Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3)

by Neil Hunter

  The moment he had triggered the second shot Jim rolled away from the spot, coming quickly to his feet. He ran for the first cover he spotted, throwing himself down behind a shelf of rock. Twisting his body round he searched the area. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. There was only the dead Apache, an awkwardly sprawled figure on the dusty ground.

  Jim stayed where he was for a while, searching the surrounding terrain. He decided finally that the Apache had been on his own. If there had been others he would have heard from them by now. On the other hand he could be wrong. Maybe there were others out there. Just waiting for him to show himself. Jim spent a little time replacing the spent cartridges in his revolver. It gave him something to do while he was thinking. True, he had seen the tracks of some eight to nine Apaches trailing Parsons and Troop. He had also heard that shooting during the night. Which could have meant that the two men he was after were dead. Or that some of the Apaches were dead. It might be that the one he’d just shot was nothing more than a scout checking the back trail. Apaches were notoriously careful about covering themselves when they got involved in any kind of fight. They always liked to have a back door open in case things went against them. It was one of the reasons why they tended to live to ripe old ages.

  He stayed where he was for another half-hour, and then his impatience got the better of him. Jim said to hell with it and stood up. He walked slowly along the riverbed, well aware that he was inviting trouble, but determined to see it through. He found his horse some quarter of a mile along the dry course. It turned its head to look at him and stood patiently while he dragged himself back into the saddle. The effort of hauling himself back onto this horse disturbed the graze in his side where the Apache’s bullet had caught him. The nagging pain cleared his dulled mind. Gave him something to concentrate on. Jim turned his horse and rode back along the riverbed until he picked up the tracks he’d been following earlier. He saw that they led up the opposite bank and then continued on the rising trail they had been following before.

  Jim put his horse on that same trail. Conscious of the added threat from the Apaches he slid his rifle from the sheath and carried it across the saddle as he rode.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Right now I’d trade that money for a fast horse and a loaded gun.’

  Luke Parsons glanced across at Troop. His partner’s unshaven face was darkened by an angry scowl. Parsons was starting to get edgy. He didn’t like the way Troop was acting. He knew Nolan Troop from way back. Knew the man’s moods and what could happen when Troop decided to give in to his vicious temper.

  ‘Hell, Nolan, we’ve been in worse spots than this. Remember that time in ... ’

  ‘Drop it, Luke, I ain’t in the mood for any of your cozy memories. All I know is we’re stuck on this goddam mountain without horses. I got a handful of bullets left and a near dry canteen. Your contribution seems to be a pair of saddlebags stuffed with money.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? Leave it behind? This is what we went into Sweetwater for. Remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ Troop said. ‘And all we’ve done since then is go down.’

  ‘I guess we have had some hard luck this time round.’

  Troop stared at him. ‘Hard luck? Jesus Christ, Luke, this is the worst deal we’ve ever been handed.’

  ‘So next time we make sure it goes better.’

  ‘Hell no! I were you, Luke, I’d start looking for another partner, because I’ve had it. If I get out of this alive there ain’t going to be any next time.’

  Parsons shook his head in disbelief. ‘You can’t quit, Nolan. We’ve been together too long.’

  ‘Likely that’s the trouble,’ Troop said. ‘Look at us, Luke. A couple of pissants stuck between a rock and a hard place. Nowhere to go. No friends. No homes or families. Hell, the only people who want us are the ones who keep sticking up those reward dodgers. We ride into some towns they’ll shoot us full of holes ‘fore we have time to say hello.’

  ‘We ain’t done so bad. Why we’ve had some good times. Spent a heap of money. And it ain’t true about not havin’ friends.’

  ‘You mean those wore-out whores who charge us double ‘cause they know we can’t complain about it? Or those sons of bitches who make us pay through the nose for every sack of food we want? Or maybe you’re talkin’ about those Mex bastards back in Valerio. All the times we’ve stayed in that village, paying our way and keeping them fat and happy. That was one hell of a friendly thing they did letting the Rurales in to pick us off.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t have no choice,’ Parsons said.

