“I—I can’t do any more. We—we just have to wait to see if the drugs work now.”
“How long?”
“At least till morning. He may be lucid then—but only for a while, I should think. I—I really don’t think he’s going to pull through.”
“That doesn’t matter, long as he tells me what I want to know first.” Garrett gave the doctor a false, crooked smile. “You did okay, Doc. Go get yourself some coffee and take a rest. We’ll wake you if we need you.”
The medic stiffened.
“I—I wasn’t planning on being away from town overnight. I have a wife, a new bride—”
Matt Garrett laughed.
“Why, you sly little fox. So that’s what you had on your mind all along. And here was us thinkin’ you was nervous because you was with us.” The others laughed, too, and the doctor gave a sickly smile. “Well, don’t you worry none, Doc. If she’s young, she’ll make a good-lookin’ widow and soon find someone else to take care of her and keep her bed warm, eh?”
The medic’s legs collapsed and Charlie caught him. At a sign from Garrett, he dragged the man away to the rear of the cave and dumped him on the damp ground. Charlie stood guard over the frightened man as he began retching.
Garrett slept sitting against the wall near Steve Dann. The wounded outlaw opened his eyes just before dawn and looked around in the dim light of the dying fire. He tried to move and groaned. Matt Garrett was instantly awake, leaning forward, face close to Dann.
“Steve? You hear me?”
Dann stared back with glazed eyes and after a long spell his lips moved slowly.
“M—Matt?”
“Yeah, it’s me, old pard.” He grabbed Dann’s shoulder, shook him gently. Dann moaned. “Sorry, Steve, but this is important. You took a shotgun charge in the back when we were ridin’ out of Seymour. It’s pretty bad. I got you a sawbones and he’ll take care of you all right, but you can’t ride yet awhile. Listen, pard. About that Matador bank money.” He laughed briefly. “You ain’t yet told me where you hid it. Now we need some dinero if we’re gonna get away and if you tell me where you hid it, I’ll go get it while you’re recoverin’. Then, when I come back, we’ll all head out someplace beyond the law. Okay?”
Dann stared uncomprehendingly and Garrett’s lips thinned but he forced himself to speak affably as he urged the dying man to reveal the hiding place of the loot.
“We seen you ridin’ out with the packhorse in town after Vinnie got it,” Garrett said. “We covered your tracks for you to give you a chance to get clear away. You came back to the rendezvous in Seymour but you ain’t told us where the hell you put the loot. Come on, Steve. We need that money.”
Dann’s eyes cleared a little and focused briefly.
“My—hat,” he whispered hoarsely, all strength gone from his voice. “Conchas—scratched on—back—”
He coughed and his body shook.
“Get that goddamn sawbones over here,” Garrett roared.
Charlie dragged the half-awake medic across and flung him down on his knees beside the convulsing man. His hands shook badly as he made a brief examination and then, still kneeling, he looked up at Garrett and shook his head.
“I’m—I’m sorry—he’s going.”
“Do somethin’, damn it!” Garrett roared, gun in hand, threateningly.
“I—I can’t! It’s too late!”
Garrett placed his gun muzzle against the terrified man’s head and dropped the hammer. The medic’s shuddering body fell across Dann just as the outlaw ceased to writhe and there came the sound of the death rattle in his throat. Garrett kicked him savagely in the side.
“It’s in his hat. Scratched on one of the conchas in the hat band, goddamn it. And he ain’t got his hat. He picked up the wrong one durin’ the escape. That damned kid, the Viking, has got Dann’s hat.”
The outlaws cursed and swore and muttered amongst themselves, none of them feeling any compassion for Dann’s passing. They didn’t feel anything about the murder of the young doctor.
Matt Garrett slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Hell, that Viking hombre was with the old buffalo hunter. What was his name? Fargo. Yeah, Smoky Fargo. He said they’d head out into buffalo country. Guess that means way out beyond the Red River. But there ain’t a helluva lot of hunters camped out there now. Looks like I better go see if I can find this hombre who’s wearin’ Steve’s hat.”
Charlie and the others looked at him soberly.
