"Naw, you ain't going to see it from here," O'Toole said. "I waited to signal until we'd rid down into a low spot. I didn't want whoever it is I saw to see me waving my hat in the air. They was far enough that probably they didn't even see me."
"Show me," Rab said. To Kuwatee and Vazquez he said, "Y'all might as well go ahead and bed down here for the night. By the time we get back it'll be too dark to go any farther."
Rab followed O'Toole back some distance the way they'd come. It wasn't even a thing he could notice until they had ridden some ways away and he looked back at Vazquez and Kuwatee picketing their horses, but O'Toole was right about waiting. He'd ridden down into a low spot where he lost sight of whatever it was he'd seen, and there he had signaled. Now, riding back with O'Toole, Rab noticed the slight change in elevation.
It was like this all over the Llano Estacado, where distance was imperceptible and changes in the terrain were indeterminable.
Flat emptiness that hid a thousand canyons and ten thousand hills and ridges.
For men accustomed to finding a mountain out on the horizon and using it as a landmark, the Llano Estacado was especially confounding. Here there was not even a tree or a bush that could serve as point of reference. And so distance lost all meaning.
Time lost all meaning. If there was nothing to walk to, it did not matter how long it took to walk.
At last, though, as they gained the ridge that O'Toole had been riding along, Rab could see the thing O'Toole had seen out on the horizon.
When they got to where they could see it, both men dropped down out of their saddles to avoid sitting too tall on the horizon.
"What is it?" O'Toole asked.
None of them carried field glasses of any kind. Rab Sinclair had a pair, they'd been his when he was scouting for the Confederacy back during the war. But he never toted them anymore. Now he wished the he did.
"Actually, I think I know," Rab said. "A couple of days ago, when I rode off on my own looking for the Comanche — before they took Caleb — I came across a little stone hut. I can't say for sure, but I think that's it."
"Could be a stone hut," O'Toole said. "But I swear to you, I saw it moving when we first come past."
"Hold Cromwell," Rab said, handing the lead to O'Toole. But then he thought better of it. He slipped the 1866 Winchester rifle from its scabbard.
"You're sure you saw something moving out there?"
"Certain sure," O'Toole said.
"And it wasn't them Comanche that have been trailing us?"
"No. It was bigger than that. I think it was just the right size to be twenty hawsses, or so," O'Toole said.
"Go on back down to where Vazquez and Kuwatee are waiting. Get yourself some supper and go on and bed down. But you tell the others. If y'all hear shots, come a'ridin'. Otherwise, just wait for me there."
"What are you going to do?" O'Toole asked.
"I'm going to wait for dark, and then I'm going to walk down there to see what's what."
"You sure you want me taking Cromwell?" O'Toole asked. "What if you need to skedaddle?"
Rab shook his head. "Whatever it is, I'll not be running from it."
O'Toole started to say something, make an argument, maybe, against Rab going down there to that hut on his own.
But O'Toole had been around Las Vegas for several months. He'd had drinks at the saloon with Rab Sinclair, and more importantly he'd had drinks at the saloon with folks who knew Rab Sinclair.
What O'Toole knew was that Rab had a reputation for being the sort of man who not only would walk down to a hut where there might well be four outlaws, but more importantly he was the sort of man who could walk down to a hut where there might be four outlaws.
As he led the horses away, O'Toole told them about it.
"I reckon a lot of men would go down there," he said. "And for any number of 'em it'd be the last thing they did. But Rab Sinclair can go down there. You see the difference? And when it's over, you won't find Rabbie drinking on it. He won't go down to the saloon and tell the story while other men buy his drinks. No, sir. But you can bet your last nickel, hawsses, that when Rab Sinclair walks out of the saloon, other men will be talking about the things he done."
Now that he was some distance away, O'Toole mounted up on his horse, keeping Cromwell's lead in his hand.
"Yes, sir. He's the sort of man that don't never boast, but other men will tell his stories and wish they was there to see it."
Several times as he went back across the plain to where Kuwatee and Vazquez bedded down for the night, O'Toole looked back over his shoulder.
Rab never moved.
He'd squatted down on the balls of his feet and just rested there like that, the 1866 Yellow Boy cradled in his crossed arms.
For a moment, Rab reminded O'Toole of the Comanche he used to fight in Texas.
He had a way about him, like an Indian.
Easy going in his temper, generous with everything that belonged to him, and confident in every move he made.
But O'Toole knew that somewhere under that easy style, Rab Sinclair had a streak of violence in him that must be something to behold.
-15-
Skinner Jake peered out of the back of the covered wagon.
The night watch had dropped now to just two men. There weren't enough of them now to manage more than two men on watch.
The half-moon shone bright enough to make out the shapes of steers some distance away, the horses in the remuda, the black forms on the ground that represented men in their bedrolls.
Because he'd been cooped up in the wagon for so long, Skinner Jake didn't really know all the men from the outfit. The Yankee, Fitz was his name, and one of the vaqueros, they had the watch just now. Jake could see the black shape of one of them riding out near some of the steers. The other was not far from the remuda.
