Blood on the Hills

by Matt Chisholm

  It looked like he would never reach cover alive, but he did. He laid the sheriff out behind a large boulder and picked up his rifle. Another couple of shots convinced the man above that his original impulse to keep his head down was a wise one.

  Jody reached his canteen from his saddle and poured some water down the sheriff’s throat. Froud came to himself, choking.

  He sat up, looking confused and mad—“What in God’s name happened?”

  “I just saved your life,” Jody told him.

  Froud looked embarrassed. He got to his knees and took a look around. He saw his dead horse and then the bullets started searching him out. He ducked back into cover.

  “They got us pinned down,” he said.

  “It’s nice to see we have a real perceptive gent in command,” Jody said.

  “You mean you dragged me from that horse under fire?” Froud said, showing a little wonder.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the only man that can vouch for the fact I’m hired,” Jody told him. “An’ there’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t handle them six on my lonesome.” Jody added: “‘Bout four’s my limit.”

  Froud grinned.

  “You’ll do,” he said.

  “Now you’re gettin’ sentimental.”

  “What in hell do we do now?” Froud said. “Christ, I feel like my back was broke.”

  “You don’t do one little ole thing, Froud,” Jody said, “except keep your fool head down, stick that six-shooter of yourn around the corner an’ shoot it once in a while.”

  “You call me, sheriff, boy,” snapped Froud. “I want my rifle off my horse.”

  “You want your rifle, you go and get it and get your thick head shot off,” snarled Jody.

  Froud caught hold of him—“See here, boy, who in Hell do you think you’re talkin’ to?”

  Jody looked him straight in the eye from a distance of about six inches and said: “I’m talkin’ to a man who’s damn fool enough to go a-chasin’ six hardcases without enough men to side him.”

  Jody went to his horse and took a pair of Ute moccasins from his saddlebags.

  “What’s them for?” Froud demanded.

  A bullet hit the boulder above his head and went ricocheting up the canyon.

  “By crackey,” said Froud.

  Jody pulled off his boots and pulled on the Indian footgear. He gave his rifle to the sheriff and gave him a handful of spare shells from his saddlebags. Froud looked him up and down and got the drift of the younger man’s thoughts.

  “And what do you intend to do?” he demanded.

  Jody took off his gunbelt, thrust his gun into the top of his pants and filled his pockets with shells—“I intend to show you you ain’t the only bastard that can throw his weight around here.”

  Froud said: “You could get yourself killed—you know that?”

  “We stay here an’ we’re dead for sure,” said Jody, bellied down and wormed his way through the rocks. In a few seconds he was lost to sight. Froud muttered: “Crazy kid,” and looked around the boulder for a target. The rifleman above drove rock splinters into his face. They stung him badly and he swore in an obscene manner. If that kid didn’t pull something off right smart, the folks in his county would be electing a new sheriff.

  The man nearest to Jody was the marksman immediately above the spot where the sheriff lay hidden. The fellow was on the opposite side of the canyon and his close proximity to the men he supposed to be both below made him cautious.

  Jody reckoned he would settle for the more distant man as his inspection of the rocky walls of the canyon showed him that he was offered some good cover that way.

  He had been schooled well in tracking and hiding and Joe Widbee who was the foster-brother of Jody’s father Will Storm and who had ridden for the Storm granddaddy away back in the old brasada days knew everything there was to know about staying alive in the wild places of the world. This meant that a man should be capable of creeping up to within a stone’s throw of most of the creatures of the wild. That included mustang and they didn’t come any warier than that.

  So Jody made a good job of working his way through the rocks, bearing in mind that he had to keep himself concealed from at least two men in two different positions. It wasn’t easy and it took time. Old Froud would sure be sweating it out down yonder. The thought made Jody smile. He reckoned Froud was a salty old number and a little sweating wouldn’t do him much harm.

  Inside twenty minutes Jody had worked his way up the wall of the canyon, using brush and boulders for cover, until he was about opposite the second marksman. He stopped, took off his hat and surveyed the situation with enormous caution. He wanted to settle this little matter with just one shot. It wasn’t in his plans to be on the receiving end of a repeating rifle. In his book there was a wide line drawn between guts and plain foolishness. Besides, if news reached his folks back on Three Creeks Valley he’d been killed dead, why that would just prove to them that they were right and he was a failure and he had two left feet.

