by Paul Lederer
Cathy laughed. Glancing that way as she reached for the handle of the big blue coffee pot, a towel in her hand for a hot pad, she saw Chaser chewing on the slice of ham skin. At her look, the dog snatched up what it had not eaten and raced away, toenails clicking across the porch.
‘Oh, he eats well enough,’ Cathy answered. ‘What he’s after,’ she said, pouring coffee into two white ceramic cups, ‘is something a little more satisfying. He’s hungry for companionship but has forgotten how to go about finding it.’
‘No sugar,’ Jake pled. He looked to where Chaser had vanished into the night and thought about what Cathy had said. Poor Chaser, poor everybody.
He spent the next half hour telling Cathy what had happened out on the desert. She listened quietly, her eyes filled with concern and deep thoughtfulness. When he had finally finished she rose, went to the small kitchen window and looked out at the starfields in the long sky. The moon had just begun to rise and it touched the tips of the cottonwood trees beyond the yard with soft gold. Without turning back toward Jake she said quietly:
‘I wonder what happened to that Indian man, the one name Panda that you mentioned.’
‘I don’t know,’ Jake told her. ‘Maybe he decided to try going home to his people, though I was told he was not welcome there. Or maybe he is doomed to wander the desert alone forever.’
Like so many others, it seemed: Poor Panda, poor Sarah, poor Cathy, poor Chaser.
Poor Jake Staggs.
‘You must be hungry,’ Cathy said now as she turned toward him and brightened his small world with a smile. ‘I don’t really have much around to cook for you just now, but if you’ll come by the restaurant in the morning, I’ll see that you’re fixed up.’ She hesitated. ‘That is, if you are still going to be here in the morning.’
‘I’ll still be here, Cathy. There’s nowhere left to run. I’m at the end of my trail, and I know it.’
EIGHT
Twilight was settling by the time Hutch Gleason came within sight of Lewiston again. His horse was dragging and his mood was sour. Only two men rode with him: the red-headed Fulton brothers - Champ and Engle. They were two of his regular hands on the Cat’s Cradle Ranch up north and had no choice but to stick with their boss if they were going to continue to collect their wages. The other men, volunteers in the posse hoping for a big payday, had quit him.
When the sandstorm had cleared Hutch had not seen Jake Staggs, but then he had known that he wouldn’t. The bastard had taken advantage of the savagely blowing sand’s cover to slip off into Smuggler’s Gulch. Hutch thought that he had been right all along – Staggs was one of the horse thieves himself.
There had been no point in going on, Hutch knew. Without provisions and water, they might as well start chasing ghosts as try to find and track Kit Blanchard in that vast expanse of harsh land. He didn’t even argue with the men who wanted to quit the posse, disperse and head for home. There was no argument to be made.
Now as twilight settled and the western sky flushed to a lavender shade, Hutch saw Champ Fulton stand in his stirrups and point to the north.
‘It’s him, Mr. Gleason! It’s him.’ Hutch let his eyes follow the pointing finger and finally he was able to make out the two shadowy figures of men on horseback riding in the direction of Lewiston. ‘That is Kit Blanchard!’ Champ shouted. ‘I recognize that paint horse he favors.’
Gleason was not so sure; the light was poor. But he, too, knew that Kit Blanchard rode a leggy paint pony – they had pursued him riding that horse the week before.
‘It’s him all right,’ Engle Fulton chimed in. ‘Besides, who else would be riding way out here?’
Gleason still was not sure, but he trusted their younger eyes and without answering, touched heels to the red roan he was riding and urged the weary animal to make speed: no easy task for a dehydrated, tired animal across the sandy flats. Gleason’s hat blew off and he let it go. Hutch was leaning across his dun horse’s withers, trying to goad his own mount to speed. The red-headed brothers were eager and animated. No wonder.
If Hutch Gleason was mainly concerned about revenge, paying Kit back for stealing his blooded horses, to the young men the reward money that had enticed them out onto the desert was paramount. The five thousand dollars on Kit Blanchard’s head did not now have to be divided up among the members of a twelve-man posse. It was a fortune to men of their ages and background.