They'd left him unattended so long in the wagon that Skinner Jake had begun to dig through the provisions. What gave him the idea was seeing the Sharps rifle among the armaments inside the wagon. There were a couple of pistols and a couple of lever rifles. And the Sharps.
When he saw the Sharps, he figured there must be balls and powder. So he looked around and found them.
That's when he first thought about maybe making an escape.
He knew what the head man said was true. They could turn him over to the Comanche, and the Comanche wouldn't know the difference between him and Cossatot.
So Skinner Jake started thinking about making a run.
He found a good possibles bag among the supplies. He stowed some jerky and some corn dodgers — food that would keep for a long walk.
The head man had said something about only being nine days out from some town in New Mexico. Jake had heard all this, because being in the wagon he didn't have anything else to do but listen to the conversations taking place outside the wagon.
He could walk as fast or faster than a herd of cattle. Cattle moved slow. Skinner Jake was confident that if he took some provisions and took a couple of canteens of water, he could be out of the Staked Plains in a week.
So he put balls and powder into the possibles bag. He put some grub that he could pack out. He stowed away one canteen, and then stowed away another.
Now, with the night watch guarding for threats from without and paying little attention to what was happening within, Skinner Jake quietly forced the top off one of the casks. He dipped one canteen in, filling it. Then he dipped the second canteen into the cask.
Soft as he could go, Skinner Jake eased himself out of the wagon.
He eased out his Sharps rifle and the possibles bag he'd stolen. He wrapped a bandanna around one of the canteens to keep them from making any noise as they banged together, and then he quietly slid both canteens over his head and one shoulder.
He made for the steers where he knew he could disappear among their black shapes. The night watch probably would not see him in the moonlight if he stayed among the steers and followed the herd as far out as he could.
Skinner Jake knew that if he was going to get away, he'd have to make distance in the night.
He'd thought about trying to take a horse the way they said Cossatot Jim did, but Jake believed that was too risky. These drovers might fall for that one time, but he didn't think it likely that they'd fall for it a second time.
Without looking back more than two or three times, Skinner Jake soon found himself at the farthest of the steers.
Now he turned and looked back down at the wagon. The moon hit the canvas top of the wagon and made it glow white, but he was now far enough away from it that it seemed very small out there on the plain.
He saw nothing of the night watch.
As far as he could see, no one from the outfit had discovered his absence, and no one was following behind him.
So Skinner Jake stepped forward, away from the herd of cattle, and he started to walk.
He moved deliberately and with speed.
His strides were long.
After being in that wagon for three or four days, he found that getting out and moving was a blessing to him. His legs felt strong. His back felt good.
He just needed to put distance between him and that wagon.
He also needed to put distance between himself and any Comanche that might be lurking on the Llano Estacado.
Come morning, Skinner Jake wanted to be as far away from cattle drovers and Comanche Injuns as he could possibly get.
Whatever happened now was none of his concern. If the Comanche roasted that boy's groin or dismembered his genitals and sewed them into his mouth — all things Jake knew the Comanche sometimes did — that was none of his concern.
If the Comanche slaughtered that outfit of drovers, that was none of his concern.
If those men found Ol' Cossatot and surrendered him over to the Comanche for whatever horrors they might devise — well, that was none of his concern, neither.
Skinner Jake's only concern was Skinner Jake, and now that he was making tracks away from all of them, he was plenty satisfied with anything else that happened behind his back.
-16-
Rab Sinclair moved in short bursts.
For a dozen yards or so, he walked easy. He did not bother to crouch or try to make himself small. He just walked across the open plain. And when he felt he'd gone far enough, he squatted down to wait. He watched for any movement there by the hut. Satisfied that no one spotted him, he picked his way forward another dozen yards, squatted and waited.
It was slow going, and the closer he got to the hut, the longer he waited to see if there was movement.
On his approach to the hut, in the slim, silver light of the moon, shapes began to form. First Rab began to distinguish the horses, and then he could count their number. The hut itself became visible. He was sure this was the same stone hut he'd encountered a few days back. Rab recognized the collapsed wall and the squat cottonwood that fought to hang onto its leaves against the harsh wind that swept across the Llano Estacado.
One of the horses snorted and blew when Rab got to within thirty yards of them.
Right away Rab could see that the horses were picketed too near to one another. They didn't have room to graze because of the way they'd been kept too near together. Grass was too sparse out here, and too many horses in too tight a spot would make short work of what little grazing there was.
It annoyed Rab Sinclair to see horses poorly treated.
Like most men of the West, Rab understood that the one thing a man needed for survival, even more than a rifle, was a good horse. Only a fool would fail to treat his horses well. A fool, or a horse thief who never owned the horse and planned to sell it soon enough.
When the horses were all quieted down, Rab took another few steps forward.
Four men slept just a piece away from the horses. Rab was near enough now to see their forms on the ground. They were confident enough that they put up no watch, not even one man awake in the camp. It was uncommon to find thieves who slept easy at night.
Rab went just close enough to satisfy himself that one of those men asleep on the ground was Cossatot Jim, and then he went no closer than that.
He had a long walk back to the where the others were camped, so he started that trek back now.
