The Montanans (v1.0), page 10
A second later, Lily ran into sight. She was barefooted, her hair down. She’d had time to pull on a pair of Levi’s and push her nightgown into the top of them. She had a rifle in one hand.
Lily reached her father, bent over him, got one arm under his shoulder, tried to lift him to his feet.
Hooks shouted her name. “Lily! Lily, come here!”
His voice seemed to be right over Babe’s head, only a few feet away.
Lily let go and reached back for her rifle. Hooks fired—his bullet, aimed downward, dug dirt under Dad Sager’s legs. Hooks laughed when he saw her lower the gun.
If Babe had any fear holding him, the sound of Hooks Colton killed it. His hatred of the man drove him forward, up the ladder. His Winchester clattered as he made the loft. Hooks heard him and cried, “Gotschall?”
Babe stood up, the rifle in his hands. He took one step. He could see nothing.
Hooks’s voice, a new edge in it. “Gotschall?”
Babe said, “No, Hooks. Not Gotschall. He’s dead.”
Hooks fired, but Babe had expected it and moved. The gun flash was less than a dozen yards away. Babe returned it, and sidestepped as he did so. There were four more explosions, two from each gun.
Then a ringing silence, the air still carrying the rock of close-held concussion. Both men on the move. Babe touched the wall with one shoulder. There were holes here and there where hay could be forked down to the mangers. He’d have to look out. He drew cartridges from his pocket, fed them through the spring opening of the magazine.
A board creaked. He stood without breathing. The sound was repeated again, again, each time changing position, and so he was able to get a rough impression of Hooks’s movement across the loft floor. It stopped for several seconds, and he was aware of a slight tremble. The floor had been released of weight. Hooks, a big man, had dropped below.
Babe heard the scuff of boots and knew he was running. He sprang to the ladder, laid down his Winchester, and dropped.
Hie Winchester still above, he laid his hand on his Colt, stepped into the central passage.
Hooks was running, back turned, silhouetted against the far door.
“Hooks!” Babe shouted.
Hooks stopped and spun around. He had his six-shooter in his hand. Babe drew with a half pivot and brought the gun up as he turned. He hesitated a fifth of a second, that brief instant a man needs to freeze on his target when it’s more than twenty paces away. Their guns exploded almost in unison.
Babe felt the whip of burnt powder as the bullet went past his cheek. Hooks was hit. He was knocked backward. He dropped his gun. It struck his heavy-muscled thigh, thudded to the floor. His right boot heel flipped over and dumped him. By ruddy, reflected light Babe was aware of his shocked eyes, his sagging mouth.
“I’m…hit!” he said in a raw whisper. Like he was telling it to himself. “Got me.” Then some focus came into his eyes. “What more you want?”
He was crouched, sitting on his heels, his hands far forward, fingers on the barn floor. He fell back, and with a dragging movement the fingers of his right hand found the gun, and he blazed wildly.
Babe fired twice, walking forward. One of the bullets knocked Hooks down, the other hit with a force that seemed to lift him an inch and drop him again.
Still, despite the awful shocking power of those .45 slugs, he managed to get to his knees, to his feet. He lurched into the firelight, a huge, stumbling, bent-over figure with both arms wrapped around his chest. There he fell, facedown, the toes of his boots together, heels out, his wicked, Mexican-roweled spurs making little pinpoint circles of reflection.
Babe kept walking and stood over him. Made sure he was dead. He had no feeling of sorrow, none of triumph. He just looked at him and knew he was dead.
Lily said his name. “Babe!” He turned and she was there, close enough to reach, to touch. She’d been there he didn’t know how long. Stood there while their bullets roared by.
He rammed his gun back in the holster. It seemed natural that she should be in his arms. Her cheeks glistened from tears. She pressed her head against his breast and said his name over and over.
He said, “Your dad!”
They ran together and found him sitting up, trying to tear a bandage for his leg. It was bleeding badly. Lily found a dish towel that had been hanging over the line, and, soaking full, it slowly checked the flow of blood.
Dawn was coming. House now a smoldering oblong of logs. Jinks Henry rode up with Blackfoot Charley and one of the McGruder boys.
Jinks said, “That was Alderdyce I got, and he wasn’t dead. So I guess Hooks got away after all.”
“He’s in the barn,” Babe said.
