He did as I told him, and I walked along the stalls until I found the horse that Sam had stolen from Bill Mounts and Seaborn Barnes had failed to ride out of the alley. “That horse was stolen in my county,” I said, “and I claim him to return to his proper owner. I’ll get him at daybreak.”
“I can’t do that, sir,” the boy said. “He’s the one the dead outlaw rode. The Rangers want him.”
“If I don’t get him, I’ll have you and Mr. Highsmith in jail for possession of stolen property,” I said. “Sheriff William F. Egan will ride that horse, and he’ll be saddled and waiting at daybreak, son.”
Yes, it was a bluff. But I was determined that one officer would be well mounted the next day, and that officer would be me. Sam would be found, all right, but not by the Texas Rangers. He would be taken by a politician from Denton County who didn’t know beans from billiard balls.
I went back to the hotel and slept well.
Major Jones’s men rounded up a dozen good mounts during the night, so he wasn’t angry at finding me sitting Barnes’s horse in front of the hotel. My foresight wasn’t wasted, though, for he assigned all the good mounts to his own Rangers and left the local officers to quarrel over the livery stable nags, which they were doing when the Rangers and I rode out to Brushy Creek just after daylight. I was surprised that Jim Murphy was among us. “If Sam’s alive, he’ll kill you on sight,” I said.
Jim’s face turned even redder than usual, and he glanced away without reply.
“I asked him to come, to identify Bass,” Major Jones said. “We don’t need him,” I said. “I know Bass as well as anybody.” The major gave Jim a little nod, and he turned back toward town.
Sam’s trail had been lost at the creek, and we figured that he and Jackson had turned either upstream or downstream after they forded the water. Maybe they separated there, but I doubted that because of Sam’s condition, and I remembered Jackson’s devotion to him from the earliest days of their acquaintance. I suggested we split our party and scout the creek both ways until we found the trail. The major agreed and assigned two Rangers, a private and a corporal, to go with me. In a little-traveled lane not far upstream we discovered the tracks of two horses that obviously were traveling together. The Rangers were expert trackers, and we moved along the lane at a slow gallop, keeping the trail in sight without difficulty until we came to the edge of an unfenced pasture. There the tracks disappeared into the grass. Beyond the pasture was a low hill with a cedar brake near the top and a huge live oak rising from among the cedars. The Rangers were from Lampasas and had never trailed Sam before. They didn’t know his love of timber as I did. So I said, “Scout the trail here. I’ll rejoin you in a minute.” Before they could reply, T spurred across the pasture, but slowed and drew my pistol as I neared the cedars. I reached the edge of the brake and stopped and listened but heard nothing. I peered into the somber green boughs but saw nothing. “Sam! Sam Bass!” I called. There was no reply. I moved the horse into the cedars, scanning the shadows, half expecting to see a gun barrel pointed at me, but there was nothing. Until I reached the live oak.
Sam wasn’t there, but he had been. A bloody black coat was folded neatly, lying against the trunk. I dismounted and unfolded it and saw the bullet hole in its back. Almost on the spot where it had lain was a large dark blot. He bled a lot there. And there were several narrow pieces of cloth that looked as if they had been torn from a shirt and a brown bottle about a third full of some liquid. I pulled the cork and sniffed. Laudanum. I walked to the edge of the brake and cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted at the Rangers below. When they got to the live oak, I was holding the coat spread before me. “Damn!” the corporal said.
It didn’t take long to find the trail out of the brake. Or rather, the trails. One man walked, leading a horse. The other rode, at a run, toward the west. “Jackson left Bass here and took off in a hurry,” the corporal said. “Right after dark, probably. He’ll be hard to catch. Since Bass was walking, I reckon he was too weak to climb on his horse. I doubt he’s gone far.”
We followed Sam along a northward course, but lost the trail again among the rocks on the side of the next hill. “I’ll go see what’s on the other side,” the private said. He had barely reached the ridge when he called, “Farm house down there.”
While we were riding down the other side, a woman came out of the house and stood in the yard, watching. As we neared the fence, she called, “Who are you?”