There were only two outlaws ahead. Who the other one man might be was open to conjecture. Hutch considered that he couldn’t be so lucky as to have it turn out to be Jake Staggs. That would be too much to hope for, but whoever the other man was, he probably also had a price on his head, had probably been among the bandits who had raided the Cat’s Cradle and made off with his Kentucky horses.
Sundown flared briefly in the west. Gold splashed against the pale pink and crimson of the sky. They were gaining on the horse thieves who still seemed unaware of the pursuit. Hutch’s horse was faltering under him; he only prayed that it could find enough stamina to stay the chase. The outlaws disappeared into deep shadow; they had dipped into a shallow ravine. Hutch cursed silently, but then the riders emerged again and there was still enough remaining light to make out the paint pony.
The outlaws touched spurs to their horses’ flanks and the animals leaped into a run.
‘They seen us!’ Engle yelled unnecessarily. The outlaws’ horses seemed to be much fresher than their own. Hutch unlimbered his Winchester rifle. They were not faster than a .44-40 slug.
The outlaws now split up; the man on the dun pony breaking off toward the east, Kit Blanchard on his paint lining it out toward Lewiston.
‘Forget about the other one! We’re taking Kit Blanchard down!’ Gleason cried out, gathering his reins in one hand as he shouldered his rifle and fired three times in rapid succession.
With a whoop Engle raised his own rifle and levered through half a dozen rounds. Champ Fulton’s rifle barked as well. The paint was gaining ground, but one among the barrage of bullets, either by luck or chance, caught the pony and as they watched it stumbled and rolled, its rider flung free to lie motionless against the desert floor.
‘Got him!’ Engle exulted and they raced on, flogging their mounts with the ends of their reins. If their horses foundered now, what did it matter? They would have enough gold to buy fifty more horses.
Slowing, they cautiously approached the fallen paint horse, walking their exhausted horses.
‘Where is he?’ Engle hissed uneasily. ‘I can’t see him.’
‘Stay alert boys. The man can shoot.’ Hutch Gleason, who thought himself to be nerveless, now glanced around anxiously, his rifle gripped tightly in his hands. The shadows were deep and long, the sky darkening. If they lost Kit Blanchard now.…
‘There he is!’ Champ shouted out and they now could see a man sitting on the sand beneath a thorny mesquite, the stars casting a lacy pattern of shadows across his face and arms.
‘That’s not him!’ Engle said as they approached. Hutch Gleason and Champ Fulton swung down while Engle held their reins. ‘Who is he?’
From the shadows a middle-aged man with a craggy face, his blond hair sprayed across a nearly bald head looked up at them. He was holding his ribs and it seemed difficult for him to speak, but he smiled up at them and told them:
‘Kit’s going to be almighty sore with you boys - that was his favorite horse,’ Will Sizemore said.
‘How the hell …?’ Engle asked.
‘They switched horses when they were down in the gully back there,’ his brother said, scowling at Will Sizemore as he spoke. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, still hopeful of claiming some reward money.
‘Sizemore,’ Will said, ‘but there’s no paper out on me, men. You’ve wasted your time.’
‘That’s what he would say,’ Champ Fulton said. ‘He’s one of them, though, isn’t he, Mr. Gleason? One of the horse thieves. He must be. He was riding with Kit Blanchard.’
‘I was riding with
him,’ Will lied, ‘but I just kind of fell in with him along the trail. I didn’t have any idea who he was at first. He flashed a gun and made me change horses with him. That’s no crime, boys.’
Hutch Gleason was furious. Only minutes ago he had believed that he had caught Kit Blanchard; now he felt like a fool. He raised a hand as if to strike Will Sizemore, realized the futility of it and lowered his hand again.
‘What’ll we do with him?’ Champ Fulton asked.
‘We’ll take him along to town. Maybe the marshal knows something about who he is and if there’s money on his head.’
‘Who’s he going to ride with?’ Engle asked anxiously. With the promise of the reward money slipping away he realized that the horse he rode was nearly the only asset he had in the world. It had already been sorely used and he did not want it to be forced to carry double.
‘He’ll have to walk it,’ Gleason said coldly. ‘Can’t be more than five or ten miles. Help him up, Champ.’
