Destiny
by Sevenstars
SUMMARY: Why, after his confrontation with Slim by the lake, didn't Jess just get off Sherman range? Why did Slim go after him with such ferocity in the house, if all he knew of Jess was that he was a trespasser? And why did Jess decide he had to help Slim capture Carlin? Some of the events of "Stage Stop," from "behind the eyes" of two future pards.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
What'n perdition was they shootin' at me for? Jess wondered, snatching a look back over his shoulder as Traveller thundered past the fringe of buildings that marked Laramie's city limits. I ain't ever been to Laramie before—stopped off at Cheyenne on my way south last fall, is all… and even if DeWalt found out about me and Laurel, this ain't his country—too far off for him to have anybody keepin' sentry-watch for me. Anyhow, that feller wasn't even close enough to get a clear look at me—seemed like he just shot on general principles.
What's goin' on in that town? Seemed awful quiet—tense like. They expectin' somebody, maybe? Thought I was him?
They gonna take a chance on chasin' me, or will they reckon it's enough they got me runnin'?
If pursuit was what they had in mind, they'd have to take time to saddle up, and in ten minutes he could get a good jump on them.
He crashed through the timber, swung off up the east fork—not the way he'd come—and pointed north. Most pursuers would reckon on a fugitive going back by the way he knew best—and even if the pursuit, supposing there was one, didn't know which that was, the Territorial line, beyond which they'd have no authority, was south, and therefore the natural direction for a fleeing man to choose. So he'd go the other way, and by the time they figured out they'd been foxed, he could have a day or more on them.
He raced past a cemetery, came to another fork and drove straight on. Westward was rougher country, no place for a man on the run—not unless he aimed to fort up and try to ambush them that followed him.
Not till some hours later did the sign consciously register on him—Baxter Ridge, and the wooden arrow pointing off that way…
**SR**
A crosscut, encountered about ten minutes later, led him to what looked like a main road—or maybe not; the ruts in it were a foot deep, and Trav started dancing and jumping, not liking the footing. No place for fast goin' anyhow, Jess thought. And the bay was tiring. Maybe he should find a spot where he could be close to the trail and wait. Maybe he'd hear the pursuit, if there was one. Then he could decide whether to double back or try some other way.
He turned back, worked his way up a slope and paused, gazing down the way he'd come. No sign of anybody. All the same, he didn't exactly think Laramie was a good place for him right now.
Never panic when you get lost, Pa had always said. If you think you're bein' followed, make for high country. If you keep above your enemy, he's got to shoot upwards or climb to get at you. Jess looked left, and there, sure enough, a tall sugarloaf of a peak reared against the sky. That was it. Where you saw a mountain, there were usually foothills—and, for that matter, creeks. After a run—and a scare—like that one, he and Trav could both do with a rest, some water.
He reined that way and kept going, staying just above the road where he wouldn't raise a dust. Presently he came to a post-and-rail fence with a gate in it. All the better. A posse wouldn't figure on a chased man going onto somebody's owned range—though he was pretty sure by now that there was no posse. Just the same, in his line a man didn't stay alive by taking dang fool chances. Least of all with people, who could stampede in any direction except maybe straight up.
He leaned out of the saddle to lift the bar, pushed the gate open and walked Trav through, then neatly shut it behind him, remembering the times when he was a sprout and had gotten strapped for leaving gates open and letting stock get out. On the other side he found cattle sign, and followed it. After a short time he noticed more lines of cloven-hoofed tracks joining up with the one he was on. That suggested the animals were heading for a water source, so he let them lead him there.
They were. As pretty a little lake as he'd ever seen. He found a feeder creek near one end of it, got down and let Trav drink his fill—he was cool enough by now—and took a drink himself. He filled his canteen and looked thoughtfully at the water, betting there'd be fish of some kind in it. No, he decided. I ain't stayin'. Ain't manners to camp on fenced range if you don't know th'owner. And carryin' fresh fish in the heat of the day's a good way for 'em not to stay fresh.
