Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail

by Ralph Compton

  The buttermilk nickered and stamped.

  “That’s the way, boy. Show it you are not afraid,” Lin said, both to calm the horse and in the hope his voice would drive the meat eater off.

  It had the opposite effect. The thing growled a third time, louder than before, giving Lin the impression that whatever it was, it was closer. It must be stalking them.

  The buttermilk pranced a few yards to one side, away from the thing in the trees.

  “Easy, boy, easy,” Lin said soothingly. Bound and helpless as he was, he was completely at fate’s mercy. If the buttermilk bolted, there was no telling the consequences.

  A twig snapped, and the underbrush crackled.

  Instantly, the buttermilk wheeled toward the sounds.

  Lin’s wrist, ankles and shoulders protested as the rope pulled tighter. “Easy, easy!”

  The crackling grew louder.

  Whinnying in fright, the buttermilk raised its front hooves off the ground and stomped them down again.

  For Lin, it was like being punched in the gut. He did not blame the horse for being scared. Whatever was out there had to be big. Bigger than a mountain lion or a wolf. That left one culprit: a bear. But the question now became, was it a black bear or a grizzly? The answer made all the difference. Black bears rarely attacked people or horses. Grizzlies, on the other hand, were as fierce as they were huge, and as unpredictable as could be.

  A loud grunt and snort confirmed that it was a bear.

  The buttermilk whinnied again and stomped.

  Lin had to try something. The bear might attack at any moment. Taking a breath, he hollered, “Go away! Leave us be!”

  Something crunched, and a strong odor tingled Lin’s nose. The bear was so close, he could smell it.

  The buttermilk was quivering nonstop. It began backing away and bobbing its head. “God, no,” Lin said to himself. The next moment the night was shattered by a tremendous roar, and the horse did what most any would do: it wheeled and fled.

  Everything became a blur. A limb scraped Lin’s legs. Another gouged his shoulder. The buttermilk was in a panic, racing recklessly through the timber with no regard for its safety, or for Lin’s.

  Hard on its hooves came the bear, a virtual monster, or so it seemed to Lin as he saw it charge out of the murk toward them.

  Most people were unaware that over short distances bears could outrun horses. This bear, despite its immense bulk, was incredibly swift. Within seconds it was near enough to snap at the buttermilk’s tail.

  It was a grizzly. A living juggernaut of muscle, claws and teeth. Able to crush bone and pulverize flesh with a swipe of its huge paws, or to bite clean through a leg or an arm with a snap of its powerful jaws.

  Lin gnashed his teeth in frustration. If the bear caught them, they were as good as dead. Even if he had had his rifle, it might not save them. Grizzly skulls were notoriously thick. Slugs glanced off them like pebbles off a boulder.

  The horse galloped faster.

  Lin was violently bounced and jolted and jarred. Pain racked his limbs. Queasiness assailed him, and bitter bile rose in his gorge.

  The grizzly poured on more speed. Teeth flashing white, it bit at the buttermilk’s flank but missed.

  “Consarn all bears, anyhow!” Lin fumed. Suddenly the horse veered to avoid a tree, and it felt as if his arms were being torn from their sockets.

  The bear was wheezing like a bellows, its paws drumming the ground with the impact of sledgehammers.

  Lin had not prayed in so long, he could not remember the last time, but he closed his eyes and prayed now. It was an old habit resurfacing. His mother made Chancy and him say their prayers every night when they were young. She read to them each evening from the Bible and insisted they attend church each and every Sunday. She taught them to believe that the Lord looked after them and protected them from harm. Then their father died, and Lin was not so sure. His mother’s slow suicide by drink had raised more doubts, to the point where Lin no longer believed that God looked after anyone. Chancy had gone a step further and now claimed there was no God.

  And here Lin was, praying to he knew not whom or what, when he did know that the God his mother claimed would always watch over them had let his father and mother die senseless deaths. But he prayed anyway.

  A frightened whinny from the buttermilk greeted a loud gnash of the grizzly’s razor teeth.

