The Desperate Deputy of Cougar Hill

by Louis Trimble

  Cameron swore. He didn’t like the idea of dodging a fight, but it looked as if he just might be doing that for some time yet. And because such thinking put a sour taste in his mouth, he forced his attention back to the job at hand.

  He trailed the little paint easily up to the box canyon where the Dondees had their mine. He saw where Tod had left the horse and gone forward on foot. And he saw now that one set of hoofmarks was fresher than the others. The sign stood out sharp and clear in dirt kept moist by the shade from the rock shoulder. One horse had gone in not too long before, Cameron judged.

  He moved his carbine so that the barrel lay across his saddle bow. But when he broke into the canyon there was no sign of life. A glittering pile of pyrites lay in the middle of the sun-baked yard, confirming Tod’s guess. Now a jay appeared and chattered angrily at Cameron from the branches of a nearby pine. Insects began to click in the grass; and in the near distance something moved cautiously in the bushes near the mouth of the pine shaft.

  Cameron frowned. Whoever had ridden in here hadn’t gone back out. Yet there was no sign of him. The ground here was too baked to take prints. He looked around. Whoever it was could be in the cabin, or behind it; he could be in the mine shaft, carefully drawing his bead; or he could be up on the narrow, rocky trail that ran from the yard over a low hump and to the end of the canyon, where there was a woodlot.

  He would be less of a target moving, Cameron thought sourly. He started the roan for the trail leading to the mine shaft. No one appeared above. There was no sound from up there. Cameron reined the roan to his left and put it onto the rocky trail leading to the woodlot.

  The pitch was steep, and then it leveled off to make a wide hairpin loop and drop down over a low ridge. Cameron was squeezed by rock walls in the middle of the loop when Sax Larabee’s softly mocking voice slashed razor sharp at him from above.

  “You’ve got that gun aimed in the wrong direction, Roy. Keep it that way.”

  X

  CAMERON GLANCED up to see Larabee coming down toward him. He sat a rangy bay easily. He carried his .44 in his hand and when he reined in and leaned forward, he rested the barrel on the splayed top of the horn.

  “From what that doctor of yours said, you aren’t supposed to be up and around for two more days,” Larabee said.

  Cameron remained silent, waiting for Larabee to explain himself, his reason for being here.

  His lack of response seemed to irritate Larabee. “What the devil are you doing riding on private land anyway?”

  “Your land?”

  Larabee’s smile was amused. ‘In a manner of speaking. I’m the Dondees’ silent partner.”

  Cameron nodded. “I judged as much. You set them on me Saturday night Why?”

  Larabee ignored the question. “You figured that out,” he said. He laughed. “And you came hotfooting here looking for the Dondees?”

  “I’ll take care of them in good time,” Cameron retorted. “I’m hunting Tod Purcell.”

  He saw the sudden and quickly hidden gleam touch Larabee’s dark eyes, and he knew that his earlier guesses had been right. Larabee and the Dondee brothers had been the ones to chase Tod into the hills. Anger surged up despite Cameron’s efforts to match Larabee’s calmness. He-said thickly, “If you’ve hurt that kid, Sax, I’ll nail you to the wall.”

  Larabee stared at Cameron. He was obviously trying to make up his mind as to his next step, but when he spoke he sounded as sure of himself as if he’d never been faced with a decision.

  “The kid’s all right — or he was when I last heard. He’s in the high country, holed up in a narrow-necked draw.”

  “And the Dondees are up there too — waiting for hunger to bring him to them?” Cameron’s voice was still heavy, but he had some of his control back now.

  “That’s not your concern,” Larabee said. He leaned forward. “Your job is to get back to that hospital bed. And stay in it until Saturday night.”

  Cameron stared at him almost stupidly. “You’re giving me orders?”

  Larabee’s voice was cold fire, “I warned you before. Now I’m making it plain. Do as I tell you or ride out of this country — now. Because if you buck, Roy, I’m telling Balder and Stedman and the rest of your town fathers that they have a jailbird for a deputy marshal. That the man they plan on making kingpin spent time in the penitentiary.”

  “And they’ll believe you?”