Champ Fulton bent down, made sure that Sizemore had no belt gun and hoisted him to his feet. Well, it was just more bad luck, Champ was thinking as Sizemore stood there holding his ribs. Champ could have just shrugged it all off as a mistake if Will Sizemore, planting his recovered hat on his head, hadn’t stood there grinning at them.
At least he had had a good breakfast, Jake Staggs thought as he stood in front of the restaurant looking out across the town at the long blue-white desert and toward the chocolate mountains beyond. It might be a while before he saw any of this again. The long night had given birth to a bitter decision just before dawn. He had told Cathy as he waited at the breakfast table:
‘I’m just going to turn myself in and get it over with.’
‘Turn yourself in for what!’ Cathy asked. She had greeted him with a pretty smile. Now her lips went tight and her face went ashen. She swayed slightly on her feet. She ignored the other customers trying to get her attention.
‘For whatever they want to charge me with. I can’t go on like this any longer, Cathy. It’s worse than any prison could be.’
Jake Staggs strode heavily, but not reluctantly toward the marshal’s office, the low morning sun in his eyes. He felt that he was carrying all the debris of a misspent life on his shoulders. He had to find a way to unburden himself, to start over. He was thinking, he realized, not with a shock but with a sort of awakening feeling, that he was thinking of starting over again with Cathy.
Billy Bostwick was behind the marshal’s desk, boots propped up, laboring through what seemed to be the same newspaper. He lifted curious eyes to Jake, folded the paper and placed it aside.
‘What is it, Staggs?’
‘I want to see the marshal.’
‘I don’t think he’s able to see anyone right now. He’s taken a turn for the worse. I think it’s those two women that caused it,’ he confided.
‘Sarah and Christiana?’
‘Those two,’ Bostwick said with a nod. ‘The one badgering him about her reward money, the other wanting her sister, or what is she …?’
‘Her cousin.’
‘She wanting her cousin arrested for theft. They nattered and demanded until twice I had to throw one of them out and the marshal, he says, don’t ever let those females around him again.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Bostwick said definitely. ‘Now what is it you wanted, Staggs?’
‘To turn myself in and clear all of this up.’
Bostwick looked deeply puzzled. ‘What is it you wanted to turn yourself in for exactly?’
‘The horse I’m riding is stolen, for one thing.’
Bostwick scratched his ear and nodded. ‘How did you happen to come by it?’
‘The man I was working for refused to pay me.’
‘So you took a horse instead?’
‘That’s about it, but that’s made me a wanted man.’
‘I never seen any paper on you,’ Bostwick said. ‘To me it seems like you might have had the right to take your payment where you could. ‘Course I’m not a judge – I have no idea how the law reads in a case like this.’ Bostwick leaned forward and folded his hands together on the desk.
‘I don’t know what to tell you – the marshal’s the only one who can decide whether it’s proper to lock you up, and without a warrant.… We’ll just have to wait and see what he says when he’s able.’
‘It’s Hutch Gleason that was making the complaint.’
‘Hutch Gleason is a puffed-up, bullying old fool. Besides he didn’t say anything to me last night.’
‘He’s back?’
‘He is,’ Bostwick said. ‘He’s the one who brought the new prisoner in.’
‘New …?’ Jake turned toward the cells, one of which had a somehow-familiar man sitting on the chain-supported wooden bunk, watching and listening. It was Will Sizemore.
‘Do you know that man?’ Bostwick asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Hutch Gleason said he was a Kit Blanchard rider. The prisoner,’ he nodded toward the cell, ‘says he just happened to fall in with Kit along the trail. You were never part of that gang, were you, Staggs?’
‘I told you I was not. Would Marshal Trouffant have made me a deputy if he thought I was?’
‘I don’t suppose he would have,’ Billy Bostwick answered slowly. ‘To tell you the truth, this is all too much for me, Staggs. Anything else you want to turn yourself in for?’
‘There’s the shooting of Eduardo Blanco,’ Jake said, and Bostwick listened and nodded as if taking mental notes, ‘and the deaths of Lemon Jack and River Tremaine.’ The deputy held up a hand to silence him.