He eyed the sign that warned sternly against trespassing, and snorted. Didn't the owner know that wasn't manners? To post a No Hunting sign was perfectly acceptable—it was seen as a means of protecting one's livestock, and even, maybe, children—but this was plumb unfriendly!
Serve'im right if I dabbed my rope on it and pulled it down, he thought, and then shrugged. If this was owned range, he reckoned, a man could do as he pleased on it.
Oughtta go on, maybe.
Still, after the scare he'd had, he felt like he could use a little rest. There was a big old pine log yonder that would do for a backrest…
**SR**
Jess hurled the rifle as far off to his right as he could, then threw the sixgun in the opposite direction and spurred Trav into a steady reaching lope. It wasn't till he'd gone a good half-mile or better that he realized he hadn't turned toward the gate, to get off that big feller's so jealously guarded land.
Why?
Wolf's voice sounded silently in his ears. …a tall white man with light hair…
Jess snorted. Yeah. And he also said, a smile that was "like sun comin' from behind clouds." Anyhow, that's Indian dreamin'. Not for white folks.
All the same, it'd be better if he got off this land as quick as Trav would take him.
And yet…
That feller—Sherman, Jess reckoned—had to come from someplace. And since his fence line was back there, his headquarters would most likely be in this direction. Anybody who happened to be there right now wouldn't know Jess from Adam's off ox—sure wouldn't know he'd just had a faceoff with the boss-man. Sherman couldn't follow without Jess knowin'—and there was still Pete to be found. Since Jess hadn't had a chance to ask about his supposed friend in Laramie, and probably wouldn't, a nearby ranch seemed like the best alternative choice.
Jess chuckled as he remembered the shocked look on Sherman's face when he'd found himself staring into the muzzle of his own carbine. Just like Dixie had always said, any man went off his edge in time, if you gave him the chance. All you need, boy, is to know what you mean to do and be ready to do it, the older man had said. Just a split second is all it takes. It's enough to kill a man or to disarm him, whichever you want to. Jess had counted on his seeming willingness to co-operate to provide that chance.
He didn't really have anything against the rancher, whether or not he was the one Wolf had dreamed about; certainly had no reason to want him dead—though Sherman wouldn't know that. But he had a bone to pick with a so-called partner. You got in Jess Harper's way when he had a trail to follow, you deserved what happened to you.
He grinned to himself again, then sobered. Seemed like he was half expectin' a bullet. Why? More of whatever's got the town on alert?
He shook his head. Whatever it is, it ain't got nothin' to do with me, nor me with it. And I don't kill in cold blood, not even to settle the score for bein' took unawares. Which was a dang fool thing to do, Harper, and you know it.
He looked back. No, the rancher wasn't following. Maybe, seeing that Jess was heading west, he figured that eventually his "trespasser" would find another gate and get back on the public road. Maybe he was willing to give Jess the chance, seein' that he wasn't stayin' on the water Sherman thought so high of. Maybe he had range work to do.
Still…
No, Jess decided. Head in the game, Harper. Pete. You find him. Or somebody that can give you a hint where to look, anyhow.
**SR**
Slim watched the bay horse out of sight and realized how lucky he was to still be breathing. Strange, that a man could seem so casual and harmless and then, in the snap of your fingers, be staring at you over your own gunsights with eyes gone cold and pale as ice.
Why hadn't the Texan killed him? Out here with no witnesses but Alamo and the beef, who'd have ever known? Andy and Jonesy wouldn't have missed him till it began to get dark, and even then they'd have figured that Alamo had gone lame, maybe, or that Slim had found a break in the fence line and cow-sign going through. They might not have found his body for a day or more, and by then the fellow could be fifty miles away.
Still—why hadn't he gone back the other way, toward the gate? If he wasn't interested in killing, if his intentions were peaceable, why wouldn't he want to get away from the scene of their confrontation, off the land—well, make that away from the water—that had been the cause of the friction to begin with?
