Spur

by Matt Chisholm

  Someone had given the unknown cowboy a rough ride. When Sam Spur found him, sprawled unconscious on the prairie, his hair was matted and filthy, his face bloody, his breathing shallow. With Spur’s help the unknown made a painful comeback, told his story, and the two of them set out on a vengeance ride that has become a classic of the West.

  SPUR

  SAM SPUR 3

  By Cy James

  First Published in 1968 by Mayflower Books Limited

  Copyright © 1968, 2015 by P. C. Watts

  First Smashwords Edition: March 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  His name was Spur. Sam Spur.

  It was maybe not his real name, but men knew him by no other. At that time and in that place men did not enquire what a man’s real name was. A man was judged not by his name, nor what his parents had been, but what the man did, what he was.

  Spur was a tall, spare, easy-smiling man, the front of his brown hair bleached by sun and wind where he had pushed his hat back from his forehead. His face was not a thing of beauty, but women and children liked it and men trusted it. He was unhurried, calm and used his hands as a man does who likes to use them. Clothes: the rough ones worn on the range - Levis pants under the shotgun chaps; an old army shirt; well faded; red bandanna, also faded; an ancient coat over a leather vest, torn at one sleeve; scuffed boots. The rig on the roan gelding he rode was Texan, the rifle in the boot was a Henry and the revolver he carried in a worn holster high on his right hip for easy riding was a Remington that had been converted from cap-and-ball.

  The roan and the man were tired, bearing the stamp of having come a long way; dust lay thick on them both. Yet they both had the look of being able to find a further burst of power if they were called upon to do so.

  The mule on the end of the lead line was a big Kentucky, dust-coated and showing signs of travel, but looking as though it were as fresh now as when it started.

  The three of them were standing motionless in the shadow of timber on high ground above the valley. Below them was a great sweep of grass, miles long, dotted with mottes of trees, a coolly running creek, a haven for man and beast. Here and there were cattle, busy at their perpetual feeding, sleek animals. This, Spur could see, was a fat land. Here was prosperity, the kind of land where a man could make a home, marry, raise kids.

  A sudden flurry of movement off to his right, caught his eye. A wisp of dust rose. Faintly on the hot still air came a cry. Spur rose in the stirrup-irons to see clearer, saw a horseman dart his horse forward, suddenly in a spurt of speed, then stop and turn, but not before the watching man had seen the dark shape on the end of his rope that bounced on the roughness of the ground. It was a man. It could be nothing else but a man.

  There were two other riders there. They rode their horses forward and halted to stare down at the man on the end of the rope. The distance was too great for Spur to make out details or to hear their voices.

  Some protest rose in Spur. Not that he knew the rights and wrongs of what was being done below, but he had within him the cattleman’s fear of being dragged. That a man should do it intentionally to another turned the blood cold.

  The man who had done the dragging flicked his rope free of its encumbrance, slowly coiled it, tied it to the right of his saddle-horn and turned his horse away. The three riders bunched together and rode slowly away to the right and disappeared behind a bluff from Spur’s view. They didn’t give the man lying in the grass another glance.

  Spur knew that it was possible that the man was dead, but he thought not. The dragging had been short. It took more than that to kill a man. But that didn’t rob the situation of its brutality. He would ride down there and see the effects of being abruptly torn across rough ground on the end of a rope. The human body was a soft and vulnerable thing.

  He spoke to the roan and headed down-slope, the mule walking daintily behind. When he hit the flat he put the roan into a canter along the valley floor.

  The man on the ground had not moved by the time he reached him. Heat on his face. Spur stepped from the saddle, ground-hitched the roan and looked down at the man. A cowhand, cow thief, ridge-rider - who could tell? Spur rolled him onto his back.

  A fellow of about his own age - thirty. Thin tanned face, black hair and week-old stubble. Broken finger-nails and hands that had known hard work. Cowman’s boots and tarnished spurs; empty holster; his hat was missing. Back and front he was covered with dirt, cloth was torn; the face bore a mask of dirt.

  Spur reached for his canteen, unstoppered it and kneeled to get some water down the man’s throat, lifting the head with one hand. The man choked and spluttered on the water, soaking the front of his shirt, turning the dust there to mud. Spur tried again and this time the man swallowed. His eyes opened, looking blankly at the face above. Spur laid the head back in the grass, stoppered the canteen, hung it back on the saddlehorn and examined the man for breaks. He winced when Spur touched his ribs and muttered: “Christ”.

  Spur asked: “Can you stand?”

  The man stared at him for a moment. He wasn’t frightened, but he was wary. His eyes were those of a man who was concerned with survival and only feared enough to survive. Not a coward, just a man equipped to keep alive in his environment.

  When Spur went to help him up, the man wordlessly pushed his hands away. Independent.

  He stood uncertainly, trying to give no physical sign that he was in pain, but the tightening of his face showed that he was hurt.

  “I’ll live,” he said. He started knocking dust from his clothes, stopped and added: “I’m obliged to you.”

  “Where’s your horse?” Spur asked.