“Looks like we all better, Matt,” Arnie said quietly and the others murmured agreement.
Matt Garrett glared at them, then nodded curtly.
“We pull out come sunup. It’ll be a week or more before we even get there. I sure as hell hope he don’t throw the hat away before we find him.”
~*~
Smoky Fargo caught and killed several ground squirrels three days after they crossed the Red River. He gutted them, skinned them, then split the small carcasses and spread them out on rocks to dry in the sun for a day or so. He told Erik that they would keep this way for several days and would see them on the fast run across the plains to the buffalo country.
“Why it is necessary that we travel so fast here?” Erik asked.
“Indians,” answered Fargo.
While the squirrels were drying, Fargo showed Erik how to make several kinds of primitive fish hooks from the bones of a jackrabbit they had killed and eaten roasted on a greenstick split the night before. The first was a simple ‘skewer’ hook, which was really only a single section of bone with its ends rubbed to sharp points on a stone. This was tied to an end of cordage made from animal sinews and by twisting fibers of grass and vines together. The idea was to bait the hook and when the fish, or even water rat or water bird, swallowed it, to jerk hard. The points jammed against the animal’s throat and it was caught. The other type of hook was shaped more like the conventional idea of a fishhook, with a short section of sharpened bone tied across the end of a longer section, forming a kind of ‘V, but with one side about twice as long as the other. Provided the binding was tight where the two bones crossed, this was an efficient hook and Fargo demonstrated it by catching a freshwater bass just on sundown.
They ate well that night and, afterwards, sitting round the campfire, hidden inside a circle of tall rocks, Fargo used his cordage to sew up the squirrel skins. He left a small opening in each end and had Erik cut small wooden plugs to fit these openings.
“Our water bags,” he said, holding up the skins. “Won’t hold a lot, but they’ll see us across the plains. Water might taste kinda bloody and if you think you won’t be able to drink it, you wait till you get halfway across with the noon sun boilin’ your brain in your skull. Or Injuns stalkin’ you and keepin’ you well away from any other source of water. You’ll drink ’er down, all right, like it was ice cold beer.”
Erik had his doubts about that but Smoky was right: next day, out on the sun-scorched plains, he was glad to drink even the blood-tinged water from the squirrel bags. And he chewed with relish on the sundried meat of the little animals. It was tough and tasteless but filling.
The Indians were there, on the horizon most times, watching the white men make their way out into the wild country. But for some reason, they made no attempt to stop their passage, though one morning, Fargo found tracks around their campsite that showed at least one Indian had come down to have a closer look while they slept.
They came to some woods and Fargo showed Erik how to build snares to trap small animals for food. They lived well enough for the two days they were in the woods and then they left the trees and came to a land of rolling hills and tall grass. The wind rippled through it, making patterns like waves at sea.
Then, one morning, they topped a rise and Fargo halted, taking off his hat and wiping a forearm across his sweating forehead before pointing out a faint haze of smoke hanging against the hot sky.
“That’s the fires from my camp,” he said. “Indian s
quaws likely smokin’ hides or makin’ buckskin. They’re down in an arroyo we won’t see till we’re nearly right on it.” He grinned and clapped a gnarled hand onto Erik’s shoulder. “We’re about home, amigo. Tonight you wrap yourself around the biggest and juiciest buffalo steak you’ve ever seen.” He let out a wild yell, kicked his heels into his trail-weary mount, and urged it down the far slope.
Erik, too, gave a tremendous whoop and raced his mount after the old buffalo hunter. He was about to ride into the true west that he had longed to see ever since he was a child.
And he knew he could never have made it at all without the help of Smoky Fargo teaching him how to survive in the wilderness. He literally owed Fargo his life.
Five – Man-Hunters, Buff-Hunters
Yancey Bannerman was in no mood for Buck Richards’ pettiness when he met the sheriff in Seymour.
Richards was still recovering from the wound he had received while chasing after Garrett and his bunch. The bullet had caught him on the angle and had slanted up off a bone without actually cracking it. But the impact had knocked him out, a fact which probably saved his life. For, if he had been moaning and crawling around like some other posse members, wounded by Garrett’s men, he would have been dead now. The outlaws had walked around to the wounded and finished them off. It all came down to the fact that Richards was the only man left alive on that mountain slope after the Garrett bunch had ridden out.
