The Storm Family 6

by Matt Chisholm

  Deep in thought and taking little notice of his surroundings, he crossed the valley and rode up into the hills through which he would have to ride to reach McCord’s place. He was about a mile into the hills when his horse snorted abruptly and brought him to his senses. He saw that a short way ahead of him a man sat at the side of the trail. It didn’t take much perception on Mart’s part to see dejection and defeat in every line of the man’s body. The stranger, as soon as he heard the horse, raised his head and stared in Mart’s direction. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

  As Mart came closer, he saw the man was a youngish fellow of medium height with candid eyes and a smile that belied his apparent dejection. He was dressed in the rough clothes of a range rider and by his coloring was an Anglo. He raised a hand in greeting and said: “Aw, mister, am I pleased to see you?”

  Mart reined in.

  “Howdy,” he said, “you in trouble?”

  “Trouble? I’ll say. Three bandidos stuck me up, took my horse and guns. I walked a coupla miles an’ my feet is killin’ me.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “McCord’s place.”

  “Goin’ there myself. I’ll give you a ride.”

  Mart stepped down. If Old Stocking had to carry double, then Mart aimed to be the one to the rear. Maybe this fellow was genuine and maybe he wasn’t.

  “I’m obliged to you,” the stranger said. “You take the saddle. I ain’t doin’ no man outa his own saddle. No, sir.”

  “You want the ride,” Mart said, “you take the saddle.”

  The man gazed at him levelly and said: “Sure.” He stepped aboard. Mart went to mount behind him. The stranger must have done something then to make the horse jump. It turned slightly and the stranger kicked Mart in the throat.

  Choking, Mart fell backward, his enfeebled hand clutching instinctively but ineffectually for the butt of his gun. As he landed in the dust on his back, the stranger threw one leg over the saddle horn and leapt down on him so that his feet landed on Mart’s belly. Mart could not now have been more out of action if he had been dead. His eyes were open and he was able to see, but he could move neither arm nor leg.

  The stranger bent over him, rifled through his pockets, took what money he had on him, some fifty dollars, and his fine Colt’s gun, turned, leapt aboard Old Stocking and spurred away as fast as he could go.

  It was some ten minutes before Mart showed any sign of life. He rolled onto one side, coughed lengthily and finally started retching. He was still doing this when a shadow fell across him and looking up he saw a tall figure standing over him.

  His first thought was that his life was in danger. He didn’t know much about the Indians in these parts, but he reckoned this one was a Navaho. He was dressed in oddments of white-man’s clothing with a battered wide brimmed cattleman’s hat on his head. Below it straggled coarse long black hair from out of which peered two wild and alien eyes. Mart wondered if the man who had attacked him had left him his knife. He was maybe going to need it pretty quickly.

  He heard a sound and turned his head. Standing a few yards away was a woman—young and pretty with the wide skirts of the Navaho woman sweeping the dust. Mart never failed to react to a pretty woman. He sat up. Behind this one was a mule standing drowsily in the hot sun, weighed down by heavy packs. The woman said something in a language that Mart didn’t understand. The man grunted and held out a hand to Mart. Mart put out his own and the man pulled him easily to his feet. Mart stood swaying there feeling himself to be exactly what he was—a man kicked in the throat and then receiving the full weight of a falling man on his belly.

  He tried Spanish.

  “A thief,” he said. “He took my gun, my money and my horse.” That told the fellow there was nothing left worth stealing.

  The Indian grunted again. His look told Mart that he was a man who didn’t owe the white men much. Mart didn’t blame him. Mart now saw that there was a horse there, too—a raw-boned stallion with a wild eye. The line was tied around its lower jaw and the saddle was a crude imitation of a Mexican model. The Indian signed for Mart to mount. The horse acted up as Mart tried to mount from the left side, so Mart walked around to the far side and tried that way. The animal started pitching, but Mart managed to get astride. The Navaho showed then that he didn’t intend to walk and got up behind Mart. He smelled strongly of Indian. His strong arm came around Mart as he gripped the single line and they started off with the woman following behind on foot, leading the mule. Mart felt like a wrung-out rag. He noted that they were going in the direction he wanted and were headed for McCord’s place.

