He did it without thinking. It was one of those instinctively right reactions that come to a fighting man who is constantly aware and alert. The position of his horse was such that quick escape was impossible, but there was space to fall in, so he fell.
He hit the ground and rolled over, then lay still. Fortunately, he had retained his grip on his Winchester. Now he put it on the ground and pawed at his eyes, frightened by the thought of being blinded with an enemy so close by.
That enemy had to be close. There was nowhere around where a man could see over thirty or forty yards at most, and even at that distance a shot was a chancy thing, with all the intermingled branches that might deflect the bullet.
Still feeling a few tiny particles in his eyes, Ben Cowan took up his Winchester and turned his eyes this way and that to locate himself.
He had fallen into a shallow depression, only inches below the level of the forest floor. Where he lay there was a small patch of dead brown grass. Right before his head rose the trunk of the tree, not over eight inches in diameter, from which he had received the shower of bark. To his left there was a dead-fall and the stark white skeleton of a lightning-shattered tree.
He lay very still. His head was in the shade, but the sun was hot upon his back. In a low-growing blackjack close by, he saw a blacksnake writhing in sinuous coils among the branches. The snake stopped moving and was still.
The Tonkawa Kid, he recalled, had several renegade cousins, and was reputed to travel with them on occasion. It might be there was more than one man lying in wait for a shot at him.
Ben Cowan was a patient man. Tall, lean, and handsome in a rugged way, he was inclined to be methodical. He was a painstaking man, without making any great issue of it. Bijah Catlow had often said that nobody, anywhere, could track better than Ben Cowan, and he might well have added that he never had met anybody who could punch harder. There was a thickening in Bijah’s left ear that had resulted from one of Cowan’s blows; and the faintly discernible hump in Cowan’s nose marked where Bijah had broken it.
But Ben Cowan was not thinking of Bijah Catlow now. He was thinking of the Tonkawa Kid.
That Indian, wily as any fox and slippery as any snake, was somewhere close by, and even now might be working his way into position to kill him, yet Cowan could do nothing. To move silently with those stiff, crackling blackjack leaves lying about was virtually impossible—or was it?
Off to his right a blue jay started raising a fuss…something was worrying it. The sounds the jay made were not unlike those it made when it saw a snake, but different, too. Ben Cowan slid his rifle forward a bit and, easing over on his left shoulder, he looked up into the tree above him.
The tree was actually one of two twin trees of about equal size, and the limbs grew low. There was a fair-sized branch, a relatively wide space, then another branch, and more above; the other twin leaned close up higher, the branches interwoven. It was a risk, but if he could pull himself up there…His clothing was non-descript as to color and it might blend well with the tree and the scattered leaves that remained.
He studied the branches. A grasp there, a quick pull-up, a foot there, then another pull-up, avoiding those leaves.
Carefully, he lifted himself to his knees, cringing against the half-expected impact of a bullet, then he straightened to his feet, grasped the branch and pulled himself up. He got his boot on a lower branch, and then moved up again.
Not the brush of a leaf or the scrape of a boot, and he was there. His eyes searched the trees, the grass, the brush. What he saw was brown grass springing back into position only a few yards away. He looked into the brush…a faint stir of movement and he glimpsed the Tonkawa. Instantly, he fired.
And in the same instant he knew he had been suckered into a trap.
Another bullet spattered bark in his face and something struck his leg a wicked blow and knocked it from its perch. He fell, with the sound of other bullets echoing in his ears. A branch broke as his body hit it, and then he struck the ground with a thud. His horse leaped away, blowing with fear, and Ben Cowan heard the rush of feet in the grass.
He had lost his grip on his rifle and he clawed wildly for his six-shooter, coming up with it just as an Indian broke through the brush, gun in hand, eyes distended with excitement.
Ben Cowan triggered the .45…he fired upward, firing quickly and aiming, he thought, for the Indian’s broad chest. The bullet was high, striking the man’s chin and smashing upward, driving a bloody furrow along his chin, tearing his nose away, and entering the skull at the top of the eye socket.
