"Ah-h-h-h," says the man. "That's different." The man waves at the policemen to go away. "No complaint. Just a little argument." The man even steps over and helps him to his feet. "What'll you give?"
"Twenty dollars."
"What?" says the man. "For that horse? Why, he's sound as a bell. Worth ten times that to me."
Time passes and the policemen are long gone and he and the man are still arguing. He sighs and looks again at the horse, one of his own kind beaten and scarred and starved. He turns again to the man. "All right," he says. "I'll make it a hunnerd an' seventeen an' that's my last dollar."
More time passes and he is in one of the few remaining livery stables shoveling manure and in one of the stalls, chomping steadily on good feed, is a thin bony sorrel mustang curried and combed now with the white blaze on its forehead showing plain.
And still more time passes, one day, two, a week, and he is heaving a cracked old Army saddle he has patched together from stuff found in the loft of the livery stable onto a cat-hipped ewe-necked sorrel mustang that has filled out some and makes the job of getting a patched old bridle in place a nuisance for him because of the way it nuzzles and pushes against him whenever he comes near.
He talks briefly with the proprietor of the stable and puts a few meager bills into a pocket. He leads the horse out into the street. He swings up and the horse stands as steady as it can, legs braced, and turns its head to see him there, tall and straight in the saddle as a man should be. Together he and the horse start down the street, past clanging streetcars and honking horns and shrilling police whistles, bound southwestward for the far open spaces of old New Mexico.
"Yep an' yesirree," says Old Jake, slapping a hand on a leg. "It was slow goin' while he picked up strength. An' it was kind of slim foragin'. But Last Dollar an' me, we made it."
Mid-afternoon sun smiles down on an old old man sitting on a cottonwood log who appreciates as he rarely bothered to do in the old days the reassuring reliable warmth. The crumbling remains of the ranch house can be seen a half mile away. Old Jake has had to rest some before he tackles that last half mile.
There is a nagging ache in his right side, a twinging of pain in his left thigh. He rubs the thigh with his left hand and even through the cloth of his old pants he can feel the small indentation in the flesh. He slips the hand inside his shirt and even through the bumbly texture of his patched underwear he can feel along his right side the furrow of scar tissue. "Almost did for me that time," he says. "would of too."
He takes out his smelly old pipe and fills it from the older linen tobacco pouch that despite all his attempts at sewing repairs always spills tobacco into his pocket. He strikes a match and puffs until foul-smelling smoke rises in a satisfactory small gray cloud.
Still and quiet he sits on the log, puffing slow, and his old mind moves through the jumbled memories of the years. No longer is he a hunched ancient scarecrow perched on a rotting log, thin and meager inside worn patched clothes. He is a hard-grained cowhand along somewhere in the late middle years, not Old Jake, not Young Jake, just Jake, Jake Hanlon, off-and-on fixture at the Triple X, the man who would have been Hardrock Harper's foreman these last five years if he were not such an independent itchy-footed gallivanting galoot given to damnfool doings on occasion and to wandering off without so much as a by-your-leave for days at a time into the far places where a few of the wild ones still run free. He is tall in the saddle on a small sorrel mustang with four white feet and a blaze and he is ramming steadily along through rough country on the trail of a batch of horse thieves and stolen horses.
He is worrying some that it is Last Dollar under him. A good horse, as good as can be expected after the mistreatment of its early years. Better than many in willingness to work, in eagerness to do what it can do. But slow. Not much speed in the scarred stunted body. Not as sure-footed as a mustang has birthright to be. The verve and the snap and the instant response gone, left years ago between the shafts of an often overloaded wagon in Chicago and likely in worse places before that. Not the horse to be riding for this particular kind of damnfool doing. But there has been no other available to him.