  The man looked around, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “They drove it off, I reckon.” He stiffened and kept his gaze across the valley beyond the bluff. Spur didn’t turn his head. He could guess what the man saw.

  The man said: “They’ve come back. You gotten yourself into a heap of trouble, mister. Ride out.”

  Spur didn’t move beyond turning slowly to see the three oncoming riders. By habit he looked at their horses first. Cow-ponies. A bay, a sorrel and a dun. Nothing special. The men were nothing special either. Cowhands. Each with a gun at his hip, ropes coiled, battered hats, worn Levis and chaps that had seen better days. They worked for wages, never saved a cent, dreamed of owning their own spreads and never would because they were broke after every pay-day. They would be irresponsible boys till the day they were thrown out on the scrap heap as no longer of any use to a rancher. They were loyal and fairly honest, but would make an easy dollar out of their boss if they saw the chance. They might rob him of a cow here and there, but God help the man outside the outfit who touched the same cow.

  Two of them were young, no more than boys. The man on the dun was past thirty, a hard man. He was big. He looked too big for his horse.

  “So there’s two of you,” he said. His voice had a curious grating quality.

  Spur didn’t speak.

  The man who had been dragged said: “He ain’t with me. He just rid up.”

  One of the younger men was smiling. There was nothing serious in the world to him. Everything was fun, including what was happeni
ng here. It had been fun to drag a man. It would be fun to drag another. He reached forward for his rope. The movement wasn’t lost on Spur.

  “Who’re you?” the big man asked.

  “It don’t matter too much who I am,” Spur told him.

  The big man said: “I say it matters.”

  The man who had been dragged said: “He ain’t nothin’ to do with me, I tell you. I never saw him before.”

  “Check for a runnin’ iron,” the big man said and the smiling youngster walked his horse toward the roan.

  Spur said: “Stay clear of my horse, boy.”

  The cowhand halted. The big man said: “You’re on Box R range an’ we search who we want.”

  “No,” Spur said. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t search me.”

  The man who had been dragged looked worried now. His eyes flicked this way and that as each man spoke.

  “For Crissake,” he said. “Leave this feller ride. He ain’t in this.”

  “Ain’t in what?” the big man said. “You told us you wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. You said you was just ridin’ through. Maybe we ought to of put that rope around your fool neck instead of your feet.”

  The smiling boy was eyeing the brand on the roan. He raised his eyes to Spur and asked: “What kind of a brand is that?”

  “My brand,” Spur told him.

  “I never saw one like that before. What is it?”

  “It’s a spur.”

  There was a moment’s silence. The boy turned in the saddle and looked at the big man who had gone very still. The man who had been dragged, jerked his head around to stare at Spur, uncertain, wondering.

  “Mister,” said the big man, “give us your name? This range belongs to Mr. Randerson and he has to be told about anybody that rides through.” His tone had changed.

  “It’s Spur.”

  Again a small silence.

  “Your given name?”

  “Sam.”

  The man who had been dragged said: “Jesus.”

  The smiling boy said: “Anybody could say his name was Sam Spur.” He looked for encouragement from the big man, but he didn’t get it.

  Spur said: “Do I have to prove it?”

  Before the boy could reply, the big man said quickly: “Back up, Dallas.”

  Spur stood still, watching them from the shadow of his hat brim, idle and easy. The boy neck-reined his horse around and joined the other two. The big man swallowed once and said in an over firm voice: “Spur, you ride on through. Don’t you stop for nothin’. You’re one man an’ you’re in Box R country.”

  Spur said: “I’ll ride whichever way I want. I’ll stop off where I want.”

  “I said my piece,” the big man said, not pushing, “You want trouble, the Box R’ll give it to you.” A big man who needed the weight of an organization behind him. There were plenty of that kind in the world. To the man who had been dragged, he said: “We catch you on our grass again, Lowe, an’ we’ll decorate a tree with you.” The three of them turned their horses, lifted them to a lope and rode away behind the bluff. Spur didn’t move till they were out of sight.

  Then he said: “Come on. I’ll take you into town.”

  Lowe said: “I ain’t goin’ into town.”

  “A doctor should look at you.”

  “I don’t have the money to waste on doctors.”

  Spur smiled a little. “Do I have to rope you?” he asked. The man grinned wryly and shrugged.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said. He walked away and stooped, picking up his fallen hat, then, after searching around in the grass, picked up a belt-gun. Spur stepped into the saddle and rode to him.

  “What,” he asked, “No runnin’ iron?”

  “They know I don’t brand ’em,” he said. “I just do what every other cattleman does - eat my neighbor’s beef.” It was frank and Spur smiled again. He kicked his foot out of the left stirrup-iron, Lowe put his foot in it and Spur heaved him up onto the roan’s rump. They headed up the valley until they sighted the man’s horse, grazing placidly. Lowe caught him without trouble and mounted. Together they rode on, not talking.

  Chapter Two

  “Clayburn,” Lowe told Spur as they halted on the rise across the creek from the town.

  “Named for a man?”

  “I never heard. I reckon.”

