“Reckon I do.” Sulphur Tom took down the saddlebags from their hook and from under a counter he extracted several burlap bags. His eyes strayed to the mare outside. “Unusual brand,” he commented.
Cold eyes measured him. “Is it?”
Mentally, Sulphur Tom backed up. Whatever he was about to say went unsaid. His mouth was dry and something inside him felt queasy. There was something about the big man’s expression that he didn’t like … he didn’t like it at all.
Sulphur Tom indicated a box on the floor. “There she is,” he said, “but you’ll pay hell packin’ it on a horse.”
Stooping, Jim Flint lifted the box easily and swung it to his hipbone. Then he walked outside and, taking the bridle reins, he led the horse across the street to the corral. Around the corner and out of sight of the corral he broke open the box and transferred its contents to the saddlebags and the burlap sacks. Loading them on the horse he walked back across the street and stopped again at the station.
He put an order on the counter and pushed it toward Sulphur Tom. “Fill that,” he said, and, turning, he walked to the door.
The two men squatting against the wall were talking idly. “Folks say it’s him, all right. Man! I never expected to see nobody like him out here! Why, Buckdun is a known man! He’s famous as Wild Bill or Clay Allison, or any of them. There’s some say he’s killed more men than all of them put together!”
“Shot ‘em in the back,” the other said contemptuously.
“So he shot from ambush — he killed ‘em, didn’t he?” He paused. “I wonder who he’s to kill out here?”
Flint walked back to the counter where Sulphur Tom was piling the supplies. “I’ll eat a can of those peaches here,” he said, and opened a can and began to spear them with his knife blade.
When the mail and the box had arrived for Jim Flint, Sulphur Tom had been excited. He had never known Flint, but Sulphur Tom had had a friend who sometimes kept mail for the gunfighter and received money from him. It had been a good thing, and Sulphur Tom thought he might do the same.
More than the money he wanted the association. Like many another man before him he liked the connection with a big-name man, and liked to have secret information. He was not a talker, but it pleased him to know what others did not.
At first glance he felt a sharp sense of disappointment. This man was too young, and there was a pale shade beneath the sunburn that told of a face long sheltered. Then he remembered how it was that a man might be kept from the sun for years.
Prison.
This man could not be the Flint. He was too young. What had Flint’s first name been? He could not recall that he ever heard of him as anything but Flint.
How old had he been?
Come to think of it, he did not know. He had never seen Flint, but he had always surmised him to be a man in his thirties or forties, and that had been a long time ago. He stole another look at the man eating the peaches.
It could be. It just could be.
“A handy man,” he said aloud, “might make himself some money hereabouts. There’s trouble breeding.”
As no reply was forthcoming, he added, “Knowed of a man who favored that Six-Shooter brand — but that was long ago.”
“Old things are best forgotten.” Flint got down from the counter where he had been seated while eating the peaches and went out to the water trough to rinse off his hands. He dried them on his jeans, glancing up the trail as he did so.
Riders were coming. Four of them.
He went back into the store, suddenly irritable at being found here by strangers. The last thing he wanted was to arouse curiosity. The fewer people who knew of his presence the better.
He looked around the store. New York seemed far, far away. The man who had been James T. Kettleman seemed a total stranger. Already he was thinking of himself as Jim Flint.
He looked at himself in a fly-specked mirror, and saw nothing there that looked like death, yet he knew that death was looking back at him. It was unbelievable that a man who had always been so strong could die so simply, yet it was happening.
Despite this thing inside him that was slowly eating away his life, he had always been a man who lived with his muscles as much as with his brain. He had never been ill.
From the day he arrived in New York he had continued his activity, going every day to the gymnasium. He had boxed, wrestled, played handball. And in that second year in New York, before he had begun to win some reputation in the business world, he had fought several times in the prize ring. It had helped to build the capital that finally won success.
