Free The Way West by A. B. Guthrie Jr. Page A

trying to ease himself, while the howl thinned high like a whistle. McBee strode toward the dog, picking up a club as he went, and the dog turned, as if expecting help, and hot the butt of the club on his skull. A boy ran out, crying, and a woman after him. The woman cried out at McBee while the boy bent over his dog, and McBee said something and turned away, toward Evans and Summers, as if his business was too important for him to listen.
   Rock rose on his forelegs. "Lie down, boy!"
   McBee stopped to charge his rifle and saw them and walked over, his face solemn as an owl in its beard. "You got to get rid of that there dog," he said to Evans, "else I'll have to shoot 'im."
   "You ain't goin' to shoot my dog, McBee."
   "It's rules."
   "Rules be damned!"
   "I'm app'inted to carry 'em out. Get shet of the dog or I'll have to kill 'im."
   Evans was a slow man to act. He hadn't angered often enough, Summers thought, to know how to answer to anger. He hunted around for words. "You kill my dog, McBee, and you'll pay for it."
   McBee spit in the grass. "There ain't any gettin' around the rules."
   "I'll draw off from this here company and take them that have dogs with me. Tell Tadlock that."
   Give some men a rifle and a piece of power, Summers thought, and they got too studdish to put up with. "Tell him I told you. Not Rock."
   "I got a job to do."
   Evans stood big beside McBee, though he let himself sag a little, as if ashamed he had more height and heft. An oversized and troubled man, who feared he might do wrong.
   "Lije," Summers asked, "whyn't you cut him down to size?"
   "I ought to, I guess."
   What Evans didn't understand was that McBee might be dangerous now he had a rifle in his hand and importance in his chest.
   Summers got off the ground. "I swear, McBee," he said, "I don't know why someone ain't kilt you!"
   McBee hitched his rifle up, his eyes rounder than before. "It's rules. 'Y God, I got my duty to do."
   "Tell Tadlock," Evans said.
   Summers caught a twitch in McBee's face. He saw the muzzle of the rifle, not quite pointed at him, begin to make a little nervous circle. Scared, McBee was, but trapped in his pride, the mind whirling and the finger shaky on the trigger.
   Summers made his voice soft. "Lookit, now, McBee," he said. "We ain't huntin' trouble." He pointed to Rock. "Look at this old dog-"
   It was easy. As McBee's gaze turned, Summers jumped ahead and made a sweep with his hand and wrenched the rifle away. McBee half fell, trying to hold on to it, and then got his feet under him and backed up a step. Summers could see the inside of his mouth through the mat of whiskers.
   "You ain't gonna get away with this!" McBee's voice came out high and womanish.
   "Like Evans said, you go tell Tadlock."
   "I'll tell him all right." McBee shuffled off, toward the center of the camp, looking back at them once over his shoulder. "We'll have to watch him now," Evans said. "Yep."
   "There wasn't any reason for you to bust in," Evans said. "would've made out -but not so fast."
   "Sure. I just acted sudden. Rememberin' that black dog got me riled, I reckon."
   Evans fell silent, and Summers thought he didn't want to talk more about McBee, maybe figuring he had made a poor out of it. To change the subject Summers said, "What about old Ephesians?"
   "Who?" "Weatherby."
   "What about him?"
   "He make out all right, with his plunder?"
   Evans shook his big head. "He ain't got nothin', Dick. Couple of poor horses and maybe a thunder-mug o' meal. I got to report him."
   "You talk to him?"
   "Said he'd go it alone if he couldn't trail along. Just him and God. I got to report."
   "Leave McBee time to talk to Tadlock." Summers let his eyes travel over the spread-out camp. He saw a group of men and McBee making for it.
   "All right." Evans looked at the sun. "Time enough, I guess." They