title might not hurt. I went over to the counter in Beau’s store and came up with this lengthy effort:

  The Banditti of No Man’s Land. A True and Authentic Account of the Destruction of the Yazee Gang, Terrors of the Prairie. Eyewitness Account of the Heroic Stand Made by Deputy Jackson Courtright. Six Outlaws Shot Dead in the Heart. Miraculous Marksmanship, Claims Local Doctor.

  Beau thought that that title was adequate—the one problem that remained was how to get it to the printer in Dodge City.

  “The fastest way’s horseback,” Ted Bunsen advised. He was looking wan and moving slow.

  “I’ll take it, Sis—I know how to get to Dodge,” Jackson volunteered.

  “We’ll take it!” I corrected. “I’m not sending my booklet off with anyone as absentminded as you. You might forget what it was and start a fire with it, or something. I can’t risk it.”

  “If you were planning to start off on that mule you’ll never get there,” Aurel Imlah commented, referring to Percy, of whom he had a poor opinion.

  “Joe Schwartz took over those Yazee horses,” Ted pointed out. “I doubt he would mind loaning you a couple of nags for a few days.”

  “If he should balk I’ll counsel him,” Aurel said, but Joe never even came close to balking, though I believe it shocked him a little when I sashayed in wearing trousers. The pants had been Father’s. I was not about to set off on a trip through wild country trying to balance myself on a sidesaddle.

  “Nellie’s always been a tomboy,” Jackson said to Joe.

  Later I reminded my brother privately that I was no kind of boy, tom or otherwise, and I expected him to remember that fact.

  I chose Bert Yazee’s big roan horse and appropriated his saddle as well.

  Jackson Courtright had always been prone to gentlemanly indecision. The way to get him into action was not to give him any choice. The Yazee gang hadn’t given him any choice, but even then, he waited until the last second to pull his gun and shoot.

  Faced with a pen full of horses to choose from, Jackson’s indecision flared up again. He rode all five of the remaining Yazee horses, trying to make up his mind. He liked some things about a bay, and some things about a sorrel, and some things about a black, but he could not decide. The one horse he hadn’t tried was a small, squatty mustang. I am not noted for my patience—forty-five minutes of watching Jackson switch from one nag to another had me grinding my teeth.

  “Jackson, make up your mind,” I said. “It’s a far piece up to Dodge.”

  Still, the young fool hesitated. It had begun to dawn on him that he was now a local hero—he got that stubborn look men get when they get tired of having a woman boss them around.

  I had seen that look on Jackson before—Father looked exactly the same way when anyone, male or female, tried to tug him to the point of decision.

  “All right—you can stand there till you petrify,” I told him. “I’m going to Dodge City and I’m leaving now—you’ll have to settle on a mount and catch up as best you can.”

  I guess I was now considered a solid citizen of Rita Blanca, because half the population turned out to see me off. Mrs. Karoo had prepared a little hamper, which we strapped in my saddlebags; even the McClendon sisters seemed to have softened a little.

  “You hurry back, Miss Courtright,” Melba McClendon said. “We can’t afford to be without our telegraph lady too long.”

  “Can’t afford it—we need to keep up on the whereabouts of Buffalo Bill Cody,” Bertha McClendon assured me.

  Both hens cackled, as if seconding the motion.

  As I was about to ride off Aurel Imlah made a motion with his head, as if he wanted a private word with me, so I trotted over. Aurel was still smoking his long-stemmed white pipe.

  “Miss Courtright …,” he began, but I stopped him.

  “Please remember to call me Nellie, Aurel,” I told him. “I do get so tired of gentlemen being formal.”

  Aurel Imlah smiled. I don’t think he liked being formal either.

  “There’s a bunch of brothers up in Dodge City,” he cautioned. “Their name is Earp. One of them’s the marshal. His name is Wyatt. I don’t know exactly how many Earps there are, but there may be at least five. I’d avoid them, if I were you—especially Wyatt.”

  “I was in Dodge City once and didn’t like it,” I told him. “I’ll be happy to avoid them if I can.”

  “That’s the best plan, I suspect,” he said.

  “What’s bad about the Earps?” I asked. He had got my curiosity aroused.

  “They’re coarse—particularly Wyatt,” he said. “Damn coarse.”

  “Coarse, is he?” I said. “Coarse.”

  Aurel Imlah nodded and I rode out of town.

