Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3)

by Neil Hunter

  Jim heard the outlaw’s words but didn’t allow himself to be taken in by Parsons’ offer. He couldn’t figure out what Parsons was up to. Didn’t really care. He just knew that he was at a disadvantage at that precise moment.

  He kicked out with his left boot, overturning the pot of coffee into the flames of the fire. A cloud of hissing steam rose as the flames were extinguished, and Jim rolled to one side, clawing for the gun on his hip.

  From the darkness came the slam of a gunshot. A lance of flame flickered for a moment. The bullet whacked against the ground close to where Jim had been seconds before.

  Turning his head in time to catch the fragment of gun flash, Jim snapped off a couple of hasty shots before getting his feet under him and heading for substantial cover.

  ‘Damn you, boy,’ Parsons yelled out of the darkness, ‘I ain’t finished with you yet.’

  The night was split open by another shot from Parsons’ gun; this one was impossibly wide of the target.

  Jim returned fire again. A single shot — and he heard a muffled curse. He pulled further back from the campsite, his back to a rocky shelf.

  ‘Where are you, boy? Show yourself and we’ll finish this now!’ Parsons’ voice rolled out across the rocky slopes, losing itself in the empty terrain.

  Jim held his silence. He could hear Parsons stumbling and rattling around in the dark.

  ‘Boy? You hear me?’

  Again Jim stayed silent.

  Parsons began to mutter to himself. His rising anger eventually burst out in a wild and incoherent howl of rage.

  Jim eased away from his position and began to work his way to where he’d left his horse; the realization of the animal’s vulnerability had come to him even as Parsons began to give free rein to his anger again.

  ‘ Come on out, boy, and face me!’

  Reaching his tethered horse Jim tugged the halter rope free. The animal had remained calm throughout the shooting and even now it offered no resistance as Jim led it into the deep cluster of rocks just beyond the camp.

  ‘I’m going to find you, boy, come sunup. You made me run, you son of a bitch, and I ain’t about to forget that. You hear me, you bastard.’

  Pushing his way deep into a dense thicket of brush Jim found a sheltered hollow large enough to take himself and his horse. Tethering the animal Jim settled himself on the hard ground, with his back against the slope of the hollow. He reloaded his handgun and prepared to sit out the night. It wasn’t long before the chill of the mountain air penetrated his clothes. Jim thought about the warm campfire he’d been forced to abandon. He thought too of the hot coffee he’d made. He could have done with that right there and then, and the thick coat Jonas had given him. Parsons’ appearance had caught him off guard. He had no one to blame but himself. If he hadn’t been feeling so sorry for himself he might have ben prepared.

  Jim felt some of the old anger return. Damn Luke Parsons. If this was the way he wanted to play the game it was fine with Jim Travis. He shivered against the cold. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night. By morning he was going to be more than ready to face Luke Parsons.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jim moved at first light.

  He circled away from his campsite and headed for higher ground, leading his horse. Reaching a higher slope he was able to look down on his campsite. It was deserted. He could see the blackened circle where his fire had been. His cooking utensils were scattered about the area. There were articles of clothing as well. Parsons had ransacked the camp and Jim’s personal belongings. The sight of his scattered clothing angered Jim more than anything else. He knew he should have been more concerned by the fact that Parsons had probably taken Jim’s rifle and the extra ammunition he’d been carrying. That left Jim with just his loaded handgun and the ammunition he had in his belt-loops.

  ‘Damn you, Luke Parsons,’ Jim said.

  He worked his way back down to the vicinity of his wrecked camp. Leaving his horse tethered in some thick brush Jim eased his way in closer. He took his time. It was about the only thing he had plenty of. He studied the camp and the terrain around it for a long time, and didn’t move in until he was satisfied Parsons wasn’t close by.

  Standing over the scorched earth where his fire had been Jim looked the camp over. Parsons had taken everything he could make use of. What he had left behind had been rendered useless; Jim’s thick coat had been cut to ribbons, his eating utensils crushed underfoot. Even his saddle had been slashed open.

  ‘You bastard,’ Jim murmured bitterly. He snatched off his hat and slapped it against his pants leg in pure frustration. ‘Damn you to hell Parsons.’

  This time he yelled the words out loud.

