“Sure, sure.” They sauntered into the sunshine. The buggy was driving away, the three Box R men tramped through the dust. “He means it, Sam, an’ he can do it.”
“Maybe,” Spur said. “Could you handle a drink?”
“Always.”
The saloon was almost deserted. They drank tepid beer and talked of old times, the trails they had ridden together, the calabooses they had shared, the time Rick was wounded and Spur had carried him on his back right past a posse at night.
“Why?” Spur asked.
‘Why what?”
“Why this town? The badge? No helling around.”
Rick’s face was serious. For the first time Spur noticed a change in him, some wildness was missing.
“A hell of a lot of things, I reckon, but mostly Juan Gomez. Sure, a Mex. But he’s sheriff; the county thinks a lot of him. He’s somebody around here. He’s got a sister. Prettiest girl in town.”
“Sparkin’ her?”
“Married her.”
“My God,” said Spur, “what is this? Shifty married, you married. Is there something in the air here? Now tell me you got religion.”
“No, I didn’t get that. Not really. But me an’ Teresa was married Roman. She wouldn’t do it else.”
Spur had heard everything. They talked a little and Rick walked back to his office. Spur went back to the hotel, thinking. That little brief trial hadn’t meant much to him, but it had meant something to Randerson and to Gomez. Else the sheriff would have been there. How rough would Randerson get? Pretty rough, Spur would bet. Not guns, maybe, but boots and spurs; he’d make a man wish he’d never been born.
Spur found a woman in his room. Inez dusting. She turned at Spur’s entrance. She was a bright-eyed Mexican wench, he told himself, nothing more. Why, hell, she didn’t even have shoes on her feet right now. But she was lovely and her smile warmed him right through. She muttered something in Spanish and went to leave. In good Spanish, he said: “Do you have to go now, guapa?” She stopped confused, the Spanish surprised her.
“It is not proper that I should be here,” she said. “The Señorita Regan would be angry.”
“Jealous,” he said and sat on a chair. “You come from this town, Inez?”
“Yes. I have lived here all my life.”
“Your mother and father live here?”
“My mother is dead. My father is here.”
“Have you a man whom pays court to you?” You could say a thing like that in Spanish.
She fired up a little. “That is a very personal question. The señor is a guest here and I work here.”
Abashed, he said: “I’m sorry. I would have asked even if the circumstances were different. Please answer.”
“No,” she said, “I do not have a lover. There was a man who wanted to marry me, but my father didn’t approve.”
“He is strict, your father?”
“He is a good father, therefore he is strict.”
Suddenly, Spur saw that he had been mistaken in the girl. She was not a Mexican flower to be plucked. The discovery took him a little off-balanced
“Permit me to go now.”
He stood up and didn’t know why he did so. “Of course.” She went and he was left with the memory of her, the golden flesh, the full breasts and the lips that were like the petals of a rose. He had been too long without a woman. Spurs sounded outside his door and the sheriff appeared. He was abrupt and to the point this morning.
“Mr. Spur,” he said, “you make my position untenable here.”
“By offending the big auger?”
“It is easy for you to take that attitude. You can ride away any time you wish. I have to live here.”
“You’re wrong, Gomez. I’m stayin’.”
“Why?”
“You an’ Randerson want me to go so bad.”
“I do not believe that is the only reason. You are here for a purpose.”
Spur smiled. “I’m lookin’ for a place to settle. I like it here. If it’s good enough for Rick, it’s good enough for me.”
“Mr. Randerson is a man of some influence.”
“Let him try an’ influence my Henry rifle.”
The sheriff stared at him for a moment and walked away. Spur sighed, filled and fired his pipe, lay puffing on the bed. When he looked up there was a man standing in the open doorway. He moved silently, entering the room and closing the door behind him.
A small man wearing a check suit and a brown derby, exhibiting big trusting eyes and an ingenious manner. With these assets he had fooled people for years.
