ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

He walked over to the stack of firewood and gathered up an armful. Then he walked back into the house and put it down on the floor. It took him almost a half hour until firewood lay covering the floor like a blanket, three layers thick. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment then turned and went outside again.

He took the harness down from the lean-to wall and hitched the mules up to the wagon. He picked up a crate and went through the pen, throwing all the chickens into it. He placed the crate in the wagon. Then one by one, he lifted the sheep into the wagon and tied them to the floor rings.

He led the team of mules and the wagon around to the front of the cabin and tied the bay horse's lead to the back of the wagon. Then he walked them all to the road about two hundred yards from the house and tethered the team to a small scrub tree and went back to the house.

He picked up the pitch bucket and went inside. Slowly he smeared the pitch over the firewood that lay on the floor. He kept his eyes down and away from the bodies of his parents. He stopped at the door and smeared the last of the pitch on that.

He hesitated a moment, then remembering something, he went back into the cabin. He reached up on the shelf where his father had kept his rifle and pistol but they were not there. He pushed his hand farther along the shelf and felt something soft. He took it down.

It was a new buckskin shirt and breeches his mother had made for him. It was bright and soft and clean-chamois colored. Again his eyes filled with sudden tears. He rolled it up under his arm and went back to the door.

He held a match to the pitch stick until it was blazing brightly. After holding it for a second more to make sure, he threw it into the cabin and stepped back from the open door.

He looked up at the sky in sudden surprise. The sun had just gone down and night had fallen in quick anger. The stars stared balefully down on him.

A cloud of heavy, billowing smoke poured out of the doorway. Suddenly, there was a crack like thunder and a flame leaped through the doorway as the tinder-dry wood caught fire.

He walked down to the road and got up on the wagon and began to drive to town. He did not look back until three miles later, when he reached the top of a small rise.

There was a bright-orange flame reaching high into the sky where his home had been.

HE DROVE THE WAGON INTO THE YARD BEHIND Olsen's Livery Stable. Then he got down and walked across to the house that stood next to it. He climbed up the back steps and knocked at the door.

"Mister Olsen," he called out.

A shadow darkened the light of the window. The door opened and Olsen stood there. "Max!" he said. "What you doin' back here?"

Max stared up into Olsen's face. "They killed my ma and pa," he said.

"Killed?" Olsen exclaimed in surprise. '"Who killed?"

Attracted by the sound of her husband's voice, Mrs. Olsen appeared in the doorway behind him.

"The three men," Max said. "They asked me an' I gave them the directions to my house. An' they killed 'em." He hesitated a moment and his voice almost broke. "An' they stole Pa's hoss an' took his rifle an' pistol, too."

Mrs. Olsen saw into the shock that lay behind the boy's facade of calm. She pushed her husband out of the way and reached out to Max. "You come inside an' let me fix you somethin' hot to drink," she said.

He looked into her eyes. "They ain't time, ma'am," he said. "I got to be gettin' after them." He turned to Olsen. "I got the mules an' the wagon an' four sheep an' sixteen chickens outside in the yard. Would you give me a hundred dollars an' the pinto for 'em?"

Olsen nodded. "Why, sure, boy," he said. The mules and the wagon alone were worth three times that. "I’ll even give you the big bay if you want. He's a better hoss. An' I'll throw in a saddle, too."

Max shook his head. "No, thank you, Mr. Olsen. I want a pony I can ride without a saddle an' one that's used to the plains. He won't have as much to tote an' I'll move faster that way."

"All right, if that's the way you want it."

"Can I have the money now?" Max asked.

"Sure, boy," Olsen answered. He turned back into the room.

Mrs. Olsen's voice stopped him. "Oh, no, you're not," she said. She drew Max into the house firmly. "First, he's goin' to eat something. Then he's goin' to sleep. Time enough in the morning for him to start."

"But they'll be further away by then," Max protested.

"No they won't," she said with woman's logic. "They got to stop to sleep, too. They won't be any further ahead of you then than they are right now."

She closed the door behind him and led him over to the table. She pushed him into a chair and placed a plate of soup in front of him. Automatically he began to eat.

"I’ll go outside an' unhitch the team," Mr. Olsen said.

When he came back into the house, Max was sleeping, his head resting in his crossed arms on the table.

Mrs. Olsen gestured her husband to silence. "You just can't let him go after those men by himself," she whispered.

"I got to go, ma'am." Max's voice came over her shoulder.

She turned around and looked at him. "You can't," she cried out. "They're grown men an' they'll hurt you. Why, you're just a boy!"

He looked up into her face and she was aware for the first time of the pride that glowed deep in those dark-blue eyes. "They hurt me all they're goin' to, ma'am," he said. "I'm 'bout sixteen, an' with my mother's people, a boy ain't a boy no more once he's sixteen. He's a man."

On his second day out of Dodge, he slowed his pinto to a walk and studied the side of the road carefully. After a few minutes, he stopped and dismounted. He looked along the edge of the road carefully.

The four horses had stopped here. They had milled around for a little while and then two of them had gone back onto the road toward Virginia City. The other two had gone eastward across the plains.

He remounted and rode along the plains, his eyes searching out the trail until he found what he was looking for. One of the horses had been his father's. He recognized the shoe marking in the soft earth. It was lighter than the other marking, which meant he was not being ridden, but led. It also meant that the man up ahead must have been the leader, otherwise they wouldn't have let him take the horse, which was the most valuable thing they had stolen.

A few miles farther along the trail, he saw some horse droppings. He stopped his horse and jumped down. He kicked at the dung with his foot. It was not more than seven hours old. They had wasted more time along the trail than he'd thought they would. He got back on the pinto and pushed on.

He rode most of that night, following the trail in the bright moonlight. By the evening of the next day, he was less than an hour behind his quarry.

He looked up at the sky. It was about seven o'clock and would be dark soon. The man would be stopping to make camp if he hadn't already. Max got off his horse and waited for night to fall.

While he sat there, he cut a forked branch from a scrub tree and fitted a round stone onto it. Then he bound the stone to the crotch with thin strips of leather, winding them down the branch to make a handle. When he was finished, he had a war club as good as any he'd learned to make the summer he spent with the Kiowa.

It was dark then and he got to his feet, fastening the club to his belt. He took the horse by the halter and started forward cautiously on foot.

He walked slowly, his ears alert for any strange sound, his nostrils sniffing at the breeze for the scent of a campfire.

He was in luck, for he caught the scent of the campfire from about a quarter mile away. He tied the pinto to a bush and pulled the rifle from the pack on the horse's back. Silently he moved forward.