Cowan whirled, felt a bullet burn his cheek, and fired blindly at a leaping shadow. The shadow broke stride and fell, the Indian dead before he hit the ground.
Two down…how many were there? Neither of them was the Tonkawa Kid.
Ben Cowan twisted around, found his rifle, and pulled himself to it. His leg felt numb, and when he put his hand up to his cheek it came away bloody…a bullet had grazed the cheekbone.
He eased himself back into a better defensive position and, reaching out with his rifle, tried to draw the rifle of one of the Tonks a bit closer.
The forest was silent again. He gripped the other rifle, put it close at hand, and then with care ejected the empty shells from his pistol and reloaded.
Nothing happened. The slow minutes passed and Ben Cowan suddenly felt sick and weak. His leg was throbbing. Gingerly, he reached down and felt of the leg. The bullet had cut through the muscle of the calf, and his pants leg and sock were soaked with blood. He must get that boot off and get his leg bandaged…but somewhere around was the Tonkawa…perhaps more than one.
Delicately, he began to work at the boot to get it off, trying to make no sound. After a few minutes he did get it off, and removed the blood-soaked sock.
His horse, frightened by the shooting, had disappeared, and with it whatever he had, which was little enough, to treat his wound. So he packed grass around it and tied it with his handkerchief, then struggled into his boot. At intervals, he paused to listen.
By this time the Kid undoubtedly knew his friends had run into trouble, if he had not actually seen what happened. Hence, he was either going to run or wait and try again; and if Ben Cowan was any judge, the Kid would wait and take his chance.
His eyes seemed to mist over, and when he tried to move he felt a sudden weakness.
Suppose he passed out? It was possible, for he had lost a lot of blood. If he did pass out, he would be killed.
He must hide.
Somehow, in some way, he must hide. Carefully, he looked about him, but there was nowhere to hide. Only the clumped blackjack, the black trunks of the trees.
But he had to move. He could no longer remain here—if he passed out where he was he would get his throat cut while unconscious. Far better to take his chances in trying to do something.
The nearest Indian had been carrying a Winchester also, so he stripped the man’s cartridge belt from him, and his knife. Then he eased from behind the tree and began inching his way through the grass.
He succeeded in moving without making any noise but the slightest dragging sound…that was inevitable. But, it was less than he had expected, and at times he even made no noise at all. His eyes continually searched the ground, the trees, the shrubs. He had gone at least thirty yards when he heard a chuckle.
It was the faintest of sounds, but he froze in place, listening. After a minute, he started on.
“Go ahead,” a voice said, “you ain’t goin’ no place.”
The voice was harsh and ugly. It was the Tonkawa Kid. Ben Cowan could not see him, but he knew the Kid must be where he could watch Cowan. Where was that?
He pulled himself a little further along, sorting the places in his mind. When the Kid spoke again, Cowan threw his rifle around and fired at the sound.
From a few feet away, the Kid laughed again, and fired. A bullet tore a furrow in the grass just ahead of Ben Cowan, almost burning his finger. And then he saw the gully that l
ay only a few feet ahead and to his right. That gully was only inches deep, but it was enough to offer shelter. Moreover, it deepened further along.
Using his rifle, Ben Cowan suddenly pushed himself up and dove forward. A rifle bellowed behind him even as he fell into the gully. Instantly, despite the tearing pain in his leg, he threw himself further along and began to scramble to get further away.
He heard a rush of feet in the grass and wheeled around, throwing his gun up. As the Indian sprang into sight, swinging the gun muzzle down on him, Cowan fired.
At the same instant, from off to the left, there was another gun-shot.
The Tonkawa’s body was caught in mid-air by the bullets; it was smashed back and around. Still he tried to bring his gun down on Cowan, but two more bullets ripped into him from the left and he fell into the bottom of the gully, landing only inches from Ben Cowan.
Cowan heard horses walking in the grass, and then a voice singing: “As I walked out in the streets of Laredo, as I walked out in Laredo one day…”
A horse appeared on the edge of the gully, and a grinning face looked down at him.
