Chapter 3

Hell, I had no idea that being a bounty hunter was going to be so easy or so profitable. I had more money than I knew what to do with. An Indian could easily live in complete comfort for five or more years with this much money. My conscience began to gnaw at me a little bit—here I was a rich man and couldn't spend so much money and my family back at the village needed some things that the money could easily supply. There was no question about it, I had to go home a give some of my riches to Gray Eagle. Even if he didn't need it, others in the village sure could use the money.

OK, I'll admit it, I was a little homesick. The next morning, I gathered up my stuff and headed back to my village. It took me a week to get there, and when I did, I was greeted like I had been away for years. My father and mothers were all over me with hugs and grins that outshown the moon. I had only been gone for about a month, but it seemed like forever.

I gave Gray Eagle half of my money and asked him to use it to help anybody in need. He was amazed when I told of how I had earned the money, and he glowed with pride that he had done such a good job of teaching me the ways of the Apache warrior.

I stayed for a week and was much sought after by the unmarried girls, but I was not ready to settle down yet, so I thanked them for their interest. I said that I still had some things that I had to do before I became a family man. Most of them were unhappy with me for that, but I made no enemies because I did not spend the night in any girl's hut. I told them that I would be coming back, though I didn't know when, and none of them should wait on me. At 13 years old, I was still full of wanderlust.

I left with my same three horses and with my pack so full of gifts and food that the poor horse was overloaded. I was well stocked with pemmican, so I could go for more than a month with just the food I had on hand, but my mothers made me promise that I would eat other things. They didn't want me getting fat and lazy.

I wandered out toward El Paso, more out of curiosity than anything else. I did stop off at the first courthouse I came on to pick up any new wanted posters. One caught my eye, a certain Red Eye McCall, who was wanted for train robbery. He was a real braggart and a fool. His name came from the fact that he only had one eye, and he wore a red marble in the empty socket. He claimed it gave him some sort of magical protection.

I don't know if he believed that, but it did make a good story. It sure made him easy to recognize, but he was reputed to be so fast with a gun that he always got off the first shot. That first shot was supposed to be all that he ever needed. There was a big reward on his head, $1,000, dead or alive, but I think that most people would have preferred dead. He was a real piece of work, since he was said to have killed three Texas Rangers and a US Marshal. No wonder the reward was so big. I never expected to see him, but his poster did grab my attention.

After three weeks of ambling along just enjoying life, I got pretty close to El Paso and ran into a change of luck. I really can't imagine what brought him to this part of the world, but I topped a little hill and saw a man sitting beside the road. He was dressed the part of a dude like you would never believe. He was wearing what looked like black silk trousers and a white shirt, and a frock coat of sky blue. He had a black silk top hat and the fanciest walking cane I ever saw.

His horse was obviously dead, and he appeared to be waiting for help to come. He might have waited for days, since this was not a very busy road, but, luckily for him, I happened along. I found out that his name was J. Oswald Witherspoon, and he was lately from New York City. I offered him the use of my spare horse, and he gratefully accepted. He had little to move to my horse, since he always stayed in hotels and ate in restaurants. He had one canteen for water (not enough in this country) and a saddlebag which I didn't ask about, since it was none of my business.

It seemed that his horse had been bitten by a rattlesnake. He had killed it with his pistol which he carried in a saddle holster. It was something that I had heard of, but never seen: it was a double-action .44-40 caliber revolver custom made in England. It was a top-break like mine, and it was so well balanced that it seemed to float in my hand when he let me take a few shots with it. I never could remember who made it, but it was a dream to use. The cylinder held seven bullets and it had a startling device that made it safe to load all seven chambers. The only way to fire the pistol was to grip the handle and pull the trigger; banging hard on the hammer would not make it shoot accidentally. OK, I admit that I was jealous from the moment Oswald let me handle that gun.

We rode on a few miles and came to a small town. Oswald insisted that I let him buy me supper (he called it dinner) in exchange for my kindness on the road. Well, I admitted to being hungry, so we went to the hotel and registered (he paid for my room). We then went to the attached restaurant, and Oswald asked to see the menu. It was kind of sparse, but there were some Mexican dishes that could be right tasty, especially if you liked hot peppers.

Oswald was intrigued by the Mexican stuff, so he asked for a sampler of everything on the menu. At first the waiter thought he was kidding, but Oswald dropped a double-eagle on the table, and the waiter decided that he was serious. Most of the Mexican food was made up ahead of time in pots and kept hot on the stove, so we got our order pretty damned quick. I'm pretty sure that double-eagle had something to do with the speed of service.

Oswald nearly exploded with his first bite of something really hot with peppers. He later said that he was used to Yankee food which was pretty bland compared to this. The waiter and I calmed down the fire with bread and water, and he started taking smaller bites. Oswald got the hang of it pretty soon, and he claimed that it was the best food he had eaten since he left New York City. I was glad he was happy, but I thought that it was just ordinary tasting. My mothers, especially Little Dove, could cook a hell of a lot better than this. Oh, well, I just chalked it up to ignorance. Anyway, the waiter and the cook were very pleased, especially when Oswald gave them the double-eagle as a tip.

Oswald asked if I would join him in the saloon. Well, I was headed that way, any how, to talk to the bartender, so I agreed. I talked to the bartender while Oswald joined a poker game. He played for about an hour, and I fooled around a bit, but I was ready to leave. I walked up behind him and stood there waiting for him to finish the hand he was involved in.

I wasn't paying much attention when Oswald slammed his cards down on the table and demanded that the dealer, who was a pro if I ever saw one, give him the card that he had just moved to the bottom of the deck. Now, I didn't know much about poker, but I did know that such action was illegal. The dealer shouted, "HOW DARE YOU CALL ME A CHEAT!" and fired a Derringer directly into Oswald's chest. That .51 caliber bullet made quite a dent in Oswald's chest, and, without thinking, I drew and shot the poker sharp between the eyes.

The marshal happened to be in the room, so he dashed over and asked me, "Who are ya?"

I said, "I'm John Oglethorpe and this is my friend Oswald Witherspoon from New York City. He ain't armed, so I stuck up for him." Oswald had left his gun with his baggage in the hotel room.

The marshal bent over Oswald to verify that he had not been armed. As he did, Oswald gasped something and died. The marshal straightened up and said, "Ya're

right, he ain't armed. That makes yer shot justified in my book. Yer friend said ta me jus' afore he died that he wanted ya ta have everything of his that ya might want."