“Yes, sir. I need to find the trail before dark catches me. I hate to be unsociable, because it’s very nice meeting you folks. I really appreciate the meal, but I do need to be moving on.”
Don Carlos stood, and with him, the family.
Clay turned to Doña Alejandra. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your kindness, and I hope to see you again.”
“It was our pleasure, Clay. Please come back to see us when you can.”
Diana took his hand in hers as he was leaving. “Vaya con Dios—go with God, Clay.”
“Thank you,” Clay said. “It’s been a real pleasure, ma’am.”
They all walked him out to the veranda. The horses were at the watering trough by the corral. Arturo and Juan were sitting in the shade, finishing off some beans and tortillas.
Clay turned to Don Carlos. “Thank you, sir. You’ve got a beautiful home here, and well protected.”
The don laughed and said, “Yes, it is not as necessary as it was twenty years ago, but it still brings me comfort. Take care, Clay. If you need any other help, feel free to ask. Your business in San Felipe helped me a great deal. I think the Pinder Gang might be finished in this country, thanks to you. Good luck.”
Clay walked over to Rafael. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime. Take good care of your folks.”
Clay turned and headed for the horses. He checked Blue’s saddle, tightened the cinch, and swung up on his back. Arturo and Juan mounted. Leaving again, Clay thought. Wonder if I’ll ever see them again. One thing he noticed, the empty feeling wasn’t as bad as it had been.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The three men turned north out of the ranch headquarters. Clay noticed cattle around the hacienda, and as far as he could see, in all directions. The farther north they rode, the fewer cattle he saw. After they crossed Mezquitosa Creek, no cattle were in sight.
The countryside was cut with washes and canyons. The bottom of the creeks had a few oaks combined with mesquites. Short grass covered the bottoms, but on the sides and tops of the canyons, creosote bush and tar bush competed with the mesquites. Clay looked across the miles of open country, hidden canyons holding water sometimes and distant peaks reaching for the clouds, and felt the immensity of the land. He loved the wildness of it. The sky had turned a brassy-tinted, faint copper-blue as the afternoon warmed. It wouldn’t be too many more days before the afternoon temperatures would be intense.
They crossed another, smaller, arroyo. Juan said, in a low tone, “This is Arroyo El Vivora. It is smaller than Mezquitosa. In the bottom, we will find the tracks of our cattle and the rustlers.”
They rode down the side of Vivora into the creek bottom. This was a small creek with grass and standing pockets of water. Clay could see the tracks of many cattle, too many to have gathered here on their own. He spotted the tracks of a horse moving in and out of the cattle, obviously pushing them to the mouth of the creek.
Clay pulled up and turned to Arturo and Juan. “Thanks for your help, amigos. Reckon I’ll take it from here.”
Arturo looked at the tracks. “You sure you don’t want our help?”
Clay shook his head, then said, “No. I appreciate it, but they’ll be less likely to spot one than three. Tell Don Carlos thanks. If I get his cattle, I’ll send you word.”
“Adios, amigo,” Juan said. The two men wheeled their horses back to the south, and rode up and out of the canyon.
Clay waited until they were out of sight. Then he dismounted and studied the horse’s tracks. All tracks were different. This horse had worn shoes, with the left front worn down past where it should be replaced. The hooves weren’t sinking very deep into the ground, indicating a light horse and rider. He walked on a ways, watching for other horse tracks. Sure enough, he found two others and logged them in his memory.
He led the horses over to one of the creek’s water holes. While they drank, he pulled off his boots and put on a pair of moccasins. He tied the boots together and tossed them over the saddle of the buckskin. Clay mounted Blue and, with the buckskin in tow, followed the tracks to the creek mouth, where it ran into the Rio Bravo. He found where they turned the cattle north along the river.
The sun was slipping behind the western cliffs along the Rio Bravo. He needed to find a campsite. He had followed the tracks. The men had kept the cattle to the Mexican side, even when the river swung in close and they had to single file the cattle between the river and the bluffs. Arturo and Juan had sketched him out a simple map and shown him where the rustlers had pushed the cattle across the river just above Buey and Jabonillos Creeks. The two creeks ran into the Rio Bravo basin within a hundred yards of each other. Once past Jabonillos, the river basin opened wide and the river shallowed. The rustlers had found a perfect spot to cross the cattle.