Slim frowned. It looked like the fellow was heading toward home.
No, that didn't make sense. He'd apparently tried the westward road, or maybe the Baxter Ridge trail—he'd complained of the ruts, hadn't he? Maybe he just wanted to take a shortcut across the range and link up with the Old Laramie Road.
I could follow.
No. Come on, Sherman, show sense. He's just a drifter. Like he said, took a few sips from your stream, let his horse drink… that's not going to hurt you. It's only nine miles or so to the far gate and the Stone Creek ford—by the time you catch up he'll be off your land… our land.
You've got work to do, and a stage schedule to keep.
He caught up his horse, mounted and rode along the drifter's track, quartering across it until he found his guns. The stranger hadn't even bothered to shuck the shells out of them. Thinks pretty highly of himself, doesn't he?
Checking over the revolver to make sure no dirt or other foreign matter had gotten into the barrel, he paused and looked off the way the dark-haired man had gone. That was a pretty slick trick he pulled on me, he thought, with the faintest hint of admiration. I wasn't watching his foot, just his hands.
That'll teach me a lesson, I guess. Pa always said, nothing that happens is wasted, if you learn from it.
Yet there was an unease nibbling away at the edges of his mind. A stranger. Or was he?
Slim had a ranch to run, a mortgage to pay off, a kid brother to raise. He didn't hang out in saloons much. But he did run a relay stop for the Overland, and stage passengers gossiped. So did guards. So did drivers, particularly if their name happened to be Mose Shell. And Westerners, above all those who lived away from towns and cities, of necessity developed a keen capacity for the observation of detail, and having no way to share their knowledge except verbally, they learned also to give clear and minute descriptions of the people and places they knew. They talked about the better-known of the former, especially the informal aristocracy of cow country—the likeable element among scouts, ranch foremen, top riders, crack shots, drivers on principal stage routes, forceful ranch owners, and even such robbers and outlaws as, not being "badmen," plied their craft boldly and with conspicuous success and a tincture of chivalry. They talked about lawmen, and about gamblers both honest and crooked. Above all they talked about gunfighters, as folks back East talked about politicians or prizefighters or the great names of the stage. Everyone knew about the most famous of the breed, and would recognize one even if they'd never met him before.
A young man, younger than Slim by a year or two, lean and wiry of build, with matte-black hair and blue eyes that changed hue and intensity with his mood. A direct, level gaze, high sculpted cheekbones, angular jaw, slight cleft in the chin, very mobile eyebrows. A small gap between the top front teeth. A gravelly Texas accent. Simple style of dress, like a foreman or a top hand.
All that was missing was the ivory-handled sixgun—and there were any number of ways a man might lose a gun.
Jess Harper. The gunfighter.
For just a moment Slim looked toward his home again, a cold knife of fear slicing through him. He might be just a small-time rancher, but he'd made enemies in his time. John Cole, Ed McKeever, Sam Shaw and the Elkinses. Could one of them have…?
No. If Harper was after me—and not waiting for me in town or at home—it would be because he'd already made an opportunity to know what I look like. Or if not that, he'd certainly know the Sherman name. He'd have seen it on the sign, and I told him this was my land; he'd have realized I had to be the man he'd been hired to take care of.
No, he's not after me.
But then… Again he looked uneasily off toward the rolling rangeland that hid the valley from view. If he's not, then why…?
Something didn't make sense here.
Maybe more things than one.
He searched his memory for anything else he might have heard about Harper. Fast—maybe one of the ten fastest. Slick—what had just happened showed that; there was a brain behind those keen blue eyes, that casual, easy smile. But ethical, in his own way. A quick, sometimes violent temper, but never killed from ambush or otherwise than in a fair fight. Never known to have harmed a woman, a child, anyone who wasn't capable of meeting him on more or less even terms.
No, Andy and Jonesy were safe enough, from him.