It was Bijah Catlow.
Chapter 3
BEN COWAN OPENED his eyes and looked up into an evening sky where a few scattered clouds were touched with a faint brushing of rose, and along the horizon a dark fringe of trees shouldered against the coming night.
Something stirred near him, and he turned his head to see Old Man Merridew standing by the fire holding a coffee cup.
“Come out of it, did you? You lost a sight of blood, boy.”
“I guess I did.”
“You done all right,” Merridew acknowledged. “You nailed two of them, and your bullet would have killed the Kid even without ours…only maybe not soon enough.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Pushin’ a herd to Dodge. Bijah seen your horse, so four, five of us, we left the herd and back-trailed the horse. Figured you to be in some kind of trouble, losin’ your mount that way, and your rifle gone.
“Then we heard the shootin’, so we closed in kind of careful-like. We found them Tonks you salted down, and one of our boys who used to hang out up in the Nation, he figured it was the Kid you were after. He knowed those Tonks for his kin.”
“You came along at the right time.”
Merridew shrugged, and filled another cup, then added a dollop of whiskey. He brought it to Cowan. “I dunno…you might have made it.”
Cowan drank the whiskey and coffee and felt better. “Who are you driving for?”
Merridew glanced up; his hard old eyes were level. “Ourselves…who else? When the big outfits dropped the bonus we struck off for ourselves.” He looked suspiciously at Cowan. “You mean you ain’t heard?”
“That Bijah’s wanted for rustling? I heard, but I never believe all I hear. Before I’d believe a thing like that I’d have to hear it from Bijah.” He finished the bit of coffee in the bottom of the cup. “As far as I’m concerned, Bijah has as much right to brand mavericks for himself as for the big outfits.”
Johnny Caxton rode up to the fire and stepped down from the saddle. Ben Cowan noted the sleeve folded over the stub of the arm, but he offered no comment. When he had last seen Johnny he’d had two good arms, but as far as he was concerned Johnny would be a top-hand under any circumstances.
Johnny glanced his way. “Hi, Ben. Anybody feed you?”
“Just woke up. The Old Man here gave me some special coffee.”
Ben Cowan eased his wounded leg out from under the blankets. A thought struck him and he looked quickly around the camp. “You boys missed a day on account of me, didn’t you?”
All the signs were there, the question needless. He knew what a camp looked like after a day, and after two days. He also knew how important it was to all of them to get this drive through on time—before Parkman or the law could interfere.
Johnny brought the pot over and refilled his cup. Ben stared bitterly at the coffee. Bijah was a wild one, but he was no thief…at least, he never had been. Yet it was a time when many a man was being called an outlaw for slapping brands on cattle. To get away with that, you had to have a big outfit and breeding stock.
“We missed two days,” Johnny commented, “one findin’ you, one while you’re restin’ up.”
Bijah came in when the guards changed. “Hiya, Shorthorn!” he said. “Surprised somebody hasn’t shot that badge off you by now.”
He squatted on his heels and studied Ben Cowan with a hard grin. “You packin’ a warrant for me?”
“No. If I was, I’d serve it.”
Bijah chuckled, and rolled a cigarette. “You ain’t changed none.” He touched his tongue to the paper. “We goin’ to have trouble in Kansas?”
“You know Parkman.”
Bijah lighted the cigarette with a stick from the fire. “Nine of us teamed to make this drive, and we rounded up the stock and did the branding. Johnny there, he lost his arm on the job, an’ Nigger Jim was killed. Well, Jim left no kin that anybody knows of, but he thought a sight of that girl he was seeing down on the Leon River. Seemed to me we would take his share to her.”
Ben Cowan accepted the plate he was handed, and then he said, “Bijah, you drive on to Abilene. When you’re a few miles out, I’ll ride in and see how things stand.”
“I know Bear River Tom Smith,” Merridew commented. “He’s a reasonable man.”
Cowan glanced at him. “Smith’s dead. They’ve brought Wild Bill Hickok in as marshal.”