  It didn’t take him long to spot the man he wanted. The fellow was obviously totally unaware that there were no longer two men crouching down below behind that large boulder in fear of their lives. He exposed himself head and shoulders, rested his elbows on a flat rock and took careful aim at the sheriff’s hiding place.

  He fired a couple of shots and stayed exposed to see their effect. His rifle-smoke drifted lazily on the hot air.

  Jody planted his battered but prized hat on a rock and moved a good twelve paces further north. A small precaution that was not misplaced because the shot he now had to make was a long and difficult one for a belt-gun.

  He lifted the old but highly efficient Colt his father had given him as a going-away present, checked its loads and lined it up on his target. He gripped his right wrist like a vise with his left hand and aimed so that even if he hit the rock on which the man was leaning he would be hit by a glancing bullet.

  He took a deep breath, exhaled slightly, said a silent prayer and fired.

  Even as the gun jumped in his hand, he knew he’d missed.

  There was, however, a slight success in the fact that he frightened the wits out of his target. At once the man was startled and utterly confused. Jody ducked down as the man turned, slithered a few yards north and came up for a peek.

  The man was searching for a target.

  He saw the hat and fired.

  As that precious old hat took off into the air, Jody drew another steady bead and fired. This time he acted automatically and without thought. He always fired better that way.

  This time, his slug chipped the rock and went home. The man reared up with a look of utter horror and amazement on his face and simply disappeared from sight. His rifle clattered down through the rocks.

  Jody stayed there shaking for a moment. He wasn’t too accustomed to shooting men.

  Then he remembered he was a Storm and a reckless fellow who sassed sheriffs and he yelled at the top of his voice: “One down an’ one to go, Froud. You goin’ to sit on your fat butt all day or can you fire that thing.”

  An absolute fury of shooting broke out further down the canyon as the man above and the other below opened up. Ricochets howled and screamed through the hot air as the rifles slammed and the reports echoed.

  Jody spotted the man above Froud.

  Jody leapt to his feet, recovered his hat on the run and headed up for the rimrock as fast as he could go. It was the stiffest climb he had ever had to face, but he was young and fit and he went up over those rocks like a mountain goat. Once he reached the rimrock, he started south, running hard and screaming like a Comanche coming in at the death.

  At once the high rifle was turned on him.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and lay flat.

  Froud was shooting.

  Three shots and then silence.

  Jody lifted his head and couldn’
t see the rifleman on the other canyon edge.

  Froud’s voice came bellowing up from below—“If there was only two of ‘em, that’s it for today, son. Come on down.”

  Jody wasn’t as confident. He rose cautiously to his feet, looking around warily, gun held at the ready. Nothing happened. He started down toward Froud.

  When he reached the man, Froud was struggling to get his saddle from his dead horse, sweating and swearing, damning any sonovabitch that would kill a horse. Did Jody know that beast had cost him a good two hundred and fifty dollars? That was no ordinary horse. Best Spanish blood. Run all day on a handful of grass. Gentle as a lamb. Turn on a goddamn handkerchief. By God, he’d make them bastards pay for this.

  “I reckon we just did that,” Jody said, still shaking a little and hoping the lawman didn’t notice.

  With Jody’s help, Froud freed his saddle and took the bridle from the dead animal.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, boy,” the sheriff said. “I ain’t even started.”

  Jody sat down. His legs wouldn’t hold him any longer.

  Froud turned and frowned at him.

  “You tired or somethin’?” he snarled.

  “I had a long day,” Jody said.

  Froud had a cure for that. He found a small flask of whiskey and they each took a pull. Jody started to feel better. He thought the ornery old coot might say something about that long hard shot he’d made with the Colt. But Froud didn’t even refer to it.

  “We showed ‘em, huh?” he said.

  “Sure,” said Jody. “There’s four more an’ they’ll come a-bilin’ back here now they heard them shots. We have to find these two jaspers” horses before they get here.”