But that still didn't explain why he'd been inside the Sherman fence line, or why he hadn't headed back the way he'd come. It doesn't make sense, Slim thought again. Things making sense was very important to him.
I should go after him, make sure—
Then he shook his head sharply. He's just cutting across, that's all. By the time I get home to take care of the late stage, he'll be long gone, and I'll never see him again.
Which can't happen soon enough to suit me, he added out of momentarily hurt pride. A man who'd gone through the war should have known better.
And he had cattle to check. It was still screwworm season, after all…
**SR**
"Andy's playin' poker," said Jonesy in that infuriatingly bland, casual way he had, much as if he were reporting that the boy was soaping his saddle or playing with his pets.
"What?" Slim demanded.
"You heard me," Jonesy observed calmly. "He picked up another stray, a two-legged one this time."
In hindsight, Slim was to wonder why he didn't think to connect this news with Harper. Possibly it was partly because the description he'd had of the man wasn't connected to gambling, only to being a gun for hire. Certainly, as he pointed out not long after, his brother had a way of cottoning up to every no-good saddle tramp that came along—which meant the one he was playing poker with wasn't necessarily Harper; after all, the stage road passed literally through the Sherman yard, and all sorts of people travelled up and down it. It infuriated Slim, sometimes, that Andy seemed to have no regard for his inheritance, the potential this place had, the labor and sacrifices Pa, and Slim after him, had put into making Sherman Ranch more than a mere dream. Rationally he knew it shouldn't. At Andy's age, how could he know? How would he have the perspective, the experience? To him, this was simply the only home he had ever had. It was just something that was there, that always had been, as the mountain was, or the creek behind the house, or Jonesy. Yet the boy seemed so restless, so discontented, often almost defiant—like Harper, out by the lake.
Maybe it was just that Slim was so upset by Andy's ingratitude that the whole question of Harper and why he'd ridden west flew right out of his head.
**SR**
"Slim—meet Jess Harper." Andy sounded so proud of his guest that you'd almost swear he'd conjured the young gunfighter into existence by his own force of will.
"I've already had the pleasure," said Slim, his voice steely.
Harper must have heard the warning—a man didn't survive in his line of work without being able to read the moods of other men—but he didn't seem to be at all troubled by it. His easy manner—which, long after, Slim realized was half bluff and half self-defense, his way of keeping his own tells hidden and under control—only made the rancher all the more angry. It didn't help that Harper's mild defense of the reason he'd been showing Andy how he could stack a deck in his own favor was so completely logical. It suggested that Andy might some day need that kind of knowledge—which Slim was determined he never should. He hadn't put the last five years of his life into this place—and two of them into being father, mother, and big brother all in one package—to see Andy just shrug it all off and go kiting off to wherever, making a common saddle tramp of himself when he could have so much more…
It took Jonesy, calm and rational as always, to divert Slim's attention to the necessity of getting himself decent for the stage. They always tried to do that; you never knew when some stage-line inspector would pay a surprise visit.
In any case, Harper might be a gunfighter, but that also meant he was a drifter; since he had no business with the Shermans, he'd go soon enough. And Slim had no intention of chancing that snaky speed another time—least of all in his own house, with Andy and Jonesy close enough to get hurt.
But when he pulled out the bottom drawer of the chiffonier and found that Andy's cache had vanished, that was the last and final straw.
**SR**
Jess had begun to realize, from the first moment he realized he'd overstayed his time here, that there were influences in play behind the scenes that he didn't fully understand. And later, when he looked back at it, he knew that he'd made a bad mistake by letting Andy persuade him to stay, even only for a meal. Of course the boy was doing right according to range custom, and the fact was that Jess had missed his dinnertime because of that little fracas in town, and had been entirely ready to accept the offer. You need to quit thinkin' with your belly, Harper, he told himself, quite unjustly, as Andy dodged behind him. And how in the name of cows did you get pulled into whatever's between these two?