‘Look, Staggs, Lemon Jack Baker and River Tremaine were well known horse thieves. In Blanco’s case – well we’ve got a few witnesses who say that he goaded you into the fight and drew first. As far as the other two are concerned well, we’ve got only that Sarah Worthy’s word for what happened, but she was eager enough to claim the reward in the first place, and she says the men you shot were outlaws with a price on their heads.’
‘So was Blanco, but still, Hutch Gleason and Trouffant both said I could be tried for the killings. The girl, Sarah, threatened to back up the tale that I was a Kit Blanchard rider and a killer at that.’ Jake was growing frustrated. He had never known that it was so difficult to get yourself arrested.
And suddenly it no longer seemed like such a great idea. Bostwick explained patiently:
‘Even if that’s so,’ he said, ‘I remember when the marshal gave you a badge. I recall, too, that he said he was making the assignment retroactive. Again, I’m no judge – wouldn’t want to be – but how can you stand trial for following your oath of office and taking down three known outlaws?
‘That’s just me personally, you understand. I don’t know what Trouffant will want to do.’ Bostwick stood, stretched and said, ‘But as for me, I can’t lock you up for what don’t seem to be crimes.
‘Sam Trouffant,’ Bostwick added with mingled guilt and pleasure, ‘only went along with the woman because he was thinking about retirement and how little a crippled man could do to support himself. Now Sam doesn’t feel like he’s going to make it. And he wants nothing more to do with that Sarah Worthy. So go some place else to unburden yourself, Staggs. Maybe you could find a priest to talk to. The law’s got no hold on you as of now.’
‘Can I talk to the prisoner?’ Jake inquired, nodding toward the cell where Will Sizemore sat, half-smiling.
‘I don’t see why not,’ the deputy answered with a shrug. ‘He’s another man we’ve got no evidence against. He’s locked up on Hutch Gleason’s say-so. I don’t think we’ll be able to hold him more than overnight unless some paper on him shows up. But, not to repeat myself, these are decisions that Marshal Trouffant will have to make.’
Jake walked toward the cell, and, keeping his voice low, said, ‘Hello, Sizemore.’ The outlaw didn’t rise from his bunk. He put his hands to his mouth and answered in a m
uffled voice.
‘Hello, Jake. I didn’t expect to see you again. Was I you, I would have been long gone down the trail.’
‘Things didn’t work out that simply.’
‘They never do.’
‘Where’s Kit?’
Sizemore’s hands fell away from his face and he smiled. ‘Are you going to go after him?’
‘I’d probably just try to make sure I didn’t go anywhere near him, wherever he was.’
‘A smart man would – he’s got a grudge against you. But I don’t know where he is, Jake.’
‘Looking for the women, do you think?’ Jake asked.
‘I would imagine, wouldn’t you? He’s around somewhere. They found my dun horse that he was riding roaming loose.’
‘What happened to the gang?’ Jake wanted to know.
Sizemore frowned. ‘The Mexican didn’t want to meet the price Kit was asking for the horses. Oh, he wanted them right enough, he just didn’t want to pay for them. There was a dust-up. Kit shot a man and the Mexicans got two of ours. Kit kept the boys with him afterward, promising he’d pay them out of what he had stashed back home. Only the money was gone. Christiana was gone. You and Sarah were gone. Someone had killed Lemon Jack and River Tremaine. Our horse herd was gone, stolen by the Mexicans, and we didn’t even have hay for our own mounts – that’s usually thrown in as part of the deal when we bargain with the Mexicans. The boys wouldn’t stand for not being paid, though Kit told them we’d make it up on the next raid. They started to mutter and then to drift away one by one or in pairs.’
‘I see,’ Jake said thoughtfully. ‘What about Worthy?’
‘To tell you the truth, if it weren’t for missing Sarah, I think the old man is relieved that it all happened. He was tired of the canyon being used as an outlaw camp, though I guess Kit paid him well enough. He’s probably got enough coins tucked away to make out comfortably the rest of his days.’
‘The deputy says they’ll probably have to cut you loose tomorrow,’ Jake told Sizemore.
‘I heard that. I hope they do, because I know Kit Blanchard better than most men. If he thinks they’re going to hang me, he’ll find a way to bust me out, and wherever Kit goes, there’ll be a trail of blood behind him.’