He looked in Babe’s eyes and said, “Oh.” He understood and let it drop there. Then he said, “Blackfoot and Mick, here, got stirred up before Clint’s bunch made a show. They came cross-country and scared off the ones we tackled. You think they’ll bounce back on us today, Babe?”
“They won’t,” he said.
Babe hitched a team to the buckboard and asked Blackfoot to help him with Hooks. It wasn’t easy looking at him, and he was glad when Blackfoot brought the tarp. All Babe’s hatred was gone. Gone, with a sour feeling left behind.
Lily ran up to him and said, “Babe, you’re not going back there and—”
“Yes, I’m taking him home to Rufe. I stayed around to inherit my share of the place, so I guess I stayed around for this, too.”
“Babe, they’ll kill you up there.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Don’t you see? I have to face them today. They’ll understand. I’ll really be talking the Coltons’ own language today. I ought to know. I guess I’m sort of a Colton myself.”
Copper mining is one of Montana’s major industries, but it isn’t often the subject of Western fiction. W.C Tuttle’s good-humored tale of “Psychology and Copper” is a notable exception. A native of Montana (born in Glendive, in its Territorial frontier days), Tuttle began writing during World War I and was a tireless contributor to the Western and adventure pulp magazines for more than thirty years. His first novel, Reddy Brant, His Adventures, appeared in 1920; his eighty-fourth and last novel. Medicine Maker, wo? published in 1967, two years before his death at the age of eighty-six. In the heyday of the pulps, his series about roving cowboys-cum-detectives, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens, was especially well recieved. Tuttle’s life, chronicled in his 1966 autobiography, Montana Man, was every bit as unusual and interesting as his Western stories; among other things he was president of the Pacific Coast Baseball League from 1935 to 1943.
Psychology and Copper
W. C. Tuttle
“Scientific prospectin’ has its merits,” announced Ike Harper, as he climbed out of the gopher hole and sat down beside me on a boulder and filled his pipe, “but fool luck has uncovered more bonanzas than science.
“Now, there was ol’ Jerry Sullivan’s burro that went skatin’ down th’ hill off th’ trail one day and slid th’ coverin’ off th’ Silver Cross, which made uh millionaire outa Jerry. Hen Berry accidentally fired his six-shooter into th’ ground oncet and uncovered one of th’ richest gold veins in th’ state. Yuh can talk science till yer tongue hangs out, but if yuh ain’t lucky yuh never hit it rich. Do yuh happen to know uh elongated person named Magpie Simpkins?”
I replied that I had never had that pleasure.
“Pleasure!” he snorted. “No, I reckon nobody ever did. Let me tell yuh why.
“Magpie was uh scientific prospector. He could take uh piece uh rock and tell yuh jist what it contained and why it contained said constituents. Mineralogy was an open book to that jasper, and because of it he never made uh strike.
“Me and Magpie has these two claims here on Plenty Stone Creek which look promisin’, and we’re figgerin’ that maybe we can git someone to buy us out. Magpie has been down to Piperock after grub, and when he comes back he’s got uh proposition.
“I knowed all th’ time that we hadn’t ought to let uh third party into our outfit, but Magpie argues that uh capitalist like this feller, Peters, will help smooth our trail uh heap, and bein’ right on th’ ground he can land us uh buyer.
“Peters was uh queer cuss. He was about knee-high to uh tall Injun, and spent his spare time tryin’ to cultivate hair on his face. He wore uh little brown derby hat, and it had uh nervous way uh wigglin’ around on top of his head when he was talkin’. He didn’t have no chin to speak of—jist sort a slid away from his lower lip. He had money and uh thirst fer th’ great West, so he comes to Piperock and opens an office—mines and real estate.
“He has six little books on mineralogy which he reads continually; and when uh feller has to consult uh book every time he sees uh piece uh rock, he’s in th’ same class with th’ jasper who opens th’ Home Doctor book every time he feels off color—he shore finds symptoms of everything.
“Me and Magpie needs uh grub stake, and bein’ as Peters is plumb wild to be uh mine owner, we lets him buy uh third interest in our claims.
“As Magpie remarks, ‘He comes uh stranger and we takes him in.’
“I ain’t strong for Peters, but after livin’ with Magpie all these years I don’t shy at any ordinary freak.