"—And you can't stop me!" Andy was saying—almost shouting—defiantly.
Maybe not, Jess thought, out of the various tag-ends of law he'd picked up in his travels, but he could swear out a warrant on you as a runaway minor—and on me as an accessory, or maybe for kidnappin'. Yet the deep bitterness that lay barely skin-deep in him—the hatred for anyone who picked on anyone smaller and weaker than himself, or tried to force his will on those reluctant to follow it, or rode roughshod over whoever was in his way just to get his hands on something he didn't have any right to, or to prove himself right—brought a hot surge of anger up behind his steady eyes. Didn't Sherman understand what he had here? What a precious gift it was, to be entrusted with a young life like Andy's? Jess would have given the next ten years of his own allotted time if he could have had the young lives of his past back again. It never occurred to him to think that, as plain as Andy had made his own discontent, he'd never tried to blame it on the people he shared this place with. All he saw was Sherman, big and solid and hard as granite, using size and seniority to have his way.
"—How long d'you think it'd be before he ran out on you? With your money and your watch?" Sherman demanded.
Knowing quite well that Andy was about to say He'd never!, Jess decided it was time to speak up. After all, what the man had said came perilously close to direct insult. "Ahh, y'know somethin', Andy? he's talkin' me into takin' you along." He hadn't really, seriously had any such intention, till that moment. Oh, sure, he'd felt a catch in his throat, a skipped heartbeat, when he first set eyes on the boy—that dark hair, the size; he knew this wasn't Johnny, but he felt something of the same bond, the same automatic resolve to offer protection and care. And Andy's discontent, so very much like what he remembered of his lost kid brother, had only served to intensify the feeling.
"You like it better alone?"
Jess shrugged. "Just worked out that way."
"Don't you get lonely sometimes?"
"I got used to it," Jess replied, his voice flat. What he didn't say was that he had never learned to like it—which was why he'd made more than one bad choice of partners since he'd lost his home and family that awful day.
He'd said he'd "come back someday and talk it over," but at the time he'd never meant it. After all, he had Pete to settle up with… and Bannister. He couldn't drag a twelve-year-old boy into that life. It was why he'd refused Johnny's tearful plea to be taken along that day ten years ago.
Now… he was dang close to doin' it, just to pay Sherman back for what he'd said.
"Get out," said Sherman coldly.
"So you can start beatin' up on him?" Jess shot back. He had no idea where the words came from, and he half regretted them as soon as they were spoken. He had no warrant for thinking Sherman a bully. But things had been piling up on him all day, and he could almost smell Sherman's eagerness for a fight.
Sherman swung at him. Jess ducked under the blow, caught the extended arm and swung both of them around so they switched places and simultaneously stumbled half across the room—and then the door flew open…
**SR**
If Jess had had any plan at all, it had been simply to keep his fighting mask in place and hold himself in readiness for the moment when—as Dixie had taught him must inevitably happen—Carlin and his understrapper would go off their edge. Clearly neither of them recognized him, either by description or through past encounters; that would give him some advantage—they wouldn't know what he was capable of doing. He'd even maintained his poker face as the judge was humiliated, though it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Talk about bullies and folks forcin' their will on other folks, he'd thought behind that unstirring façade, this boy's just askin' to be took down—but this ain't the time nor the place, not with Andy here, or that old feller Jonesy. Just hold yourself in hand, Harper, your chance'll come. This kind always makes a mistake soon or late…
And then Sherman jumped Carlin and everything went to hell.
It must have been in those next few minutes that Jess began to realize he'd made an error in judgment—something that could be fatal to a man in his profession. Sherman wasn't half as bad as he'd been thinking. At least the two of them had one thing in common: neither held any brief for bullies—which meant Sherman wasn't one, not toward Andy or anyone else.
When Carlin decided to egg the two of them into fighting—and throw Jonesy's life into the pot—Jess was sure of it.
"Hit me!" Sherman insisted.