  Another limb slammed into Lin’s legs. His wrists and ankles throbbed with torment, and a moist sensation was spreading down both hands. He was bleeding—possibly badly.

  Lin raised his head to watch for trees ahead. Even as he did, a thick branch materialized in front of him. He started to jerk his head down.

  A blow to the temple nearly ripped Lin’s head from his shoulders. The world dimmed and spun. Lin could not tell up from down or front from back. The pain was overpowering.

  A black veil descended.

  Etta June Cather was hanging out laundry when Tom Jr. and Beth ran up.

  “Rider coming, Ma!” her daughter cried.

  “Thank you for letting me know.” Etta June had instilled in them to always be wary of strangers. They were to trust no one unless she said the person was to be trusted. And when they spotted someone coming, they were to tell her immediately. “From which direction?”

  “From Mason,” Tom Jr. reported.

  Dropping one of Beth’s dresses in the basket, Etta June hurried around to the front of the house. The horseman was a quarter of a mile off yet, plenty of time for her to go inside and arm herself with a Winchester. She was waiting on the porch, her children huddled in the doorway behind her, when the man in black drew rein, leaned on his saddle horn and smiled.

  “Surprised to see me?” Efram Pike asked.

  Yes, Etta June was. Pike had been out to her place once before, and she had made it plain she did not care to have him come courting, and would take it unkindly if he persisted. “What are you doing here?”

  Pike pushed his wide-brimmed black hat back on his head. “If you were any colder, I would swear it was winter.”

  “I am a busy woman, Mr. Pike. Unlike some people, I work for a living.”

  “Meaning me?” Pike said, and laughed. “Gambling is work, Etta June, no matter what you think.”

  “It is Mrs. Cather to you. Now, I will ask one more time. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see one of your new hands,” Pike replied. “Chancy Gray, as he calls himself.”

  “Neither he nor his brother is here at the moment,” Etta June said. “And I do not appreciate having my help disturbed at their work.”

  “You are a caution,” Pike said amiably. “But I would not think of disturbing him.”

  “Then you have come a long way for nothing.”

  “Not if you will do me a favor,” Pike said.

  “Why should I?”

  “It is the Christian thing to do, and last I heard, you tend to swear by the Good Book. Or am I mistaken?”

  Etta June’s lips pinched together. “What is it you would ask of me?”

  “Pass on word to Chancy,” Pike said. “Some gents with a lot of money have drifted into Mason and are looking to have a poker game. I thought Chancy might want to sit in.”

  “When is this game to be held?”

  “When is he due back?” Pike rejoined.

  “I daresay not for a week or more,” Etta June said. “We are in the middle of branding.”

  “Let him know the game will take place whenever Chancy can make it into Mason.” Pike touched the edge of his hat brim. “It was a pleasure, Etta June, as always.”

  “Hold on,” Etta June said. “These gentlemen with money—they will wait that long just for him?”

  “They aim to stick around Mason a while,” Pike answered.

  “Why did you invite only Chancy and not Lin? They are brothers, you know.”

  “Because I like the younger but not the older,” Pike said. “Chancy reminds me of me about ten years ago. The
older one thinks he is better than everyone else, and sticks his nose where it does not belong.”

  “You are referring to the incident at the general store when he came to my rescue?”

  “I would never hurt you, Etta June. You know that. He had no call to butt in like he did.”

  “It is unbecoming to hold a grudge,” Etta June said.

  Pike snickered. “None of my grudges are petty. I am a good hater. When someone rubs me wrong, I never forget.” He smiled and reined his bay around and tapped with his spurs.

  Etta June lowered the Winchester. “Strange,” she said softly.

  The screen door banged, and out came her children to stand on either side of her.

  “What is strange, Ma?” Beth asked.

  “That business just now,” Etta June said. “You would think Mr. Pike would want Chancy to come sooner rather than later.”

  “Mr. Pike sure was in good spirits,” Tom Jr. mentioned. “I never saw him smile so much.”

  Her brow puckering, Etta June said, “Come to think of it, neither have I. His disposition is generally grumpy.”