  He was scanning the slopes above him in that moment, and his eyes caught the brief flicker of light reflecting off metal. For a split second Jim froze. Then turned on his heel and dived across the blackened circle of ashes. As he hit the ground on the far side he heard the slam of a rifle. Heard the whine and whack of the bullet as it ploughed into the earth no more than a foot away. Jim rolled desperately, dust misting the air around him as he bellied across the ground, his gut coiled up in a greasy knot; he was as exposed as a fly in the middle of a dinner plate. The high slopes echoed to the rattle of gunshots as the rifleman loosed off shot after shot, a line of bullets chewing up the earth in Jim’s wake.

  He reached the far side of the campsite, recalling a shallow gully, choked with brush. The night before he had gathered the fuel for his fire from it. Now, without a moment’s hesitation, Jim plunged over the edge, his body cartwheeling down the crumbling bank. He crashed into the tangle of brush at the bottom and fetched up on the gully floor with a solid thump. He lay for a while, his body aching, chest heaving as he tried to drag air into his starved lungs. He sat up. The shooting had stopped. Jim climbed to his feet, shouldering his way through the thick brush. He worked his way along the gully until he was some fifty yards away from the campsite. Crawling up the dusty side of the gully he peered over the lip, his eyes searching the slopes above him.

  At first there didn’t seem much to see. Just the crumbling slopes of rock, dotted with the odd clump of brush. Maybe Parsons had moved on. Retreated into the depths of the mountain. Or perhaps he was working his way down to Jim’s level, intending to carry the fight back to Jim. Whichever it was, Jim decided, he was good and mad enough to face Parsons.

  He dragged himself out of the gully, ignoring the aches and pains spreading over his body. His big Colt hung down at his side, his thumb on the hammer ready to ear it back. He walked forward, searching for any sign of Luke Parsons.

  Just beyond the gully a wide stream flowed down the slope. Jim paused at its edge. The clear water looked cool and fresh and inviting. For a moment Jim’s concentration drifted.

  And it was then that Luke Parsons stepped into sight from behind a shelf of rock. He had a rifle in his hands. The moment he set eyes on Jim he swung the rifle in line and pulled the trigger.

  Jim heard the click of the hammer fall. His body tensed as he waited for the sound of the shot. Nothing came. He saw the expression in Parson’ eyes, realized that the outlaw’s weapon had misfired, and brought up his Colt. The hammer was back well before the muzzle settled on Parsons and Jim’s finger touched the trigger.

  Parsons had already dropped the rifle, his right hand reaching for his own handgun.

  Jim could have completed his pull on the trigger to drive a shot at the outlaw, but his finger froze. He knew in that moment that he had no desire to kill Luke Parsons.

  ‘Leave it!’ Jim yelled. He angled the Colt’s muzzle so it was aimed directly at Parsons’ head. ‘Even I couldn’t miss this close.’

  Luke Parsons took his eyes from the unwavering muzzle of Jim’s gun and stared at the face behind it. He tried to read the expression in Jim’s eyes. What he saw caused him to ease his fingers away from the butt of his gun.

  ‘Use the left hand,’ Jim ordered. ‘Unbuckle the belt.’ He waited until Parsons had d
one so. ‘Now toss it in the water.’

  ‘You…’

  ‘Just do it,’ Jim snapped. ‘Now.’

  Parsons heaved gun and belt into the stream.

  ‘Now the rifle. Pick it up muzzle first.’

  Parsons did as he was told. He watched the rifle sink without dismay.

  ‘Second time that damn thing jammed on me.’

  ‘That leaves just one thing to settle before I take back my money,’ Jim said.

  ‘What?’ Parsons asked. ‘Jesus, you want me to jump in the goddam water as well?’

  Jim unbuckled and removed his gunbelt. Then he calmly unloaded his Colt and tossed the cartridges in the stream before putting the gun aside.

  Luke Parsons had watched this with interest. Now his unshaven face creased into a grin.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he breathed. ‘You really mean it, don’t you, boy?’ He laughed. ‘It’s really got you mad. The way I ran off with your damn money. Well come on, boy, ‘cause I feel the same way on account of how you’ve been dogging me all the way from that pissant town.’

  Jim didn’t answer. He simply walked forward, into the water and waded across the stream to where Luke Parsons stood waiting.