  They rode for a couple of hours thus, not a word passing between them, Mart feeling pretty low and telling himself that he must be losing his grip or something. He had been suckered twice in too short a time for a man’s vanity. Slowly, the feeling that he had been dragged and stomped by a bad-tempered Kentucky mule lessened and they came in sight of McCord’s place, lying squat and stout on its sandstone shelf beyond the sea of palely purple sage. A wisp of smoke rose lazily from Betsy’s cook stove and, as they came closer, a lone rider leading a spare horse carrying supplies went riding into the eastern hills away from the building. The distance was too great for Mart to make out any details.

  McCord was standing on his stoop waiting for them. The Navaho halted the now exhausted horse and slipped to the ground, greeting the trader in a deep and sonorous voice. Mart stepped down, feeling foolish.

  “Help yourself to a laugh, McCord,” he said. “I was jumped. Suckered. Horse, guns and gear took.”

  McCord nodded and showed no inclination to laugh.

  “I guessed as much,” he said, “but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Your thief just went into the hills. I recognized the horse and he told me he’d done a trade with you.”

  Mart looked at the sun-blasted hills and decided he wouldn’t go after the man. He could be lying there waiting for him with his own rifle and shells. He couldn’t face being cut down with his own weapon.

  “You know him?” he asked.

  “Jim Brydon. Been staying over at Linda Aragon’s place.”

  Mart received the information in silence and walked into the house. He went straight to his room, laid down on the bed and drifted off into sleep listening to the murmur of voices as McCord and the Navaho talked in the trade-room.

  He woke a couple of hours later to find the sun well down, the place almost deserted. McCord and Betsy were in the kitchen eating supper and he joined them. Deer meat and beans. Mart ate with relish and found to his surprise that he felt pretty good. His throat was sore and his belly muscles ached, but he felt good just the same. There was purpose in his life.

  “McCord,” he said when his plate was empty and Betsy was refilling it, “is my credit good?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you fix me up with a horse an’ gear, belt-gun, rifle and ammunition. Week’s supplies.”

  “Can a man ask if you’re goin’ after Brydon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “There’s a dun in the corral. He’ll take you to Mexico and back on grass. There’s a little Sonora mule too for the supplies. Help yourself to the rest from the shelves.”

  “I’m beholden to you.”

  After supper, he went into the storeroom, lit a lamp and inspected the shelves. He found a good woolen poncho that would keep out rain and cold, a Navaho blanket. A used Henry repeating rifle caught his eye and he liked the feel of it and he found loading tubes to go with it. The belt-guns gave him a little more trouble. There were some new ones and some used. He was accustomed to a Colt’s gun, but he found an old Remington 1861 which had been converted from cap-and-ball to cartridge with a light trigger which took his fancy. He debated whether he should risk a cartridge gun as the ammunition was hard to come by at times, but after trying the gun in and out of his holster several times, he decided on it. He backed this up with a Colt that took cap-and-ball. While he had credit, he might as well take advantage of the fact. Bacon,
beans, flour and a bottle of whiskey and he was complete. He piled the supplies where McCord could check them and retired to his bed.

  Betsy gave him breakfast with the first light of dawn. After that McCord helped him catch up the horse and mule. When the animals were saddled and loaded, Mart shook his host by the hand.

  “Martin,” McCord said, using his name for the first time, “it’s been good having you here. The talk ... everything ...”

  “Same goes for me,” Mart said. “McCord, I owe you a heap. Maybe someday there’ll be a chance to repay you.”

  “No call.”

  “You never know, do you? Things happen.”

  “You heading for home?”

  “I reckon not.”

  “Going after Brydon?”

  “Ain’t rightly thought my way through to that yet awhile. Just ridin’ into them hills yonder. Maybe soon I’ll bring your horse an’ mule back for you.”

