by Jory Sherman
John lay there, his eyes open, fighting off sleep. He listened to Jake’s breathing and to Ben’s. He reached over and jostled Ben to make sure he was still awake.
Jake’s breathing became deeper, more even. In a few minutes, he began to snore.
John waited another five minutes, then felt for Ben’s head. When he touched his ear, he scooted closer, whispered into it.
“You awake, Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t trust this bunch.”
“Me, neither.”
“We’ve got to get away from Crudder whenever he takes us out of here.”
“He can lead us to Ollie Hobart.”
“I know. But Crudder is a dangerous man. And sooner or later, he’ll find out who we are.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Just follow my lead. I’ll get shut of him before we get to Tucson. We can track him to Hobart.”
“Hobart will know we’re comin’, John. Crudder will sure as hell put a bug in his ear.”
“Can’t be helped.”
Jake’s snoring became louder.
“Just let me know when you plan to make the break.”
“I will. Might have to run for our lives.”
“Won’t be the first time, Johnny.”
“No. And it probably won’t be the last. Now, get some shut-eye.”
“You, too,” Ben said.
John lay awake for another half hour. Finally, the snoring subsided to a tolerable drone in his ears and he sank into sleep. His right hand gripped his pistol. It was a comfort, something he could rely on. But maybe Horky had been right, closer to the truth than any of them knew.
Perhaps, he thought, as he drifted into sleep, the gun was cursed.
It was sure that it had blood on it.
8
CRUDDER MADE IT EASY FOR BEN AND JOHN.
The following morning after breakfast, when the men were all drinking a second mug of coffee, Crudder announced his plans.
“We can’t all ride into Tucson in a bunch,” he said. “We’ll draw too much attention to ourselves.”
“So what do we do?” Mead asked.
“We got a meetin’ place. We drift in at night, two at a time. Meet up at the Lobo Rojo, that little cantina on Vera Cruz.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Ward said.
John blew steam from his tin cup and sipped his coffee, his gaze fixed on Crudder. He and Ben didn’t know where the cantina was, either.
“You find Hidalgo Street, ride west. You’ll come to Vera Cruz. Head north three blocks. You’ll see the Hotel Norte. Right next to it is the Lobo Rojo, a big sign on the false front and a big red wolf on it.”
“When?” Mead asked.
“We should get to Tucson tonight,” Crudder said. “I’ll go in first, take John Logan with me.”
John felt a squeezing of his heart, as if Crudder had reached into his chest with a grimy hand. He drew in a breath to ease the pressure.
“Horky, you and Jubal ride in about an hour later, from the south trail. Jake, you’ll take Ben with you and come in from the northeast where that old trading post stands.”
“I know the place,” Ward said.
“An hour apart. We’ll all ride together until we’re five miles out, then split up. I should hit town a little after sundown.”
“Will Ollie be expecting us?” Mead asked.
“He goes to the Lobo Rojo ever’ night,” Crudder said. “Toward midnight. Far as I know, he’s stayin’ at the Norte.”
“I hope this works,” Mead said.
“It’ll work. Just watch out for yourselves comin’ in to town. Don’t draw attention to yourselves and don’t throw down on them Injun police.”
The men laughed and finished drinking their coffees, each locked in a silence with his own personal thoughts. John cursed the fact that he would have to ride in with Crudder. But it might work out. They should be at the Lobo Rojo long before Ollie Hobart showed up. The bad part was that he and Ben would be separated until they all met up at the cantina. There would be no chance to hatch a plan.
Ollie would recognize him on sight, John knew.
The men packed up and stored the things they would not need on their ride to Tucson. Horky took Ben and John to get their horses in the natural corral through the fissure in the canyon wall. Crudder, Mead, and Ward saddled their horses. Well before noon, with Crudder in the lead, the men were all riding single file back out of the hideout. It was cool until they reached open country, and then the sun beat down with a merciless heat until men and animals were glistening with sweat.