  “Could be he was happy to see you,” Beth offered. Etta June placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Could be, little one. But I was not happy to see him.”

  “You don’t like Mr. Pike, do you?”

  “No, I do not,” Etta June confessed. “I have had nothing to do with his kind all my life, and I will not start now.”

  “What do you mean by his kind?” Tom Jr. wanted to know.

  “Is he a bad man?” Beth asked.

  Etta June stared after the dwindling figure. Tendrils of dust were rising from under the bay. “Not bad the way an outlaw is bad—no. He doesn’t rob banks or hold up stages or kill people. He plays cards.”

  “Cards are bad, then?” Beth said.

  “No, not at all,” Etta June answered. “So long as it is for fun and not money. But Mr. Pike plays cards for that very reason. His nights are spent gambling and drinking and passing remarks unfit for our ears.”

  “So is he bad or not?” Beth said. “I am confused.”

  “Mr. Pike is not entirely bad, and he is not entirely good,” Etta June clarified. “He is somewhere in the middle. I am sorry I cannot make it more clear. Even for adults it can be confusing.”

  “Is Chancy a good man?” Tom Jr. inquired.

  “I would say yes—deep down. But he is young and has not had his mettle tested. It is uncertain which road he will take.”

  “And Lin?”

  “Yes, he is very good. As good as men come.”

  “As good as Pa?”

  Etta June hesitated. “Yes, I think so. Your father, bless his soul, did not have a dishonest bone in his body. Lin is very much like him. More like him than anyone I have met.”

  Beth tugged on Etta June’s dress. “Do you like Lin, Ma?”

  “I think of him as a friend, yes.”

  Tom Jr. said, “Is that all?”

  Her cheeks coloring, Etta June said, “Whatever do you mean, Thomas? What more could there be?”

  “Remember a while back when you told us we might have a new pa one day? That night you were so sad, we found you crying?”

  “I wish you would forget that. I have,” Etta June said. “And I was speaking in general terms. Perhaps I will remarry one day. But whether my new husband is Lin Gray or someone else, who can say?”

  Tom Jr. gazed to the south. “He should be on his way back from Mr. Montfort’s by now, shouldn’t he?”

  “I hope so,” Etta June said.

  “Are you worried Mr. Montfort will try to hurt him?”

  “Enough questions. Both of you have chores to do, and I have the laundry to finish. Off you go.” Etta June shooed them indoors and closed the door after them. Turning, she moved to the edge of the porch and clasped her arms to her middle. “Yes, I am very worried,” she said softly.

  Chapter 17

  Lin was in a bad way. A very bad way. He would be conscious for short spells, then be dragged down into inner darkness by throbbing waves of pain and dizziness. He lost all sense of time. He lost all sense of direction. He lost all sense of where he was.

  He felt close to death’s door; closer than he had ever been; closer than he ever wanted to be. Each time he passed out, he feared it would be his last.

  Deep down inside, Lin clung to the hope that the buttermilk would take him back to the EJ Ranch. A slim hope, since the horse had not been there long enough to regard it as home.

  Eventually, hunger and thirst came to rival the pain. Lin’s throat was parched for water; his belly craved food. He was so infernally weak that when he was conscious, he could barely lift his head.

  A jumble of days and nights passed. Sometimes when Lin came up out of the inner darkness, the sun was baking him alive. At other times he was shrouded in cool night.

  The buttermilk plodded on, mile after endless mile. Once Lin heard the crunch of the buttermilk cropping grass. Another time, water was flowing under him; clear, sweet, wonderful water, so tantalizingly close, yet he could not reach it no matter how he strained.

  He nearly went mad.

  Lin tugged and pulled, but the rope would not loosen. All he succeeded in doing was to set his wrists to bleeding again. The whole time, the buttermilk drank noisily, which made his own thirst worse.