  4

  THE TRAIL TO Dodge City was not hard to follow—thousands and thousands of horsemen, both red and white, had loped or trotted across it; there had been hundreds of wagons too, bound west for Santa Fe or east to St. Louis. The thick, restless prairie grass might ha
ve covered up the tracks of the many horsemen, but the wagon wheels cut deeper, and there were enough ruts to keep even a greenhorn more or less on track.

  I was hardly out of sight of Rita Blanca when Jackson caught up with me. He had chosen the little mustang after all—a good choice, in my opinion, despite the little gelding’s squatty appearance.

  “I favor short horses,” Jackson said. “That way, if you get thrown off, you don’t have far to fall.”

  I noticed that Jackson not only had his new pistol, he also seemed to hold nearly a whole box of shells. He also had a big knife stuck in a scabbard that went halfway down his leg. My little brother, the hero of the battle of Rita Blanca, had turned up armed to the teeth.

  No wonder he had taken so long to choose a mount. He wanted to choose a few other things, while he was at it.

  “Who paid for that cartridge belt and that pig sticker?” I asked.

  “Charged them,” Jackson said. “I’m a deputy now. I make fifteen dollars a month.”

  Far ahead of us, on the plain, a thunderstorm was rumbling up. Lightning was shooting out from under some high dark clouds.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t buy a Winchester and maybe a buffalo gun,” I told him. “How many months’ wages did all this set you back?”

  Before Jackson could get around to answering, the thunderstorm broke and spitting rain drenched us both. I could have been no wetter if a bucket of water had been poured over my head. But the little prairie storm soon passed on and the hot sun soon had us steaming again.

  A beautiful double rainbow was the nicest consequence of the shower.

  “I have to use weapons,” Jackson told me, without directly addressing the cost of the knife and his new equipment.

  “There could be other outlaws,” he reminded me. “Irish Roy could be there somewhere. It’s best to be equipped.”

  “It’s best not to be getting a big head, Jackson Courtright,” I told him. “Irish Roy or some other outlaw may turn out to be a better shot than you.”

  That got my brother’s back up, as I knew it would.

  “I doubt there’s an outlaw in this part of the country that can shoot better than I do,” he said.

  Well, he was young—young men are prone to vanity.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” I reminded him, though I was not really expecting pride to fall as quickly as it did.

  “It’s going to be supper time pretty soon,” he said. “What are we supposed to eat?”

  Before I could even mention the hamper from Mrs. Karoo we rode over a ridge and saw five or six big jackrabbits nibbling on a nice patch of grass. They were not more than twenty feet away, and so casual that they didn’t shy from the horses.

  “We have a hen from Mrs. Karoo, but we might as well save it, since there’s a fat bunch of rabbits,” I said. “Shoot us a couple and we’ll have rabbit for dinner, Deputy.”

  “Fair enough,” Jackson said. There was a good-sized rabbit right in front of him. Jackson took out his new pistol, took rapid aim, and fired.

  I don’t know where that bullet went but it didn’t go near the jackrabbit, who seemed quite undisturbed by the fact that he had just been shot at.

  “Damn it!” Jackson said. My brother did not usually swear.

  He leaned forward and fired twice, with the same result.

  “Goddamn him, he’s twitchy!” Jackson exclaimed. His face had begun to get red, as it always does when he’s thwarted.

  Jackson had two more shells in his pistol. He fired them both. The big jackrabbit hopped away a few feet and went back to nibbling grass.

  Sheriff’s Deputy Jackson Courtright had an empty gun, and no fat rabbit to show for it.

  “Well, it’s a good thing we’ve got that hen,” I said.

  5

  IF THERE WERE contests for who could sulk the longest, Jackson Courtright would take the world championship. Of course, he came by this trait naturally—Father once sulked for a whole summer, so long that none of us could even remember what he was sulking about.

  After missing the big jackrabbit six times running with his new pistol my brother, Jackson, pulled a towering sulk. He refused to taste a bit of Mrs. Karoo’s hen, or her corn bread, or her tasty carrots, or the nice piece of mince pie she had wrapped up for us.

  I ignored his sulk as best I could and had a healthy sampling of hen, corn bread, carrots, and pie.

  When Jackson Courtright finished off the Yazee gang and went back into the jail to complete his nap, I don’t think he gave any particular thought to what he had just done. I was the one who proclaimed him a hero, but I was merely his big sister, so he didn’t pay much attention to me, either—at least not right away.

  But when he woke up from his nap and everyone in Rita Blanca began to bow and scrape, it didn’t take long for the praise to puff him up. Jackson had never been exactly modest, but he was a lot less modest now than he had been before the fight.