He had fought Jack Rooke, an English fighter, meeting Mm at Bull’s Ferry in New Jersey, and whipping him in six minutes with the bare knuckles. He had the Englishman down five times before the end.
A month later he fought ninety-five rounds with Hen Winkle, before the crowd broke down the ropes to save their favorite, Winkle, from a knockout. The fight lasted over two hours.
Two months later, for a thousand-dollar side-bet, he defeated Butt Reilly, knocking him out after one hour of fighting.
He fought four times during the following year, his last bout being at Fox’s American Theatre in Philadelphia, where he won from John Dwyer in nineteen minutes.
After that there was no more time for fighting, for his business was developing rapidly. But he had continued to workout in the gymnasiums, to box occasionally with Mike Donovan or Dominick McCafferty, to wrestle a little, and play handball. There had been no hint of this thing that lay within him.
The door swung open and the four riders came in. Flint glanced at them briefly and saw trouble. The first two were swaggering youngsters with uncut hair and dirty range clothes, just out of their teens. One of the two older men was a Mexican, the other a tough competent-looking man dressed simply, neatly.
“Hey!” one of the younger men yelled at Sulphur Tom. “Give us a drink!”
“Soon’s I finish this order,” Tom replied shortly. The young man came down the bar, hunting trouble.
“Look, old man,” he said, “I reckon you didn’t hear me. I said I wanted a drink. And I want it now.”
Something seemed to rise inside of Jim Flint. Was it bitterness that this tough youngster was going to live when he knew he was going to die? Or was it that old love of battle? For nothing else was left to him now. Or was it that he hoped and wanted to be killed? “He’s waiting on me,” Flint said roughly. “You take your turn.”
The young man turned like a cat. “Why, you — !” The sentence was never completed. Jim Flint, far from the marts of capital and bonds, struck viciously. The young man had started to move in, and the punch caught him flush on his completely unprotected chin.
He hit the floor on his face, as if struck with a mallet.
Jim Flint looked across the fallen man at the three who were with him. “He was hunting trouble. He found it. There’s more if you want to buy.”
The other youngster started to speak, but the older, neatly dressed man interrupted. “You’re quick,” he said, “and you hit hard. How are you with a gun?”
Flint looked across the room and said coolly, “As you see, I am wearing one. If you wish to know how good I am with it, you will have to pay to learn.” There had been no move from the man on the floor.
The rider who had asked his question had his answer.
So he looked down at the fallen man. “Is he dead?”
“I doubt it.” Over his shoulder, Flint said to Sulphur Tom, “Get their drinks. I’ll buy.” The Mexican walked over and turned the boy over with his boot toe. The youngster blinked, and started to sit up, then sank back with a groan.
“Better take his gun,” Sulphur Tom suggested. “He’ll be sore as a stepped-on snake.”
“Let him keep it,” Flint said. “He can do what he likes.”
Sulphur Tom took down a bottle and filled glasses for them. “Fill one for him, too,” Flint said.
Slowly, the boy on the floor sat up, blinking. He put
his hand to his jaw, then stared around him, suddenly remembering.
“You’re wearing a gun,” Flint said coldly, “and there’s a drink on the bar for you. Take whichever one you’ve a mind to.”
Getting awkwardly to his feet, the boy turned his back on Flint and stood there for a moment, swaying uncertainly. Then he stepped over to the bar and took his drink.
When they had finished the four went out and rode away.
Sulphur Tom sacked up the supplies. “You don’t take much prodding, do you?”
Jim Flint looked around. “I’ve got an edge,” he said quietly, “because I just don’t give a damn.”
Taking up the sack, he walked outside and over to his horse. The four riders were nowhere in sight He loaded the pack and stepped into the saddle. The old mare was carrying a bit of weight, but she was in good shape, and he planned to walk a large part of the distance.
He was not at all sure that the four riders might not be watching the town to see which direction he chose.
