Part 37 (1/2)

I judged the misfire had had been a miracle, of sorts. Pretty much as if I hadn't been meant to get killed. been a miracle, of sorts. Pretty much as if I hadn't been meant to get killed.

Pondering over that, I saw how I'd squeaked by and survived dicey situations over and over again ever since the night I set out for Whitechapel.

There was the ocean, which should've either swallowed me up or froze me solid long before I ever reached the sh.o.r.e of America.

There was Whittle, who'd butchered so many folks but not me.

Getting chucked off the train by Briggs could've been fatal, all by itself.

Chase had threatened to shoot me. I gave that some thought, though, and allowed it shouldn't count. He'd likely been jos.h.i.+ng, and never actually intended to do such a thing.

The conductor, though, had certainly had a go at me and failed.

Not a bullet had touched me during the gunfight at the saloon. Of course, I don't believe that Prue or the others got off a single shot, so maybe that shouldn't count, either.

But the posse men had taken a great many cracks at me, particularly when McSween and I were leading them into the ambush.

Later on that night, a fellow had creased my side. If he'd been half good with his gun, he would've killed me sure.

All that made for quite a string of close shaves, but then I'd come through the ma.s.sacre at the campsite without taking a hit. Mighty perplexing, when you consider I only just stood there and didn't take cover and the bullets flew so thick and everyone but me bit the dust.

Just call me Ishmael.

I lowered the Colt onto my lap and gazed at how its black steel gleamed in the firelight.

”And I only am escaped alone,” I whispered.

Had to be a reason.

Had to be a reason I'd survived such a pa.s.sel of narrow calls.

The reason had to be Whittle.

I was meant to live long enough, at least, to put him in the ground.

That's how I figured it, anyhow.

And that's how come I decided not to shoot myself, that night, after all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Strangers on the Trail Once I made up my mind to go on living, I still didn't feel any better about being the cause of so many deaths, but I did all of a sudden find myself hungry.

General had wandered off, so I had to chase after him. I brought him back to camp and hobbled him. Then I cooked myself up a pot of beans.

When I got done chowing them down, I set up the tin can and some sticks on the rocks around the fire. Then I stepped back, pulled and fired.

My first shot knocked the tin flying.

I holstered and drew and went for the sticks.

When that gun was empty, I practiced with the other. Left-handed. It came out clumsy for a spell. More often than not, I hit my fire or bounced my bullets off the rocks. But I got better, by and by.

Blazing away, I remembered a chap the boys used to call w.i.l.l.y. w.i.l.l.y'd considered it a great adventure to ride with desperados, smas.h.i.+ng fun to slap leather and fire away at stumps and sticks and cans and such.

I found myself rather missing w.i.l.l.y.

He was dead.

He'd died with McSween and the rest of the gang.

He'd died young, and never got the chance to return home to his mother or to find his sweetheart, Sarah.

Tough break, that.

I don't rightly know who I missed more, w.i.l.l.y or McSween.

McSween, I reckon.

I used up a whole lot of ammunition, taking turns with both hands, and killed me a heap of kindling.

Then I turned in.

The next morning, I came upon a wagon trail. It appeared to be leading west. I was tempted to stay clear of it, for I didn't relish the notion of meeting up with travelers. But the trail would be a sight easier on General than the rough terrain we'd been crossing. We'd make better time on it, and it was bound to take us somewhere.

Seemed a better way to find Tombstone than if I just kept to the trackless wilds and hoped for the best.

So we took it.

Soon enough, some travelers came along. I spotted a couple of hors.e.m.e.n riding toward me. While they were still a good piece in the distance, I gave some thought to steering General off the trail so as to avoid them. But then I judged it might rouse their curiosity. Better just to act natural and pa.s.s them by.

Funny thing was, much as I wanted to be clear of these two strangers, I didn't feel any fear of them. Not even when they were close enough for me to see how ornery they looked. One had a pinched, pointy face that put me in mind of Snooker. The other had a droopy eyelid. Both had the same sort of lazy, smirky ways in how they stared at me.

”Howdy,” I said, and touched the brim of my hat.

”Howdy back,” said the bloke with the droopy lid. I nudged General to go around him, but he raised a hand. ”Hold her up there.”

I did as he asked. Then I dropped the reins over the saddle horn to free my hands. ”Yes sir?” I asked.

The one with the pointy face laughed. ”Yes sir. sir. Ain't he got manners?” Ain't he got manners?”

”He's pretty, too. Just as pretty as a girl.”

”I betcha he is is a girl!” a girl!”