  ‘Luke.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Shut your goddam mouth.’

  Parsons peered out over the top of the rock he was sheltering behind. The long slope that fell away from where they were lying in concealment looked as empty as it had for the last few hours. He knew, though, that the remaining members of the Apache raiding party were still out there somewhere. Parsons’ reckoning said there should be no more than four of them left. Trouble was it got harder to tell. The Apaches moved about all the time. Never stayed in one place too long. It tended to become confusing after a while. Since the Apaches had first hit them it had been one long running fight. Troop had lost his horse during the first skirmish. They had ridden double after that — until Parsons’ horse had stuck its foot in a hole, spilling the pair to the ground. Troop had snatched up a canteen and Parsons, without conscious thought, had taken the saddlebags holding the money from the Sweetwater raid. After that they had just run, with Apache bullets peppering the air around them. The hours that followed had blurred into a non-stop skirmish, with each side striving to outwit the other. The Apaches were out for blood. Parsons and Troop were simply trying to stay alive. They were well equipped for doing just that. Their existence on the wrong side of the law meant that they spent their lives fighting to stay alive. All that was different this time was the enemy.

  In fits and starts, dodging from one place of cover to the next, the pair of fugitives moved ever higher up the barren, rocky slopes of the mountain, struggling to keep the Apaches at bay. The conflict continued spasmodically through the day and into the night. There was a brief lull during the middle hours. As the first fingers of daylight streaked the sky the Apaches began to move again, their closeness showing that they had used the darkness to their advantage.

  ‘Here they come,’ Troop muttered. He had spotted one shadowlike figure slipping from rock to rock on the slope below. He let the Apache come on, waiting until the man was in clear sight before he triggered a single shot from his rifle. The shot broke the dawn silence, rattling across the desolate rocky slopes. The bullet took the Apache in the chest, spinning him off his feet. As he hit the ground, arching in pain, the Apache was hit by a second bullet. He flopped over on his face, his body wriggling as ruined nerves reacted to the damage inflicted by Troop’s bullets.

  The shots seemed to be taken as a signal. A number of guns opened up, bullets howling and whining off the rocks around Parsons and Troop. Slivers of stone filled the air. Razor-sharp splinters capable of inflicting painful gashes if they caught the flesh.

  ‘Shit!’ Parsons moaned. He had fired a couple of shots from his rifle and had the weapon seize up on him. He struggled to clear the blockage. In the short time his attention was drawn away from the slope a weaving figure broke from a cluster of rocks off his left and came in a dead run directly at Parsons.

  ‘Luke.’

  Parsons looked up as Troop’s warning yell reached him. He saw the approaching Apache. Half-raised his rifle before realizing it was useless. He tossed it aside and snatched his handgun from its holster. As the gun came up, hammer already going back, the Apache uttered a wild yell and threw the lance he was carrying. The tip of the blade grazed Parsons’ left shoulder. He stepped back, the shock of the pain causing him to jerk back on the trigger of his gun. It exploded with a heavy sound, the bullet going wide. The Apache slammed into Parsons and the pair of them hit the gr
ound in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs. Bright sunlight glanced off the blade of the knife the Apache snatched from his waistband. Parsons twisted his body to one side as the knife descended. As the Apache eased away from him, prior to making another slash with the knife, Parsons struck out with the heavy gun in his hand. The muzzle caught the Apache across the left cheek, opening flesh and exposing the cheekbone. A gout of blood frothed from the wound. Swinging his right leg round Parsons drove his knee into the Apache’s side, toppling the Indian off balance. Following through he smashed the heel of his boot against the side of the Apache’s head. The blow sent the Apache to his knees, shaking his head in pain. Parsons rolled in the opposite direction, rising on to one knee, and bringing his gun round to bear on the dazed Apache. Parsons fired twice, driving the Apache face down in the dust, blood streaming from the ragged holes in his side.

