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On an evening almost three weeks after his escape from the Three Spoke, he was putting his coffee on when he heard a slight sound. Looking up he saw old Cat McLeod gri
“Howdy, son!” he chuckled. “When you head for the tall timber you sure do a job of it! My land! I thought I’d never find you! No more trail’n trout swimmin’ upstream!”
Rock rose stiffly. “Howdy, Cat. Just put the coffee on.” He averted his eyes, and went about the business of preparing a meal.
Cat seated himself, seemingly unhurried and undisturbed by his scant welcome. He got out his pipe and stuffed it full of tobacco. He talked calmly and quietly about game and fish, and the mountain trails.
“Old Mormon crossin’ not far from here,” he said, “I could show you where it is.”
After they had eaten, McLeod leaned back against a rock. “Lots of trouble back at the Three Spoke. I reckon you was the smart one, pullin’ out when you did.”
Casady made no response, so McLeod continued. “Pete Vorys was some beat up. Two busted ribs, busted nose, some teeth gone. Feller name of Ben Kerr came out to the Three Spoke huntin’ you. Said you was a yella dog an’ he knowed you of old. He laughed when he said that, an’ said the whole Three Spoke outfit was yella. Stockman, he wouldn’t take that, so he went for his gun. Kerr shot him.”
Rock’s head came up with a jerk. “Shot Stockman? He killed him?” There was horror in his voice. This was his fault—his!
“No, he ain’t dead. He’s sure bad off, though. Kerr added injury to insult by ru
A long silence followed in which the two men smoked moodily. Finally, Cat looked across the fire at Rock.
“Son, there’s more’n one kind of courage, I say. I seen many a dog stand up to a grizzly that would high-tail it from a skunk. Back yonder they say you’re yella. Me, I don’t figure it so.”
“Thanks, Cat,” Rock replied simply, miserably. “Thanks a lot, but you’re wrong. I am yellow.”
“Reckon it takes pretty much of a man to say that, son. But from what I hear you sure didn’t act it against Pete an’ his riders. You walloped the tar out of them!”
“With my hands it’s different. It’s—it’s—guns.”
McLeod was silent. He poked a twig in the fire and relighted his pipe.
“Ever kill a man, son?” His eyes probed Rock’s, and he saw the young rider’s head nod slowly. “Who was it? How’d it happen?” “It was—” he looked up, his face drawn and pale. “I killed my brother, Cat.”
McLeod was shocked. His old eyes went wide. “You killed your brother? Your own brother?”
Rock Casady nodded. “Yeah,” he said bitterly, “my own brother. The one person in this world that really mattered to me!”
Cat stared, then slowly his brow puckered. “Son,” he said, “why don’t you tell me about it? Get it out of your system, like.” For a long while Rock was silent, then he started to speak.
“It was down in Texas. We had a little spread down there, Jack and me. He was a shade older, but alway protectin’ me, although I sure didn’t need it. The finest man who ever walked, he was.
“Well, we had us a mite of trouble, an’ this here Ben Kerr was the ringleader. I had trouble with Ben, and he swore to shoot me on sight. I was a hand with a gun, like you know, an’ I was ready enough to fight, them days. One of the hands told me, an’ without a word to Jack, I lit into the saddle an’ headed for town.
“Kerr was gun-slick, but I wasn’t worried. I knew that I didn’t have scarcely a friend in town, an’ that his whole outfit would be there. It was me against them, an’ I went into town with two guns, an’ sure enough on the prod.
“It was gettin’ late when I hit town. A man I knowed told me Ben was around with his outfit and that nobody was goin’ to back me one bit, them all bein’ scared of Ben’s boys. He told me, too, that Ben Kerr would shoot me in the back as soon as not he bein’ that kind.
“I went huntin’ him. Kidlike, an’ never in no fight before, I was jumpy, mighty jumpy. The light was bad. All of a sudden, I saw one of Ben’s boys step out of a door ahead of me. He called out, ‘Here he is, Ben! Take him!’ Then I heard ru
Cat, leaning forward, said, “You shot? An’ then . . . ?”
“It was Jack. It was my own brother. He’d heard I was in town alone an’ he come ru
Cat McLeod stared up at the young man, utterly appalled. In his kindly old heart he could only guess at the horror that must have filled Casady, then scarcely more than a boy, when he had looked down into that still, dead face and seen his brother.
“Gosh, son.” He shook his head in amazed sympathy. “It ain’t no wonder you hate gun fights! It sure ain’t! But . . . ?” He scowled. “I still don’t see . . .” His voice trailed away.
Rock drew a deep breath. “I sold out then, and left the country. Went to ridin’ for an outfit near El Paso. One night I come into town with the other hands, an’ who do I run into but Ben Kerr. He thought I ran because I was afraid of him, an’ he got tough. He called me—right in front of the outfit. I was goin’ to draw, but all I could see there in front of me was Jack, with that blue hole between his eyes! I turned and ran.”
Cat McLeod stared at Rock, then into the fire. It was no wonder, he reflected. He probably would have run too. If he had drawn he would have been firing on the image of his brother. It would have been like killing him over again.
“Son,” he said slowly, “I know how you feel, but stop a minute an’ think about Jack, this brother of yours. He always protected you, you say. He always stood up for you. Now don’t you suppose he’d understand? You thought you was all alone in that town. You’d every right to think that was Ben Kerr behind you. I would have thought so, an’ I wouldn’t have wasted no time shootin’, neither.
“You can’t run away from yourself. You can’t run no further. Someday you got to stand an’ face it, an’ it might as well be now. Look at it like this: Would your brother want you livin’ like this? Hunted and scared? He sure wouldn’t! Son, ever’ man has to pay his own debt, an’ live his own life. Nobody can do it for you, but if I was you, I’d sort of figure my brother was dead because of Ben Kerr, and I’d stop ru
Rock looked up slowly. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I see that plain. But what if when I stepped out to meet him, I look up an’ see Jack’s face again?”
His eyes dark with horror, Rock Casady turned and plunged downstream, stumbling, swearing in his fear and loneliness and sorrow.
At daylight, old Cat McLeod opened his eyes. For an instant, he lay still. Then he realized where he was, and what he had come for, and he turned his head. Rock Casady, his gear and horse, were gone. Stumbling to his feet, McLeod slipped on his boots and walked out in his red fla
It headed south, away from Three Lakes, and away from Ben Kerr. Rock Casady was ru
The trail south to the canyon was rough and rugged. The palouse was sure-footed and had a liking for the mountains, yet seemed undecided, as though the feeling persisted that he was going the wrong way.
Casady stared bleakly ahead, but he saw little of the orange and red of the sandstone cliffs. He was seeing again Frank Stockman’s strong, kindly face, and remembering his welcome at the Three Spoke. He was remembering Sue’s hand on his sleeve and her quick smile, and old Tom Bell, gnarled and worn with handling cattle and men. He drew up suddenly and turned the horse on the narrow trail. He was going back.
“Jack,” he said suddenly aloud, “stick with me, boy. I’m sure goin’ to need you now!”