Clay crossed Buey Creek and was just coming into Jabonillos when he spotted a perfect campsite. He rode over to the north side of Jabonillos. There was a small grassy flat about thirty feet above the creek bed. The flat backed up against the steep bank that rose another thirty feet or so. That would protect him from anyone slipping up behind him, and the horses would alert him from the other directions. The flat was high enough above the creek so that he didn’t have to worry about a flash flood. Heavy rains could happen miles away and push a surge of water down the creek, drowning everything in its path. He had no desire to get caught in a flash flood.
He unsaddled the horses and put his gear close together. He used one saddle as a pillow and leaned the shotgun against the remaining saddle, within arm’s reach. He tossed ropes around the horses’ necks, removed the bridles, and led them to water on Jabonillos. After they drank their fill, Clay led them back up to the grassy flat and staked them out so they’d have plenty of room, to feed on the rich grass through the night. He checked his boots. Yep, his money was still there. It had substantially increased since his withdrawal of five hundred from the Brackett bank. If he’d known what was going to happen, he wouldn’t have taken out so much.
His canteen and water bags were full. He opened his saddlebags and pulled out some jerky and a bag. Maria had packed several tortillas for him. He took out two and leaned back on his saddle. Even at seventeen, he’d spent many a night alone with only the moon and stars for his light, the ground for his bed. This night wouldn’t be much different, except for the knowledge that he might kill or be killed tomorrow.
A half-moon rose, sending its light across the countryside. From where his bed lay, he could look east, out the mouth of Jabonillos Creek, and see the moon’s white reflection on the Rio Bravo. He watched the moon rise higher in the eastern sky, its light casting gray shadows across the river bottom.
When he finished the tortillas and jerky, he chased it with a drink from his canteen, removed his gunbelt, and pulled a six-gun from its holster. He slid down so that his head was resting on his saddle and was sound asleep within seconds.
*
Clay awoke to the comforting sound of the horses munching on the fresh grass. He lay there for a moment, listening to the sounds around him. Cicadas were crying in the mesquite trees. A mockingbird was going through its repertoire, and grasshoppers were serenading one another.
He cracked one eye open. Daylight was slowly chasing night into the past. He felt rested. His young body recuperated quickly. There was no pain or stiffness from his neck. He moved his head from left to right and opened his mouth wide. Still, no discomfort. I was mighty lucky. That knife could have ended it, right there on Maverick Creek.
Clay removed his moccasins and slipped his boots on, moving the money inside around so that it was comfortable in his boots. Hate carrying so much money around. I get back to a bank, I’ll get rid of most of it. He stood and stretched, his long arms spanning more than six feet.
The horses had stopped eating and were watching him. He walked over to Blue and rubbed his nose and neck. The buckskin sidled over and pushed his head toward Clay. “What’s the matter, boy? You want to join in on the scratching?” Clay scratched both horse
s behind the ears, then dug some oats out of his saddlebags and gave them to the horses. After they had eaten, he led them down the embankment to water. Up Jabonillos Arroya, two whitetail deer raised their heads from the water and stared at him. Sensing no threat, they lowered their heads and continued to drink.
He checked the loads in his six-guns, pulled the Roper out of the scabbard and ensured it was fully loaded and then checked the Winchester Yellow Boy. He worked the action levering the round out of the barrel and another in, picked up the ejected round, examined it, and slipped it back into the loading gate. Pa had taught him that if you take care of your weapons, they’ll take care of you. He gave them a light wipe-down and returned the long guns to their scabbards and the six-guns to their holsters. Clay saddled the horses. Today, he would ride the buckskin. He pulled some extra rounds for the Winchester from his saddlebags and hung the shotgun shell bag from the saddle horn. He was ready. While he was rummaging through the saddlebags, he got him some breakfast—beef jerky and cold tortillas—then stepped into the saddle.