“Texas Rangers, ma’am,” the corporal said.
“Are you looking for a wounded man?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She squinted at us, worried. “He was here last night.” “When last night, ma’am?”
“Late. I was in bed, and he knocked on the door and begged for water. But I was alone and afraid to open.”
“How do you know he was wounded, ma’am?”
“I watched him through the window as he went away. He was staggering, and didn’t get on his horse. There was blood on my porch this morning.” The woman looked embarrassed. “I wish I’d opened the door, but I didn’t.”
“You did right, ma’am. He’s dangerous.”
“Who was he?”
“Sam Bass”
“Oh, my God!”
Sam’s trail wasn’t hard to follow. If his wounds had been bandaged, as I assumed from the strips of cloth I found, the bandages had been soaked through, and he was bleeding again. I prayed he wouldn’t bleed to death before we found him. Remembering the hundreds of hot and wet miles I had pursued him through the bottoms and prairies of North Texas, I wanted him to know who had captured him, when that hour came. Was it a vengeful thought? I don’t think so. Sam Bass was my personal bandit. By helping him keep body and soul together when he was a lonely child in a strange land, and especially by loaning him the money to buy that accursed mare, I had been the sponsor of the trouble he had inflicted. I had cast my bread upon the waters as the Scriptures direct, but it was plague that floated back to me. And since it was I who had loosed the plague upon the land, I didn’t want to leave its cure to others.
About a mile from the farm house we struck the new Georgetown spur of the International and Great Northern Railroad. The line was still under construction, and we lost Sam’s trail among the litter of the project upon earth that had been much trodden by men and mules. But a construction gang was working only a few hundred yards away, and we rode to it. The nigger hands took our approach as an excuse to stand up and lean idly on their sledges and pickaxes, and their white overseer didn’t object. “Morning,” he said. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Going to be another hot one, ain’t it?”
“So it seems,” I said. “We’re officers of the law, looking for a wounded man leading a sorrel mare. Have you seen him?”
“What if I have?” the man said.
“His name is Sam Bass. He’s a fugitive.”
“Sam Bass! Well, I’ll be damned!”
“You’ve seen him, then.”
“Yeah. This morning. When the boys and me was riding to the job.”
“Where was he?”
“Laying under a tree aside the roadbed. I thought he was just resting. He hollered at us, and one of my boys went over and give him some water. He said he was sick.”
“Where’s the tree?”
He pointed down the track. “Just follow it,” he said. “Big oak, maybe a mile down.”
We struck down the track at a run. The tree stood alone between the railroad and a pasture. The mare was tied to one of its branches. Her red hide glistened in the sun. The Rangers and I drew our weapons, and I called, “Sam Bass!”
There was an answer, but I couldn’t understand it. The voice was small and weak. We reined our horses to a slow walk, our pistols ready. “Sam! Are you armed?” I shouted. “If you resist, we’ll kill you!”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I can’t even lift the damn thing.”
The Rangers and I rode in, cautiously. Sam was lying on the other
side of the tree from us, and when I saw him I knew we had nothing to fear. His face and shoulders and chest, all naked, were so drained of blood that they glowed in the shadow. The end of his right arm, wrapped in a blood-soaked rag, seemed little more than a stump. Heavier bandages around his waist were so soaked that not a white spot was to be seen on them. A pistol lay near his left hand, but he made no effort to pick it up. “Hello, Dad,” he said. His eyes were shiny and so vacant that I was surprised he recognized me. “What took you so long?”
I didn’t reply. I dismounted and hunkered before him. His dark eyes were looking back at me, I guess, but they didn’t seem focused.
“Is this man Sam Bass, Sheriff Egan?” the corporal asked. “Yes. Go find Major Jones. And go to Round Rock and get the doctor.”
The Rangers departed. I picked up Sam’s pistol and put it in my belt.
“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked. “Of course not.”
“What are you going to do with me?” “Take you to town.”
“Why don’t you shoot me? Better that than be lynched.”