  As Jim stepped onto his side of the stream Parsons lunged forward, his humor vanishing as he swung a round-house right at Jim’s head. His fist met fresh air as Jim stepped easily to one side, then sank his powerful fist deep into Parsons’ exposed stomach. A rush of air burst from Parsons’ mouth. As he sagged forward Jim’s fist sledged round and clouted him on the side of the face, spinning him to the ground. As Parsons struck Jim drove the toe of his boot into the outlaw’s side. The sheer force of the blow turned Parsons onto his back. Jim followed close, hoping to keep the advantage he’d gained. But he hadn’t allowed for Luke Parsons’ experience as a brawler. Hurt as he was Parsons responded quickly, and as Jim stepped in, the outlaw lashed out with one of his heavy boots. The sole smashed across Jim’s knee. A numbing pain speared up Jim’s leg. He felt it give. As Jim went down Parsons’ fist met him halfway. It was a savage blow that caught Jim full in the mouth, splitting his lips. Blood spurted instantly. Parsons hit him again, a solid punch that ripped across the side of Jim’s jaw. The impact stunned Jim and he lost all touch with reality. When he was able to focus again he was on his back with Luke Parsons standing over him. One of Parsons’ boots was swinging in at Jim’s head. He threw up both hands, grabbing the boot and twisting hard. Parsons howled in agony as Jim turned the foot against the ankle joint. He was forced to go in the direction Jim was turning the foot, losing his balance and plunging face down in the dirt. In the time it took Parsons to regain his balance Jim climbed to his feet. For a moment they faced each other, weighing the odds, seeking an opening. Jim moved first, launching a right that Parsons blocked, then followed with a punch of his own. It caught Jim in the face, knocking him back a step. Jim braced himself and met Parsons’ sudden rush with a brutal fist that crushed the outlaw’s nose. A pained grunt burst from Parsons’ lips. His face was spattered with blood. He ducked low, driving hard blows to Jim’s ribs. Jim grabbed for Parsons’ shirt, gripped it, and jerked Parsons in close. He drove his knee up into Parsons’ face, catching him on the left cheek. The blow angered Parsons and he began to swing wildly. Most of his punches missed, though enough landed to cause Jim a deal of pain. He responded likewise, and for a time the pair of them traded cruel, damaging blows. Neither gave nor lost any ground. They battered each other relentlessly, putting a great deal of anger and hate and frustration into every punch. When Parsons swung a wild punch that missed Jim saw his chance and landed a heavy blow that took Parsons full in the face. Parsons stumbled back, lost his footing and went into the stream. Jim launched himself forward, his momentum carrying him bodily into the outlaw. They hit the water in a fighting tangle, churning the stream to a bubbling, pink-tinged froth. Gasping for air they smashed blow after blow at each other, fists crushing and splitting flesh. There was little room for mercy or any thought of compromise in their actions. They were both fighting for survival. For personal satisfaction. It was a win or lose conflict for them both. And though Parsons was the heavier and more experienced he was up against a man of unflinching character. A man who refused to allow any odds to deter him. Jim was also a lot younger. His stamina, though flagging, carried him on when Parsons’ began to fail. He became aware of Parsons’ slower responses. His weaker blows. And Jim made good use of his opponent’s lowering resistance. He drove Parsons back to the land, delivering blow after blow at the outlaw’s face and body until Parsons went down again — and stayed down.

  ‘That’s it! Hell, that’s it ... you crazy son of a bitch,’ Parsons mumbled through swollen, bloody lips. He coughed harshly, spitting blood. ‘Damnit, boy, whatever you wanted out of your system — it’s gone.’ He stumbled from the stream, flopped back on the ground and lay there, his chest heaving as he fought to drag air into his tortured lungs.

  Jim picked up his Colt and reloaded it with fumbling fingers. He put on his gunbelt. He was beginning to feel sick. His whole body burned with pain and he was bleeding all over the place. He stood over Parsons, prodding the outlaw to his feet.

  ‘Take me to it,’ he said, every word he uttered causing him great discomfort. ‘To the money.’

  ‘Boy, I get the feeling if I’d shot you dead you would’ve still kept coming for that goddam cash.’

  ‘You believe that, Parsons,’ Jim said. ‘It’s the truest thing you’ve said today.’