  Yards away Nolan Troop drove a bullet into the body of a moving Apache and saw the man go down.

  As Parsons rose unsteadily to his feet he became aware of the silence that had fallen. He stared about him. He seemed to distrust the sudden calm that had fallen over the area. His head moved from side to side, eyes searching every possible place that might be concealing yet another Apache.

  ‘That was a damn fool thing to do,’ Troop said abruptly, his tone accusing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Playing around with that rifle.’

  ‘Thing seized up.’ Parsons yelled. He rounded on Troop. ‘Just quit riding me, Nolan. Bad enough the way things been going without you keep telling me. Let it lay.’

  Troop shrugged. He turned and went to where he’d left the canteen of water. Slinging it over his shoulder he walked away from the scene of the fight and started up the slope. He walked on for a few yards then stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘You coming?’ he asked Parsons.

  Luke Parsons had picked up his rifle. He snatched up the saddlebags. ‘Yeah, I’m coming,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do? Stay here?’

  They walked all through the morning, resting at noon beneath a rock overhang that sheltered them from the sun. After a couple of hours they moved on, carrying the knowledge that there could be more Apaches in the area. It was also possible that any survivor from the party that had attacked them could have carried the news back to another group. There was no way of telling. So all they could do was to keep moving. Get clear of the area as quickly as possible. Their first priority after that was to find fresh horses. Which wouldn’t be easy. It had to be done, though. A man on foot in this country wouldn’t last for very long.

  ‘Got the son of a bitch,’ Parsons said triumphantly.

  Troop didn’t even break his stride. He spoke over his shoulder as he kept on walking. ‘What?’

  ‘Damn cartridge that jammed my rifle.’ Parsons tossed the offending object aside. ‘Nolan, what you got left?’

  ‘Six in my handgun. Four in my rifle.’

  ‘I’ve got three for the rifle. Two for my Colt.’

  ‘Don’t waste ’em,’ Troop said.

  ‘Depends on who we meet up with,’ Parsons said. ‘We get another bunch of Apaches on our tails there ain’t but one thing we can do.’

  ‘I figure if we can clear the ridge yonder by nightfall we’ll be safe enough,’ Troop said, pointing to the distant high crest. ‘I recollect a trading post down on the flats. We should make it by noon tomorrow.’

  They did make the ridge by nightfall; in fact they topped the ridge with a half-hour to spare. Footsore and weary they started on down the far slopes, walking until sheer exhaustion and a lack of light forced them to halt. They found a sheltered spot and lay down, sleeping like the dead. By first light they were on the move again, having breakfasted on a mouthful of water from the canteen. The day quickly turned out to be as hot as the previous one. They stumbled and slithered down the loose, dusty slopes, suffering bruises and scratches as they came into contact with the keen rocks. Their clothing, shredded and torn, caked with thick dust, clung damply to their sweating, aching bodies. Red-rimmed eyes stared out from faces masked with gritty dust.

  Towards noon they clambered up a crumbling bank and slumped to the ground. A half-mile distant they could see the low buildings that made up the trading post. A lazy spiral of smoke curled skywards from a stone chimney. In a corral close by the main building horses milled about restlessly.

  ‘Knew I was right,’ Troop muttered; he was speaking more to himself than to Parsons.

  ‘Damn right you were, Nolan,’ Parsons grinned.

  ‘Reckon I’ll pick me up a good horse and get the hell out of this godforsaken piece of county,’ Troop said. He half turned to stare at Parsons. ‘I figure to have my share of that money, Luke.’

  ‘Sure, Nolan, whatever you want.’

  They walked in to the post and were met by a large, wild-eyed dog that circled them warily, a low rumbling growl rising in its throat. Troop ignored the animal, while Parsons, who had always carried a fear of dogs, trod his way past with extreme caution.

