“Who do you work for?”
“The Lone Star Land and Cattle Company, Incorporated.”
“And where are you headed?”
“Montana. The Blackfeet reservation up on the Yellowstone.”
Pryor handed the papers back to Charlie, favoring him with a grin. “Well, looks like I owe you gents an apology.”
The whole outfit heaved such a big sigh of relief it’s a wonder we didn’t blow out the fire.
“No need for apologies,” Charlie said. “Just tell us what’s goin’ on here.”
“First things first. Would one of you fellers mind holdin’ a gun on that coyote over there?”
Seeing as how he meant Sweet, there were plenty of enthusiastic volunteers. Pryor holstered his gun.
“Mind if I borrow me some rope?” he asked Charlie.
“Now hold on, Sheriff... or Deputy or whatever you are,” Charlie said. “Sweet there might not be the most easygoin’ feller I’ve run across, but he’s part of my outfit now, and I personally don’t know that he’s committed any crime.”
“Oh, he has. Just about every one you could think of,” Pryor said. “And his name’s ‘Sweetman,’ not ‘Sweet.’ George Sweetman.”
Sweet finally spoke up for himself then. “My name’s Joe Sweet, I swear it. I’m not some outlaw. This feller’s crazy.”
“Well,” Pryor said. But before he could get out another word, a different voice spoke up.
“Look in the man’s saddlebags.”
We all turned toward Gustav. He was sitting a short hop away from the fire, leaning back against his saddle. His face was serious, but his eyes had a little chuckle in them.
“Sweet’s saddlebags. Why don’t we see what’s in ’em.”
Tornado clapped his hands. “That’s right! He was always so damned tetchy about them bags. Must be somethin’ in ’em!”
There was a little stampede to Sweet’s gear, but Tornado ended up at the front of the herd. “Well, lookee here,” he said, pulling out a handful of yellow papers.
One of them was a handbill. Tornado held it up for all to see. The word “WANTED” was printed across the top. Underneath was a drawing of a rat-faced man with dark eyes and a bushy moustache.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was our pal Joe Sweet,” Tornado said. “Except the poster here says his name is George Sweetman.”
“Awww, it couldn’t be Joe anyhow,” one of the other boys added with a grin, “seein’ as how this Sweetman’s wanted for cattle rustlin’, horse thievin’, robbery, and murder. Why, our sweet Joe would never get mixed up in such goings-on! Ain’t that right, Sweetie?”
A thunderclap of guffaws rolled out across the plains, and the boys began passing the other papers around and reading them aloud. You might have heard that some frontier outlaws are so stuck on themselves they save their “clippings.” Well, I can tell you now that it’s true. The saddlebag was stuffed with stories torn out of newspapers, each of them recounting the misdeeds of one George Sweetman.
We all knew we’d be talking this one up around many a campfire in the years ahead, so we were making the most of it, giggling and firing off japes and jabs at “Sweetie” as Charlie brought Pryor the rope he’d asked for. The only one who didn’t get any digs in was my brother, who was still leaning back against his saddle, watching us caper around like kids.
“I hate to tell you this, Mr. Pryor,” Tornado said, “but there ain’t a sturdy branch within twenty miles of here.”
“No need for a tree,” Pryor said. He led Sweetman over to the wagon, sat him down, and proceeded to tie him to the same wheel he’d hitched his horse to. Sweetman cursed under his breath the whole time but didn’t kick up any real trouble.
“Well, if you ain’t gonna stretch his neck, what’re you gonna do?” I asked.
“I’m takin’ him in,” Pryor said. “And you’re all gonna help me.”
That ended the party straightaway.
“What are you talkin’ about?” Charlie asked, though the sudden chill in his voice said he already knew the answer.
“I’m talkin’ about deputizing all you fellers. I’m based out of Vinson, and my posse packed it in three days ago. If I’m gonna get him back to town I’m gonna need help.”
“Vinson?” Charlie shook his head. “That’s south of here, friend. Three or four days south. We’re headed north.”
“I know that. But look... we had a whole posse out after Sweetman and his gang a few days back. He was ridin’ with five, six other men at the time. I don’t know where they got to, but if I try to take him in alone—”
“Oh, don’t worry about them, lawman,” Sweetman broke in, smiling for the first time since Pryor rode into camp. “They up and left me after your posse put a bullet in my horse. They’re probably halfway to Mexico by now. You won’t get any trouble out of those boys.”
The words seemed right enough, but the smile undercut them somehow. Sweetman looked like a spider trying to coax a fly into a kiss.
“We’re cowhands, not gunmen,” Charlie said to Pryor. “We’ve got a herd to look after. That’s our job. We can’t help you do yours. I’m sorry.”
Pryor eyed Charlie scornfully, then looked past him at the rest of the outfit. “There’s a reward,” he said. “I’ll give a share to every man who comes with me.”
Tornado held up the handbill with Sweetman’s face on it. “It says five hundred dollars here. Divide that up and you ain’t got enough for a haircut.”
“That poster’s a month old,” Pryor said. “Sweetman here’s caused so much trouble along the Old Western Trail, the Kansas Cattlemen’s Association threw in another two thousand last week.”
Sweetman grinned, looking pleased that his worth had increased four times. Tornado whistled. The rest of the men mumbled at each other, all of them saying more or less the same thing: “That’s a lot of cash.”
Charlie could sense that the outfit was pulling away from him. “Now, fellers, think about this. Vinson’s gotta be a hundred miles out of our way. We can’t just—”
“You say you’ll cut up the reward equal — one share for every man?” Tornado asked Pryor.
Pryor shrugged. “Why not? If I try to collect the whole kit and caboodle myself, I’ll just end up with a bullet in my back. But with you boys behind me—”
“Won’t be none of my boys behind you, Pryor,” Charlie growled, squinting and digging in his heels and straightening up his spine and generally trying to look like the kind of trail boss a man doesn’t argue with.
Tornado wasn’t spooked. “Oh, shut your trap, Charlie,” he said. “I say we help the man.”
“We can’t.”
“Says who?”
“Says me!”
“Well, I don’t give a damn!”
And the shouting match got going full steam. There was no way Charlie could win, him being outnumbered something like ten to one, but he gave it a good try nonetheless, screaming out insults until his face was red as an Apache’s. I noticed in a sort of a back-of-the-mind way that my brother wasn’t jumping in on Charlie’s behalf, but I was too busy shouting my way into the debate to wonder where he stood on things. Pryor got into the mix of it here and there, too, saying, “You’ll have more waitin’ for you in Vinson than you will in Billings” and “It’ll only be a week out of your way” and “We live in a democracy, fellers. Just put it to a vote and be done with it.”
That last one sounded mighty reasonable to most of us. “Everybody stop your yappin’ and we’ll settle this quick with a show of hands,” Tornado called out. “Now then, raise your hand if you think we oughta—”
Just about every man jack of us was about to shoot his paw into the air and send us riding off to Vinson. But before Tornado could finish calling for the vote, a familiar voice piped up again.