Catlow looked up quickly. “The gunfighter? I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s the real thing, and don’t forget it,” Ben said. “A lot of the boys from down our way underrate him, but don’t you make that mistake.”
“I’m in too much trouble now,” Bijah said. “I’m not riding into Kansas for anything but a chance to sell this herd.”
NIGHT THREW A shadow on the world, and the night guard looked up from their horses to the circling stars and followed the pointers to the North Star, which was their guide to Kansas. Ben Cowan turned restlessly in his blankets easing his wounded leg against the throbbing pain. He stared up at the stars, reflecting again upon the strange destiny that seemed to tie his life to that of Bijah Catlow.
The thought worried him, for Catlow was a reckless man in many ways—never reckless of his life, although to the casual observer he might seem so, but reckless of the law. But in this case Ben Cowan, like many another Texan, believed Catlow was right, and the branding of mavericks was an old custom.
At dawn they were moving north, Ben Cowan riding his own horse, and easing his leg against the pain.
Bijah dropped back beside him. “Ben, I’m holdin’ them west of the trail, figurin’ we ain’t so likely to run up against any trouble, that way.”
“You duckin’ trouble?”
“The boys have got too much at stake. We worked our tails off to get these steers together. Me, I don’t care. Neither does the Old Man or Rio Bray; but Johnny, he’s got to get him a stake out of this, now that he’s left with only one arm.”
They rode along a low hill upwind from the herd to stay free of the dust.
“He figures to start him a restaurant,” Bijah went on.
“How about you?”
Catlow shot him a quick look. “You goin’ to preach at me again? Damn it, Ben, you know I’m pointed for a hangin’ or prison, so don’t try to head me off.”
“You’re too good a man, Bijah. Too good to go that way.”
“Maybe…but I’m a born rebel, Ben. You’re the smart one. You’ll ride it quiet and come out of it with a sight more than me. I only hope that when the chips are down and they send somebody after me that it won’t be you. You wouldn’t back up from what you figure is your duty, and I sure wouldn’t want you to…and I’d never back up, either.”
“I know it. I’ve asked for a transfer to another district, anyway. We may never see each other again.”
Bijah slapped him on the shoulder. �
��That’s gloomy talk. I figure to whip your socks off four or five times yet.” Bijah threw him a quick glance. “Ben, what you figure to do when we hit Abilene? You said you might help.”
“First, I’ll clear it with Hickok. He’s all right. He doesn’t give a damn what happened in Texas or anywhere else. All he wants is peace in Abilene.”
“You still have to stack your guns when you come into town?”
“That was under Smith. Wild Bill doesn’t care whether you wear them or not, as long as you don’t do any shooting. If you decided to do any, you’d better start with him, because if you shoot he’ll come after you.”
“Smith was a good man. I met up with him that time I rode up to Colorado with that Indian beef.” Bijah moved downslope to turn a ranging steer back into the drive. “Why are you so willing to front for me with Wild Bill?”
“He’ll listen to me. I’m an officer, too. And you might just be cocky enough to try to throw a gun on him and get killed.”
“The way I remember it, you fancy yourself with that hogleg you’re carryin’. Why, there was a time you claimed you were faster than me!”
Ben chuckled. “Only said it to you, Bijah and you know it, you Irish lunkhead. If anybody shoots you, let’s keep it in the family.”
Catlow laughed good-humoredly. “When the time comes it’ll simply bust my heart to kill you. For a sheriff, you’re a pretty good sort.”
Ben eased his foot in the stirrup, keeping his face straight against the pain. He had no right to complain, with only a bullet through his calf. Johnny Caxton was riding back there with a stump for an arm; but with one arm or two, Johnny Caxton was a good man, and he drove that team of broncs as though he sat the saddle of a bad horse.
Turning in the saddle, Ben Cowan glanced along the herd. Three thousand head of cattle string out for quite a distance when they are not bunched up, and handling this herd was a good big job for the available men. They had about six horses per man, and it wasn’t really enough, short-handed as they were.
Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0) Page 2
