by Jory Sherman
“Better get your duds back on,” John said.
Ben kept his horse at a distance from Pete Wainwright as if the man were a loose cog in some rattletrap of a machine. The man jumped as he stepped with his bare feet on sharp and rounded stones. Instead of going back to put his clothes on, he clambered up the slope to where the dead man lay. He squatted down and began stripping the corpse of gunbelt and boots. He turned the pockets inside out, scooped up a handful of coins. He grabbed the man’s hat and put it on. He gingerly hopped back down, carrying the shotgun and the gunbelt slung over his shoulders. He had slipped his bare feet into the dead man’s boots.
“You want this stuff, mister?” Wainwright said. “They rightfully belong to you. I mean you kilt the man what owned them.”
“No,” John said. “You keep the stuff.”
He swung out of the saddle and lifted the four empty canteens hanging from his saddle horn. He led Gent to the well where there was a crude wooden trough. He pulled the rope up, filled the trough with water. Then he filled his wooden canteens, set them down next to the well.
“I’ll fill yours, Ben,” he said. “Just hand them to me.”
Wainwright stowed the shotgun, pistol, and gunbelt in his wagon, then slipped off the boots and threw those in, too. Then he slid into his long underwear and grabbed up his own shirt while John filled Ben’s quartet of canteens. Gent and Blaster slurped water from the trough. Ben hauled the oaken bucket up and poured a little more water into the trough.
“Not too much,” John said.
“I know. Don’t want ’em to founder,” Ben said. He drank from one of his canteens, wiped his lips. Both he and John walked around, stretching their tired legs. They had both been in the saddle since daybreak, following tracks that were days old, but still visible.
“I cut hair, too,” Wainwright said after he was dressed. “You boys need haircuts, they’ll be on me.”
John stroked his beard. Usually clean-shaven, he hadn’t bothered to scrape his face. He was intent on tracking Ollie Hobart and little else mattered to him.
“No, thanks,” John said. “I can go a few more days before my beard turns on me.”
“I carry one,” Ben said. “Might trim it up when we get to Tucson.”
“Headed for Tucson, are ye?” Wainwright said. “Dirty little town, full of rascals and thieves, like that one up yonder.”
He inclined his head toward the corpse lying up the slope several yards away.
“I’m just looking for one thief,” John said.
“He stole something from you, did he?”
“He stole just about everything from me.”
“You don’t want to join up with him, then?” Wainwright said.
Ben snorted.
“Hell no, friend. He wants to lay him out like he did that’un yonder.” Ben cocked a thumb toward the dead man.
“Tucson ain’t a big town,” Wainwright said. “Maybe I know where you can find this man. Owlhoots tend to stick together.”
“You talking about an outlaw hangout?” John said.
Wainwright laughed.
“They ain’t no outlaws in Tucson,” he said.
“No outlaws in Tucson?” Ben said. “I find that right hard to believe.”
“You got to have laws to have outlaws, mister,” Wainwright said. “They ain’t no law in Tucson. None to speak of anyways.”
“This man hasn’t been there very long,” John said. “You probably wouldn’t know him from Adam’s off ox.”
“This man got a name?”
“Hobart,” John said, the word coming out of his mouth like an oath, or a chunk of ripped flesh.
Wainwright’s eyes went wide.
“Ollie Hobart?” Wainwright said, so soft John and Ben could barely hear it.
“You know Ollie Hobart?” John said, his eyes aglitter with a piercing light that seemed to come from within.
“Hell, he’s the reason I left Tucson yesterday mornin’,” Wainwright said. “I don’t know him. I know who he is. I know his damned name.”
“And how come you know him?” John said.
Wainwright dropped his head. He gurgled as if something was caught in his throat. When he looked back up at John, his eyes were rimmed with tears. A single droplet hung on the rim of his cheekbone.
“I didn’t work alone,” Wainwright said. “My son, Tim, was my helper. Hobart shot him dead night before last. Shot him dead right before my eyes, and for no good reason.”