Crudder behaved like a military man, and John learned that he had fought in the war on the Union side. He had been at the battle of Elkhorn Tavern, which some called Pea Ridge, and at Wilson Creek, up near Springfield, Missouri. He sent out flankers, Mead and Ward, and put Horky on point. Ben rode drag. John rode with Crudder for the first couple of hours, then gradually slowed down so that he could talk to Ben.
There were no road signs, not even much of a road, and the country was unknown to Ben and John. Crudder did not stop but had told the men to chew on jerky in the saddle. He pressed on, seemingly unmindful of the heat that boiled up from the shadeless earth.
“You got any plans, John?” Ben whispered to John when they were riding side by side.
“I can’t go to that cantina with Crudder, I know that.”
“Well, you could. But you’d have to be mighty quick the minute Hobart walks in the door. You’d have to take both him and Crudder down.”
“Hobart will be on home ground.”
“Yeah. Maybe Crudder, too.”
They could taste the faint dust stirred up from the hooves of Crudder’s horse. The air itself smelled old, John thought, musty as the atmosphere in an old abandoned house. Yet the harsh land seemed to glow with a hidden radiance that was complemented by the blue sky and the floating puffs of white clouds. It was a majestic land, he decided, made even more interesting by the sudden outcroppings of buttes and spires and deserted mesas, the exotic plants that seemed to rise out of the ground at odd places and grip the land firmly as if defying a waterless existence.
“We’ve got to get away from this bunch before we hit Tucson,” John said. “There’s no other way around it.”
“Horses can’t run much in this heat, John.”
“I know. We’ll have to find a way to elude Crudder, make it too costly for him to chase after us.”
“You have some kind of a plan, Johnny? Or is that askin’ too much?”
“You can keep the sarcasm, Ben. The country here, just look at it. Wild, broken, plenty of hiding places.”
“Empty as last year’s bird nest.”
“We’ll use it, nevertheless.”
Ben twisted his head to one side, then the other, to take in the width and breadth of the land. He could see the flankers, and in the far distance, he could just barely make out the point rider. And Crudder, maybe two hundred yards ahead of them. Whoever had staked out the road had picked the path of least resistance. Yes, there was broken land, pocked with rocky rises and formations, but none were real close. They’d have to ride miles to find suitable cover, a defensible position. Surely, John could see that. It might be like this all the way to Tucson. He shook his head and wiped sweat from his brows. Any of the men ahead of them could pick them off with a rifle shot before they galloped a hundred yards.
If they made a break for it now, Ben thought, they’d be dead meat.
“I just don’t see no way,” Ben said.
“Not now. We’ll have to let the land tell us when it’s time to make a run for it.”
“The land ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ but heat and sweat.”
“The Indians made use of it, Ben. And so will we.”
“They was born here.” Ben could not put a hobble on his sarcasm. John let it pass because he knew Ben was right.
“Sometimes, Ben,” he said, “if opportunity doesn’t come knocking,
you have to kick the door down yourself.”
“I never heard that before.”
“Me, neither. I just thought of it.”
Ben snorted.
John continued to survey the land, an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Giant saguaros stood like green sentinels, silent and strangely sentient, as if they could see and feel in their mute-ness, their deafness, and their blindness. They seemed alive and somehow comforting as they stood amid the seeming desolation of that barren landscape. Off in the distance, John could see shadowy monuments rising up from the plain, their rock walls like fortresses, their secrets lost to time and an emptiness he could feel deep inside him. He drew a deep breath and knew he could never explain the feelings he had just then. They were too complicated, too hazy and unformed, like snatches of a dream he could reach for but never touch.
Ahead, Crudder rode on and John could see that his head was drooping, as if he were half asleep, dozing in the saddle.
The bastard, John thought, he feels safe with the two outriders and a man on point, Ben and John covering his rear. Complacent, perhaps.