Those of the posse who had managed to escape, came back later and, by that time, he had managed to get onto his feet and had started the long walk back to Seymour. Apart from having lost a considerable amount of blood, Richards was all right and his wound was progressing well when Yancey arrived and demanded to know the truth about Erik Larsen’s involvement with Garrett.
“Don’t come in here givin’ me a hard time, Bannerman,” Richards snapped. “This is my bailiwick. I’m handlin’ this whole deal. Ain’t no call for the Enforcers to start trespassin’ on my ground.”
“You’re not handling it any too well from what I hear,” Yancey said crisply. “Forget that I’m an Enforcer; I’m interested in Erik Larsen. And how the hell come you got him labeled as part of Garrett’s bunch.”
“Because he is one of them!”
“Hogwash,” Yancey told him quietly. “I know Erik. He’s no outlaw. But I heard about how he busted up your looks some, Richards. Seems to me you’re just tryin’ to make things hard as you can for him.”
Richards’ eyes narrowed.
“It can seem to you like anythin’ at all, Bannerman, but I’m the law here and I say he was one of Garrett’s men, same as that old fool, Fargo. The brawl was staged in the saloon. Don’t ask me why, ’cause I dunno, but it was. Then they all busted out and half my posse was wiped out in an ambush.”
“Erik and this Fargo were with Garrett during this ambush?”
“Guess they must’ve been.”
Yancey stared hard at him.
“Then how come you got two citizens screamin’ that their private mounts were taken the same night, after the posse had gone on the trail of Garrett’s crew? Seems to me Erik and Fargo hung back and lit out on their own afterwards. And in the opposite direction.”
Richards refused to meet Yancey’s gaze. He rubbed at his bandaged chest.
“I played the cards I was dealt,” he said stubbornly.
“You ought to look at ’em more closely, then. I see you got Erik listed as an escaped prisoner and you’re tryin’ to get a bounty put on his head. If I was you, I’d ease up on that, mister. Maybe he escaped, but he shouldn’t have been in jail with wanted killers and robbers in the first place. I aim to do some askin’ around, Richards. Could be I’ll be back to see you.”
“Don’t bother,” the sheriff snapped as Yancey went out the door. “Just get the hell out of my bailiwick.”
Yancey went to the saloon and spoke to several men who had witnessed the brawl. All were adamant that Erik had stepped in only after Smoky Fargo was down and being brutally worked-over by Steve Dann. Yancey sighed; it was the kind of fool thing the young Viking would do. He learned, too, that Fargo was well-known around these parts. He was a buffalo hunter of the old school who came in for a high time now and again and usually finished up in jail for being drunk and disorderly. Yancey’s mouth tightened when he heard this: obviously Richards must’ve known the old man had nothing to do with Garrett.
Checking further, the trail took Yancey back to Larkin where, after throwing his weight around a little and using his official Enforcer status, he learned about the poker game and how the men had set out to trail Erik. After a brief talk with one of the men involved—during which few words were exchanged until Yancey’s knuckles were sore and the man had lost some teeth and skin—the Enforcer learned about the ambush that Erik had set up and how he had taken the horse of one of the townsmen.
Technically, it might be called stealing, but Yancey had an assurance from the horse’s owner that no charges would be pressed. He had to ask the man to repeat this twice as his voice was muffled somewhat by the blood-stained kerchief he held against his mouth.
Yancey rode hell-for-leather back to Seymour. He had been absent two days and he was glad to see Buck Richards getting around pretty spryly when he stalked into the lawman’s office, thumbing back his hat.
“You petty-minded son of a bitch,” Yancey said without preamble, yanking the man out of his chair and shaking him violently. He flung him through the doorway and out into the street where Richards rolled across the boardwalk and fell into the gutter. Folk stopped to stare as the red-faced sheriff climbed to his feet and dusted himself down. Yancey stepped out and cuffed him across the side of the head, sending the man staggering and stumbling. Richards put down a hand to keep from falling all the way and blinked tears of pain from his eyes as he thrust upright again.