  Parsons’ horse was tethered a short distance away. The first thing Jim noticed was his own rifle in the saddle boot. He crossed to the horse and retrieved it.

  ‘Lucky for me you didn’t use it,’ he said.

  ‘Hell, boy, don’t keep reminding me,’ Parsons replied peevishly.

  ‘The money?’ Jim suggested.

  Parsons freed the saddlebags from behind his saddle.

  ‘On the ground,’ Jim said. ‘You and the saddlebags.’

  With Parsons on his belly Jim took the outlaw’s own saddle rope and tied Parsons’ hands behind his back.

  ‘Jesus Christ, boy, you’re tyin’ that rope awful tight,’ Parsons complained.

  ‘I don’t aim to give you any damn chance at all.’

  ‘Where we headed?’

  ‘Back to Sweetwater,’ Jim told him. ‘There’re folk who’ll jump at the chance to meet you again.’

  ‘Boy, you’ve got a nasty streak in you that’s starting to show.’

  ‘Parsons, I hurt all over. I’m carrying a fair few nicks and burns I didn’t have ‘fore I left Sweetwater. It’s going to be some time before I look myself again. And you, mister, are the cause of it all. The way I see it whatever can be done to make you uncomfortable, even downright miserable, well that’s just fine by me.’

  Parsons rolled over and sat up. ‘Those pissants back in Sweetwater are liable to string me up, boy.’

  Jim glanced up from opening the saddlebags. ‘You could just about be right about that.’

  He turned the contents of the saddlebags onto the ground. Stared at the wads of crumpled banknotes.

  ‘Hell, boy, there are more dollar bills there than either of us is likely to see again,’ Parsons said, his tone low and with a sly edge to it. ‘You know what I mean, boy?’

  Jim counted off some of the money, folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. He bundled the rest of the money back in the saddlebags and fastened the flaps.

  ‘All I see is three thousand dollars,’ he said. ‘It’s what I came for. It’s all I want.’

  Luke Parsons didn’t say any more. There wasn’t much point. You couldn’t argue with a man with principles. Parsons was too tired to even think about trying. It was like banging your head against a stone wall; the only good thing to it was when you stopped — but with this man there wouldn’t be any stopping. He’d stick to his damn principles until hell froze over, and that could turn out to be a long time coming.

  Chapter Seventeen

 
; Sheriff Tyree had taken an intense dislike to the stick he was hobbling around on. He knew it was for his own good. The local doctor kept telling him that. It only made things worse. Tyree just didn’t like having to depend on the stick. He couldn’t do without it though. His leg wasn’t healing as fast as expected. The doc had given a reason for that as well. In plain words it was to the effect that as a man got older he took longer to heal up. Which hadn’t done a deal for Tyree’s state of mind. The upshot was that he forced himself to take as much exercise as he could in order to strengthen his leg.

  He was crossing the street on his way back to the office when he spotted Marshal Beckmann coming out of the telegraph shack. Beckmann raised a hand in greeting and joined Sweetwater’s lawman.

  ‘What they have to say?’ Tyree asked.

  Beckmann fished a cigar from his coat and stuck it in his mouth. He lit it with a match, taking his time.

  ‘They want me to ride on over to Madison. Some trouble brewing between the local cow outfits. Been a couple of shootings already.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, Sam, but no news about Jim Travis.’

  ‘Damn,’ Tyree said. ‘Where the hell is that boy?’

  Beckmann shrugged. ‘He seems to have disappeared. We know he went into Mexico. There have been rumors he trailed the Parsons bunch back over the border but we can’t be sure. If they all did get back on our side it may have been further east, and that would put them in Apache country.’

  They reached the jail. Tyree climbed the steps and settled himself in his cane-backed chair.

  ‘It’s been too damn long,’ he said.

  Beckmann didn’t answer and Tyree glanced at him. The marshal was looking along the street.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ Beckmann said softly.

  ‘What?’

  Tyree took a look himself.

  And saw Jim Travis riding up the street towards the jail. Jim had another horse on a lead rope. There was a rider on the second horse. His feet were tied in the stirrups and his hands roped to the saddle horn. Both men were caked in dust. Their clothing was filthy, almost in rags. Beneath the thick growths on their faces were dark bruises and part-healed cuts. Although it was difficult to identify the second man Tyree just knew it had to be Luke Parsons.