He rode west, the great open Plains of St. Augustine on his left. Holding close to the mountain, he turned suddenly into Patterson Canyon for a short distance, then took a narrow Indian trial over the mountain to Mangas Canyon.
Several times he stopped to listen, but heard nothing. Before descending into Mangas Canyon he studied the shadowing terrain for some time. Across the canyon and tucked into a draw he saw a clump of trees and he watched it for several minutes. Then he went down the mountain, across the trail and, rounding a boulder found himself in a hollow among the pines that offered a hidden camp where his fire would not show beyond its immediate area.
He had scarcely stopped when the pains seized him and he doubled up, retching violently. He fell to his knees and stayed there, head hanging, for some time, fighting back the groans that came to his lips. When he finally got up he stripped packs and saddle from the mare. Then, putting a hackamore on her, he picketed her on the grass.
He got a small fire going and heated a can of beans. He ate them from the can, and after awhile the pains were less. He thought of New York and his life there. It seemed a far-off thing, another world.
They would be wondering what had become of him, for the two weeks of his planned absence were over. Lottie and her father would be pleased and would rush immediately to the bank. He was amused at the thought of their consternation when they discovered the true state of his affairs.
He heard the horse for several seconds before he became consciously aware of the hoofbeats on the canyon trail. He grasped his rifle and slipped back into the darkness.
Then he heard the approaching horse turn from the trail and come toward his camp. Suddenly it was there, ears pricked, just beyond the fire.
Its rider was slumped over the saddlehorn, and Flint saw that his wrists were loosely tied to the pommel.
Chapter 5
CUTTING THE ropes, he lifted the man from the saddle and carried him to the firelight. Then he tied the horse and returned to the man.
He was stocky, powerfully built, at least fifty, wearing a black broadcloth suit, quite dusty now, and dusty cow-country boots that had lately been polished. The inside of his coat and shirt were caked with dried blood from a wound that had bled and then bled again, but he was alive.
He ripped away the bloody shirt. A bullet had gone through the man’s side and from the look of it, could have punctured a lung. It was not until he began washing away the blood that he found a second and a third bullet hole.
The second bullet had cut through the man’s biceps and penetrated the top of his chest, emerging at the back. The third was lower down. All three wounds were on the left side.
The wounded man muttered, but no words could be distinguished. Going through his pockets Flint found a letter addressed to Ed Flynn at the Kaybar Ranch. The Kaybar. That was the ranch where Gaddis worked.
In each case the bullet had emerged at a point lower than the point of entry. Whoever had done the shooting had been above the rider, which indicated the marksman must have been lying in wait. Which might mean the marksman had been Buckdun.
The wounded man’s rifle was unfired, but his pistol had been fired four times.
Flynn had tried. He had shot back at his attacker. From the appearance of the wounds he had been shot as much as a day and a night earlier, and tied his own wrists, hoping his horse would take him back to the Kaybar.
Jim Flint removed some of the sticks from the fire, keeping only the coals to heat water. He bathed the wounds and bandaged them, then made some soup and managed to get the wounded man to take a few mouthfuls.
Twice during the night Flint heard riders pass along the Horse Springs Trail. At daybreak he fed the wounded man a little more soup, and ate some himself.
He was at least thirty miles from the Kaybar headquarters, judging by the map and, encumbered by a wounded man, the ride would take many hours. At any time he might encounter men he did not wish to see, yet he could not abandon the man. Flynn needed a kind of care and medical attention he was not equipped to give, and Flynn’s life depended on Flint.
He had gone only a few miles when he saw riders approaching. Far off there were three riders, and close by, four. And the four were the men he had seen at Horse Springs.
Flint slipped the rawhide thong from the holstered gun and eased the pistol in his waistband. There was no chance of making a run for it and he had no intention of running, anyway. They were coming up on him and it was obvious they meant to stop him. They wanted a fight or they wanted Flynn dead. One of them was returning a pair of field glasses to his saddlebags.