  “I have proof,” Larabee said. “They’ll believe me.”

  And they would react just the way Larabee wanted them to. Balder and Stedman would even if the others were more charitable. But they were the two who counted the most. They were the ones whose disapproval would drive him from this country, from the land he owned, from the future he looked forward to — maybe even from Jenny Purcell.

  Cameron continued to stare at Larabee. But now he was beginning to understand the breadth of the man’s plan. He hadn’t come here merely to revenge himself for what had happened those years back in Colorado. He had prepared for his coming too well.

  Cameron said slowly, “You sent the Dondees here to see just how tough this country was.”

  Larabee acknowledged the accusation with a slight nod. “I found out about it before that — about you being here, about the big horse sale to the army, about the kind of men who run this country.” He laughed. “Like Balder and Stedman and that fool Obed Beggs. Self-righteous fools, and greedy ones. They’re the best kind, Roy. They can be handled easiest of all.”

  Cameron was only half listening. He was following his own train of thought. Larabee had come for the gold the army would leave behind. At the same time he wanted his revenge, wanted to wipe out the bitter taste he had nursed in himself all these years. And somehow, Cameron knew, he planned to make the two desires work together, to make the one help him get the other.

  But how did he expect to get that money? The army men had a strong guard on it now. And when they were gone, it would be in the bank vaults, watched carefully by cautious townsmen during the day, by the law at night.

  The realization of Larabee’s intent jarred him like a blow to the belly. That was it! He was the law. And if he was up and around, he would be the Saturday night guard at the bank! His being there was the key to Larabee’s whole plan.

  And now he understood a good deal that had escaped him before. He said, “That’s why you had me beaten up — to keep me out of action while you made your final plans. But your crew got a little too eager and you had to step in and stop them.”

  Larabee’s expression revealed nothing. Cameron went on, “You put Rafe Arker up to fighting me that first night, and when he failed you brought in the Dondees.”

  He leaned forward now, his eyes slashing at Larabee’s expressionless countenance. “You had it all worked out — how I’d either do what you wanted Saturday night and let you and your friends take the gold or you’d tell your story. You figured that would get me out of the way and make the robbery easier for you.”

  “Having you stand aside and wait would be the easiest,” Larabee said calmly. “And that’s what you’ll do.”

  “And then what?” Cameron cried. “Then I stand convicted as a traitor to these people or as a fool, not worth a lawman’s hire!”

  “No,” Larabee said. “You’ve been beat. You’ll look like you put up a fight but that you didn’t have the strength to win. No one will hold anything against you.” He smiled, a sardonic twist of his mouth. “You’ll be marshal someday, Roy. You can marry that girl, raise your stock, grow old and fat here. That’s what I’m offering you — security.”

  It was possible, Cameron thought. Larabee was clever enough to do this. But security in exchange for what? A bleak winter for the ranchers and the townsmen — and failure for some of them living now on hope of the army’s gold. That and the life of a boy who had once been on the edge of wildness and who had stepped back, drawn by his admiration for Cameron.

  Security in exchange for scars he would carry inside himself the res
t of his life.

  Larabee’s voice slashed like a bull whip. “You’ve had your talk, Roy. Now ride back to town like I told you.”

  Cameron ignored the order. “I came looking for Tod Purcell,” he said. “I’ll go nowhere without him.”

  Larabee smiled thinly. “The little snoop overheard me talking to the Dondees. He knows about you, Roy — all about you. If you’re wise, you’ll leave him to my men to take care of.”

  Cameron remained twisted in the saddle, staring at Larabee. His carbine was aimed still at nothing, and the fact of Larabee’s gun loomed large in his consciousness. He was tired and his body ached from the strain these last few hours had put on it. His mind slid easily to the obvious solution — agree with Larabee. Agree to go back to town and wait; agree to stand aside on Saturday night. And then when the trap was set, when Larabee and his crew were deep inside, spring that trap.

  Cameron had long ago learned to fight the lawless with their own weapons whenever he needed to. But he turned away from this plan quickly. Once he rode away from here — once he crawled back to town — he had signed and sealed Tod Purcell’s death warrant. Larabee had admitted Tod’s overhearing him. He couldn’t afford to risk the boy’s getting loose. His whole scheme depended on surprise — and on Cameron. The one he could destroy and still have a chance. The other he dared not risk losing.

