He was under no misapprehension as to the problem he faced. Painted Rock would be filled to overflowing with Shute and Barkow riders, many of whom knew him by sight. Yet though he could vision their certainty of victory and their numbers, and was well aware of the reckless task he had chosen, he knew they would not be expecting him or any riders from Crazy Man.
He tied his horse loosely to a bush among the trees and crossed the stream on a log. Once across, he thought of his spurs. Kneeling down, he unfastened them from his boots and hung them over a root near the end of the log. He wanted no jingling spurs to give his presence away at an inopportune moment.
Carefully avoiding any lighted dwellings, he made his way through the scattered houses to the back of the row of buildings along the street. He was wearing the gun he usually wore, and for luck he had taken another from his saddlebags and thrust it into his waistband. Tex Brisco was a man of the frontier.
From riding the range in south and west Texas, he had drifted north with trail herds. He had seen some of the days around the beginning of Dodge and Ellsworth and some hard fighting down in the Nations and with rustlers along the border. He was an honest man, a sincere man. He had a quality to be found in many men of his kind and period-a quality of deep-seated loyalty that was his outstanding trait.
Hard and reckless in demeanor, he rode with dash and acted with a flair. He had at times been called a hard case. Yet no man lived long in a dangerous country if he were reckless. There was a place always for courage, but intelligent courage, not the heedlessness of a harebrained youngster.
Tex Brisco was twenty-five years old, but he had been doing a man's work since he was eleven. He had walked with men, ridden with men, and fought with men as one of them. He had asked no favors and been granted none. Now, at twenty-five, he was a seasoned veteran. He was a man who knew the plains and the mountains, knew cattle, horses, and guns. He possessed a fierce loyalty to his outfit and to his friends.
Shanghaied, he had quickly seen that the sea was not his element. He had concealed his resentment and gone to work, realizing that safety lay along that route.
He had known his time would come. It had come when Rafe Caradec came aboard, and all his need for friendship, for loyalty, and for a cause had been tied to the big, soft-spoken stranger. Now Painted Rock was vibrant with danger. The men who did not hate him in Painted Rock were men who would not speak for him or act for him. It was like Tex Brisco that he did not think in terms of help. He had his job, he knew his problem, and he knew he was the man to do it.
The National Saloon was booming with sound. The tinny jangle of an out-of-tune piano mingled with hoarse laughter, shouts, and the rattle of glasses.
The hitching rail was lined with horses. Tex walked between the buildings to the edge of the dark and empty street. Then he walked up to the horses and, speaking softly, made his way along the hitching rail, turning every slipknot into a hard knot. The Emporium was dark except for a light in Baker's living quarters, where he sat with his wife and Ann Rodney.
The stage station was lighted by the feeble glow of a light over a desk as the station agent worked late over his books. It was a moonless night, and the stars were bright. Tex lighted a cigarette, loosened his guns in his holsters, and studied the situation. The National was full. To step into that saloon would be suicide, and Tex had no such idea in mind. It was early, and he would have to wait.
Yet might it not be the best way, if he stepped in? There would be a moment of confusion. In that instant he could act.
Working his way back to a window, he studied the interior. It took him several minutes to locate Tom Blazer. The big man was standing by the bar with Fats McCabe. Slipping to the other end of the window, Tex could see that no one was between them and the rear door. He stepped back into the darkest shadows and, leaning against the building, finished his cigarette. When it was down to a stub, he threw it on the ground and carefully rubbed it out with the toe of his boot. Then he pulled his hat low and walked around to the rear of the saloon. There was some scrap lumber there, and he skirted the rough pile, avoiding some bottles. It was cool out here, and he rubbed his fingers a little, working his hands to keep the circulation going. Then he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It opened under his hand, and if it made a sound, it went unheard.
Stepping inside, he closed the door after him, pleased that it opened outward.
In the hurly-burly of the interior one more cowhand went unseen. Nobody even glanced his way.
He sidled up to the bar and then reached over under Tom Blazer's nose, drew the whiskey bottle toward him, and poured a drink into a glass just rinsed by the bartender.
Tom Blazer scarcely glanced at the bottle, for other bottles were being passed back and forth.