He has come back to the Triple X from a jaunt up to Santa Fe on brand business for Hardrock Harper, by rattley bus part of the way, by stagecoach another part, by hiking the last two miles from the main road. He has come back to find the place deserted, all of the other men, even the Mexican cook, gone for a long day of combing cattle out of the brush pockets of the south range. It has taken him only a few minutes to discover why he has sensed something wrong the last quarter mile approaching the ranch house. He has found the corral empty, gate swung wide. Where there should have been twenty or more horses waiting their turns in the routine of ranch work, he has found only a maze of tracks fanning out.
It has taken him longer and considerable scouting about to untangle that tale. Two men, maybe three, their horses shod and the marks distinct from the barefoot other tracks, have come along, have seen the chance, have picked seven or eight of the best horses and strung these on ropes, have let the others out and driven them off to scatter into the badlands to the north, and have headed westward themselves with their string of stolen stock.
Standing there near the corral, on foot and very much aware of that he has heard a familiar nicker and looked up to see Last Dollar trotting towards him. Last Dollar has not been in the corral with the other horses because he is never penned there. Last Dollar has always had the run of the place because he needs no penning. Last Dollar would never voluntarily leave the vicinity of the buildings where Jake Hanlon hangs his hat.
It has taken him only a matter of minutes to run into the house and buckle on his gunbelt and grab a rifle from a kitchen cupboard and drop cartridges in a pocket and run out to slap a saddle on Last Dollar...
They pushed on at a fair pace, a middle-aged cowhand given to damnfool doings and a lumpyheaded sorrel mustang always ready to give all it had in its scarred body for him but not having overmuch to give. Jake Hanlon knew he was playing the fool again, riding out alone and handicapped, but he never had been one when anger hit him as it had back there at the corral to stop and think of consequences.
They pushed on, following the trail of a batch of horses shod and unshod, and Jake felt another worry nagging him. He realized now he was twice a fool. He had forgotten, not so much forgotten as not thought, to leave a note at the ranch house. "Shucks," he told himself. "When they get in tonight, they'll figger it same as I did an' come afannin' behind me." Cooled down some now, he had no particular notion of tackling these horse thieves alone, not unless circumstances catapulted him into it. He probably could not catch up with them anyway, not on Last Dollar, even though they would not be making too fast time trailing extra horses on ropes. His purpose was to stay as close as possible on their trail, which they would likely be trying to hide as soon as they had put a good distance between them and the Triple X. He would unravel it while it was still warm and be on hand and able to lead the way when others from the ranch came along.
They pushed on, Jake Hanlon and Last Dollar, and another worry began nagging him. The trail was striking straight into the mountains and that was tough country for tracking with a wide choice of gnarled secluded canyons leading to hidden pockets at the high levels and he could see storm clouds building along the near sides of those mountains. If those clouds should cut loose with a regular gulley-washer as they sometimes did this time of year, driving rain and running water would wipe out all tracks, not only those ahead of him but those behind too. He pulled on the reins and stopped, considering this. Last Dollar tossed his scarred head and turned it to look at him. "What's wrong?" he seemed to be saying. "What're we stoppin' for? We've got a job to do."
"Shucks," said Jake. "We're into this. We'll just stick with it." And Last Dollar was moving forward again at the best fast trot he could manage.
They were well into the upper foothills, having puzzled out some tricky shiftings from one dry stony stream be
d to another, and were headed into Dead Man's Canyon, when he felt the first drops of rain. Soon it was drenching them in positive sheets whipped by wind and they stopped, turned away from the buffeting. In seeming no time at all water was running in innumerable small streams where there had been none before and the lazy meandering trickle coming down the canyon and usually called a river by courtesy only was rising fast.
In a few minutes more the storm had passed them, was dropping down through the foothills towards the more level land below and beyond. Jake could see it, the whole of it, the sullen mass of clouds dark and ominous but with sunlight glinting on their tops and the angled rain-streaks beneath, moving out over the lower levels towards the ranch twenty-some miles away. "We been needin' that," he said. "Good for the grass. But I sure ain't sayin' it's exactly good for Last Dollar an' me." He wriggled vigorously inside his wet clothes to get his blood flowing freely and nudged Last Dollar forward again.