  “When I ride back to town, Tod rides with me,” Cameron said softly.

  Color flooded Larabee’s cheeks as he fought impatience, surging anger. “I’ve given you all the time you needed. I can kill you now and still get the money.” His eyes glittered. “Don’t try to bluff me, Roy. I’ve thought this all out. If you force me to kill you, nothing changes. Nothing except that you won’t be found. And after the money’s found missing, who do you think the law will hunt for? You — once they hear you spent time in prison for bank robbery.”

  There was no lightness, no mockery left in him. He sat the bay horse with his frame shaking from suppressed rage at this man daring to flout him. His arm quivered and the gun muzzle chattered softly on the leather covering of the saddle horn.

  And he was back where he had started, Cameron realized. He had the same choice offered him when Larabee first got the drop on him, long moments ago. He could try to beat that .44 aimed at his body or he could turn and ride.

  “You leave me nothing, Sax,” he said in a complaining voice. With a grimace, he lifted the carbine, raising the butt high and swinging the barrel around and down the open mouth of the boot.

  He could feel Larabee’s tautness. He had no need to look to know that Larabee’s finger was tight on the trigger of the gun, that his body was ready for instant response if Cameron should make his try now. Cameron hadn’t lied — Larabee had left him nothing.

  The tip of the carbine was almost brushing the leather of the boot opening. Cameron sucked in a short, harsh breath, knowing that the necessary suddenness of his next move would send pain slashing through his body. It would roar up from his torn ribs to explode in his gun arm.

  As he let out the breath, he drove his elbow close to his side and levered the carbine barrel up with his forearm. His head came up and he saw the glint of understanding form in Larabee’s eyes. He tried to fling himself to one side and fire the carbine at the same time. He heard the crash of Larabee’s .44 blend with the crack of his carbine. Blackness blinded him, and he thought, “I’ve lost!”

  XI

  CAMERON FELT the strong pull of the stirrup against his left ankle. Vaguely he realized that he was hanging far over on the right side of the roan and that it was dancing crazily, trying to back out of the narrow confines of this trail. With an effort that sent a new surge of pain slashing through him, Cameron forced himself back into the saddle.

  His vision cleared. He heard the shrill neigh of a frightened horse and he saw Larabee’s bay plunging with the same wildness that gripped the roan. Larabee was fighting with one hand to control the horse; the other still held his gun and he strained to bring it to bear on Cameron again. A bright red streak on the bay’s flank told clearly where the carbine bullet had gone.

  But Larabee was a superb horseman, Cameron knew. In a moment he would have the animal under control and be able to bring his gun into play. Cameron could feel the numbness that blotted all feeling from his right side. The emptiness ran the length of his arm, leaving him barely enough strength to hold the carbine. Moving as quickly as he could manage, he took the gun with his left hand and thrust it into the boot. For an instant, the roan was free of restraint and he sunfished, nearly pitching Cameron over his head.

  Then Cameron had a grip on the reins and he brought the frightened horse under control with a harsh movement of his wrist. Momentarily he was motionless in the saddle. He could feel heat like a branding iron across his back and guessed that Larabee’s bullet had scoured his vest, blistering the flesh underneath. He saw that Larabee nearly had the bay steady again and he made an effort to draw his hand gun. But his right arm hung uselessly, refusing to move, and he knew that again he had no choice.

  He reined the roan about violently. Its hindquarters scraped rock and then it was heading downtrail, snorting its displeasure. Cameron sent it cantering downslope, into the box canyon, and across the sunhot dirt where the glittering heap of pyrites still lay. He heard Larabee’s cry behind him and a bullet slashed through the air to whip at his hatbrim. Then he was plunging out of the canyon onto the short trail that led to the wagonroad.

  This was the way Tod must have bolted, he thought — but with three after him instead of just one. And Tod had managed to get away. Somehow he had eluded all three riders and made his way into the high country. From Larabee’s words, Cameron guessed that Tod was holed up where he could defend himself but where he couldn’t leave.

