by Ralph Cotton
“Don’t shoot, I’m going,” said Fellows. He stood up in a crouch, stepped over and rummaged through his saddlebags until he pulled out a cartridge belt full of bullets. Gazing out toward Black’s body with a grimace, he said, “I hope he’s not out to get all three of us killed.”
“Stop carping about it and get the ammunition over to them,” said Quinn.
“Here goes,” said Fellows, ammunition belt in one hand, his rifle in the other.
From across the trail, Grissin and Duvall watched the gunman race from behind the rock. “Watch the hills, here he comes,” Grissin said to Duvall. He gave a slight grin at the sight of Fellows racing along, zigzagging back and forth. “That is one fast injun,” he said with a dark chuckle.
High up the rocky hill line, Parks caught sight of Fellows running across the open width of the trail. But by the time he got the big rifle raised and readied, Fellows had dropped out of sight. “Damn it!” Parks growled to himself. “I dare yas to try that again. . . .”
Behind the cover of rock, Fellows lay panting on the ground, more out of breath from fear than from the run itself. He slung the loaded ammunition belt to Duvall. “There,” he said. “That ought to be enough to take care of you.”
Grissin ignored him, gazing intently up at the hill line. Disappointed that Parks had not fired a shot and revealed his location, he called out to Quinn, “Okay, Sheriff, now your turn.”
“My turn?” said Quinn in an unsteady voice.
“You heard him, damn it,” said Duvall. “Get yourself over here where you’re most needed.” He chuckled under his breath and watched the upper hill line. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered.”
“You can’t have me covered,” said Quinn, “he’s too far out of range.”
“How about showing a little faith?” Duvall said in a scoffing tone.
“Sons a’ bitches,” Quinn growled to himself. He stood, crouched and raced out across the open trail.
This time Parks was ready, the scope already up to his eye as he’d sat scanning and waiting.
“Run, Peyton, run!” Fellows shouted, catching a harsh flash of sunlight off the brass scope high up in rocky terrain. Instead of hastening Quinn, the sound of Fellows’ voice caused him to turn and look up as he raced along. Quinn’s quick glance cost him a split second, but in that split second a silent bullet zipped by and took his right ear off in a spray of meat and blood. He bellowed and ran harder, his voice drowned out by the following rifle explosion.
Quinn hit the ground at Fellows’ feet, rolling and cursing and crying out in pain. “My ear! It’s gone. He shot my ear off!” Quinn bellowed in pain, his hand cupping the small mangled remains of his earlobe.
“There he is!” said Grissin, staring up at the hill line, paying no attention to Quinn. He raised his rifle and began firing toward the sound of the rifle shot, giving Cannidy and Longworth direction.
From their spot in the trees and brush higher up, Cannidy and Longworth both homed their fire in on Parks’ position, forcing Parks to pull back and abandon his spot and hurry up to where he’d left his horse.
Once atop his horse, Parks batted his boot heels hard to the animal’s sides, sending it racing away along the trail, leaving nothing for Grissin and his men to shoot at but a rise of brown dust. That was good enough, Parks told himself. He’d killed one of them, maybe wounded another, he thought. He’d slowed them down; he’d kept them from getting around him and closer to his money.
Three miles back along the trail, on the other side of the steep hill line, Sam and Maria had heard the gunfire as they rode on, having buried the Taylors and their dog. Slowing for a moment, the two looked at each other. “It sounds as if Grissin and his men have learned that Parks has a long-range rifle,” Maria said.
“Yep, I’d say so,” Sam replied. “As bad as I want Parks, I hope him and Grissin will keep each other busy while we circle around and get between them and the drovers.” He nudged his horse on along a stretch of grassy meadow land, just off the trail.
“Sí,” said Maria with a trace of a smile, “that would be most obliging of them.” She nudged her horse along beside the ranger as the gunfire fell silent in the rugged hills above them.
Chapter 20
Jet Mackenzie, Jock Brewer and Tad Harper stopped and looked at the sun-bleached wooden sign standing at the fork in a trail. Harper read aloud, “Welcome to Paí—Paí—Duro.”