Ben and John exchanged looks.
“Hobart don’t need no reason to kill anybody,” Ben said. “Ain’t that right, John?”
John did not answer. He stood, staring at the grieving man. Wainwright’s eyes told it all. They were wet with tears and more were flowing down his cheeks. He looked like a lost soul, a man without a friend in the world when he most needed one. It made John’s stomach turn to know that Ollie Hobart was still doing what he always did, killing innocent people. He felt sorry for Wainwright.
He had long ago stopped feeling sorry for himself.
3
JOHN WALKED OVER TO A LARGE ROCK AND SAT DOWN. WAINWRIGHT followed him and stood nearby as John took out his pistol, thumbed the hammer back to half cock, opened the gate to the cylinder, and ejected the empty brass hull. He pushed a fresh bullet from his belt and slid it into the empty spot, spun the cylinder, and closed the gate.
“You keep six in there?” Wainwright asked.
“Yes.”
“Most don’t. Safer to keep the hammer down on an empty cylinder.”
“Sometimes I need six.”
“That’s really a pretty six-gun you have there. Looks like a Colt.”
“It is, but my pa built it for me, filed down the sear, put new parts in. Had it engraved.”
“So I see. Inlaid silver, ain’t it?”
John nodded.
“What’s that say on the barrel there?”
“It’s a Spanish saying,” John said. “No me saques sin razón, ni me guardes sin honor.”
“You speak Spanish real good. What’s it mean, anyways?”
“Don’t draw me without reason, nor keep me without honor.”
“I reckon you abide by that,” Wainwright said.
“He does,” Ben said. “And you sure ask a lot of questions. You bury your boy in Tucson?”
“Yeah, right after that buzzard Hobart kilt him. I got out of Tucson real quick, too.”
“How come?” Ben asked.
“Hobart let it be known that I might be next. He took a dislike to my boy Tim, and maybe he didn’t like me much, either.”
“Just like that?” John asked. “He shot your son for no reason?”
“Well, not exactly. Seems like Tim was sparking a gal there when Hobart come to town. Turns out that the gal was sweet on Hobart, and vice versa. Hobart didn’t like competition. He told Tim to light a shuck when he walked in on the gal and Tim stood up to him.”
Tears began to wet Wainwright’s eyes again, and he stopped talking.
“I’m sorry,” John said. “What was the gal’s name? You know?”
“Diane Meacham. Hell, she never mentioned Hobart. But she knowed him before, I reckon. She works at a cantina there. It’s got a pretty bad reputation. Seems like all the owlhoots wet their whistles in there.”
“Why did Tim go there?” Ben asked.
“He was makin’ a saddle for the owner, feller named Ortiz. Benito Ortiz. He finished the saddle, but plumb fell for Diane. Hell, he was just a kid. Barely nineteen. Diane’s some older, maybe twenty-six or so.”
“What’s the name of that cantina?” John asked.
“La Copa. You can’t miss it. Got a big old cup outside, up on the adobe roof. It’s a pretty rough place. Knife fights, gunfights, fistfights, kick fights.”
“No police?” Ben asked.
“Naw. None of ’em would go there, even if they was dyin’ of thirst.”
“How can I find it?” John asked.
“It’s on
a street named Alameda. Little street, more like an alley. Next to a blacksmith’s we done some work for, man name of Rudolfo Alicante runs it. I built a cart for one of his customers.”
“Thanks,” John said and holstered his pistol. He stood up. “We’ll be going on then, Mr. Wainwright. Where are you bound?”
“Headin’ for Lordsburg.”
“We came through Lordsburg,” Ben said. “Ain’t much there to brag about.”
“Nope,” Wainwright said. “But wagons to fix and build.”
“You take care, Wainwright,” John said.
“No, you take care, Mr. Savage. That Hobart’s got a heap of friends in Tucson. Most of ’em put their boots on the rail at La Copa.”
“I’ll be careful,” John said.
Ben snorted as if he knew better. Which he did.