  “There was something wrong with that jackrabbit,” he announced, while I was eating. “That wasn’t a normal jackrabbit.”

  “It looked normal to me—don’t go blaming the rabbit because you couldn’t hit it,” I said.

  “If it’s around tomorrow I guess we’ll see who can hit it,” he told me.

  “We’ve got bacon, thanks to Mrs. Karoo,” I reminded him. “And Dodge City’s still a far piece. We need to be off at first light.”

  “Leave whenever you please,” Jackson told me. “I’ll catch up with you as soon as I kill that rabbit.

  “Mind your own business,” he added, for emphasis.

  We were, at the time, on one of the flattest plains in Kansas, a state noted for its flat plains.

  “What if you get lost?” I inquired.

  “You’re a girl,” he said. “I expect you’ll be the one to get lost.”

  Actually it had occurred to me that despite all the tracks, we both might get lost. I had brought Father’s old compass to answer that risk.

  “All right, Jackson,” I told him. “I see no point in arguing with a brick.”

  “A rabbit that fat will make a mighty good eating,” Jackson said, and that brought an end to conversation for the night.

  6

  I WOKE WITH the dawn—a mighty big dawn on that great grassy plain. Being a believer in a hearty breakfast I made coffee and fried up a sizable portion of Mrs. Karoo’s bacon. There was also a cold spud or two.

  Jackson was still sulking. He accepted some coffee but turned up his nose at the bacon.

  “I intend to kill what I eat,” he said. I noticed that he had reloaded his pistol.

  “How many bullets does that cartridge belt hold?” I inquired.

  “Fifty,” Jackson said.

  “The fact that you earn fifteen dollars a month doesn’t make you rich,” I reminded him.

  “Go to hell,” Jackson said.

  Most sisters have heard such sentiments from their brothers at one time or another. I paid it no mind. In fact I was looking forward to being an author. I could hardly wait to see my scribblings in print. If my brother chose to be mulish, that was his lookout.

  I had hardly traveled a mile before I heard the crack of Jackson’s pistol. Evidently he had closed with the jackrabbits. He shot five or six more times and then I ceased to hear the gunshots. Of course, I liked teasing my brother—what sister wouldn’t?—but I did fully expect him to show up with a few jackrabbits, eventually. They aren’t large targets, but then the human heart isn’t a large target either, and Jackson had punctured six of them.

  But I rode all day, under the burning sun, alone. If Irish Roy or any outlaw had popped out of a gully he would have had me. My only weapon was a small hatchet, useful for cutting firewood. I had supposed I would have the protection of the well-known Deputy Jackson Courtright, savior of Rita Blanca—but at the moment, the deputy was missing.

  It was five in the afternoon when I spotted a dot on the horizon. In that part of Kansas dots stay on the horizon for a long time; it was almo
st an hour later when the dot turned into my brother. He caught up with me but made no greeting. There were no dead jackrabbits hanging from his saddle strings, but his ammunition belt, which had been full, was now half full at best.

  There’s a time to tease and a time to hold off teasing, and I had the feeling that this was a time to hold off. The hero of Rita Blanca was clearly not shooting his best.

  “I’m glad you made it back,” I told him. “I don’t like camping alone.”

  “You could have sent the dern book with me,” Jackson said. “That way you wouldn’t have had to camp at all.”

  “It’s my book, Jackson—I guess I have the right to supervise the printing.”

  “Beau Wheless thought that book up,” Jackson said, in a tone that I didn’t really appreciate. I felt like slapping him, to tell the truth, but before matters went that far I spotted a yearling steer grazing about one hundred yards away. The steer appeared to be slightly crippled. Spotting a lone steer was nothing unusual in that part of the country—cripples were often dropping out of the herds. Normally the cowboys would butcher such an animal, but this one had escaped, which was lucky for us. My thoughts quickly turned to beefsteak.

  “I was wondering what we were going to do for supper,” I said. “We’re down to two spuds and a few carrots. Shoot that lost yearling and we’ll feast.”

  Jackson immediately perked up at the opportunity. He was mainly a sunny boy, rarely capable of long sulks, as Father had been.

  The yearling was a little skittish—it didn’t allow Jackson to get right up on him, but Jackson eased along until he got to within about thirty feet. Then he leveled his pistol and fired.

  The steer didn’t flinch, as he would have if hit. He didn’t like the sound of the gunfire, though, and went loping off, dragging one foot. Jackson fired a couple more times, but the yearling took no notice. Jackson put spurs to his horse, caught up with the yearling, and fired three more times, but the yearling just kept going.