It was a fresh clean world they were moving through now with late afternoon sunlight making water-sparkles on the leaves of the trees and bushes along the way. There were no tracks, only the washed virgin blankness of damp ground, but there was only one way to go, on up the canyon. Those ahead, once started in and they had been, could not have reversed and come back down without his knowing.
They were moving slowly now, angling back and forth on the near side, the only passable side, of the revived river. He was searching the rough rock-strewn ground for fresh traces where those ahead would have moved on after the storm. He was intent on this, too intent, and when he heard the whinny of a horse somewhere ahead, he had time only to straighten in the saddle and grab at the rifle hung by its strap from the horn before the shots came ripping out of clumped bushes about seventy-five yards away.
Something struck him in a streak of numbing pain along the right side and he rocked in the saddle. He had the rifle up and got off one shot toward the clumped bushes before the other guns blasted again. He heard as much as felt the bullet that thudded into his left thigh and Last Dollar reared, grunting, and went down, and he was thrown to crash against a big rock. Half-stunned, unable to move, he heard or thought he heard men's voices shouting and horses moving away up the canyon before the blackness took him.
His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. Gradually awareness crept through him, sharpened by pain, and he knew that he lay on the ground, one shoulder pressed against something hard, and the shadows of evening were claiming the canyon while far overhead in the deep blue of sky several lacy clouds floated pink-flushed and golden in the last rays of the sun now sinking behind the mountains.
He tried to move and found that he could, some, but that movement sent fresh streaks of pain through him and caused fresh blood to seep under the sodden clothes along his right side. He lay still and the seeming hopelessness and the loneliness of his situation sank into him and he wanted to drift back into the merciful blackness. He heard something like a soft sigh off to the left and turned his head and saw Last Dollar standing about fifteen feet away, mud-caked and with saddle awry, standing patient, waiting, watching him. Seeing, he was no longer alone. He felt stronger, more equal to what had happened. Regardless of the pain and fresh seeping blood he hitched himself out from the rock and made it up to sitting position.
His left leg was useless, his right arm nearly so. Slowly, carefully, inch by inch, he worked his arms and shoulders out of the leather vest. Slowly, cautiously, inch by inch again, he managed to take off his faded now blood-stained shirt. It took all of what strength he could summon to rip this into two pieces. One he wrapped around his waist above the belt-line, covering the jagged tear in his undershirt and the raw seeping gash beneath, and he pulled this tight and tied it. The other he wrapped around his left thigh over his pantleg and the two holes, the clean one in front and the ragged one in back, and tied this too and wriggled a small stick through the knot and twisted it until the cloth sank some into the flesh of the leg.
In the effort of all this he all but blanked out again. He did not dare to lie back, but rested still sitting, head hanging limp and low. The shadows deepened and he roused himself and raised his head and chirruped softly at the horse waiting patiently for him. "Dollar boy," he tried to say and the words came in a hoarse whisper. "Here. Over here." And Last Dollar whiffled low at the sound and moved in closer and he toppled sideways, reaching, and had one of the trailing reins in his left hand.
By pulling on the rein for leverage, he got himself up to sitting position again. By tugging at it he maneuvered Last Dollar until the horse was broadside to him. Still clinging to the rein, he took hold of the near stirrup and his weight hanging to it pulled the saddle into proper position on Last Dollar's back. He took hold again to pull himself up and made it to his right knee on the ground, his face against the stirrup leather. He reached and took hold of the horn. He tried to pull himself on up and he could not do it.
For a long moment he stayed there, propped on one knee, face against the worn sweaty leather.
"I'm - sorry- boy," he whispered. "I can't do it. I reckon - it's just - up to you."