“Welcome to País Duro,” Brewer said, finishing his struggling words for him.
Harper stared studiously at the sign, then asked the other two, “What does País Duro mean?”
“It means hard country, Tadpole,” Brewer said, crossing his wrists on his saddle horn and looking around at the jagged rocky hills surrounding them.
“Welcome to hard country,” Harper repeated with a crooked grin. “How are we supposed to tell the difference?”
The three shared a short laugh and nudged their horses on toward the small ghost of a town lying in a rocky valley southeast of Marble Canyon. Mackenzie rode a bit low in his saddle, his shoulder wound healing slowly beneath a bandage made of strips of an old linsey-woolsey shirt he’d rummaged from the bottom of his saddlebags. Earlier in the day they had heard the sound of distant rifle fire in the hills and canyons behind them. The gunfire had served them as a reminder to keep moving.
“There’s Holly’s cayouse,” said Harper before they’d gone fifty yards along the town’s dusty street. He nodded ahead at the salt-and-pepper barb standing at a pitted iron hitch rail. As they rode onto the dusty street of País Duro, they saw Holly Thorpe step out of a low-roofed adobe cantina. He gave a short wave and limped over beside his horse and awaited them.
“It’s about time you all got here,” Thorpe said. “I was starting to get concerned.”
“You needn’t,” said Brewer. “We had an easy ride, except for boss here taking a bullet and me and Tadpole dodging every rider we come upon along the trail.”
“Mac’s shot?” Thorpe gave Mackenzie a troubled look up and down as the three stopped their horses at the iron rail.
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Mackenzie said. “Anyway, I learned enough watching the young woman treat you that I knew what to do.”
“Who shot you?” Thorpe asked.
“Some riders I ran into while I was taking that sheriff away from Creasy,” said Mackenzie. He stepped down from his saddle and let Thorpe have his reins instead of using his weakened right hand.
“Dang, I feel bad about this,” Thorpe said.
“Well, don’t,” Mackenzie said sternly. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“But dang it, you got shot trying to get the law away from me,” said Thorpe.
“I got shot trying to do what was needed for all of us,” said Mackenzie, “the same as you would had it been the other way around. So make nothing of it.” He looked at Thorpe closely and said, “Anyway, I’m fine as can be now. How’re you making out?” He gestured toward Thorpe’s wounded side, noting the way he had limped out to the iron hitch rail.
“I’m good,” said Thorpe. “I had to back-door out of Creasy when Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack and his woman rode into town.”
“Sam Burrack?” said Brewer. “Is he after us now?” The four gave one another a troubled look.
Mackenzie said, “I expect he was after us all along if he thinks we stole that money.” He glanced around and said under his breath, “We ought not be talking about this out here, in the open.”
“How much farther is it to Clel Davis’ cabin?” Harper asked, gazing off along the distant rugged hills between the town and the Marble Canyon area.
“Not much farther,” said Mackenzie, “less than half a day’s ride. Let’s water our horses, take on some supplies and get going. The quicker we’re out of sight, the better I’m going to like it.”
“How are we going to pay for supplies?” Harper asked with a blank expression.
“Dang it, Tadpole!” said Brewer. “Use your head.” He r
eached over with his battered hat and slapped Harper jokingly on his dusty shoulder. “We’re every one of us sitting atop more money than we’ve ever seen in our lives.”
“But like Mac said when we started, that ain’t our money we’re carrying, right, Mac?” said Harper.
“That’s right, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie. He frowned at the thought of using any of the money they had in their saddlebags.
“I agree with you,” Jock Brewer said. “But it ain’t like we’re stealing the money. We’re just talking about using some, enough to feed ourselves until we find a way to turn it in.” He grinned, trying to make a joke of it. “I feel foolish living on lizard and jackrabbit up there while my saddlebags are busting with money.”
“I like lizard and jackrabbit,” Mackenzie said stubbornly.