  Cameron’s knowledge of the high country was limited. He knew only the few places Jenny had shown him on their infrequent rides. She had taken him to tucked away meadows — secret places, she called them, where she and her brother and Tod had hunted before her brother’s death. It was a place such as one of these that she planned to go after the wild horses, Cameron thought; and it would be the same kind of place Tod would have headed for.

  He looked back to see Larabee barely within handgun range. He tried again to command his right arm to move but it hung lifelessly, flopping with the motion of the roan. Cameron drove his heels into the horse, lifting its gait to a dangerous pace here on the steep downslope. To his right, the timber looked inviting. But he thrust the temptation from his mind. He would gain nothing by holding up there. His one chance to help Tod would be to ride for the high country and try to break him free of the trap he had probably ridden himself into.

  The rutted track leading to Rafe Arker’s place loomed on the left. As Cameron swung toward it, a bullet whined in his direction, much of its force spent by distance. He slowed the roan briefly, allowing it to gain footing on this different terrain, and then he urged it to speed again. Sand spurted from under the flying hoofs as they raced through the stand of scrub pine. Shoes rang on rock as they sliced through the twisting cut. Then Cameron burst into Arker’s yard. It was empty, and the feel of desolation reminded him that Arker had gone ahead into the hills.

  Ahead lay the rock-hard ground of the first hills. Behind, the beat of hoofs warned that the bay was close. Cameron sent the roan up a steep slope, down into a narrow gully, and along the hard-packed trail toward the mountains rising close ahead.

  Lead slashed the air behind him as Larabee fired. But for the moment he had the distance, and the shot fell short. He kept the roan driving, hating this as he heard the horse’s breath begin to gust, as he felt the foam of sweat lathering its sides.

  Now the first timber appeared and a coolness touched the air. The trail broke onto a flat and the roan shied. Cameron swore. Halfway across the flat Rafe Arker rode his palomino, the pack horse ambling along behind. The roan drew even and then was past. Arker lifted his head, gasping as Cameron charged by. From beh
ind, came Larabee’s shrill cry, “Get him, you fool! Gun him down!”

  Arker’s answer was a shout of pure pleasure. Cameron twisted around to see the big body settling in the saddle, to see sunlight glinting on a swiftly drawn gun barrel. He turned back. He had to find refuge soon. In an open race, the long-legged palomino could run the little roan into the ground. Three or four trails wound across the flat and into canyon openings at the far end. One half blocked by a rock slide caught Cameron’s eye. Faintly he recalled Jenny leading him around that slide. He reined the roan slightly to the left, swung it around the tumble of rocks, and disappeared into the shadow cast by the canyon walls. Arker’s gun slammed viciously behind him, sending lead shrilling off rock. Then the twists in the canyon carried him to momentary safety.

  He rode a good two hundred yards, hearing nothing but the heavy breathing of the roan and the beat of its hoofs on the hard floor of the canyon. Then the echo of other horses coming reached his ears. Cameron sought to remember what lay ahead, to recall any possible way to throw his pursuers off the track. He swore as he realized that Rafe Arker would know this country all too well. If Larabee had been alone, he might be fooled. But there was no chance of that with Arker to guide him.

  And now Cameron felt the roan stumble. He slowed its pace and looked ahead. The canyon was widening. Beyond it, he could see a kink of trail winding steeply up the mountainside, and he knew that he would have to rest the roan soon. Its heart would burst under the effort of running up those pitches ahead.

  Now Cameron caught a glimpse of red rock on his left, of a tiny spring trickling down the hillside on his right, of a strange formation half blocking the sky ahead — and memory surged back. A short distance on, the canyon branched into three trails. One was a culde-sac, but the other two eventually met higher up. The right-hand fork was the longer, he recalled. It wormed its way through a thick stand of trees and across the sharpness of flint rock. And because it was the poorer of the two trails, he just might throw Rafe Arker off by taking it — if he could get past the first bend without being seen. Then he could chance resting the roan in a small clearing by a spring where he and Jenny had once stopped to cook coffee.