Chewing on the jerky and tortillas, he guided the buckskin and Blue toward the mouth of Jabonillos Arroyo, where it joined the Rio Bravo. He stopped the horses when he had a view of the river and scanned up and down its length. Wouldn’t do to be surprised by Indians, bandits, or the men he was following. When he was satisfied it was clear, he rode into the sand of the river. The Rio Bravo was wide at this junction with Jabonillos, probably a hundred yards across, mostly sand, with the shallow river coursing through a narrow part. The width of the water was no more than fifteen or twenty yards. A great place to cross the cattle, especially at night. He continued following the rustlers’ tracks across the Rio Bravo.
Once back into Texas, the rustlers had turned the herd toward the Devils River country. Rain had washed out their tracks, but, with the skills he had learned from the Tonkawa, he could spot scattered scratches on the rocks. He trailed them for several miles. They were driving the cattle hard, pushing them through rough country covered with short, light brown grass and rocks. The soft green of the mesquite was joined by the darker green of the shorter creosote bush.
He followed them to a cut that angled down to the Devils River Valley. The morning was already warming up. The heat was rising from the rocky country and distorting distant vision. He followed the cut far enough below the rim to ensure he was not silhouetted.
Clay stopped the horses, removed his hat, and wiped his forehead. He wiped his hatband with his hand and slapped the hat back on his head. “What a sight. Pa was right. This Devils River Valley is like a paradise. Come on, boys, let’s get down to that pretty water and get you two a drink.” The Devils River’s clear, cool water was a welcome sight.
Riding down the side of the canyon, he kept his eyes busy, searching canyons running out from the river valley. The river looked out of place in this West Texas desert. Live oak covered the valley bottom. At this point, the valley looked to be a mile wide, the clear blue of the spring-fed river cutting through the green of the valley. Pecan trees and sycamore joined the live oak, with occasional Mexican white oak. Brightly colored red yucca accented the sides of the valley.
Clay’s eyes feasted on the beauty of this island valley. He rode the horses up to the rushing river and sat for a moment in the trees, continuing to keep a watchful eye. Then he rode the horses into the clear, cold water. They immediately lowered their heads and began to drink. After they had finished, he rode them a few yards to grass, stepped from the saddle, and pulled his canteen and water bags from the horses. Reckon I’d rather have this clear water with me than the silty stuff from the Rio Bravo. He emptied and refilled the canteen and water bottles, then took a long, soothing drink of the cold water. After drinking, he thrust his head deep into the water and let the coolness wash away the heat and sweat.
The short break reenergized him. As he mounted, a bright orange bird with a black face and wings flew to a nearby pecan, giving a high-pitched call. Clay quickly looked around to make sure that the bird hadn’t been spooked. He was alone. He’d never seen a bird of that color. He sat for a moment, enjoying the sight of the strange bird, then went back to trailing the cattle.
The rustlers had stayed in the river valley for several miles, until the river started to narrow. Clay could see a rougher stretch ahead and could hear the sound of a waterfall. The tracks started to veer from the valley and turn up a side canyon.
Clay pulled up under a thicket of oak and pecan. He watched the mouth of the canyon and could make out a thin wisp of smoke climbing in the afternoon breeze. When he felt comfortable that he could not be seen from the canyon, he turned toward the Devils River valley wall. Finding a mesquite thicket with scattered grass, he dismounted, took the bag of shotgun shells and the Roper, changed his boots for his moccasins, and left the horses to graze. He slipped into a shallow draw that led up to the valley wall. After traveling a short distance, he turned and examined where his horses were feeding. There was no sign of them. They were well-hidden in the thicket.
Clay slipped along the draw until he came to the valley wall, about a half-mile from the canyon mouth. He had spotted a deer or sheep trail going up the valley wall. Now, he started moving up the trail. It was steep but occasionally leveled out for a short distance. He was hidden from the valley floor by scattered creosote and juniper. He made it to a switchback in the trail, near the top. Several shallow caves lined the trail.