  Betsy came onto the stoop and smiled. Mart lifted a hand and walked the horse away. When he reached the bottom of the gentle slope that would take him into the hills, he looked back and saw they were standing together in front of the house. They waved and he waved back. He rode on, wondering about them. If McCord stayed with Betsy, he stayed with the land. There was no going back to his own people. Maybe he didn’t intend to. Some part of Mart’s mind knew how he felt.

  An hour later, he was into the hills, climbing slowly, horse and mule plodding. He didn’t hurry. He had a lot on his mind and mostly it was the woman, Linda Aragon, but not all of it. The rest was the men in her house.

  He camped that night just below timber line in a cozy Rincon out of the wind. He slept snug in the poncho and blanket while the horse and mule grazed hobbled nearby. In the following dawn, he ate a cold breakfast and washed it down with water from a nearby freshet. He had no wish to light a fire and give his position away. During the morning, he climbed higher and took up a position from which he could view the mountains to the north.

  He waited there a couple of hours, patient, but disappointed. He was about to tighten cinches and move on when he saw a faint puff of smoke to the north. Immediately, he was attention. There came more puffs floating dark into the washed-out azure of the sky. Hastily, he gathered fuel and built his own fire, dampening some of the wood from his canteen. Then, with the use of his blanket he created his own signal. When he had extinguished his own fire, the distant man signaled that he had been read. Satisfied that he could now only await events, he led his animals east a short way and took up a position from which he could watch the approach from the north.

  It was not until late in the afternoon that he picked up a faint sign of movement in the valley below him several miles to the north. He knew the man he expected would not look for him toward dusk, for such an undertaking was too risky. He did not know the circumstances as Mart did and he could find himself in a trap. So he would not come probing cautiously in till dawn at the earliest. Mart moved his location, but found a new one from which he could watch the valley in the following dawn.

  Once again, he slept warm in his poncho and blanket and, as soon as it was light, chewing on some hardtack to serve as breakfast, he once more watched the valley. Before very long, he made out the tiny figure of a horseman picking his way through the scattering of boulders that littered the floor of the high valley. It wasn’t long before he saw that the approaching rider would pass a mile or more to the west of him, so he caught up his animals, saddled and packed and moved out. An hour later, he heard the climbing hoofs of the other man’s horse. There was no doubt in his mind that this was his man. Even at the great distance at which he had seen him, he knew, for he was familiar with the distant view of every member of his family and the conformation of their horses.

  When the rider was fully in his view again, he whistled shrilly and the newcomer turned his head. Then he reined around his horse and headed for him. A few minutes later, he was stepping from the saddle and the two men were shaking with the formality of the time and place.

  “Jody,” Mart said.

  “Hell,” said the younger man, “What kept you, Uncle Mart? I was all set for Three Creeks when I spied your smoke.”

  “We’ll go into the hills a ways,” Mart said, “before we talk.”

  They mounted their horses and covered a couple of miles before the older man reined in near a small swiftly running rivulet and dismounted. Here they unsaddled and hobbled the horses. Then with their rifles and gear, they withdrew to higher ground from which they could watch their stock. Once settled under the shade of a tree, Mart took a look at his companion. Will Storm’s youngest boy. And the wildest. Or so the family thought. Maybe Mart saw a lot of himself in the boy. But where Mart was fairish, Jody was dark. Men said they had the same untamed look about them. And maybe they were right. Sure, Jody had plenty of sass and he was ready to tilt at windmills.

  “Well,” Jody said, leaning back against his saddle, “you been in this country a long time, uncle mine. We thought to see you come back a-ridin’ with a dozen scalps hangin’ at your belt.”

  That was Jody balancing the score a little for all the cuffs and butt kicks he’d received from Mart in his time. However that might be, Will, Jody’s father and Mart’s brother, fretted because Mart was foot-loose and wild and it looked like Jody was modeling himself on him.

  “Just stay still a mite,” Mart said, “an’ I will relate all.”

  “Shoot—an’ make it good. Not too good or I’ll know you’re lyin’.”