“Now, Magpie has been plumb rational fer several months, and I’m beginning to think he’s sort a outgrown his love fer something new in th’ scientific line, but I’m wrong, ’cause one day Magpie pilgrims in from Piperack with uh pack load uh black-covered books.
“I shore recognizes th’ symptoms and goes up to Tellurium Woods’ cabin and bunks with him that night. Tellurium is workin’ uh copper prospect which he calls th’ ’Copper King,’ and when I tells him why I’m there, he welcomes me—him and Magpie ain’t jist what you’d call friendly.
”Th’ next momin* I sneaks home cautious like. Magpie is oratin’ out loud, with nobody to listen except th’ pack burros. He quits cold when he sees me and fer th’ next few days he surrounds himself with cigarette butts and mystery. About this time Peters makes good. He ain’t never been up to see our property but he gits his rope on one Alfred Myron Cowgill, of Boston, Massachusetts, and sends him up to look it over.
“Alfred knows all about mines—havin’ been educated fer th’ ministry—and he finds out that we’ve got th’ finest piece uh property he ever seen. Copper pyrites shore makes uh hit with people who don’t sabe free gold, and after uh little powwow, we sells Alfred our prospect hole fer five thousand dollars cash.
“Alfred announces that he’s got to go back East fer uh while, and he hires me and Magpie to sort a keep people from pesticatin’ around on his property. We’re uh heap obliged to Peters, ’cause this money will make possible uh proposition we’ve argued uh heap uh times. Old Sourdough Johnson’s got uh claim about three miles over th’ south fork, which he calls th’
‘Daylight,’ and me and Magpie have laid awake nights tryin’ to figger out how to separate him from his location.
“Johnson ain’t on th’ lead and never will be where he’s workin’, but one day we’re cornin’ across th’ claim and find th’ real lead. Sticks right out in th’ middle of th’ claim and she shore is rich. Uh course we don’t tell anybody—not even Peters. We’re folks that mind our own business thataway.
“But Magpie is too much absorbed with his books to even consider uh minin’ deal He sits there half th’ night by th’ light of uh candle and peruses them books. I’m uh heap curious to know what’s in ’em, but won’t show it enough to pick one up.
“Somebody tells Tellurium about our sale and he comes down to congratulate us. He’s plumb lame with rheumatism, and complains on his affliction uh heap.
“‘What you needs, Tellurium,’ remarks Magpie, ’is uh touch of psychology.’
“‘Ain’t I got enough?’ snaps Tellurium. ‘Rheumatics and plumbago and—shucks! I kain’t stand much more.’
“‘Mr. Woods, your powers uh perception are limited to sourdough bread and low-grade ore,’ states Magpie, markin’ th’ place in his book. ‘Yore ideas of science don’t go beyond throwin’ uh diamond hitch and th’ correct way to hold yer knife when yuh eats pie.’ He shakes his finger at Tellurium. ‘You ain’t got nothin’ th’ matter with yuh a-tall. It’s jist uh lazy streak in yore subconscious mind.’
“ ’As I was sayin’ before this interruption,’ remarks Tellurium, ’as I was sayin’, Ike, th’ Lord made uh big mistake. It was an error on His part when He wished long ears and uh brayin’ voice on uh perfectly innocent jackass, and let some people I know resemble uh human bein’.’ “Tellurium is uh big hulk of uh man, and Magpie ain’t what you’d call uh runt; so after watchin’ it uh while I pries ’em apart with uh pick-handle. They arbitrates what’s left of th’ battle and smoke uh peace pipe. When Tellurium hikes back up th’ trail home, I notices that his limp is plumb gone.
“ ’That’s psychology, Ike,’ states Magpie. ‘He comes down uh cripple and we sends him home whole.’
“‘Laziness covers uh multitude uh sins,’ announces Magpie, while we’re eatin’ supper that night. ’Tellurium states that he’s only drivin’ uh foot uh day. Now, Ike, no man can ever live long enough to develop uh copper mine at that rate. With th’ help of psychology he can drift three feet uh day in that formation.’
“‘Well, mebby,’ I sort of agrees. ‘I don’t know th’ power of this element yuh claim to have corraled, but I do know
Tellurium, and I’m here to state that uh foot uh day is hyiu driftin’ fer him.’
“Magpie peruses his book again some plentiful before he opens up again.