Spur swung his legs over the side of the bed: “My God, Jody,” he said, “you’re taking a risk.”
The little man sat on the bed beside him. The gun in his coat pocket was hard against Spur’s arm.
“Had to contact you,” he whispered. “How’s it coming?”,
“I’ve only been here a day.”
“And gotten yourself into a fight already.”
“So you heard about that.”
“I watched it. Is the sheriff in this? Make it quick, there’ll be hell to pay if I’m caught in here.” Spur rose, put a chair under the door handle and returned to the little man.
“I don’t know about the sheriff. Randerson makes the weight around here and Gomez is scared of him. Maybe that’s all there is to it. Shifty Benn’s here. Did you know that?”
“Yeah. Great. And Ricky as deputy. Is he straight now?”
“Could be. It’s happened before. Marries a good woman and reforms.”
“It could happen to you.”
“I’m the same as I ever was. I finish this and I’m through.”
“With what?”
“Playin’ your game.”
The little man flushed. He said: “There’s another train on the way next Thursday. After what happened before they’re taking a different route. Nobody will know which way it is till they take it. Maybe even Alvarez doesn’t know.”
Spur said: “Alvarez is your only contact, huh? There could be others.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll start ridin’.”
Jody laid a hand on Spur’s arm. “For God’s sake be careful. You could get yourself killed. These boys don’t play gentle. Besides that we all depend on you.”
“See you.”
The little man stepped to the door, peered outside and disappeared. Spur gave him several minutes before he put on his hat and went downstairs and walked to Main. The town was comparatively busy now; people stared at him as he passed. He had the curiously exposed feeling that he had experienced when he had first entered this town as though somebody were furtively watching him, aware of his reason for being here and intent on stopping him. Uneasily, he looked around him, looking up at windows, not knowing what he expected to see.
He had located the bank that morning halfway down Main. He stepped inside as the banker was showing Randerson to the door. They both stopped talking when they saw him. Spur walked up to the teller behind his grill, flipped a piece of paper to him and said: “Open me an account with that.”
The man looked startled.
“This is for five thousand.”
“Ain’t it enough?”
The banker and Randerson were listening. Spur turned and stared them down. A moment later, the banker was bustling over, smiling and nervous - “Good morning, Mr. Spur. Happy to make your acquaintance, sir.” A soft handshake; a glance at the piece of paper now worn from being long carried in Spur’s pocket. “Yes, yes, of course. The Brent National at Fort Worth. This shouldn’t bother us any. We’ll have to wire them for confirmation and then all our facilities are at your disposal. I’m sure you understand.”
“Suits me.”
“Good, good.” Hands washing together. Spur bid them good morning and walked out. Back at the hotel, he found Maria Regan in the lobby and she flushed at the sight of him as usual. He asked if a parcel of sandwiches could be made up for him, he had a short trip to make.
“You intend coming back, then, Mr. Spur?” She was afraid of him and it took courage to ask him that.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He went upstairs for his bedroll and rifle. When he returned to the lobby there was Inez with the sandwiches. He thanked her, would liked to have kissed her and walked across the plaza to the livery where he demanded the roan.
“Leavin’ us, Mr. Spur?” asked the stove-in cowhand.
“Nope. I’ll be back.”
Ten minutes later he was astride a roan that was full of oats and wanting to run. He rode back across the plaza, down Main and out of town through the Mexican quarter. He knew the sheriff watched him go and wondered what other eyes had noted his departure. He rode north for an hour, watching his back-trail without showing himself to do so, waiting patiently for the kind of terrain that would cover his making a change of direction. He knew that the loss of patience could cost him his life and the lives of the men who depended on him. The country was starting to lose its greenness now as he rode down into what appeared to be a giant shallow basin. This was badland. Two miles to the north-east a fairly high wall was broken and eroded, showing what looked to be canyon mouths. He angled the roan and headed for them, not hurrying, knowing that the increasing heat was affecting the horse as well as himself.