Fats McCabe stood beside Tom, also not noticing Tex. "That bastard Marsh!" Tom said thickly.
"I got him! I been wantin' him a long time!
You should have seen the look in his eyes when I shoved that pistol against him and pulled the trigger!" Tex's lips tightened, and he poured his glass full once more. He left it sitting on the bar in front of him.
His eyes swept the room. Dan Shute was not here, and that worried him. He would have felt better to have had the rancher under his eyes. Bruce Barkow was here, though, and Pod Gomer. Tex moved over a little closer to McCabe. "That'll finish "em ofll" McCabe was saving. "When Shute took over I knew they wouldn't last long! If they get out of the country, they'll be lucky. They've no supplies now, and it will be snowin" within a few days. The winter will get "em if we don't, or the Injuns." Tex Brisco smiled grimly. "Not before I get you!" he thought. "That comes first." The piano was banging away with "Oh, Susanna!" and a bunch of cowhands were trying to sing it.
Joe Benson leaned on his bar talking to Pod Gomer. Barkow sat at a table in the corner, staring morosely into a glass. Joe Gorman and Fritz Handl were watching a poker game. Tex glanced again at the back door. No one stood between the door and himself. Well, why wait?
Just then Tom Blazer reached for the bottle in front of Tex, and Tex pulled it away from his hand.
Tom stared. "Hey, what you tryin" to do?" he demanded belligerently. "I've come for you, Tom," Tex said. "I've come to kill a skunk that shoots a helpless man when he's on his back. How are you against standin' men, Blazer?" "Huh?" Tom Blazer said stupidly.
Then he realized what had been said, and he thrust his big face forward for a closer look. The gray eves he saw were icy, the lantern-jawed Texan's face was chill as death, and Tom Blazer jerked back. Slowly, his face white, Fats McCabe drew aside.
To neither man came the realization that Tex Brisco was alone. All they felt was the shock of his sudden appearance, here, among them.
Brisco turned, stepping one step away from the bar. "Well, Tom," he said quietly, his voice just loud enough to carry over the sound of the music, "I've come for you." Riveted to the spot, Tom Blazer felt an instant of panic. Brisco's presence here had the air of magic, and Tom was half frightened by the sheer unexpectedness of it.
Sounds in the saloon seemed to die out, although they still went full blast, and Tom stared across that short space like a man in a trance, trapped and faced with a fight to the death. There would be no escaping this issue, he knew. He might win and he might lose, but it was here, now, and he had to face it. And he realized suddenly that it was a choice he had no desire to make.
Wouldn't anvone notice? Why didn't Fats say something? Tex Brisco stood there, staring at him.
"You've had your chance," Tex said gently. "Now I'm goin' to kill you!" The shock of the word "kill" snapped Tom Blazer out of it. He dropped into a half crouch, and his lips curled in a snarl of mingled rage and fear. His clawed hand swept back for his gun.
In the throbbing and rattle of the room, the guns boomed like a crash of thunder. Heads whirled, and liquor-befuddled brains tried to focus eyes.
All they saw was Tom Blazer sagging back against the bar, his shirt darkening with blood and the strained,
foolish expression on his face like that of a man who had been shocked beyond reason. Facing the room was a lean, broad-shouldered man with two guns, and as they looked, he swung a gun at Fats McCabe.
Instinctively, at the boom of guns, McCabe's brain reacted, but a shade slow. His hand started for his gun. It was an involuntary movement that had he had but a moment's thought would never have been made. He had no intention of drawing.
All he wanted was out, but the movement of his hand was enough. It was too much.
Tex Brisco's gun boomed again, and Fats toppled over on his face. Then Tex opened up, and three shots, blasting into the brightly lighted room, brought it to complete darkness. Brisco faded into that darkness, swung the door open, and vanished as a shot clipped the air over his head. He ran hard for fiftv feet and then ducked into the shadow of a barn, threw himself over a low corral fence, and ran across the corral in a low crouch. Shouts and orders sounded, and then the crash of glass came from the saloon.
The door burst open again, and he could have got another man, but only to have betrayed his position.
