Free Way of the Gun (9781101597804) by Charles G. West

area of the dead.
    Once they settled down for the day, Carson spent a great deal of thought trying to evaluate his chances of ridding himself of the three outlaws. He had no doubt that any attempt to part company peacefully was out of the question. Red Shirt would never permit anyone who had witnessed his murder of a U.S. deputy marshal to ride off alive. No, he decided, he had no choice but to go along with them and hope they didn’t put him in a position where he was unable to fake his participation. Before long, he was bound to get an opportunity to slip away and head for Montana, as had been his original intent. In the meantime, he would let them think he was a willing participant in whatever crimes they were planning.
    The evening was spent sitting around the fire, consuming much of the provisions that Luther Moody had brought, and talking about which direction to head when morning came. Carson learned that their destination had been the Black Hills before they happened upon the deputy marshal. Red Shirt held that there was no reason to change his mind. There were more miners staking out claims now that the Indians were not as big a threat. And small camps of one, two, or more men could be found on every little stream that emptied out of the hills into the prairie. These little camps were easy pickings, and it was unlikely anyone would ever find the bodies. “We’ll get rid of some of these horses at Crazy Jack’s,” Red Shirt said. He knew the old man who ran a trading post on the Cheyenne River had no use for horses, but he would trade for them because he knew they would be cheap. Red Shirt did not want to be bothered with driving extra horses. Crazy Jack knew that, and Red Shirt knew he knew it, so the trading of horses usually went fast.
    When Carson asked Swann who Crazy Jack was, Swann told him the origin of the man’s name. “Damned old fool built him a tradin’ post up on the upper end of the Cheyenne River, back up in the hill country. It ain’t no place for a white man in the middle of all that Injun country, and nobody but a crazy man woulda done it. The Injuns knowed he was teched in the head, so they never bothered him. Jack says they’ll come around once in a while to trade some skins or somethin’, mostly three or four at a time, and he’ll give ’em a biscuit or a piece of peppermint. Then they go on off and leave him be. I expect that’s who he trades the horses to.”
    When it came time to turn in, Carson rolled out his blanket a good way back from the fire with the thought in mind that he might take a chance on departing during the night. As he spread his blanket, he glanced up to find Red Shirt watching him. “Don’t pay no mind to ol’ Swann there,” Red Shirt told him. “He don’t sleep so good. He gets up all night to piss.”
    â€œI can’t help it,” Swann spoke up. “Somethin’s wrong with my pee bag. It don’t hold the water no more.”
    â€œThat’s cause he’s gettin’ too old to be worth a damn for anything,” Red Shirt said scornfully.
    â€œNow, you know that ain’t so,” Swann replied in his own defense. “I ain’t slowed down a hair.”
    His immediate response seemed to amuse Red Shirt. It seemed a pointless conversation to Carson. Unless, he thought, it was a hint from Red Shirt that someone would be watching him during the night. Looking at the smirking half-breed, Carson could well imagine that to be his intent. He decided then that he might have to wait until they became comfortable with him before he made an attempt to desert.
    The next morning, they ate a breakfast of more of the late Luther Moody’s food supply, then saddled up and headed north, following the same trail Carson had ridden south the day before. Instead of following the Laramie River to its confluence with the Platte, however, they veered to the west far enough to stay