Boldness was the only policy now. He turned his mount and rode straight up to them.
The man he had struck, the long-haired one, was grinning widely. “You again. I been wanting to meet up with you.”
Suddenly, as clearly as if he had seen it in print, he knew they meant to kill him, and Flynn too. A cold fury washed over him suddenly, almost blinding him, and then it passed on and he was left cold, ready, dangerous.
“You’ll meet me once too often,” he replied shortly.
He stepped the mare toward them. “All right, what the hell do you want?”
His violence shocked them. They had been so sure they commanded the situation. He saw the long-haired one side-step his horse a little, and he saw the older, cooler man place a hand in proximity to his gun. Only the Mexican had made no move. He was looking at Flint with careful, waiting eyes.
“You ain’t so tough.” The long-haired one wanted to swagger a little. “We’re going to kill both you and him.”
They were talking up a killing and he did not wait for them to get ready. He shot the long-haired one through the stomach.
His draw was unexpected. They had expected him to talk, perhaps to try to talk them out of it. They were expecting words and he gave them lead. He drew and fired so swiftly it caught them flat-footed.
The man he had shot sat very still, then slid from the saddle and hit ground with a small thud.
Flint looked at them through the curl of smoke from his gun. “All right. Who’s next?”
The Mexican’s eyes were steady, but he lifted his hands to shoulder height and backed his horse a step.
The other two sat very still, looking at him. They were not afraid, nor was the Mexican, and of them all, Flint thought, the Mexican had understood most. The fallen man moaned softly, whimpering like a baby.
“I know what you’re here for, and take it from me, you’re in the wrong business. My advice to you is to get out of the country.” He gestured at the fallen man. “You can’t help him, but you can try. And after that, bury him and ride out.”
The other riders he had seen were coming, so he walked his horse away, leading Flynn’s mount The newcomers were two men and a girl. One of the men was Pete Gaddis, whom he remembered from the moment in the matchlight, the other a young Mexican.
He drew up, waiting for them. He saw Pete Gaddis’ eyes go to the brand on his horse, and pause there. Wh
en they lifted to meet Flint’s, he was shocked by their expression. Gaddis’ face showed white under the weather-beaten skin.
Nancy Kerrigan rode quickly to the wounded man. “Ed! Ed! Is it you?”
“He came to my camp. I did what I could but he’s in a bad way.”
She looked up at Flint and for the first time she realized he was someone she had seen before.
“I know you,” she said. “I…”
“We have never met,” he said brusquely. “You had better see to this man. He will need a doctor.”
The young Mexican rider took the lead rope and started off toward the north, wasting no time. Nancy Kerrigan started to speak, then changed her mind and rode away.
Pete Gaddis lingered. “We heard a shot.”
“Yes.”
Gaddis glanced to the four horses and the men who gathered around the dead man. His eyes returned to the horse and its brand. It was an old brand. And this was an old horse.
“Your voice is familiar. We had a talk once, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“Only then you didn’t have a horse.”
“Didn’t I?”
Gaddis indicated the men gathered below. “They look like Baldwin riders. Did they shoot Ed?”
“He was shot by someone with a high-powered rifle who was slightly above him, and he was on a horse at the time. He was ambushed.”
“How do you figure he was on a horse?”
“Line up the holes in his clothes with the wounds, and you’ll see he had to be, and the only way a man can shoot down on a mounted man is to be up higher — in rocks, maybe. Or on a ridge.”
Gaddis indicated the group below. “Did they jump you?”
Flint glanced at them. “They were working up to it, but I never could see any sense in talking when it’s a shooting matter.” He gathered the reins. “This isn’t my affair, and I wanted no part of it.”
“No matter how it was before,” Gaddis said dryly, “you’d better take another look. It’s your fight now. They’ll make it your fight.”
Flint turned his mare. “Adios,” he said, and rode away.
Flint Page 6