John and Ben mounted up after hanging their canteens from their saddle horns and left Wainwright at the well. He waved to them and they waved back.
They topped the rise and saw Wainwright no more that afternoon.
“We might best be lookin’ for a place to bed down for the night,” Ben said after the sun had dropped another three fingers in the western sky. “I measure only two fingers left of sunlight.”
When the sun was setting, a man could hold up the flat of his hand to the horizon, just below the sun, and count fifteen minutes for each finger. They had about thirty minutes before the sun set.
“I’m wondering where that drygulcher came from,” John said. “He was waiting for Wainwright, according to him.”
“That’s right, he sure was,” Ben said. “Like he knowed Wainwright would be along.”
“Might be an owlhoot camp hereabouts.”
“A godforsaken place, you ask me.”
“If there is such a camp, it wouldn’t be far from that well.”
John scanned the ground for tracks that stood out from ones they already knew. There were tracks from Wainwright’s cart and his mules, and tracks heading toward Tucson. The man he’d shot had left no tracks around the well, so he must have ridden straight to that little hideout to wait for Wainwright.
“Johnny, what are you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinking we ought to ride back a ways and backtrack that drygulcher’s horse. See where he came from.”
“Why? We ought to just keep ridin’ toward Tucson, like we was doin’, and leave well enough alone. You done killed one man today. Ain’t that enough for you?”
“I just don’t want to throw down my bedroll and have somebody sneak up on us in the dark. Didn’t you ever hear that old expression ‘Birds of a feather flock together’?”
“Meanin’ in this case?”
“Meaning that jasper didn’t just come from nowhere to way out here.”
“He probably follered Wainwright all the way from Tucson.”
“Followed him? Then why was he waiting in ambush for Wainwright? No, that boy spotted Wainwright and kept it to himself. He rode up there to that well and waited for him. He wasn’t about to share his information with his cronies. And you can bet good money, his outlaw friends are not very far away.”
“Johnny, we don’t need no more trouble.”
“Ben, I agree with you. We sure don’t need any more trouble. But sometimes you have to listen to what you can’t hear.”
“Huh? That don’t make no sense.”
“I mean you have to pay attention to your instincts. That little voice up in your head that says, ‘wait, look around, think.’ ”
“Yeah, I do that.”
“Well, I’m hearing it now. You know, sometimes you can be all by yourself out in the middle of nowhere and you know, without seeing anybody, that you’re not alone.”
“I’ve had that happen sometimes. Not exactly like that, but maybe in a saloon, you feel like somebody’s watchin’ you and you turn around real quick and see somebody just a-starin’ at you. Makes the hairs on my neck rise up and get stiff as hog bristles.”
“Same feeling, Ben. Like the one I have now.”
“You mean, like somebody’s a-watchin’ us right now?”
“Sort of. Like we’re not alone out here. I got a feeling. Real strong.”
“Well, I don’t feel much like ridin’ back to that well to scout for tracks.”
“We don’t have to, Ben. We’ll leave this road and make a circle, see if we can pick up some tracks. If we do, we’ll follow them back to where that feller came from. Likely, we’ll find a hill or a mesa, maybe a small butte where that bush-whacker got a gander at Wainwright.”
“Wild-goose chase if you ask me.”
“Sometimes you catch the wild goose,” Savage said. “Makes for a mighty fine meal.”
Ben let out a mirthless laugh, dry as a sun-seared corn husk.
“You ain’t goin’ to listen to me, Johnny. You never do.”
“I listen, Ben.”
“Goes in one ear, out the other.”
“Let’s get off this road and see if we can find those tracks before dark.” John turned Gent off the old wagon trail and rode off toward the north. Ben followed. Chamisa sage, ocotillo, rocks, and prickly pear dotted the desolate landscape. Not far away, the skyline was broken by small mesas, low buttes, rocky outcroppings where flash floods had piled up stones upon stones. John scanned the ground, looking for horse tracks.
Ben kept his gaze upon the surrounding country, looking for nothing in particular, but for anything that might catch his eye, stir his interest.