  As if all that were not enough, Lin was in constant dread of running into another meat eater, or hostiles or badmen. The buttermilk had been lucky to escape the grizzly. It might not be so lucky at the next encounter. As for hostiles, they would delight to find a helpless white man they could torture to their hearts’ content. Outlaws would no doubt help themselves to his effects and the buttermilk—after disposing of him, of course.

  Then his dread became reality.

  Lin was drawn out of the inky well of limbo into the bright glare of day by the buzz of voices. They were faint at first but grew louder. He could not understand what they were saying. It seemed to be gibberish. Suddenly it struck him that they must be Indians, and his blood ran cold.

  The buttermilk had stopped. Lin prayed the Indians would not spot them and would go on by. But the voices became excited, hooves thudded and the last thing he remembered was a hand falling roughly on his back.

  Suddenly Lin was aware again.

  He was lying on his back on something soft, and he was delightfully warm, and his body felt almost pleasant. He thought he must be dreaming. Then the pain returned—his wrists the worst, but points of pain everywhere.

  The voices returned too. Only now Lin understood them.

  “I think he is coming around,” someone said. A woman, and she sounded familiar.

  “Who could have done that to him?” a man responded.

  “You know as well as I do.”

  To Lin’s dismay, the softness and warmth and pleasant feeling faded, and once again he was adrift in nothingness.

  The sound of humming brought him back.

  Lin was still lying flat, still warm and comfortable. He opened his eyes as far as they would open. He was on a bed, and there was a roof over his head. A woman in a green dress was over by a dresser, rummaging in a drawer. Her back was to him, but he thought he should know her. He had to swallow a few times before he could croak, “Etta June?”

  The woman spun. “My word! You gave me a start, Mr. Gray.”

  “It can’t be…?” Lin said.

  Sue Dixon nodded and came to the side of the bed. She gently touched his arm. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful.”

  “I must fetch Ma. We have been terribly worried. For a while we were not sure you would make it.”

  “How long?” Lin croaked.

  “Sorry?” Sue bent down. “I can’t quite hear you.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Let me see.” Sue held up fingers while counting to herself. “My goodness. It has been twelve days.”

  “Dear God,” Lin breathed. “How did you find me?”

 
; “It was not me. It was my brothers. They were out looking for strays.” Sue backed away. “Lie there and rest. I really must fetch Ma.” Turning, she hastened out.

  Lin could not get over it. Twelve days! Etta June and Chancy must think he was dead. He had to get word to them. He had to find out whether Etta June was safe. The thought startled him. He was as concerned for her as he was for his own brother.

  Someone shouted. A commotion ensued, and into the bedroom rushed Patricia Dixon with Sue. A man was in tow. Broad with muscle, ruggedly built, he wore work clothes and scuffed boots. He stayed at the foot of the bed, his big arms folded, while the women came up on either side.

  “Mr. Gray!” Pat exclaimed happily. “You are back among us at last! I daresay you gave us quite a scare.”

  “I have your sons to thank, I understand,” Lin said.

  “You can thank them when they get in this evening,” Pat said. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “What would you like? Water? Milk? I have been able to get some soup into you to keep you alive, but I am afraid you have lost considerable weight. You would not recognize yourself.”

  “Let me see,” Lin requested. He went to sit up, but she pressed him down.

  “Nothing doing. You are too weak yet. Cody, the mirror in the dresser, if you please.”

  That last was addressed to the man, who walked to the dresser, opened a drawer and came back with a hand mirror, which he held in front of Lin, without comment.

  Lin gaped. The image that stared back at him was a horrible mockery of his usual self. His eyebrows were swollen and discolored, his cheeks split, his lips puffy and split. There were welts and bruises everywhere. He glanced at the blanket that covered him almost to his neck. “The rest of me?”

  “Almost as bad,” the man said, and held out a calloused hand. “I am Cody Dixon. This is my house.”

  Lin brought his hands out from under the blanket and discovered that his wrists were heavily bandaged. It hurt to move them, but he shook, noting that Dixon was considerate enough not to squeeze too hard. “I am obliged.”

  “My wife tells me she met you at Etta June’s—that you and your brother have hired on at the EJ.”