He could feel the land rising under him, so gradual it was barely discernible, but he sensed a subtle shift in the air, somehow a half a degree cooler than it had been. He wondered if they were climbing toward higher ground, ascending from the desert ever so slowly.
A trick of the mind? He didn’t know, but he looked at the western horizon and it seemed higher than it had before, as if they were riding toward a small summit. He looked behind him and it seemed to him that he was looking down, down into that long gradual valley they had just traversed. They were climbing. He was sure of it. The walls of the canyon where they had been were now only dim and small battlements reduced to rubble and ruin as if they were sinking out of existence.
There had to be a way to escape Crudder and his men. It was too bad they couldn’t talk to Ward and bring him along. Another gun to go up against Hobart and the bloodthirsty men he gathered around him. How many men, he did not know. But Hobart was, for all his faults, a leader, a man who surrounded himself with heartless and greedy cohorts who would do his bidding.
“You’re awful quiet, John,” Ben said after they had ridden for another half hour. “Workin’ on a plan?”
“Maybe,” John said.
“If we come close to one of them high-walled mesas, we might have a chance to make a run for it.”
“They’d shoot us right out of the saddle. Too open, Ben.”
“Then, where? Hell, the old sun’s already fallin’ away from high noon.”
John gave Ben’s question some moments of thought before he answered.
“We’re riding an outlaw trail, Ben. Way off the old Butterfield Stage Trail to Benson. There has to be some reason owlhoots picked this route. There are mountains yonder, and we’re close to the Mexican border. Somewhere, between here and Tucson, we’ll find a way to light a shuck away from these jaspers. Let the sun fall. The closer we get to dark, the closer we get to a place that will suit us just fine.”
“Boy, Johnny, you sure give a man confidence. Ever had any luck a-wishin’, bettin’ on horse races?”
“I believe this, Ben. You make your own luck. Good or bad.”
And that was where they left it as they both looked for opportunity’s bold knock on their door.
When it came, John Savage would jerk the door right off its rusty hinges.
9
THE LAND AROUND THEM CHANGED AS THE LONG VALLEY DISAPPEARED behind them. Ahead and all around lay hills and small mountains, broken country. The kind of country, John thought, where a man might make a break for it and disappear behind any number of hills. To the south lay Mexico, and perhaps safety. A good day’s ride, maybe thirty miles or so, two days at the most.
He looked at Ben, whose eyes were as wide as an owl’s.
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Ben asked.
There was a hollow feeling in the pit of John’s stomach. He knew that he was on the verge of having to make a life-or-death decision. If he made the wrong choice, he and Ben could be killed. They were outnumbered and they had to traverse a considerable distance to outrun both bullets and men on horseback. But the prospect of being with Crudder when he met up with Hobart was almost as distasteful as risking his life.
“We can’t run the horses much, Ben,” John said. “This heat has sucked out all their energy.”
“I know,” Ben said. “But if we’re going to break away from this bunch, this looks like pretty good country for it.”
“Ever been to Mexico?” John asked.
“Nope.”
“We might have to hole up over the border for a while.”
“Makes no nevermind to me.”
John scanned the country to the south. More and more hills rose up and there were jagged peaks beyond, low mountains that looked forbidding. And, maybe, sheltering.
“When we get close to a bunch of those hills, we’ll light a shuck,” John said. “You stay right on my heels. I’m going to zigzag in case we have to dodge bullets.”
“I can zig and I can zag,” Ben said, the crinkle of a smile on his lips.
“Don’t follow my exact route, Ben. When I zig, you zag.”
And John was smiling when he said it. But Ben knew he was dead serious.
“I’ll do that, Johnny. You just say the word.”
A half hour later, John said the word.
“Now,” he said and wheeled Gent into a tight turn, not forty yards from a peaked hill. Ben clapped his spurs to Blaster’s flanks and the two men rode toward the east end of the hill, gobbling up ground in a furious gallop.