  A tall, lean man with a keen-eyed stare, stepped out of the post door and leaned against the adobe wall. He glanced from Troop to Parsons, shrewdly assessing their position.

  ‘Be foolish to think you boys were on foot ‘cause you like walkin’,’ he said.

  ‘Apaches,’ Troop told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of the distant peaks. ‘Got one horse shot from under us. The other put its foot in a damn hole.’

  The lean man nodded. ‘You boys could be in luck. Got some horses over in the corral there for sale. Bought ’em from the army agent last week. I can let you have ’em for a fair price.’

  ‘We’ll take a look later,’ Troop said. ‘Could do with a meal first. Ain’t eaten decent for a spell.’

  ‘Come on in, boys, and make yourselves to home. We might not have the best food in the territory but there’s plenty of it.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Troop said as they tramped inside. ‘Hot and black and sweet.’

  ‘Sure.’

  There was a long wooden table set near one wall. All around them the interior of the post building was stacked with goods of every description. The air was heavy with the aroma of coffee. Of leather and spices. The tang of tobacco. Troop and Parsons trailed after the lean man. He pointed in the direction of the table.

  ‘Set,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch some coffee.’

  Parsons sank onto one of the wooden benches. He let the saddlebags slip to the floor at his feet. A great weariness flooded over him. He had never felt so tired in his life before. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  ‘Get this down, Luke.’

  He sat upright with a jerk. His eyes snapped open and he saw Troop pushing a mug of steaming coffee at him. Parsons took the mug and gulped a mouthful of the sweet, black brew. He felt it burn its way down to his stomach.

  ‘Nolan, did you mean what you said out there?’ he asked.

  Troop poured himself more coffee. ‘I meant it.’

  ‘Jesus, Nolan, why?’ Parsons struggled to find words he could use to convince Troop he was making a mistake. ‘What the hell are we going to do if we quit?’

  ‘Live a lot longer maybe,’ Troop said.

  ‘I can’t see you sittin’ in a rocking-chair on some front porch,’ Parsons said.

  ‘It’s got to be better than getting shot to pieces in some no account town.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ Parsons argued. ‘We stick together we can beat anything they send against us.’

  ‘Face it, Luke, it ain’t the same. We ain’t gettin’ any younger and the banks are harder to bust. Hell, look at us now. There’s only you and me left.’

  ‘I know we lost Fargo. But Bristow was alive when we left him on that mountain. And the others’ll join up with us somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Luke. I’ve got a feeling they ain’t coming.’

  ‘Nolan, I never heard you talk like this before.’

  Troop shrugged his wife shoulders. ‘Lik
ely because I never felt this way before. Can’t tell you why. All I do know is I want out. I need some peace and quiet. Some place where I can forget about this kind of mess. No more having to move on all the time. No more being chased from hell to breakfast. Being shot at. Going hungry. I’ve done enough of that. It’s time to quit, Luke, and that’s what I aim to do.’

  Their food arrived. Plates piled high with thick slices of beef and browned potatoes, spiced beans and gravy. It was brought to the table by a silent, dark-eyed Indian squaw. The lean man followed her to place knives and forks on the table.

  ‘How you boys doing?’

  ‘Fine,’ Parsons said.

  ‘Yell if you want anything,’ the man said. ‘The names Jonas, by the way.’

  Troop glanced at him silently. He saw Jonas’s face darken slightly; as if the man had realized he was treading dangerous ground.

  ‘Mind, I never pay much heed to names myself. If a man wants to tell me, that’s fine. If he doesn’t ... well, that’s his business I guess.’

  Jonas backed off, disappearing into the depths of the post. Parsons and Troop ate their meal without another word being passed between them. Both had their thoughts, their private fears for what might lie ahead.

  Some time later Jonas walked by the table and stepped outside. His manner aroused Troop’s curiosity. He stood up and moved to one of the windows looking out over the yard. He stayed at the window for a while. He seemed to be watching something going on outside.