“You won’t be lynched,” I said.
“We killed somebody, didn’t we?”
“Yes. Deputy Grimes.”
“Was he well liked?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know him.”
“I never meant to. He shouldn’t have jumped us like that.” It amazed me that he could talk so. “Can you see me?” I asked. “Yes. I’m pretty doped up, but I can see you. What are you doing here, Dad?”
“Major Jones telegraphed me,” I lied. “He knowed, then.”
“Yes. He knew.” Then I asked, “What brought you down here, Sam?”
He made a noise that was either a cough or a laugh. “You,” he said. “You drove us down here. You and easy money. We thought we had us a soft thing, but it turned out pretty serious. Dad, you got any water?”
“I’ll get it.”
I hunkered again to lift the canteen to his lips and asked, “How many were you?”
He swallowed first. He had trouble taking the water into his mouth, and it dribbled down his chin. “Four,” he said. “Three that meant business and one drag.”
So he knew about Jim, or suspected.
“How’s my old pard Army?” he asked. “And little John?”
“They’re fine.”
“I had a chance to kill you and Army once. Seab wanted to do it, but I didn’t let him.” “I’m glad,” I said.
He smiled a little at that, then said, “Let’s don’t talk, Dad.”
He closed his eyes, and I feared he was dying. I went to the roadbed and stared down the tracks, hoping for the Rangers or the doctor. It was too soon for them to come, I knew, but I was nervous. I’ve never liked to look at death. I walked to Sam’s mare and laid my hand on her soft muzzle. She snuffled.
“She’s thirsty,” Sam said.
“I’ll give her some water,” I said. I poured the water I had left into my hat and put it under her muzzle. She drank it with loud sucking noises.
An hour passed before I saw the Rangers. Major Jones’s entire search force was riding down the roadbed, followed by a hack.
As the major dismounted he said, “Is he alive?”
“Yes, barely,” I said.
The bespectacled doctor who had been at the jail climbed from the hack and carried his little bag to Sam. Sam opened his eyes. “I’m Dr. Cochran, son,” the man said. “I’ve got to look at you.” Sam said nothing, and Dr. Cochran knelt beside him. “Who bandaged you?” he asked.
“Frank Jackson.”
“He did a good job, under the circumstances.”
“Frank always done a good job,” Sam said.
Major Jones stepped up to him then. “Where is Jackson?” he asked.
Sam’s eyes narrowed, as if trying to recognize the face before him.
“Major John Jones, Texas Rangers,” the major said. “I don’t know where Frank’s at. Long gone, I hope.” “But where? Back to Denton?”
Sam gave him the same glassy, vacant stare he had given me. “Leave Frank be,” he said. “He wanted to quit, anyways.”
“I can’t do anything for him here,” Dr. Cochran said. “Let’s put him in the hack.”
“There’s a farm house not far from here,” I said.
“No, let’s take him to town. I didn’t bring much with me.”
Four Rangers lifted Sam and carried him to the hack and laid him on some blankets there. “Is he going to die?” Major Jones asked the doctor.
“Oh, yes.”
“When?”
“Soon, I think.”
Sam whimpered as the hack rolled across the rough prairie, but quieted when we reached the road. I was surprised how quickly we reached the town. We must have found him no more than three or four miles from Round Rock, but the way had seemed much longer when we were tracking him. We entered the town near a graveyard and went into the colored section. The darkies must have heard we were coming, for woolly heads lined the road, staring in wonder at the still form in the hack. The doctor stopped in front of the first house we came to, and Major Jones went to the open door and knocked. A young negress, a girl, really, came to the door. Her hair was wrapped nigger-fashion in a red rag. Major Jones said something to her, and she looked at the hack and screamed and ducked inside. The major went inside, too, and in a few minutes returned. “It’s all right,” he said. “Unload him.” Four Rangers lifted him as they had before and carried him through the gate. The other Rangers remained mounted, but the major and the doctor and I followed.