He crawled through the fence and keeping close to a dark house,. ran swiftly to its far corner. He paused there, breathing heavily. So far, so good.
From here on he would be in comparative light, but the distance was enough now. He ran on swiftly for the river.
Behind him he heard curses and yells as men found their knotted bridle reins. At the end of the log, Tex retrieved his spurs. Then, gasping for breath from his hard run, he ran across the log and started for his horse.
He saw it suddenly, and then he saw something else.
Chapter 15
In the dim light, Tex recognized Joe Gorman by his hat. Joe wore his hat brim rolled to a point in front.
"Hi, Texas!" Gorman said. Tex could see the gun in his hand, waist high and leveled on him. , "Hi, Joe. Looks like you smelled somethin'." "Yeah"-Joe nodded-was I did at that. I live in one of those houses over there with some of the other boys. Happened to see somebody ride up here in the dark, and got curious. When you headed for the saloon, I got around you and went in. Then I saw you come in the back door. I slipped out just before the shootin' started so's I could beat you back here in case you got away." "Too bad you missed the fim," Brisco said quietly. Behind him, the pursuit seemed to have gained no direction as yet. His mind was on a hair trigger, watching for a break. Which of his guns was still loaded? He had forgotten whether he put the loaded gun in the holster or in his belt.
"Who'd you get?" asked Gorman.
"Tom Blazer. Fats McCabe, too." "I figgered Tom. I told him he shouldn't have shot the kid. That was a low-down trick. But why shoot Fats?" "He acted like he was reachin' for a gun." "Huh. Don't take a lot to get a man killed, does it?" Brisco could see in the dark enough to realize that Gorman was smiling a little.
"How do you want it, Tex? Should I let you have it now, or save you for Shute? He's a bad man, Tex." was I think you'd better slip your gun in your holster and walk back home, Joe," Tex said.
"You're the most decent one of a bad lot." "Maybe I want the money I'd get for you, Tex. I can use some." "Think you'd live to collect?" "You mean Caradec? He's through, Brisco.
Through. We got Bo. Now we got you. That leaves only Caradec and Johnny Gill. They won't be so tough." "You're wrong, Joe," Tex said quietly. "Rafe could take the lot of you, and he will. But you bought into my game yourself, I wouldn't ask for help, Joe. I'd kill you myself his "You?" Gorman chuckled with real humor. "And me with the drop on you? Not a chance! Why, Tex, one of these slugs would get you, and if I have to start blastin', I'm goin' to empty the gun before I quit." "Uh-huh," Tex agreed. "You might get me. But I'll get you, too." Joe Gorman was incredulous. "You mean, get me before I could shoot?" He repeated, "Not a chance!" The sounds of pursuit were coning closer. The men had a light now and had found his tracks.
"Toward the river. I'll be a coon!" a voice veiled. "Let's go!" Here it was! Joe Gorman started to yell and then saw the black figure ahead of him move, and his gun blazed.
Tex felt the shocking jolt of a slug, and his knees buckled, but his gun was out and he triggered two shots, fast. Joe started to fill, and he fired again, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Tex jerked the slipknot in his reins loose and dragged himself into the saddle. He was bleeding badly.
His mind felt hazy, but he saw Joe Gorman move on the ground, and heard him say: "You did it, cuss you! You did it!" "So long, Joe!" Tex whispered hoarsely.
He walked the horse for twenty feet and then started moving faster. His brain was singing with a strange noise, and his blood seemed to drum in his brain.
He headed up the tree-covered slope, and the numbness crawled up his legs.
He fought like a cornered wolf against the darkness that crept over him. "I can't die-I can't!" he kept saying in his brain. "Rafe'll need help! I can't!" Fighting the blackness and numbness, he tied the bridle reins to the saddle horn, and thrust both feet clear through the stirrups. Sagging in the saddle, he got his handkerchief out and fumbled a knot, tving his wrists to the saddle horn.
The light glowed and died, and the horse walked on, weaving in the awful darkness, weaving through a world of agony and the soft clutching hands that seemed to he pulling Tex down, pulling him down. The darkness closed in around him, but under him he seemed still to feel the slow plodding of the horse . . . .
