That drew out a few chuckles, but poor Peanuts and Billy were still too fresh in the ground for anyone to laugh much. An awkward silence followed. As so often happened when Tornado met a moment of quiet, he endeavored to put an end to it as quickly as possible.
“ ‘Joe Sweet.’ Hmmmm,” he said. “That sounds kinda familiar now I think about it. Any reason I oughta know that name?”
The friendly expression on Sweet’s face suddenly pulled up lame. “No reason,” he said.
“But I do swear I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” Tornado said, not noticing the change in Sweet’s disposition. “Where’d you say you was from?”
Sweet suddenly stopped worrying about living up to his name. “Is this fat-mouthed toad accusing me of something?” he snarled.
Every man in camp turned to stone.
“Well, is he?” I’d given Sweet his gun back earlier that day, and he looked mad enough to use it if Tornado so much as blinked.
You never know which way Tornado’s going to spin, but this time he chose to go easy.
“I didn’t mean nothin’,” he said.
Charlie stepped up now, trying out a friendly grin that was meant to calm Sweet down. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “No need for a fuss. Far as we’re concerned, you’re—”
Sweet shrugged away Charlie’s hand. “Nobody lays hold of me. Me or my gear, either one. You all understand that?”
Nobody said if they did or didn’t. They just watched quietly as Sweet grabbed up his saddle and stomped off. When he was far enough away, one of the boys let out a low whistle.
“Feller’s sure got a temper on him, don’t he?” Greasy Pete said.
There were murmurs of agreement, and though Sweet came over to the fire later that night and tried to make nice, everyone was wary around him after that. We all fell into the habit of watching him out of the corners of our eyes. It was like having your sister marry a rattlesnake. He was one of us now, but we couldn’t stop wondering who he was going to sink his teeth into next.
We were a mighty sulky bunch around the fire that night. Only one hand looked anything but glum. And it was the very fellow who usually went slinking off by himself the first chance he got.
Gustav was watching Sweet like the man was a fireworks display, looking a little amazed and a little amused. When I asked him why he seemed so perked up for once, all he’d say was, “As Mr. Holmes might say, we’ve got ourselves a real three-piper here.”
Frankly, I couldn’t make heads nor tails out of that, and a part of me worried that my brother had finally rounded the bend from “peculiar” to flat-out “loco.”
Over the next few days, though, it was Sweet who had us all truly worried. The man’s temper flared up every time the outfit gathered together. Somebody was always standing too close to his saddle or asking the wrong question or just remarking that the sky surely was blue in the wrong tone of voice. It got so bad that a few of the boys went to Charlie and asked him to just give Sweet a horse and tell him to clear out. Charlie shook his head.
“We’ve still got pretty near two weeks on the trail before we reach Dodge,” he said. “I need all the hands I can get, even if one of ’em is touched in the head.”
So all of us had to keep right on tiptoeing around Sweet like he was a hornet’s nest under a hat. But the more we bent over backwards not to stir him up, the louder he buzzed.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” he’d say. Or, “You got somethin’ you wanna ask me?” Or, more often than anything else, “One step closer to my gear and I’ll shoot your foot off.”
As Sweet grew more and more ornery, my brother grew more and more excited, tickled even. Oh, he hid it from everybody else, but I could see it in his eyes every time Sweet fired off his temper. He insisted on being mysterious about it all, though, and eventually I decided to save my stomach the irritation and avoid talking to Sweet and Gustav both.
Sweet had been kicking at us for five days before we finally found the burr under his saddle. We were just finishing up supper when Tornado piped up with, “Don’t throw out the whistle berries yet, Pete. We got us some company.”
All the boys sat up straight and followed Tornado’s gaze out toward the east, and lo and behold there was a rider heading in for camp. We gave him a few friendly yahoos, and he took off his hat and yahooed us right back. A visitor on the trail is usually a welcome thing indeed, for it breaks up the monotony, offers an opportunity to become acquainted with the latest events of the day, and gives a man a chance to trot out all his favorite jokes, stories, and songs — the ones his compadres grew sick of long ago. Since our only other caller in weeks had been less than a rousing success — that caller being Sweet — everyone was looking forward to doing some real socializing.
Everyone, that is, except for Sweet himself. There were no yahoos from him, and as the stranger rode up and dismounted, Sweet pierced the man with that cactus-prickle stare of his.
“Hello there, fellers,” the stranger said. “Mind if I hitch up my horse and join you?”
“Go right ahead,” Charlie said. “Fix yourself up with a plate off the commissary there and come grab some beans.”
“Thank you.” The man wrapped his reins around a wagon wheel and pulled a plate out of the chuck box. “My name’s Les Pryor.” He started toward the fire, a friendly smile on his dirt-covered face. “I’m—” The plate slipped through his fingers, and the smile followed it toward the ground.
His gaze was stuck on one man — Joe Sweet.
In the instant it took us to realize something was wrong, Pryor had already filled his hand with a gun. “Nobody move,” he said.
Charlie being the trail boss, we all left it to him to ask the obvious question. “What in the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he said.
“My job.” Pryor reached up and gave his chest a couple of swats. Prairie dust billowed off the front of his shirt, and something pinned there took to shining in the firelight. It was a badge.
“George Sweetman,” Pryor said, aiming the words straight at Sweet, “you’re under arrest.”
Sweet muttered a curse that would make a bear blush.
“No use complainin’ about it, Sweetman,” the lawman said. “It’s the rope for you for sure this time.”
The rest of us looked back and forth between the two men, so slackjawed we couldn’t form words. A dime novel was suddenly playing out right in our midst, and we were filled with awe. True to form, it was Tornado who was able to get his mouth working first.
“We don’t know this feller,” he said to Pryor. “He just joined up with us a few days ago.”
“That’s right,” Charlie added. “His horse was dead. He said he’d run across a war party. A few of my men lost their scalps about a week back, so we let him ride with us.”
Pryor flicked a sceptical look in Charlie’s direction. “You the leader of this outfit?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You got any papers to back that up?”
“I sure do. They’re in that saddlebag right over there.” Charlie pointed at his saddle. It was sitting just a few paces from the fire.
“All right. Go get ’em. But if there’s anything in there other than travelin’ papers...”
Charlie got up and started moving slowly toward his gear, his hands spread out before him. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll get this all sorted out right quick.”
A few moments later, Pryor was flipping through the papers as best he could one-handed. The other hand still had a gun in it. And it was still pointed in our general direction.
“What’s your name?” Pryor asked.
“Charlie Higgebottom.”