  “Why the Hell,” Mart wanted to know, “did Will have to send a sassy jumped-up little sonovabitch like you, Jode, when he has other and more responsible sons?”

  “Easy. Clay’s married an’ a daddy. George is kinda thick in the head. But they’re both kinda useful around the place. Me— they can git along without me any time.”

  “That adds,” said Mart. “Now shut it an’ listen.”

  He talked for some thirty minutes. Which was a lot of talk for Mart. He didn’t leave too much out, but he told just as much as he thought Jody should know. What he felt about Linda Aragon was no concern of this damned knowing nephew of his.

  When he was through, however, Jody grinned widely and said: “This Linda gal must be some peach, tio mio.”

  “That ain’t no-never-mind,” said Mart.

  “No-never-mind the man says, hear this. You think I’m green or somethin’?”

  “We ain’t here to discuss women.”

  “My favorite subject.”

  “Not now it ain’t. Not till we done what we come here for an’ we ride over the line back into little ole Colorado.”

  “Kinda tetchy, ain’t we, uncle?” said Jody. “Maybe it throwed you, gettin’ all shot to Hell, like. You the great gunfighter nobody never out-drawed. Yeah, now I take a good look at you, you sure do look all shook up. Age, I guess. When a man gits past a certain age, natcherly he cain’t take it so easy no more.”

  Mart sat up.

  “Jode,” he said, “you’re man-size now an’ that means you have man-size manners in my book. The next time I git around to kickin’ your butt, it’ll be a man-size kick.”

  “All right, all right,” Jode said. “Keep on your few remainin’ hairs, Mart. I reckon I touched a sore spot and I apologize.”

  Mart steadied himself.

  “Now this is what you do,” he said. “An’ for once in your fool life, you do like you’re told. No foolin’, no takin’ risks. I take you home across your saddle an’ Will’ll have my hide. You go down to the Aragon place and you hide out there.”

  “Me? I ain’t broken no law.”

  “You held up the Cheyenne stage. You was ridin’ with Linus McGee an’ his bunch. A guard was shot.”

  “Is this true bill?”

  “Sure. You think I don’t do my home-work?”

  “Why me? Why didn’t Linus or some of the other boys come with me?”

  “Linus hankered to head back home for Texas.”

  “An’ the r
est? Some went with him, I don’t know what happened to the rest. We split up. That do?”

  “It’ll have to. But you play it for real or I have a feelin’ you’re dead.”

  “An’ you? What do you do while I risk my neck?”

  “I’ll be around.”

  “I bet with that peacheroo Linda Aragon in the play.”

  Mart looked dangerous and said: “Jode,” warningly. Jody knew the tone and obeyed the warning.

  “Do I go now?” he demanded.

  “You rest up, see to your guns and ride tonight. I’ll guide you near the place. You go in under dark. That’s the way for a dangerous outlaw to arrive. An’ Jode.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get any ideas about that woman.”

  “What woman?” Jody asked.

  Chapter Five

  They wound their way down through the northern hills until, on the edge of the great valley, they could see the distant twinkling lights of the Aragon place. From where they were, they could have been those of a small town. It was a fine clear night with the moon riding high, a night, as Mart told himself, more for sweet-talking a woman than riding in on a handful of murderous hardcases. Not for the first time, he asked himself why he had gotten himself into this affair in the first place. And not for the first time he had misgivings about allowing young Jody to get mixed up in it.

  “Jode,” he said, “you watch out for yourself now, boy. Them bastards play for keeps.”

  “The way you talk,” Jody said, “you’d think I didn’t ever smell powder burnt.” Young as he was, he had fought through the final months of the war between the States, he’d thrown lead on the long trail to and from Texas, he’d ridden against the great cattle-baron, Ed Brack, who owned the Broken Spur land to the north of his father’s Three Creeks Country. Yet all this had failed to mature Jody. He still seemed as wild as the day his father had taken a stick to him for smoking behind the barn.

  “All right,” Mart said, “so you know it all. Go ahead an’ show me.”