With a snarl, he lunged back at Yancey, hurling the handful of gravel he had picked up into the Enforcer’s face. Yancey clawed at his eyes and then doubled over part way as two hard fists ripped into his midriff. He caught another blow on the side of his jaw and staggered back against the law office wall. Richards leapt in and drove a kick at his belly.
Yancey turned sideways but still caught some of the force of the blow. He grunted and his knees buckled momentarily. Richards slammed him in the chest and then Yancey straightened, took a blow on his forearm and smashed a clubbing blow down into the sheriff’s face.
Richards stopped dead, his busted nose spurting blood. Yancey hooked him in the mid-section, banged his head back into the wall with an uppercut. Then he grabbed the man’s blood-spotted shirtfront and heaved him bodily out into the street. Richards landed on all fours, skidded and collapsed on his face. Yancey walked out as Richards started to get up, placed his boot on the back of the man’s head and shoved his face down into the dust again.
“You got your pretty-boy looks spoiled and figured to brand a man outlaw because of it,” Yancey panted. “You’re scum, Richards, but the damage is done. Now I’m gonna have to try to undo it, but first you send wires to the governor and all law agencies and tell ’em that Erik Larsen’s no longer a wanted man.” He leaned forward as Richards strained to say something. He eased up the pressure just a little. “What’s that?”
Richards lifted his face out of the dust and spat a mouthful of dirt, aware that many townsfolk were gathered to watch.
“He stole a horse from town. Escaped from legal custody.”
Yancey shoved his face back into the street—none too gently.
“I reckon you can forget them charges, eh? You agree?”
As well as he could, Richards finally nodded his head and Yancey took his boot away, then allowed the man to sit up in the dust, his face caked with dirt that clung to the blood oozing from his nostrils and mouth. He murmured something.
“What you sayin’?” Yancey asked him sharply.
“I’m sayin’ I still want the bounty on Garrett and Dann. I had ’em in jail. That money was mine. I aim
to get it.”
“Then you’ll have to catch ’em again.”
“I aim to.” He looked at Yancey quizzically. “Mebbe we could work together, Bannerman?”
“I reckon not. Like I said, anyway, it appears the two horses stolen from town went in the other direction to Garrett.”
“Yeah, but—” Richards stopped abruptly and looked like he could have bitten his tongue out for speaking at all. He wouldn’t meet Yancey’s gaze.
“What is it?” Yancey snapped. “Come on, Richards. What were you gonna say? What d’you know that I don’t?”
Yancey drew back a threatening boot and the sheriff winced, pulled his head back involuntarily. Then he sighed.
“Okay. While you was down at Larkin, there’s been a sightin’ of Garrett’s bunch. Headin’ up towards the Red River. Buffalo country.”
Yancey frowned.
“Well, there’s no law out there, I guess. Could be headed that way for that reason, I reckon. But it seems a bit strange that that’s the same way Erik and this Fargo hombre went. They have anything that Garrett might want?”
Richards looked genuinely puzzled as he shook his head.
“Okay,” Yancey said. “But I’ll handle this alone. What you do is your business, Richards. Unless it cuts across mine again. in which case, look out, mister.”
Yancey left him there in the dust and walked back towards his horse. Within an hour, on a fresh mount, with saddlebags and water canteens filled, he rode out, making for the long trail that led to the Red River.
~*~
The heavy Sharps rifle thundered in the crisp morning air, the echoes rolling and reverberating across the plains, a small cloud of powdersmoke rising from the position on the rocky hillside.
Down below on the plain, a cow buffalo in the midst of the small herd suddenly shook its head violently, and its forelegs folded beneath it. Kneeling like this, the animal continued to shake its head and blood spewed from the slack mouth, spurted warmly from the nostrils. The big watery eyes rolled and the hind legs collapsed, too. The beast spilled over onto its side, coughing, letting out a single plaintive bellow. The animals surrounding it looked at it curiously, lifting their heads from their graze. Then they returned to eating.
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