Spur

by Matt Chisholm

  Gomez led the way down to the house at a walk. Men and horses were tired. Nobody was in a good temper. Everybody was worried and everybody was miserable. Rain threatened and they could all picture themselves caught out here in a storm.

  There was a man in the yard axing wood. He straightened and watched them approach. Before they reached the yard, he had walked to the house and picked up a rifle. Gomez saw that it was Jim Lowe.

  The Mexican woman came and stood in the doorway, leaning, watching them. The posse halted and got out of the saddle, stretching their stiffened legs, groaning and muttering. They sought the well and some of them drank. The horses stood with hanging heads.

  “Howdy, sheriff,” Lowe said. “Looks like you’ve ridden some.”

  Gomez slapped his quirt gently against his leg and said: “Yes, my friend, we’ve ridden some. And you know why?”

  “I reckon. Spur was here. You can’t hold that against me.”

  “Don’t protest; nobody’s accusing you of anything. I want Spur. That is all I’m interested in. I see from the tracks the girl was still with him.”

  “Yeah. They both rid in yesterday.”

  Rick said: “You supply ’em?”

  “He was the great Sam Spur an’ he had a gun. What did you expect me to do?”

  “Just that. What did Spur tell you?”

  “Nothin’ an’ I didn’t ask.”

  Rick looked toward the woman in the doorway. “We don’t have much time, Lowe. We know you was friends with Spur. You owed him. He brought you into town after the Randerson boys done dragged you some. You know where he headed.”

  Lowe shook his head. “He left sign. Follow it. He didn’t tell me nothin’.”

  Rick smiled one-sidedly. “I could ask your woman. Or she could see me askin’ you a mite roughly.”

  Lowe darted him a look of sudden fright.

  “She don’t understand American too good.”

  Rick said: “She’ll understand this,” and hit Lowe in the face with the loaded butt of his quirt. The man staggered back, holding his face. The woman launched herself at the deputy, screaming at him in Spanish. As she passed Gomez, the sheriff caught her by her hair and flung her aside. She landed in the dust and lay glaring and spitting like a mauled she-lion.

  “He probably doesn’t know anything,” Gomez said mildly.

  “Maybe not,” Rick said. “But he helped Sam an’ that don’t ride so well with me.” He jerked his head in Lowe’s direction. “This bastard could be in with the smugglers or the men that attacked ’em. He’s right on the edge of the canyon country here.”

  “Sure,” said Gomez.

  The men who had been to the well, stood around wiping their mouths of water and watching.

  Gomez walked up to Lowe and saw that there was an ugly mark on his jaw where the quirt had hit him.

  “The boys,” he said, “are not in a good humor. If you have anything to tell us, it would be best if you did so, amigo.”

  “I don’t know nothin’. Spur an’ the girl rid in here, we gave them food and they left.”

  “And ammunition. And corn for the horse and the mule.”

  “Yeah, sure. He’d of killed me if I didn’t.”

  “Maybe. But there is more here than meets the eye. You are a friend of this Spur and he came straight to you.”

  “I ain’t in this. Crissake, I just run a few cows an’ mind my own business. Leave me be, Gomez. I don’t want trouble.”

  The woman got to her feet and shouted at the sheriff in Spanish, telling of details of his ancestry that he had never heard before.

  “Take her in the house,” Gomez said.

  She fought like a wildcat, but they finally got her into the house and returned grinning after a few minutes, saying they had hog-tied her.

  Gomez said: “Rick, you give this fellow something to remember us by. It will do his soul good and mine too, for I am a little angry, I think. Charlie, Dave, look Lowe’s horses over and see if we can exchange some of our tired ones.”

  Rick walked up to Lowe and took the rifle from his nerveless hand, tossed it aside into the dust. Lowe backed up from him, but there was a posseman in the way and he was pushed back into Rick’s arms. The deputy pushed him clear and kicked him in the groin. The man doubled up with a high-pitched wheeze of agony. A man kicked his legs from under him and he fell in the dust. Several of them moved in now, not eager, but tired and methodical, paying him for the long hard ride they had had and for his aiding Spur. It wasn’t long before he was a motionless bundle on the ground.