Dusk found him in a canyon boiling coffee over a small fire. As soon as the coffee was made he extinguished the fire. He enjoyed the coffee greatly, relaxed for a while with his pipe, thought a little about Randerson, the sheriff and the other characters in town, then allowed himself the small luxury of dwelling on the three beautiful women he had met since being there: Maria Regan, Lucinia Randerson and the little Mexican, Inez. He knew which one was the one for him.
Chapter Four
He hadn’t found water that day; he and the roan were hot and thirsty. He didn’t know the country and he was starting to worry where next he was going to find water. That morning he had swung south through the canyon country and the further south he went, the hotter and drier it had grown. Around noon he had come out into this great canyon that was like the surface of the moon, arid, sun-blasted, lifeless. A hundred smaller canyons ran off it and he knew that the sign he was looking for could be in any one of them.
A speck moving high in the sky; another and another. Vultures. He quickened the roan’s pace, noting where the birds were dropping, knowing when he was near the spot when the roan shied and tried turning around. Spur halted and went forward on foot to find the stinking remains of the carcass, black with flies, glutted vultures fighting listlessly over the little that remained. It was impossible to tell how long the animal had been there. Spur looked around, saw the tracks from across canyon, going west. He knew from the hoofs of the dead beast that it was a mule; which could mean a mule-train and that was what he was after. He approached the grisly feast, searching around for the load. The vultures objected to his presence, but he found what remained of the load among the rocks. The pack had broken.
The contents seemed to be nothing but small leather sacks. He picked one up; it was heavy and it clinked. He cut the thong that tied the mouth and found inside rough-hewn nuggets.
Gold.
He was no expert, but he would be pretty sure. This surprised him; not what he expected at all. One by one he carried something like forty of the little sacks and hid them among the rocks. Except one and he put that in one of his saddlebags. Then he walked the horse west till he came to where the mule had crossed over rock and ground-hitched the roan. He had no brush for wiping out sign and there was none around, so he took a blanket from his roll and went back to the rocks with that. From there, he worked his way back to the horse, wiping the mule sign from the dust with the blanket as best he could. It was not a perfect job, but it would delay a searcher for a while if there ever was one.
Now he mounted the roan and rode west along the trail left by the mule. It led him clear across the wide canyon and into a side canyon. He entered this with caution, feeling that same uneasiness he had known when he had ridden into Clayburn. Instinctively, he touched the stock of the Henry below his knee. It was hot to the touch.
A shadow flitted. Raising his eyes he saw the outstretched wings between himself and the sun. A few minutes later he came around a bend in the canyon and there was repeated the scene of the vultures and the mule, only now it had been multiplied many times over. Here was a flood of the scraggy-necked birds, a regiment of them bloated on decaying flesh. And here too were the remains of men. Hardened though he was to death, his stomach churned up on him. The stench struck him like a blow and he retched and retched, getting limply out of the saddle, fighting to hold the frantic roan. Limply, he led it away, far back down the canyon and secured it to a rock, knowing that he would have to go back to the ghastly scene. The thought of it worked on his stomach again; he leaned on a rock and emptied his stomach, continuing to retch long after, till he was weak.
He tied his bandanna around the lower part of his face, covering his nose and mouth, slid the rifle from its boot and started shakily up the canyon. As he rounded the bend, so he halted, his legs refusing to take him to the carnage that lay ahead. He stood on uncertain legs, nausea overpowering him, viewing it, knowing with an ever-growing horror that his brother had died in such a place and in such a manner. It was Ben’s death that had started his journey to Clayburn, it was Ben’s death that had shaken him out of his old rut and brought him into this country and this dangerous scheme, but not until this moment had the whole „ truth of the boy’s death come home to him.
He sat down on a rock, trying to get up his nerve to go on, ready to weep like a woman, his faith in himself shaken as his physical strength seemed to desert him.