He eased around the switchback, and came face-to-face with a cougar. Clay had been slipping along, his training from living with the Tonkawa effective, never making a sound. He surprised the cougar as much as it had surprised him.
The tawny cat crouched low to the ground. Clay could see the muscles in the cat’s shoulders and legs. He whispered, “Mr. Cougar, neither of us wants to hurt the other. We’re just surprised. Why don’t you go on your way and I’ll go on mine?”
The cat stayed in its crouch, his long, black-tipped tail swishing slowly from side to side, its yellow eyes focused on Clay. The shotgun was ready, but he didn’t want to shoot the cat for two reasons. He had no desire to kill the animal. It was beautiful and deadly and deserved to go on living. But he also didn’t want to fire and raise an alarm at the rustlers’ camp. “Move along, cat. We both have things to do.”
The cougar’s tail swished twice more. It turned off the trail and leaped up the side of the canyon, disappearing in the juniper. Clay released a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized how tense he was. He took a moment to stretch. He needed to be limber and ready. After scanning around to be sure he was alone, he continued up the trail. Easing over the crest, he moved far enough from the edge so he couldn’t be seen from the valley floor, and started jogging across the flat to the canyon edge, where the rustlers were camped below.
Within fifteen minutes he arrived at the crest of the canyon. He dropped to his belly and crawled to the edge, keeping a mesquite in front of him. He eased up next to the trunk of the mesquite and peered over the side of the canyon.
There they were, three men, relaxed around a campfire. The cattle were farther up the canyon, held in by a crude pole fence. A small stream of water flowed down the canyon and into the Devils River. This was a perfect place to hold cattle. They had grass and water, and no one would ever find them here. He lay there for about an hour, watching the activities of the men. None of them seemed anxious to check on the cattle. From where he was, he couldn’t identify the men, but he felt certain that none of them were big enough to be Gideon Pinder. If that was the case, Gideon must have hired more men. But more men or not, Clay wanted him, and he wanted him bad. While he was lying under the mesquite, he mapped out an approach down the canyon wall. Another little-used trail angled down to the canyon floor. It was steep, but should be no problem. There was plenty of cover for his approach. He slipped back away from the canyon wall and ran to where the trail began. He flipped back the loading gate of the Roper, released the hammer thongs on both Model 3s, and slipped over the edge of the c
anyon wall.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Clay arrived at the juniper at the bottom of the canyon, near the camp. He could smell the campfire and hear the men talking. He lay listening for a moment, contemplating the upcoming action. Now was the time. He would have them dead to rights. He was only about thirty feet from the fire. Clay slowly stood behind the juniper. His footsteps making no sound, he stepped from behind the tree. The men kept talking. They hadn’t noticed him. But only two men sat at the fire. He snapped his head around, left, right, no sign of the third man. He was committed now.
Clay thumbed the hammer of the Roper back. The audible, metallic click stopped conversation. “Howdy, boys.”
The two men turned to look at him. The one with the beard grinned. “Mighty big shotgun you got there, boy. What took you so long?”
Movement from his left caught his eye, and a half-breed stepped from the brush. He had a Winchester trained on Clay. How do I get myself in these predicaments? Am I ever going to learn?
“Breed, you got him covered?” the bearded man asked.
Neither of the men at the fire had drawn a weapon.
“Yes, if he moves, he dies,” Breed said.
“Good,” Beard said, “drop yore weapons, boy. Or I’ll have Breed gut shoot you, then we’ll drag you into the fire and see how long you last. Nothin’ more fun than watchin’ a man roast. Drop yore weapons, now!”
This is going to be close. I won’t get out of this without getting shot. But if I surrender, I’m dead. Clay eased the shotgun toward the ground. When his hand came even with his holster, he turned loose of the Roper and grabbed the Model 3, diving to his left. He felt the comforting weight of the six-gun in his right hand. The roar of the Winchester echoed through the canyon. Breed worked the Winchester’s action fast, but not fast enough. Clay heard the crack and felt the breeze by his ear, as the bullet passed. He missed—how could he miss? He watched his shot blossom red on the Breed’s chest.
Forty-Four Caliber Justice Page 17