Roughly, the distance to the fort was seventy miles, a shade less perhaps. Rafe Caradec rode steadily into the increasing cold of the wind. There was no mistaking the seriousness of Bo's condition. The young cowhand was badly shot up and weak from loss of blood.
Despite the amazing vitality of frontier men, his chance was slight unless his wounds had proper care.
Bowing his head to the wind, Rafe headed the horse down into a draw and its partial shelter. There was no use thinking of Tex. Whatever had happened in Painted Rock had happened by now, or was happening.
Brisco might be dead. He might be alive and safe, even now heading back to the Crazv Man. Or he might be wounded and in need of help.
Tex Brisco was an uncertainty now, but Bo Marsh hung between life and death. Hence there was no choice.
The friendship and understanding between the lean, hard-faced Texan and Rafe Caradec had grown aboard ship. And Rafe was not one to take lightly the Texan's loyalty in joining him in his foray into Wyoming. Now Brisco might be dead, killed in a fight he would never have known but for Rafe. Yet Tex would have had it no other way. His destinies were guided by his loyalties. Those loyalties were his life, his religion, his reason for living.
Yet despite his worries over Marsh and Brisco, Rafe found his thoughts returning again and again to Ann Rodney. Why had she ridden to warn them of the impending attack? Had it not been for that warning, the riders would have wiped out Brisco at the same time they got Marsh, and would have followed it up to find Rafe and Johnny back in the canyon. It would have been, or could have been, a clean sweep.
Why had Ann warned them? Was it because of her dislike of violence and killing? Or was there some other, some deeper feeling? Yet how could that be?
What feeling could Ann have for any of them, believing as she seemed to believe that he was a thief or worse? The fact remained that she had come, that she had warned them. Remembering her, he recalled the flash of her eyes, the proud lift of her chin, the way she walked.
He stared grimly into the night and swore softly.
Was he in love? "Who knows?" he demanded viciously of the night. "And what good would it do if I was?" He had never seen the fort, yet knew it lay between the forks of the Piney and its approximate location.
His way led across the billowing hills and through a country marked by small streams lined with cottonwood, box elder, willow, chokecherry, and wild plum. That this was the Indian country, he knew. The unrest of the tribes was about to break into open warfare, and already there had been sporadic attacks on haying or woodcutting parties, and constant attacks were being
made on the Missouri steamboats far to the north.
Red Cloud, most influential chieftain among the Sioux, had tried to hold the tribes together, and despite the continued betrayal of treaties by the white man, had sought to abide by the code laid down for his people. With Man Afraid of His Horse, the Oglala chief, Red Cloud, was the strongest of all the Sioux leaders, or had been.
With Custer's march into the Black Hills and the increasing travel over the Laramie and Bozeman trails, the Sioux were growing restless. The Sioux medicine man Sitting Bull was indulging in war talk, and was aided and abetted by two powerful warriors, skilled tacticians and great leadersCrazy Horse and Gall.
No one in the West but understood that an outbreak of serious nature was overdue.
Rafe Caradec was aware of all this. He was aware, too, that it would not be an easy thing to prevail upon the doctor to leave the fort or upon the commandant to allow him to leave. In the face of impending trouble, the doctor's place was with the Army . . . .
News of the battle on the Crazy Man, after Ann's warning, reached her that evening. The return of the triumphant Shute riders was enough to tell her what had happened. She heard them ride into the street, heard their yells and their shouts.
She heard that Bo Marsh was definitely dead. Even some of the Shute riders were harsh in their criticism of Tom Blazer for that action. While the Shute outfit had ridden away following their attack, fearful of the effects of the sharpshooting from the timber, they were satisfied. Winter was coming on, and they had destroyed the cabin on the Crazy Man and killed Bo Marsh. Mistakenly, they also believed they had killed Brisco and wounded at least one other man.
Sick at heart, Ann had walked back into her room and stood by the window. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the desire to get away, to escape all this sickening violence, the guns, the killings, the problems of frontier life. Back east, there were lovely homes along quiet streets, slow-running streams, men who walked quietly on Sunday mornings. There were parties, theaters, friends, and homes.
the Trail to Crazy Man (1986) Page 9