  Froud snapped: “You think I didn’t think of that. But you’re wrong, boy. Them kind don’t act that way. These two fellers is a kinda rearguard. The money’s with them other fellers an’ that’s all they care about. They’re breakin’ down timber to get outa here as fast as they can quirt a horse. Now we find them horses an’ we make tracks, fast.”

  “How about buryin’ them two?” Jody asked.

  “Who buries carrion?”

  “Maybe they ain’t dead. They could maybe back-shoot us.”

  “Now that’s the thing. We check, then we ride.”

  Chapter Three

  An hour later, the sheriff was riding a good horse and Jody was leading a spare. They were excellent beasts and Froud informed his new deputy that they bore the brand of a highly reputed horse breeder who ran an outfit over to the west. Jody didn’t feel too good because he couldn’t get the sight of the two bloody corpses with the flies on them out of his mind. He reckoned he’d never get accustomed to this killing business. But then he thought of what his father and his Uncle Will and Joe Widbee would think of him if they knew his thoughts and he tried to get some iron into him. But it didn’t do much good. The rest of that day he felt sick to his stomach. Froud didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

  In fact, as they headed deep into the hills, he grew quite cheerful and sat the saddle, humming to himself. The sound irritated Jody profoundly and though he said he didn’t think too highly of the sheriffs musical ability, the humming continued, both tuneless notes of it.

  The only thing that pleased Jody was that as night started to enclose them, they came on water.

  They watered their horses and slaked their own considerable thirst before they moved back from the water into a comparatively safe place, unsaddled and hobbled their horses on grass. Froud loaded and fired his pipe as they sat, Jody chewed on some jerky. He was hungry enough to eat a steer.

  Froud made an impatient sound with his tongue—“So we lounge around here till daylight. They got a real head-start on us now.”

  “My ass,” said Jody. “We ain’t doin’ nothin’ but restin’ our horses an’ us’ns. I know where they’re headed an’ we can find it in the dark.”

  Froud stared at him in the gloom—“You tryin’ to take command or somethin’?”

  “Let’s call it a co-operative effort, Froud. You’re smart an’ I ain’t ezackly dumb. You know a lot I don’t know. I have essential information you don’t know.”

  Froud said a little plaintively: “Could you oblige me by gettin’ around to callin’ me ‘sheriff’ or Mr. Froud? It’d kinda make it more seemly.”

  “No,” said Jody, “I couldn’t do that. It ain’t a part of my philosophy.”

  “Nothin’ personal, mark you,” said Froud, “but it’s my opinion you’re a mite cracked in the head.”

  “You should care. I lead you to the thieves and the money, I help you take ‘em. You got somethin’ to grumble about there?”

  “Aw,” said Froud, “to Hell with you. When we’re through with this here little picnic I’m a-goin’ to treat myself to givin’ you the biggest whuppin’ you ever had in your life.”

  “That should be somethin’ to see,” Jody said. “I sure had a few.”

  An hour or so later, they moved out and Froud had to admit that the younger man led them forward with certainty and confidence, probing into the hills, taking advantage of the country, showing he was well-trained in the art of moving through hill country and using it to his advantage. In spite of himself, Froud found his confidence rising.

  Once Jody turned in the saddle: “The Basque seemed to know where they was headed. How do we know they ain’t scattered all over?”

  “We don’t. If there hadn’t been that shootin’ and if they heard it maybe they done that already. If they didn’t hear us, then maybe they’re holed up for the night. Depends.”

  They pressed on.

  Around midnight coming out of timber, Jody stopped his horse and said: “It can’t be far off now.”

  “What can’t?”

  “The old miner’s cabin they was headed for. The Basque knew these men. They been livin’ up here for a month or more, liftin’ horses, killin’ a steer or two for chow. I reckon they was watchin’ the bank an’ makin’ their plans.”

  Froud thought a while.

  “I know the place you mean. Beats me how I didn’t think of it right off. If they’re in there, we could pin “em down without much harm to ourselves. That’s the kind of fight I like.”

  “What’s the layout?”