A jackrabbit bolted from cover, scampering more than a dozen yards. Then froze into rigid invisibility. The sun dropped lower in the sky and the distant clouds began to take on color, turning from snow white to pale salmon and peach. Some began to turn to a dusky purple and John knew he would not have much light left to track. He began to turn Gent into a wide circular path, arcing toward the west.
Then he saw disturbed ground.
He reined up Gent and studied the markings more closely, as if to unlock the secrets of desert travel.
“You got something, John?” Ben asked.
“I think we just struck that bushwhacker’s trail, Ben. Can you make out those scuffs in the dirt?”
“I don’t see nothin’,” Ben said, squinting to focus his vision, magnify the ground where John was pointing.
John leaned over and guided Gent alongside the disturbed soil. He saw no clear track at first, just upturned dirt, stones that had been overturned, kicked away from their resting places to leave small smooth divots where they had been.
Ben was still squinting and seeing very little.
John saw a clear horseshoe track, very distinct. He rode on, following the open end of the horseshoe’s direction. There was another track on an open patch of ground. He now knew the general direction of the rider who had left those tracks. He looked up, scanned the terrain from right to left, clear to the road.
Then he saw it, and his heart seemed to leap in his chest.
Near the road, less than a quarter mile away, there was a small butte, or what appeared to be a ridge rising above the flat land, like a sailing ship without a mast.
“Ben, look,” John said. “That could be where the bush-whacker waited until he saw a likely citizen come down the road. Tracks lead right in back of that butte or mesa. He could see a long way from on top and have plenty of time to get on his horse and ride to the well.”
“I see it,” Ben said.
“Let’s take a look,” John said.
Ben held up four fingers to the horizon. Two of them filled the gap between the land and the sun.
“Be dark in about a half hour, Johnny. We might want to—”
John saw a flash of orange, then heard the crack of a rifle. He ducked and heard the sizzle of a bullet as it split the air over his head.
“Take cover, Ben,” he shouted and rode for a nearby gully.
That shot had come from atop the butte. Two seconds later another shot rang out and the flash this time was from a place just below the butte, just
an orange flower, then a blossom of white smoke. The bullet plowed a furrow between Gent’s fore and rear legs. Gent bolted for the gully.
The horse scrambled down into rocks and brush. Ben came down into the depression at a gallop as another shot sounded and they both heard the whine of the bullet as it caromed off a rock.
John drew his rifle from its sheath and jumped from the saddle.
Ben dismounted with his rifle in hand, too.
“We’re trapped like rats down here,” Ben muttered. “They got us cold.”
John said nothing.
Whoever was shooting at them was at least a quarter mile away. That gave him time to think and to look around.
The gulley looked like an old washout. Soft sand and rock, some brush. A lizard lay sprawled on a stone, yellow eyes staring at him, tail and body perfectly still.
John wasn’t going to say it, but he thought they had only a few seconds to set up some kind of defense.
Otherwise, whoever rode up on them would find easy pickings.
It would be, he thought, like shooting fish in a barrel.
4
JOHN SCANNED THE BANK FACING THE BUTTE, LOOKING FOR A DEFENSIVE position that would allow him to return fire. Water and wind had cut a straight line down some of the wall, but he found a spot where he might lean against it and bring his rifle to bear on their attackers.
He stepped on a large rock for purchase, then slowly raised his rifle and eased it over the edge of the gully. He lifted his head until he could see down the barrel. He looked for the two men he had seen shooting at them. The one on top of the butte was gone. The one at the foot of the bluff had also vanished. He heard the muffled sounds of hoofbeats fading away.
Ben scrambled up beside him.
“What do you make of it, Johnny?”
“They lit a shuck. That’s odd.”
“Mighty odd. What do you think?”
“Could be a trick. Or they could have lost heart.”
“Why in hell did they shoot at us in the first place?”
“Beats me. But that’s probably where that other jasper spotted Wainwright and then took off to ambush him.”
“You think so?”