Jess obliged him. Not because he wanted to, as he had only minutes earlier, but because it was the only way to keep the four of them alive—and if only for Andy's sake, he had to do whatever he could toward that end.
**SR**
"Please, Jess!" Andy begged. "Maybe someday you'll be in a jam."
"Yeah, and have to get out of it myself the way I always have," Jess retorted. He didn't want any piece of this. It wasn't his quarrel. Head in the game, he told himself. Pete and Bannister. How many times've you let yourself get tolled into somethin' that didn't have nothin' to do with the job you got? You ain't even got th'excuse of bein' paid this time—not that you couldn't use the money, but Sherman ain't offered you none.
He don't even want none of your help, like as not.
"Not if I'm with you!" Andy insisted, going back to his previous refrain. "You can't let down a friend, Jess, you just can't!"
"He's not my friend," said Jess coldly. It's true, he insisted to himself. He don't care one rap for me, and why should he?
Why should I care about him? He ain't nothin' to me.
/Because he is the one I told you of,/ whispered Wolf's voice. /The one who has been chosen to be your brother. You know this./
I don't know no such of a thing!
"I thought I was," said Andy, and Jess felt again that sense of identity and bonding. He don't know…
No. Ain't none of your business.
But who knows how many more Carlin's got? What odds Sherman's ridin' into, just for the sake of what he thinks is right?
Ain't you done the same, Harper, more'n once? Ain't that part of why it's took you so long to collect on what's owed you, 'cause you keep on gettin' sidetracked by folks in need?
Supposin' it was you ridin' hell-for-leather off chasin' your conscience, and Johnny beggin' Sherman to help you—what then?
"No wonder you travel alone," said Andy, with sobs in his voice. "Who'd wanta team up with a saddle tramp like you!" The way he said the word made it an insult—probably the way his brother said it.
That was when Jess knew he had to quit trying to fool himself.
**SR**
He watched, grinning, as Sherman flung himself after Carlin. That's the way, big man. Take him. You got a right, after the way he threatened you and yours.
He wasn't surprised at how easy it was. Carlin was more bluster than anything—fine as long as he had a gun in his hand or his gang to back him up, but like a lot of outlaws, not much good when it was just one on one.
"'Way boy, that was just fine!" Jess said, and meant it. He got what he deserved. Wisht it'd been that easy for me to settle with Bannister…
That Sherman was surprised to see him must have ranked as one of the understatements of the century. Well, he had reason enough, after the way they'd started out.
Jess suddenly regretted all that. If I could go back and start over…
Only I can't. No more'n I can bring Pa and the littl'uns back.
"Say, where's Andy?" Sherman asked suddenly, after Jess had explained how he'd guessed where to come. "Did he come too?"
"No, and he doesn't know I did," Jess replied. "Better get back, he'll be worryin'." Wonder how it feels, to have somebody to worry about you like that…
**SR**
It was the first time, Jess suddenly realized, that he'd seen Sherman smile. He hadn't been quite sure the big man knew how.
Like sun coming from behind clouds…
He didn't fight too hard. Just enough so Sherman would realize he wasn't giving up his soul or his independence.
Nor on Bannister neither. But he's okay where he's at. He can wait. And so can I.
And there's sure a lot of worse places a man could find to do it in.
"This is good country, Jess. Best in Wyoming. This could lead to something—"
"Yeah, it sure could," Jess agreed. "Trouble."
"Why don't we take that chance?" Sherman—Slim—demanded. "Come on, we'll be late for supper!"
He spurred his horse, wordlessly daring Jess to race, like a kid might. And Jess, with a whoop, accepted the challenge.
That challenge, and all the others that were sure to come after it.
Because he knew, now, that Wolf had seen the truth.
Not that he had any intention of admitting as much to Slim. Not for a good long time yet.
Couldn't let the big man get too high an opinion of his own worth, after all.
And I'm gonna have to teach him the right way to raise little brothers…
-30-