With fumbling fingers of his left hand he worked on the cinch until the limp end fell free. He pulled at the saddle and he and it and the blanket under it tumbled to the ground together. He levered himself up to sitting position again and worked at the buckle of the one saddlebag and managed to open it. He took out an almost empty one-pound salt bag and shook what remained in it out on the ground. He spread the bag flat on the saddle and took a pencil stub from a pocket of the vest lying close within reach. He could barely see in the gathering dusk as he forced his right hand to make marks on the bag.
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He struggled to get his knife out and used his teeth to open the larger blade. He coaxed Last Dollar's head down and sawed at one rein until he had it cut off close to the bit. He made a slit in the salt bag and slid the cut rein through this. After several tries he managed to flip the rein over Last Dollar's neck just behind the head and he knotted the two ends together. He was barely able to move now, but he fought with the buckle on the chinstrap and unfastened it. He took hold of the bridle and sank back pulling it off. Last Dollar stood free with only a knotted length of rein holding a piece of dirtied white cloth around his neck.
"Get goin' - boy - the ranch - home - where you get - your meals."
Last Dollar moved away, ten feet, twenty. And stopped, looking back.
"G'wan - get goin' - you hear - me."
Last Dollar faded into the darker shadows, a dim shape moving away, and Jake Hanlon's head dropped and he lay limp and weak. Already the chill of night was flowing down out of the upper heights. He forced himself to move again, to reach for the vest and pull it to him and over his chest, to reach for the saddle blanket and pull that over him too. He lay still, fighting pain, and that subsided some, and he lay still looking up at the first stars emerging in the deep deep blue-gray of the sky and then the merciful darkness not of the night had him again in its care.
Four times in the night he regained consciousness, awakening with his immediate past blanked out, aware primarily of a burning in his throat, of a need for water, and he thrashed about trying to get up before sinking back into an exhausted immobility and a renewed sensing of his situation. He would lie there, thinking dark thoughts, and drift again into a dozing stupor. And then the glowing pinkgold of southwestern sunlight was tipping the mountains and dropping down the steep slopes and searching into the canyon depths. The welcome warmth found him and shone full on him.
He stirred and stared straight up. He was himself, stiff and wounded and battered and weak from loss of blood, but his mind was clear and seemed somehow free of his body, able to regard it and its plight with a calm detachment. He began calculating. He could neither walk nor crawl. He would have to wait until help came. Call it twenty-five miles to the ranch house. Last Dollar, even if he dawdled along the way, should make that in seven or eight hours at the most. If he went t
here. No. That thought was unthinkable. Call it four hours for someone or someones to get to the canyon by pushing along. Why, shucks, they could be well on their way by now.
For the first time he thought of his side-gun. The rifle was somewhere out of reach, thrown when he was thrown from the saddle, but his old Colt .44 was only a few feet away where it had fallen from the holster in his maneuverings of last night. Five shots in it. Fingering at his cartridge belt showed seven more. Twelve. Two shots each half hour would make six signaling times. Better wait a bit for the first time.
It was almost unbearable, waiting. If he lay absolutely still, the assorted pains that were part of him dwindled into dull aches. Almost any motion revived them and the flies were bad and the impulses to brush at them were strong.
Suddenly he raised the gun in his left hand, braced his elbow on the ground, and fired, once, twice, in rapid succession. Fool. They should be spaced about thirty seconds apart. He clamped down on himself to wait now a full half hour. Ten minutes later, certain it had been more than thirty minutes, he fired again.
Time passed. He had hitched himself around by slow stages so that his head and shoulders were raised against the saddle and he could look down the canyon. The final two unused cartridges were in the gun. He tried counting to tick off the minutes and could not hold his mind to it. He waited what seemed to him an eternity and was perhaps another ten minutes and raised the gun, pulling convulsively on the trigger again and again. Two shots and the hammer was clicking on dead cartridge cases. He flung the gun from him and watched it fall about fifteen feet away.
He lay still, head propped against the saddle, staring at the gun, and then, only then, he saw, where the gun had fallen, where Last Dollar had stood, patient, waiting, watching him, the great dark stain on the ground.
Mavericks Page 7