Possibly, if the shot hadn’t come, he would never have gone on. But it came and galvanized him into action. He heard the bullet strike near him before he heard the flat slam of the rifle and his nerves reacted without thought coming. He flung himself sideways and rolled, lay still like the dead so near him. The vultures fluttered a little at the sound of the shot, but they were too bloated to fly.
He listened and heard nothing but their sounds.
He stayed still because there was nothing else he could do, for, as the canyon played tricks with sound, he had no idea where the shot had come from. If he waited long enough, the marksman would move. Spur would back his patience against any man living.
Ten minutes, fifteen ... a stone rattled on rock.
Spur pressed close to the ground, slid his hat from his head and waited. After a while, a spur chinked on stone.
Spur thought: Do I kill him or do I make him talk? But maybe he would have to kill him. It was a risky business getting the drop on a man with a loaded rifle in his hands; and Spur saw no reason to play at heroes with a man connected with the scum who had wiped out the mule-train.
But was he connected? He couldn’t know the answer to that.
He never had the chance to make the choice of to kill or not to kill the man. Another shot came; something burned across his back like fire. He knew that he was spotted and straightway got his legs under him and dove forward into what he fondly hoped was deeper cover. The man fired again and the bullet cracked against rock inches from him. Spur was all nervous action now; he continued his forward movement, crouching and running, stopping, darting to one side and throwing himself flat. The marksman chased him with hurried shots all the way till Spur, although he had not seen the man yet, knew to a nicety where he was. He reached a massive boulder, threw himself behind it, went around it, came out fast on the other side and stood still for a moment with the rifle to his shoulder.
The man was forty yards from him, rifle poised.
Spur fired one shot.
The man was driven backward and spun around by the impact of the heavy bullet. He seemed to grasp at the empty air for support before he fell on his back. Spur looked around carefully before he walked unhurriedly forward, rifle held ready. When he reached the fallen man he was giving the last gentle kicks of a
dying man. Finally, he lay still, his eyes staring sightlessly at the bright blue sky. Spur had never seen him before.
He leaned down and went through his pockets. He possessed forty dollars, a folding knife, a handful of lucifers, two peggin strings and a picture of a woman who was not beautiful. There was nothing to give Spur a clue as to his identity. So he would have to find his horse, which would tell him maybe more than the man could. As for the man, he could have been a paid hand on a cattle outfit or an owner of a shirt-tail outfit himself. Aged maybe forty, slight signs of dissipation on his unshaven face, broken black fingernails, one dally finger missing from his right hand, scuffed boots, a Starr pistol at his belt.
Spur experienced a kind of sadness at not knowing who and what he had killed. The only thing that was relevant was that if he hadn’t killed the man, the man would have killed him.
He piled stones over the man so the vultures, the wolves and the coyotes wouldn’t get at him, walked back to the roan and looked for the man’s horse. The roan and the horse found each other pretty soon, calling to each other. The horse turned out to be ten-dollar crowbait with a fifty dollar saddle on it. A working cowpony that was no more than half-broken, looking more half-starved mustang than anything else. Its brand was the Box R. Well, that told Spur something, but not much. Maybe Randerson had given the man orders to shoot him and maybe he hadn’t. He tied the roan near this ragged bay and walked back reluctantly to the remains of the mule-train.
His guts behaved better this time, but not much. He drove the satiated vultures clear and took a close look. He saw that he had been wrong to think this a mule-train. The pack animals, to judge by the picked bones, had been burros and that suggested that the men had been Mexicans. This was borne out by the scraps of clothing and gear lying around. One, though, plainly was an Anglo at first sight as indicated by the boots and by the Stetson hat. But, on second thoughts, Spur had known Mexicans back in Texas who had worn white man’s clothing.
It looked as though most of the packs had been taken. Had they carried gold like the mule that had got away?
Spur Page 4