  The men came from the corral to say that there were four horses that were worth taking. Gomez told them to saddle them. The four tired horses could travel loose with them; they would be needed later. They rifled the house, finding and eating food, enjoying hot coffee, hurrying. Gomez was impatient to go, his imagination was telling him what damage Spur could do if he were loose much longer.

  By the time they were all in the saddle, Lowe hadn’t moved. They rode off south, not looking back, giving uneasy glances at the sky. The storm was not far off. The hunt was difficult enough without the rain; if the rain came it could prove impossible.

  They were out of sight of the house when Lowe got shakily to his feet. He felt as though he had been castrated, his legs were unwilling to hold him and he thought that a rib or two had been broken. The already sore ribs. He managed to get into the house and cut Pilar free.

  The woman was surprisingly calm now. She got her man onto a bed and calmly made coffee, giving it to him with a good shot of whiskey in it. That revived him a little. She bathed his hot forehead with cold water from the well, saying: “Pobrecito.”

  The rain came in a hushed whisper from the hills, beating the dust of the yard into a multitude of little puffs and then turning it to mud. The air cooled and Lowe sat up, his face drawn and bitter. He spoke for the first time.

  “The bastards.” He lapsed into his cowpen Spanish as he did so often with her, thinking he spoke the language elegantly. “They make me less than a man.”

  “No,” she said.

  “You know what I’m goin’ to do? You know?”

  “Si, I know.”

  She left him and started to get supplies together, cleaning his belt-gun, going out into the rain to fetch the two horses that the posse had left as not worth taking. She tied them in the shelter of the lean-to and saddled them, fetched the supplies from the house and tied them on the saddle. Grim-faced, she gave her man another drink of whiskey.

  “The rifle,” he told her.

  She made a sound of disgust and retrieved it from the yard, carefully cleaning it. She filled his pocket with shells.

  “All is ready,” she said.

  “Where do we start?”

  She shrugged. “¿Quien sabe? We cannot stay here, that is against human nature.”

  He shrugged on a slicker, wincing. She threw a thick Navajo blanket over her shoulders - that would protect her from the strongest rain. They went out into the yard together, mounted and rode south.

  Uncle Enrique was a surprise. After Inez and her father this hardy Mexican was in high contrast. A sturdy, gnarled man, thickset, bullnecked, dressed in leather and full-blown with a roaring gusto. He came out of his simple whitewashed adobe house with spurs jingling and embraced Inez like a bear, shouting his affection and pleasure. When she introduced Spur, Enrique embraced him like a long-lost brother, crushing him in powerful arms. Spur’s eyes took in the sun and wind cracked face, the rope-marked hands, the quick-moving, miss-nothing eyes.

  He propelled them inside the house, bellowed for a vaquero to care for the horse and mule, gave them wine, served a meal with his own hands. He was a bachelor, never had married, a man felt the weight of one woman, but many women ... he kissed his fingers to heaven. Inez and Spur laughed. After the meal, they drank wine, smoked and talked.

  “Uncle must be told everything,” Inez said.

  “Sure, sure,” said Enrique, “tell uncle everything and he will
tell you what to do. You are in trouble, a fool could see that. You come riding in with my little one here; you are her man, I can see that. Who could miss it? At last my little Inez has found the man to share her bed. Lucky fellow, heh? Heh? Dios, to be young again!”

  Spur told him. Not everything, but as much as Inez knew, which was enough. When he finished Enrique nodded, solemn and grim.

  “The killing of the smugglers - this I know of. And so I should. A good rider of mine, a young fellow, not yet twenty years, some gossips say he is a son of mine and, who knows, they may be right? He rode with the smugglers, to make a little extra money for himself. A good boy. He is dead now.” He poured wine, frowning. “Now, we talk of you. The two of you. You were right to come here. But I know this Gomez. He’s a smart fellow and a man wouldn’t have to be half smart to guess that Inez would come here. But I can protect her. She will be hidden. Now you, my Sam. You are not the man to hide. So?”

  “I’ll head back into the canyon country.”

  “Why? What do you expect to find there?”

  “No reason. Just a hunch.”

  “Ah, a hunch. A man of intuition. Good, good.”