“I know you do,” said Brewer, “about as much as we all do.” He paused, then said, “You’re the trail boss, Mac, and I’ll go along with whatever you say. But dang it. Look at us. You’re shot . . . Thorpe is shot. We ain’t none of us tried to do a thing but what is right. We didn’t bring any of this on ourselves. We ought to at least be able to get some good from it.”
“Why?” Mackenzie said sharply. “What makes us so special? Because we’re trying to do right?”
“Yeah, sort of,” Brewer said, spreading his hands out. “We didn’t have to do what was right. We could have all run high, wide and away with all this money—”
“Doing right doesn’t expect to get rewarded,” Mackenzie cut in. “Doing right is the reward. We did right because, dang it, that’s how things are supposed to be.”
“You think?” Brewer said firmly.
“I think,” Mackenzie resolved.
Brewer blew out a breath. “I need convincing.”
“I’ve got nothing for you,” said Mackenzie. He looked from one to the other. “I was ramrod for this bunch on some trail drives. My job was to look out for you and tell you what to do and what not to. But that’s all done. If you need me to convince you to do right after all this time, then I wasn’t much of a boss to begin with.”
“He didn’t mean nothing, Mac,” said Harper.
But Mackenzie continued, saying, “Davin Grissin owes us money. We’ve got every reason to take what’s ours out of his money. But we won’t, not if it’s my call.” He looked around. “The money is all split up between us. I won’t judge any of you if you want to hightail out of here and keep what’s in your saddlebags.”
“But count you out,” said Thorpe, adjusting his wire rims on his nose.
“That’s right, Holly, count me out,” Mackenzie said flatly. “I didn’t earn that money with my own sweat, it’s not mine to spend.”
The four remained silent for a long moment. Finally, Brewer said, “All right, pards, I’m taking the money and hightailing to old Mex. If you ever come to see me I’ll be twirling some dark senorita with a red rose clamped between her teeth.” He grinned and twirled in the dirt on his boot heels. “I’ll swear I never seen any of you saddle tramps before in my life!”
“Whoo-ieee!” said Harper. “Can I come with you? I’ve got money too!”
“You two go to old Mex,” said Thorpe. “I’m taking my loot and heading for Spain—get me a big ship and go discovering, the same way Columbus did.”
Shaking his head, Mackenzie gave in a little. He let out a breath and said to the three of them, “All right . . . if we keep tabs on what we spend—just for supplies, no foolishness. . . . I suppose we’d still be doing right.”
“Are you sure, boss?” Brewer gave him a dubious look and said, “I’ve kind of got my heart set on old Mex.”
“A bottle of rye whiskey too,” said Mackenzie, giving in. “And some clean dressing and salve for our wounds, all right?”
“Whatever you say, boss,” said Brewer. All three of them nodded in unison.
In the late afternoon, long after the four drovers had left on the last stretch of their journey, Stanton Parks followed the three sets of hoofprints into País Duro. He stepped down from his saddle at the same pitted iron hitch rail out in front of the cantina. Looking all around, he slapped dust from his shirt and his badge and walked inside, the big long-range rifle in hand.
Behind a low bar made of planks laid between three rain barrels and covered with ragged blankets, an elderly Mexican squinted at the badge in the dim light and said, “Alguacil, acepta. Hombre de la ley son aceptan siempre aquí—”
“Speak English, you heathen,” Parks said, cutting him short with a raised hand.
“Of course,” said the cantina owner. “I said welcome, Sheriff. Lawmen are always welcome here—”
“I heard what you said,” Parks replied gruffly, cutting him off again. “I just don’t like foreign tongue spoke at me.” He laid the big rifle up onto the plank bar top. “Do you have anything here fit for a white man to drink—something that has no dead critters in it?”
“I have some good rye whiskey, Sheriff,” said the cantina owner. He hurriedly set a fresh bottle and shot glass on the bar in front of Parks. As he opened the bottle he said, “I am Ramon Ortiz, and I too am a citizen americano, just like you.”
“Yeah, you look it,” Parks said skeptically, watching the man fill the shot glass.