The shanty was shady, but hot. The cookstove was near the front door, and a fire roared in it. Several irons were heating on its top, and two piles of laundry, one damp and wrinkled, the other ironed and neatly folded, sat on two chairs near an ironing board. The negress was seated at the table now, her head buried in her arms. She was rocking back and forth and moaning rhythmically, as niggers do when scared or grieving. “Lay him on the bed, boys,” Major Jones said. Then he went outside to give orders to his men, and the Rangers who had carried Sam trooped out after him. Dr. Cochran took a pair of scissors from his bag and snipped at the bandage across Sam’s belly. He looked at the wound, then stood up and muttered, “I’ll need some things,” and went outside, too. Maybe the negress thought I had left, too. She raised her head and looked toward the bed. “Samuel,” she said.
“Mary?” Sam replied. “Is that you?”
She rose and moved toward him.
“You know each other?” I asked.
The negress wheeled, fear and anger in her eyes.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Sam said. Then to me, “Yeah, I know her, Dad, but she don’t know who I am.”
The negress remained tense and poised, like a cat about to spring, until Sam repeated, “It’s all right, Mary. That’s Dad Egan. I’ve knowed him a long time.” The black muscles relaxed then. She sat down on the side of the bed and looked at the bloody hole in Sam’s belly.
“God, Samuel!” she moaned. She covered her face with her hands, as if about to cry, but she didn’t. She sat like that, still and quiet, until Major Jones and the doctor returned. It was so quiet I heard the high, clear voices of nigger children playing somewhere and the murmur of the crowd outside the yard.
Major Jones wanted to question Sam immediately, but the doctor wouldn’t let him. The major and I paced the room while Dr. Cochran and the negress cleansed the wounds and tied clean bandages on them. The doctor gave Sam a draught of something, and the negress removed his boots and fluffed his pillows and
“That’s right. I don’t remember.”
“Jackson rode with you a long time.”
“He’s a good friend of mine,” Sam said.
“But he didn’t commit any robberies?”
“It’s against my profession to blow on my pals, Major. If a man knows something, he ought to die with it in him.”
The major gave me a look of exasperation and licked his pencil. “How did you start o
n such a life, Sam?” he asked. “Sheriff Egan says you were a good man when you worked for him.”
“I started sporting on horses. It just went on from there. Let’s stop now, Major. I ain’t feeling too good.”
Major Jones stood up and closed the notebook. “Would you like me to get a preacher for you?”
“No. I’m going to hell. I got lots of friends there.”
Major Jones shrugged. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get some rest, too. We’ll come back in the morning.”
The crowd outside the yard had gone, but the major instructed two of the Rangers who were standing on the porch to sleep there. I turned for another look at Sam, perhaps the last I would see of him alive. I was shocked. The negress was bending over him and seemed to be kissing him.
The hotel was full of newspaper correspondents and other lovers of misery who had been arriving on every train since the fight at Koppel’s store was telegraphed through the state. They circled in the lobby, very like buzzards, but noisier, shouting questions and passing rumors. They swarmed at us when we entered, but two of Major Jones’s men pushed them aside, uttering threats. The Rangers stopped at the foot of the stairs and blocked them while the major and I climbed to his room. One of the Pinkertons from Dallas was there, sipping a glass of the major’s whiskey. I had met him before, but I didn’t remember his name. He didn’t offer it, since Major Jones apparently knew him, too. “Make yourself at home,” the major said sarcastically, pouring himself a drink. He waved the bottle toward me, not expecting me to accept, and I didn’t.
The Pinkerton gave us a supercilious smile. “What did you get?” he asked.
The major pitched him the notebook. He read through it quickly and said, “Not much.”
Major Jones breathed a weary sigh. “No, not much.”
“Maybe I’d better question him,” the Pinkerton said.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” I said. “He’ll probably be dead by morning, anyway.”
The Pinkerton reached for his hat. “Then I’ll go now.”
“No!” Major Jones’s voice filled the room. The Pinkerton gave him a look of pure hatred, but removed his hand from the hat. “Let the poor devil go in peace,” the major said.
Sam Bass Page 21