  Froud pointed north—“There’s a good tight little cabin yonder. Built of stone and lumber. Stands in a rincon on a pretty large flat ledge. Steep hills to the back of it and mostly around two sides. In the hill to the north is a mineshaft. If we drive “em out of the cabin they could fort up in the shaft. Take a year to get “em outa there if n we didn’t smoke “em out.”

  “So we have to cover the ground between the cabin and the shaft.”

  “That’s about the size of it. But maybe with the money they’d risk making a break for it a-horseback.”

  They counted their shells, including those they had taken from the two dead men and they reckoned though they didn’t have all the ammunition in the world they would have enough for a tidy little fight. They cleaned their guns with care, fed the last of the com they had to the horses and took an hour’s nap. Then they were in the saddle again.

  Neither men were sure of the exact location of the cabin, but after some thirty minutes, Froud called a halt and pointed.

  “There’s a light yonder.”

  It didn’t seem possible to Jody that such men could be so careless and he voiced the opinion that maybe they’d found the wrong place, but Froud maintained it was possible. Men like these were cunning in some ways and plain damn fools in others.

  They found a good spot to tie their horses and went forward on foot, their rifles in their hands. They worked their way forward and up after negotiating a deep dip in the land, then found themselves on the edge of a flat table of land about a quarter of a mile square.

  “There’s a small crick off to the right there,” Froud said. “Come dawn, one of ‘em’ll come out for water. If I cover the front maybe I can take him without the others knowin’. You c
over the rear and stop “em gettin’ into the tunnel. An’, boy, don’t you go soft on me. These fellers is killers. You plant your lead where it’ll stop ‘em. For keeps. Follow my lead. Maybe I’ll give ‘em a chance to surrender, maybe I won’t. I’ll play the cards as they come to hand.”

  Jody said: “If’n one of ‘em stops me for keeps, Froud, my folks is the Storms of Three Creeks, Colorado.”

  Froud made a small sound with his mouth that showed surprise—“Them Storms. I heard tell of ‘em.”

  “Yeah, them Storms. Now if you could kinda hint I died like a hero an’ that kinda thing, I’d deem it a real favor.”

  Froud chuckled.

  “I’m the biggest liar goin’,” he said. “I’ll do that for you, kid.”

  Jody walked off into the darkness. Froud shook his head and started to work his way toward the creek. Jody worked his way along the edge of the tableland, keeping to the brush that grew there, keeping wide of the house, found the mineshaft and climbed above it until he found a ledge with enough boulders around it to give him good cover. The light was still burning inside the cabin and some of it was coming from a window at the rear of the place. That was something in his favor. Not many such places had a rear window. There would be something to shoot through. He reckoned the opening was covered either with oiled-cloth or some animal skin pared paper-thin. He pulled his poncho over his head and settled down for what sleep he could get. It was cold up here in the hills and he didn’t get much, but, as is usual at such times, toward dawn sleep hit him heavily.

  He was woken by a sound from below.

  He sat up and found himself stiff and chilled to the bone. The sound was a man coughing out front of the cabin. The sound reached Jody very clearly. The coughing was followed by the sound of the man passing water. Jody worked his arms and legs to get the stiffness out of them, watching the cabin all the while in the cold dawn light. He didn’t feel much like a fight any time, but this time of the day he liked the idea even less. This was one of those occasions when he wished he was at home snuggly on Three Creeks with his family around him and the ranch chores he found bored the ass off him. Now, for the first time, he regretted telling his old man he needed to break loose from the family and go out into the world alone. When he’d told Will he had to make his own way, his father had been so damn reasonable about it all, Jody felt almost put out. Even Uncle Mart, that partly reformed old gunman had agreed it was a good idea. Only Ma pursed her lips and wouldn’t say one way or the other. His sisters Kate and Melissa had shed a few tears. His brothers Clay and George had envied him though they’d taken bets he’d be back with his tail between his legs inside a month. By God, he’d show them. Black old Joe Widbee didn’t say a thing when he heard. He just gave Jody his best saddle horse, one he’d gentled himself, and a fine quirt he’d braided himself. Serafina, Joe’s Indian wife, had given him the strange silver Navaho amulet he wore around his neck. It was a protection, she said, against bullets and magic.