  It was dark, they sat by guttering lamps, the insects humming around the funnels. Sam watched Inez’s face in the gentle light and he knew that she had softened the rawhide in him. Let him finish the chore on hand and start living for the first time.

  They talked some more, then Spur rose, making Inez jerk up her head to stare at him in alarm, knowing by instinct that the moment had come for him to leave.

  “Go in the morning,” she said.

  “No, now, honey. In the dark.”

  Enrique nodded. “’Sta bueno. Come, we will go to the corral and I will show you that I have just the horse for you. It is fast and has bottom that will take you to eternity. Good, good. It has also the added virtue that it does not bear the beautiful Municio brand, so that it cannot be traced back to Uncle Enrique.”

  The horse he showed them was young and sprightly, small but beautifully proportioned, a Spanish pony that had been trained as only a Mexican of Enrique’s skill could train a horse.

  “He has his stones still,” Enrique explained. “Such a horse is the only one for a man, no? No need for a bit in his mouth; he will turn on a lady’s handkerchief and follow you like a dog. I give you a treasure. It tears my heart out to part with him.”

  “But Sam will bring him back,” Inez said.

  “Seguramente. Claro.”

  Spur saddled and bridled the black stallion that stood obediently for him. A Mexican came from the house, bringing him food and water and Inez stood by and watched at her uncle’s side, wide-eyed and tearless.

  Spur finished and said: “I’ll be goin’.”

  “Mother of God,” Enrique cried, “so Anglo. Kiss the girl.”

  Inez came into Spur’s arms and they kissed. He felt like hell and couldn’t find any words to say. He released her and stepped into the saddle.

  “A few days,” he told her. “No more. Thanks for the horse, señor.” Lifting a hand, he neck-reined the stud horse around and walked it into the darkness.

  Uncle Enrique chuckled softly and put a powerful arm around his niece. “Muy hombre,” he said. “You have gotten yourself a man, I think, my little one. There will be many fine sons.”

  “If he comes back,” Inez said.

  “That one!” Enrique shouted. “Por Dios, you cannot kill that kind.”

  They walked back to the house and Enrique gave orders to a vaquero to take the mule and roan over to the western range where they could not be found.

  Gomez had a hunch. It wasn’t so smart of him to have it, because it was pretty evident that if Inez Municio headed anywhere it would be her uncle’s place. Spur couldn’t afford to be saddled with a woman at a time like this, not even a one as desirable as the good doctor’s daughter. So he had to ditch the woman. Where else but Enrique’s? And that old rogue would do anything to spit in the sheriff’s eye, or the eye of any law enforcer, for that matter. For the first time since the pursuit started, Gomez felt positively gay. He would have the girl and then he would have Spur. A woman didn’t do what Inez had done without being crazy about a man.

  Gomez was a man of decision. He halted his posse, an antlike group of men in the immensity of the great canyon. Turning to look at them, he saw men so covered with dust that they were scarcely recognizable. Eyes, red-rimmed from the dust and the glare. This was the kind of country that sorted the men from the boys.

  “Rick, you know Enrique Municio’s place.”

  “Sure.”

  “You take Charlie and Dave. I have a feeling in my water that there you will find Inez. If I am right, Charlie and Dave will take her back to town and lock her in the jail.”

  “Hell,” Dave said, “you can’t lock a woman in the jail.”

  “There is a first time for everything. Now, go. And remember that Enrique is a fox. But then you too, Rick, are something of a fox.”

  Rick cracked the dust on his face with a grin. The idea of going looking for Inez interested him. If he took the woman it would be like spitting in Sam’s eye. He wheeled his horse and headed west. The other two peeled off from the posse and followed him. The idea of getting up into the higher country and some cool air appealed to them.

  Gomez didn’t move on for a moment, thinking. He had followed one hunch. Now he would follow another. He had lost Spur’s tracks after the rain and he had nothing but hunches to go on. Finally, he moved on, angling into the south-west toward the network of side-canyons. Tired, the others followed him.

  Chapter Ten

  Jody was at the rendezvous when Spur reached there. That was just like him. He wasn’t in sight, which was also like him. He walked out of the rocks with a rifle in his hands when Spur clattered up. He whistled when he saw the black stud and said: “Where’d you get him?”

