fellow was sure to leave scars wherever he struck.
It was, on the whole, a wild and easy life for his offspring, of course. They had plenty of beef and fish; they could dig vegetables out of the vegetable patch; their horses were a splendid big race of animals; they were all allowed to spend a share of the cash income on clothes and foolishness; plenty of moonshine whisky was made on the place, and for houses they built on crooked wings and sprawling additions to the great log cabin of the old man. On the whole, it was a life for wild Indians. The only modern improvements that the old man permitted were the big steel locks on the doors.
I thought of these things when I came down from the headwaters of the creek, along which I expected to find Clonmel, and Silver, and Taxi. I was thinking so busily about them that I ran into a whang of trouble. I rode around a bend of the stream and heard a voice croak at me, and saw a young Cary pointing his rifle at my head.
I don't think he was more than fifteen. His brown spindle shanks were only half covered by ragged overalls with half a pair of suspenders to hold them up. His shirt was a sun-faded rag of blue and white. His head stuck up like a big fist on a lean, sinewy forearm. But he was a Cary, all right. I could tell it by the black of his shaggy hair and by the black of his bright eyes.
I could tell it by something fiercely unrelenting in his manner, which made him seem eager to treat me as he would have treated a wolf or a deer. Men told strange tales of things that had happened up here beyond the law. This lad had bare feet and a fine new repeating rifle. That was what you would expect in a Cary. They were men who didn't know how to miss with a gun, whatever else they might miss in life.
"Who are you, stranger?" he asked.
"My name is Bill Avon," said I.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked.
"Looking for some cattle to buy," said I.
"Ain't the time of year we sell cows," said he. "You know that."
"No, I don't know that," said I.
"Why would you wanta buy cows here?"
"Because I've heard that they can be bought cheap."
"Where do you live?"
"Away over there between Blue Water and Belling Lake. I've got a ranch."
"Yeah?" said the boy.
He kept the rifle on me. There was no let-up in the fierce brightness of his eyes, the cruelty in them. Something kept pulling at his mouth, and it was not kindness that kept it twitching. Young people like to kill for the sake of killing, and this lad was not only young but he was a Cary.
The story was that no one was an acceptable member of the clan until he had killed his man. It was certain that all the young men left Cary Valley and journeyed here and there through the West. About half of them or more never came back. Those who returned wore scars, as a rule.
I have even heard it said that every single male in Cary Valley had killed his man. This I don't vouch for, but it's a common superstition among a lot of people who ought to know what they're talking about. No wonder my flesh was creeping more than a little as I faced this young savage.
He kept turning the idea of me in his mind like a bird on a spit.
"You go on with your hunting, and I'll ride on and see your folks," said I.
He grinned at me.
"You think I'm a fool. You're a fool for thinking so," said he.
"What's your name?" I asked him.
"Chuck," said he.
"Chuck," said I, "you ought not to look at a stranger as though he were a freak of nature or a snake. What's wrong about a fellow riding into your valley?"
"Nobody's asked here; nobody's wanted here; nobody but a fool or a crook would try to break in," said Chuck.
"All right, then," said I patiently. "If that's the way you people feel about it, I'll have to turn around and get out."
"Yeah. Go on and git," said Chuck.
I turned the horse, glad to be headed away from that young panther.
"Wait a minute!" he sang out.
I pulled the reins and turned my head.
"Maybe I'll take you on to the house," said he.
"That
It was, on the whole, a wild and easy life for his offspring, of course. They had plenty of beef and fish; they could dig vegetables out of the vegetable patch; their horses were a splendid big race of animals; they were all allowed to spend a share of the cash income on clothes and foolishness; plenty of moonshine whisky was made on the place, and for houses they built on crooked wings and sprawling additions to the great log cabin of the old man. On the whole, it was a life for wild Indians. The only modern improvements that the old man permitted were the big steel locks on the doors.
I thought of these things when I came down from the headwaters of the creek, along which I expected to find Clonmel, and Silver, and Taxi. I was thinking so busily about them that I ran into a whang of trouble. I rode around a bend of the stream and heard a voice croak at me, and saw a young Cary pointing his rifle at my head.
I don't think he was more than fifteen. His brown spindle shanks were only half covered by ragged overalls with half a pair of suspenders to hold them up. His shirt was a sun-faded rag of blue and white. His head stuck up like a big fist on a lean, sinewy forearm. But he was a Cary, all right. I could tell it by the black of his shaggy hair and by the black of his bright eyes.
I could tell it by something fiercely unrelenting in his manner, which made him seem eager to treat me as he would have treated a wolf or a deer. Men told strange tales of things that had happened up here beyond the law. This lad had bare feet and a fine new repeating rifle. That was what you would expect in a Cary. They were men who didn't know how to miss with a gun, whatever else they might miss in life.
"Who are you, stranger?" he asked.
"My name is Bill Avon," said I.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked.
"Looking for some cattle to buy," said I.
"Ain't the time of year we sell cows," said he. "You know that."
"No, I don't know that," said I.
"Why would you wanta buy cows here?"
"Because I've heard that they can be bought cheap."
"Where do you live?"
"Away over there between Blue Water and Belling Lake. I've got a ranch."
"Yeah?" said the boy.
He kept the rifle on me. There was no let-up in the fierce brightness of his eyes, the cruelty in them. Something kept pulling at his mouth, and it was not kindness that kept it twitching. Young people like to kill for the sake of killing, and this lad was not only young but he was a Cary.
The story was that no one was an acceptable member of the clan until he had killed his man. It was certain that all the young men left Cary Valley and journeyed here and there through the West. About half of them or more never came back. Those who returned wore scars, as a rule.
I have even heard it said that every single male in Cary Valley had killed his man. This I don't vouch for, but it's a common superstition among a lot of people who ought to know what they're talking about. No wonder my flesh was creeping more than a little as I faced this young savage.
He kept turning the idea of me in his mind like a bird on a spit.
"You go on with your hunting, and I'll ride on and see your folks," said I.
He grinned at me.
"You think I'm a fool. You're a fool for thinking so," said he.
"What's your name?" I asked him.
"Chuck," said he.
"Chuck," said I, "you ought not to look at a stranger as though he were a freak of nature or a snake. What's wrong about a fellow riding into your valley?"
"Nobody's asked here; nobody's wanted here; nobody but a fool or a crook would try to break in," said Chuck.
"All right, then," said I patiently. "If that's the way you people feel about it, I'll have to turn around and get out."
"Yeah. Go on and git," said Chuck.
I turned the horse, glad to be headed away from that young panther.
"Wait a minute!" he sang out.
I pulled the reins and turned my head.
"Maybe I'll take you on to the house," said he.
"That
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