“‘Ike, I’ll bet yuh uh hundred dollars that I can have Tellurium drivin’ three feet uh day inside of uh week. I aims to sort of work on his imagination through th’ elements uh psychology. Enervate his subconscious mind, sabe?
“‘I passes th’ sabe part,’ I replies, ‘but I’ll take that bet. Yuh might practise on that he-burro now, Magpie. He’s been standin’ there under that tree since noon. Reckon he’s sick or jist lost his appetite?’
“‘Both, I reckon,’ replied Magpie. ‘But science of th’ mind won’t help any in his case ’cause he’s done ate up yore Sunday overalls and two pair uh yore wool socks.’
“Th’ next day I goes down to Granite to have a talk with Peters about this Daylight Mine deal. Me and Magpie had decided not to tell Peters how good it is, ’cause uh hombre like him is jist as apt to talk as not. We don’t want ourselves to show in th’ deal ’cause Johnson might suspect our motives. Uh feller like Peters looks like uh sucker, and mebby Johnson will make him uh good price.
“Peters swells out his chest and his little derby does uh tango on his head when I puts it up to him. He sure thinks he’s an expert. I tells him that it’s uh likely-lookin’ prospect and to shoot th’ hull roll if he has to.
“Him bein’ some elated I borrows uh hundred from him and goes over to Helena for uh week, leavin’ Magpie to his books. I figgers that we can make uh large piece uh money out of th’ Daylight without much development work, and I sings uh carefree song while I scatters that hundred amid th’ bright lights.
“When I gits back to Piperock th’ first person I sees is Magpie, and he welcomes me heartily and also imparts th’ information that I’m out uh hundred bucks ’cause Tellurium’s doin’ better than three feet uh day, and his rheumatism is ancient history. Of course, bein’ uh direct descendant of one uh Missouri’s first settlers, I declines to settle without first-hand information.
“We goes up to Peters’s office to find out about th’ Daylight deal, but he ain’t in, so we goes over to Dutch Fred’s and plays seven-up until supper time. Along about dark Peters rides and yells to us that everything is fine. We goes up to his office later, and he’s there with uh smile and uh glad hand. He looks almost too danged happy, some way.
“‘Gentlemen,’ sez he, ‘I’m sorry to have kept yuh waitin’ so long, but it was uh hard trip, and as I was in th’ mountains several days I was badly in need of my tub. Now to business. I—er—have uh smoke.’
“He shoves out uh box uh seegars and we lights up.
“‘My friends and partners, it’s uh lucky thing fer you both that you’ve got uh technical as well as uh practical mining man fer uh partner in yore ventures—meanin’ myself. To th’ untaught mind of th’ average prospector, that Daylight claim might look promisin’. But I saw its defects, gentlemen, I saw its defects. Remember, I took five days in my examination, and refused to make him an offer.’
“‘But, Peters. We’ve—’ began Magpie.
“‘Beg pardon, Mr. Simpkins, but I’d like to finish. As I said before, I turned th’ proposition down, but before I returned I had an inspiration. I decided to investigate other prospects in that particular district. Now, here is where you have me to thank, gentlemen. Yesterday afternoon I ran across uh piece uh property that bids fair to make us all rich. It is located in th’ vicinity of yore former property, I believe, and is mighty rich in copper—mighty rich, speaking mildly. I beg yore pardon, Mr. Simpkins, did you speak?’
“‘Go ahead,’ mumbles Magpie, and I notices that he’s got all of that seegar in his mouth, and seems to be slowly chokin’ to death.
“ ’As I started to say,’ resumed Peters, ‘I panned some of th’ drillin’s in this prospect and what do you suppose I found, gentlemen? Native copper! Why, in one pan of that dust I got at least half an ounce.’
“He paused to let this sink in. It shore listens good to me, but Magpie don’t seem elated none whatever.
“ ’The owner was wise to what he has,’ continued Peters, ‘and when I offered him five thousand for his claim he laughed at me. But I refused to give up the ship, gentlemen, and after talkin’ to him nearly all day I got him to sell us half interest for that price.’
“‘Listen, Peters!’ Magpie’s Adam’s apple is doin’ uh war-dance up and down his neck as he stands there weavin’ on his heels and glarin’ down at Peters. ‘What’s that prospector’s name?’