  “Enrique.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Inez’s uncle.” Jody raised his eyebrows. Spur stepped down and explained. The little man led the way through the rocks, picked his way through a tangle of mesquite and revealed a small eye of water. Spur smiled in appreciation. Jody might look like a failing drummer, but he surely knew his way around wild country. Jody’s sorrel gelding acted up when he smelled the stallion and the black looked a little lively too, but he quietened down when Spur removed the bit and he dipped his muzzle in the clear water. The two men didn’t talk while the stud drank. Spur didn’t allow him to overfill himself, but pulled him away and staked him so that he could munch on the mesquite beans. Almost as good as corn for a horse, they were.

  Then the two men squatted down and smoked. Jody talked.

  “First, Sam, you’re liable to run into real trouble. Gomez and a posse are out after you. How about your papers? Do you have them on you?”

  “Gave them to Inez. She sewed them in her skirts.”

  “Good. Can this uncle of hers hide her?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Now, my news. I’ve gotten one of Randerson’s hands to talk. Funny, I never really suspected. He plays the cattle king well, but when I learned he made his first stake at poker, I thought I’d take a closer look at him. He’s at the back of all them gold raids in New Mexico and Colorado.” Spur looked suitably and sincerely surprised. “He plans the raids, sometimes leads them. After each raid, the gang fogs it by diverse routes back to the ranch. There’s a lot of range around and if a rider’s out of sight for maybe two-three weeks, nothin’s said. There’s some straight cowhands workin’ there, you see. My informant has given me all the names of the men who take part in the raids. Two years, they’ve been doin’ it and shippin’ their gold across into Mexico for the big day when they’ve made their pile and they want out. Now everything fallin’ apart. The thieves have been robbed.”

  “Any idea who did that?” Spur’s voice was sharp.

  “No. Not a smell of ’em.”

  “What about the man who split on Randerson?”
/>   “I promised him the protection of the governor.”

  “Can you?”

  Jody smiled wryly. “I ain’t too sure about that. Aw, yeah, one other tit-bit. Lucinia ain’t Randerson’s daughter. She’s his gal. What d’you know?” Spur couldn’t help laughing.

  “Any plans?”

  “One. We run a dummy smuggle. Spring a trap.”

  Jody cocked an eye at Spur, wanting his reaction. Spur thought about it.

  “No,” he said. “Too much risk. Two burro-trains have been wiped out. Randerson won’t ship out any more. Be crazy if he did.”

  “So?”

  “So either Randerson has still a haul hidden at his place and the raiders will go there or Randerson pulls out and heads for Mexico. In that case, these fellers might go after him. Men who can wipe out men and animals like these did can do anythin’.”

  Jody agreed. Maybe the idea of setting a trap wasn’t so bright after all. “But,” he said, “we have to do somethin’. This case is going to break wide open soon. It has the feelin’. We don’t have an idea in hell who’s at the back of these raids.”

  Don’t we? Spur thought. There was Rick in town wearing a lawman’s badge. A lawman was a man who could move around without arousing suspicion. There would be no comment if he were out of town for long intervals. There was Shifty Ben. Both were violent reckless men, each had killed again and again. Bloodshed wouldn’t turn them away. That brought his mind to the sheriff: Gomez. The oh-so-neat anglicized Mexican with the cousins uncountable.

  “I heard said: when you’re looking for a guilty party, look for the obvious one. That means Rick ... and Shifty Ben. That could mean Gomez.”

  Jody looked startled. Then the look of surprise faded and he said slowly: “Could be.”

  Spur talked. He was a man who ran on intuition, because intuition was based on a forgotten knowledge hidden in the recesses of the human mind. He had an instinct for men and women and it was an instinct he had come to trust through experience. He knew that if Gomez was mixed up in this, he would head for the massacre ground. The rain had washed out Spur’s tracks and the sheriff was out after Spur. If he was the guilty man, he must keep on till he caught Spur. He might by now be starting to have his suspicions about Spur’s status. He had no idea where to go and he couldn’t go back. So where would he go? Where he had committed the crime, where he would feel that Spur would head.