  They approached at a walk, hoofs sounding hollowly on the plank bridge. A pleasant town, sleepy; starting in a wide plaza that gave Spur the idea that it had once been a wholly Mexican town. But now the Anglos were here, putting their stamp on the place; frame houses; a bank; a feed store; blacksmith’s shop; saloon; livery stable and corral; all the rest that went to make up a Western town in a prosperous area. Trees gave delightful patches of shade; a trough of water with a horse drinking at it while its rider built a smoke. A woman dismounted from a buggy outside the bank, helped down by a man in a store suit. Her dress added a light splash of color. Two Mexicans unloaded a wagon at the side of a store.

  Spur on the roan with the Kentucky mule trailing behind, Lowe on his runty bay, cut through the scene slowly; heads turned to see them go, showing curiosity, no hostility. A nice town where a man could buy what he wanted, have a drink, a woman maybe, play checkers in the cool of the evening, gossip. Spur liked what he saw. Lifting his eyes, he saw “Randerson House”. That would be the hotel. Further along was another “Randerson” in bright new lettering. A store. So Randerson owned the range and some of the town. Idly, he wondered: How much?

  They turned into the yard of the livery stable, exchanged howdies with a man who had plainly been a cowhand. His right leg had been smashed and wasn’t much use to him now. He was lucky to be in work at all. He hadn’t reached forty yet, but he was an old man, faded eyes without much hope, voice querulous. He smelled of unwashed clothing and flesh, of horses and manure. He was friendly enough to Spur, but he obviously knew and did not like Lowe. He took the horses and mule, demanding payment in advance. This irritated Spur, but he paid both for Lowe’s horse and his own.

  He hefted the gear from the mule and walked across the plaza to the hotel, Lowe following. In the gloom of the hotel lobby, he rang the bell on the counter. Somebody walked with quick steps from the rear of the building. It was a woman, several years younger than Spur, light-haired, smiling, hands together, businesslike.

  Spur uncovered his head and asked for a room. He was pleasantly surprised at the richness of her voice when she replied.

  “For two?”

  “One, ma’am.”

  Her glance showed that she too knew Lowe and didn’t like him.

  She went around the counter, reached down a key from the hooks and handed it to Spur. “Room Four, front.” She turned the register for him to sign. He did so in his bold flourishing hand. She turned the book back and looked at what he had written, pursing her lips and raising questioning eyes to his for a brief moment. There was nothing smiling about her now.

  “If it’s all right with you, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll leave my gear here and take it up when I get back. I have some business in town.”

  She nodded without speaking and walked down the lobby

  Lowe sniffed and they walked out onto the street.

  “Which way to the doctor’s?” Spur asked.

  “There ain’t no call.”

  “You owe me a favor.”

  Reluctantly, “All right.” The man led the way along the edge of the plaza into a street of frame houses that gave way after a block to old buildings of adobe. Here pungent smells met their nostrils, a guitar sounded softly, a Mexican passed with a patient string of burros, ragged children played in the dust, a straight-backed woman passed with a loaded basket on her head. She walked like a queen. They came to a dark alleyway and went down it, came to a door in the wall to the right and knocked. A long wait and it opened revealing the face of an old woman, puckered as an ancient apple.

  “Manuela,” Lowe said. “Doc home?”

  The old woman stepped
back and they entered. At once Spur entered another world of somber gentle light, a lived-in world that was the fond familiar of one man; Navajo rugs on the floor and walls; leather-bound books on the shelves; a grand piano; a guitar hanging by a silken cord from a peg. The old woman disappeared behind a curtain at the far end of the room. Spur wondered about the man who owned this place.

  He appeared a moment later, small, narrow-headed, fluid hands and soft brown eyes. The skin was parchment, the hair white, the body frail, yet the man did not give an impression of frailty nor weakness nor age. Even before he spoke he gave Spur the impression of untiring strength, tenacity, will-power.

  He greeted Lowe with: “Ah, Jim. Good to see you,” There was a faint accent which Spur guessed was Spanish. The two men shook hands.

  Lowe said: “This is Sam Spur, Doc.”

  If the name meant anything to the doctor, he did not show it. He showed the rare capacity of giving the man in front of him his undivided attention. Spur felt that the man looked at him and immediately made an indelible record of innumerable details of his appearance. He knew also that he had been assessed. He did not resent it.

  “Miguel Municio, señor.”

  They shook. The slender hand was Ann. The narrow head was put on one side, the thin lips smiled, the brown eyes seemed to brighten with humor. “Is this a courtesy call or is one of you gentlemen needing the services of a doctor?”

  “It’s Jim,” Spur told him. “He had an accident.”

  “What kind of an accident?”

  Spur said: “Just lay him out, Doc, an’ have a look at him from head to toe.”

  The doctor led the way into the next room which proved to be as vast as the first, but bare and whitewashed. A table, two chairs, a desk, cupboards on the walls, shelves with bottles on them, a smell of carbolic in the air. This seemed to suit the doctor as much as the other room, clean, orderly. On the far side was a couch; the doctor gestured toward this and Lowe lay down on it. A word from the doctor and Lowe pulled up his shirt. Miguel Municio drew in his breath gently, stooped and gently felt around the ribs.