“It is true,” said the cantina owner, pushing a point that he should have left alone. “My family was in this territory long before the French fur traders came down from the—”
“I don’t give a damn,” Parks said, swiping the shot glass from the bar and tossing back the fiery rye. He made a hiss and set the glass down loudly. “Since you are such a proud ciudadano americano, you can help me uphold the law. I’m looking for three drovers who rode in here earlier today. From the looks of the tracks out front they might have met up with a fourth man and rode out together. Is that correcto?” he asked sarcastically.
“Sí—I mean, yes, that is correct, Sheriff,” said Ortiz. “So few have come and gone lately, it is easy to remember.” He grinned and tapped his forehead. “Even for a fool like me, eh?”
“You said it, I didn’t,” Parks grumbled, bumping his shot glass on the bar top for another drink. “What did they take with them?”
“Take with them?” Ortiz looked bewildered.
“Come on, Mex,” said Parks, “don’t make me have to jog your mind. What did they take? Supplies? Lots of supplies? A few supplies?”
“Oh, supplies.” Ortiz nodded briskly. “They took plenty of supplies . . . and some bandages and some rye whiskey too, for medicine, I think.”
“Yeah, for medicine,” Parks said in the same skeptical tone, “that’s why most drovers are carrying whiskey.” He threw back his shot and bumped the bar top for a refill. This time he swiped the bottle from Ortiz’s hand and carried it as he walked over to a small open window and looked out toward a rugged hill range.
“These men, they have broken the law, Sheriff?” Ortiz asked.
“Oh yes, in the worst sort of way,” Parks said over his shoulder. He tossed back the shot and pitched the glass to the dirt floor. He took a long swig from the bottle and wiped his hand across his wet mouth.
“Are these men murderers? Did they kill many peoples?” Ortiz asked solemnly.
“Murderers, yes,” said Parks. “How many peoples did they kill?” he mimicked. “I expect we’ll never know just how many. But a hell of a lot.” He took another swig and gazed off toward the hill line, the whiskey beginning to boil in his brain. “They stole money that was rightfully mine.” Without turning to face the cantina owner, he said, “Do you have any notion how serious that is, stealing money from a real, honest-to-God sheriff? A man of the law?”
“It is most serious, I think?” the Mexican ventured warily, not sure what his words might evoke.
“Most serious, you’re damned right,” said Parks. He took another swig, then shook the bottle. Whiskey sloshed over the tip. “Whatever money they spent here was my money. So consider yourself paid.” He raised the bottle as if in a toast, then took ano
ther swig.
The cantina owner remained quiet, deciding it best not to raise a disagreement with this man.
“Where did they get their supplies?” Parks asked, his voice starting to take on a whiskey slur.
“At Widow Bertrim’s Mercantile up the street,” said the cantina owner.
“At Widow Bertrim’s Mercantile up the street,” Parks repeated under his breath. He walked over, snatched the big rifle from the bar, walked outside, grabbed the horse’s reins and stomped away along the empty street.
Inside the mercantile, the tall, robust widow stood using a feather duster, dusting the same cans of airtights she’d dusted for weeks. When Parks barged in through the open door and stood staggering a bit in place, she looked him up and down, noting the badge on his chest.
“Good evening, Sheriff, and welcome to País Duro,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“You can do whatever I damned well tell you,” said Parks. “First, rustle me up some supplies, the same as you did for those drovers I’m hunting.”
The woman looked shocked, both at Parks’ manner and at the four young men being wanted by the law. “Those well-behaved young men are criminals? My goodness!”
“Do like I told you, woman, before I put a boot in your ass,” Parks said drunkenly.
“Sheriff,” she gasped, “there’s no call for that kind of language.” Even as she protested, she began grabbing supplies and stuffing them into a feed sack.
“As soon as you’re finished, you climb right out of that dress,” said Parks. “I want to see what you’ve got under there. I might want some of it right there on the counter.”
But the widow stopped cold, bristling, and said in a harsh tone, “The hell you say.”
Seeing her take a stand, Parks leveled the big rifle at her. “Oh, you want to argue with the law?” he said.
“The law doesn’t act this way, Sheriff,” said the tall sturdy-looking widow. “If you think you’re getting inside my dress, you’ve got another think coming.”