They heard a shout from Crudder. When John looked over his shoulder, he saw the man stop his horse, back it down. He pointed in their direction, then jerked his rifle from its scabbard.
“Get ’em,” Crudder yelled, and his voice carried across the plain, rippling with his anger and determination.
Ten yards from the corner of the hill, John heard the whip-crack of a rifle. The bullet spanged off a rock a few yards behind him and caromed off into the air with a nasty whine. John pulled hard on the left rein and Gent swerved a few yards before John reined him back to a straight line. He drew his pistol, turned slightly in the shadow, aimed high at Crudder, and fired off a shot. He knew the bullet had little chance of hitting its target, but it might give the man a reason to hold off his pursuit for a few moments. And it might slow down his reloading of another cartridge into the firing chamber.
John rammed his pistol back in its holster and rounded the end of the hill. There were many more hills ahead of him and all around him. He rode into the maze, Ben hot on his heels.
Just as Ben reached the end of the hill, another shot rang out and John heard the bullet slam into the hill. He looked back and saw that Ben was still coming. He was bent over the saddle horn and seemed untouched and unhurt.
John raced toward another hill and turned Gent so they could round it. He slowed the horse after passing the hill and Ben caught up to him.
Both men were panting, out of breath. The horses’ sides were heaving.
“Enough of that fast gallop,” John said. “From now on, we pick our way south real slow.”
“Think Crudder will come after us?”
“He might for a ways, but he’ll give it up. If we go real slow, we won’t leave much sign on this hard ground. Unless he’s a damned good tracker, he’ll give up.”
They rode through a series of narrow passes, through small and slightly larger hills, varying their direction, putting more hills behind them. John watched their backtrail and drew his rifle. If he saw Crudder or any of the others come around a hill, he would stop and draw a bead, try to drop the pursuer.
“Crudder fire that last shot at you, Ben?”
“I—I think so. Couldn’t tell. What are you thinkin’?”
“Jake was on the flank. I hope he didn’t shoot at you.”
“Aw, he wouldn’t do tha
t. He’s on our side.”
“He might have loosed a bullet to throw Crudder off. Jake won’t want to show his hand.”
“Hell, he should be ridin’ with us.”
“No. Better that he stay with Crudder and that bunch. If we get to Hobart, he might come in handy.”
“Yeah. He might.”
They heard pounding hoofbeats, shouts. It was difficult for John to determine how close Crudder and his men were because of the hills. He and Ben walked the horses south for several moments, cut in and out of saguaros and hills, their horses sleek with sweat, their foreheads dripping wet. They sopped up the moisture with their bandannas and rode on, keeping quiet, listening, looking over their shoulders.
“These horses need rest, John,” Ben said, his voice a croak in his parched throat.
“I know. I don’t see any shade, do you?”
“Can’t we just stop and give ’em a rest?”
“Might be our last stop, Ben. No telling where Crudder is. He might know this country. Hell, he could be waiting just up ahead for us.”
Ben swore.
“Hey, don’t talk that way, Johnny. My stomach’s still tied up in a hundred different knots.”
“Just keep quiet and keep riding, Ben. We’ll stop when we’ve lost Crudder for sure.”
John headed toward a low hill, crossing a patch of rocky land dotted with prickly pear, saguaros, ocotillo. Something caught his eye and he turned suddenly in the saddle to seek out the source. A glint of light, like a spear, needled him in his right eye. He raised a hand to shade his face. He looked upward, toward a peak jutting up, its top framed by blue sky.
“Ben,” John said, his voice pitched low, “watch it.”
Ben turned and looked at that same peak and swallowed hard.
“We been snookered,” Ben said, shading his eyes with a hand.
One of the riders, John didn’t know which at that distance, was at the top of the peak, looking down on them. Sunlight glinted off the barrel of his rifle as he brought it to his shoulder and took aim. The horse under him sidled on unsure footing and the rifle came down for a moment, then rose again to the man’s shoulder. John saw him sighting along the barrel.