As he neared the place where he knew O'Toole, Kuwatee, and Vazquez had bedded down, Rab could see the horses. A couple of them had laid down, but the others stood on their feet asleep. Rab knew one of those still standing was the blue roan because he heard Cromwell blow when he smelled Sinclair approaching.
Rab took a few steps closer, still about forty yards from the camp, and he heard a voice call out quietly in the night breeze.
"Best identify yourself before you come any closer."
It was Vazquez, sitting up on night watch.
"Going to need a better watch than just one man to keep me out of my bedroll," Rab said.
"Come on then," Vazquez said. "I saw you coming a good ways off. Figured it was you. Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I found it," Rab said. "Cossatot Jim is bedded down with those three men we've been tracking. They've got about twenty-five hawsses, and I recognized one of them as the hawss Jim rode out on."
"You still think the hawsses they have are stolen?" Vazquez asked.
"Like as not," Rab said. "But they didn't bother putting up a guard."
Vazquez grunted.
"Every time I rode posse, we prayed for some outlaws that didn't bother putting up a guard," Vazquez said. "It never happened often, but when it did the reason was always because the outlaws were confident in the place where they were hiding out. Having spent the better part of a month in this awful wasteland, I can tell you that I understand why they think they're safe out here. No posse would follow those men too deep into the Staked Plains, not for twenty stolen hawsses."
Rab took his bedroll from the stacked supplies and laid it out. He and Vazquez talked in hushed tones to keep from disturbing the others.
"So what's your plan?" Vazquez said.
Rab lit his pipe and puffed on it a few times, taking a moment to stretch his sore legs. Days of riding all day long didn't prepare a man physically for a long walk like he'd just taken.
"I believe in the morning I'm going to saddle up Cromwell there and ride into their camp. And when I get there, I'm going to tell them that I'm taking Cossatot Jim back with me."
"Just like that?" Vazquez said.
"Just like that," Rab said.
"You don't want all of us to go? All of us would even out the odds, and give a bigger show of force. Might be they'd be more inclined to hand him over if they saw four guns instead of one."
Rab shrugged. "I'm hoping not to have to show my gun a'tall. But y'all be close, and if you hear a shot you come riding."
Vazquez shook his head. "I don't understand you sometimes, Rab. Why would you want to ride in there alone and take the chance? The four of us could go in there and without any trouble we could take Cossatot Jim."
Rab puffed his pipe. The strong, chilly breeze stole the smoke he blew out and cast it off to oblivion.
"If something goes wrong tomorrow and one of you gets killed, I'll have to live with that. But if I go by myself and someone gets killed, then it'll either be one of them or it'll be me. If it's one of them, that won't bother my conscience none. And if it's me, I ain't got to live with that. But I brought y'all out here. I'm paying your wages. And so I have some responsibility to try to get you back home without any bullet holes in you. What would I say to your wife and your four children if I had to take your body out to your cabin? That's a harder thing to face than riding in there alone."
Vazquez cast his eyes across the horizon, looking for any movement. The horses were quiet.
"You know everyone in this outfit would go with you, Rab. And you know we wouldn't hold you accountable if something happened to us."
"You're all brave men and good friends," Rab said. "That's why I hired each and e'ry one of you. But I'd hold m
yself accountable."
"So you're going to ride in there alone?" Vazquez said. "You've decided that?"
"I'm going to ride in there alone," Rab said.
***
Cossatot Jim was the first man to notice the lone rider coming toward them.
Bernard Swain touched the side of his kettle to see if the water was hot enough for coffee.
"Someone's coming," Cossatot Jim said, squinting hard. He did not think the man was a Comanche. From a distance, he thought he could make out a saddle on the horse.
"What do you mean someone's coming?" Mezcal Pete asked, standing up from his bedroll. "Who the hell would be out here?"
But sure enough, as he got up out of his bed, Mezcal Pete could see a rider nearing them. Pete slid his six-gun out of his holster and checked that it had for six rounds in the cylinder.
"For an empty desert, I've had more people ride up on my camp than I care to meet," Bernard Swain said. He stood up and craned his neck for a look at the new visitor.
The horse wasn't coming on at a gallop. Its pace seemed about as easy as a horse could go. But it was crossing the plain with some speed and getting near to them in a hurry.
"That's one of them drovers," Cossatot Jim said. "Calls hisself Rab Sinclair like a man might have heard of him. I recognize that blue roan as the one he rides."
"What do you reckon he wants?" Rude asked.
"I reckon he wants a word with the man that stole his horse," Bernard Swain said, glancing at Cossatot Jim.
"Are these his horses?" Rude asked, misunderstanding. Rude, young but big for his age, was tall and slim, but it wouldn't be long before he filled out into a powerful mountain of a man.
"No, not the horses we stole," Swain said. "I reckon he wants to talk to Mr. Cossatot, there. Didn't you say you rode out on one of the horses in his remuda?"
Cossatot Jim did not say a word. He didn't know yet how to play this. He wasn't sure that his new friends were going to back him up.
"He's got a rifle laid across his lap," Mezcal Pete said. "Swain, you might have to make a decision in a hurry."
A Vast and Desolate Land Page 10
