by Ralph Cotton
Chapter 7
At a rising pass through the rugged hills, Billy Odle stopped his horse suddenly and looked down at the ground. Beside him Willie John reined up and asked, “What’s the matter, kid?” Even as Willie spoke, his eyes scanned the ridges above them where thin flakes of snow had begun sticking to the rocks.
Billy Odle’s voice was a cautious whisper, his finger pointing at hoofprints on the ground. “All the time I’ve been coming up, I’ve never seen tracks before. Somebody’s up ahead of us.”
“All right. Take it easy, kid,” said Willie, his pistol coming up from across his lap as he stepped his horse to the side. Ten feet above them, he saw the edge of a hat brim move upward then duck back down. He cocked the pistol. Metal on metal resounded clearly on the narrow trail. Then, before Willie could even find a target to aim at, he recognized the voice of Huey Sweeney calling out to him.
“Don’t shoot, Willie! It’s me—Huey! I’m up here waiting for ya!” Huey Sweeney stood up, his empty hands waving back and forth above his head. “I’ve been watching you two come up the trail. You’re not being followed, I hope.”
Billy Odle noticed that Willie John lowered his pistol but kept it cocked across his lap. “I expect we would find somebody back there on our trail, if we looked close enough. Come on down, Sweeney. It makes me nervous, talking up to you this way.”
“I’m coming,” Huey Sweeney chuckled, stepping carefully down through the rocks. “I swear, I figured you and the boys for dead.”
“You nearly figured right,” said Willie. “Rasdorph and the other two got spent. I took a bullet . . . barely got away myself.” He jerked a nod toward Billy Odle. “This young man helped me out, or I’d still be back there squared off with them.”
“That’s a damn shame about the others.” Sweeney stopped and looked up at him, shaking his head slowly, noting the bandage on Willie’s shoulder wound. “I want you to know I hated leaving you and Nian and them back there fighting it out.”
“You did what anybody would do, Sweeney,” said Willie. “I don’t hold it against you.” He motioned at the pistol in Huey Sweeney’s belt. “Uncock that Colt, Sweeney, before it goes off and leaves you one-legged.”
“Oh! Sure,” said Sweeney, looking down at the pistol in surprise. Careful not to raise it from his belt with Willie’s eyes pinned on him, Sweeney reached down and uncocked the pistol. He shrugged. “I reckon I got a little jumpy waiting up here alone. What do you suppose we oughta do now?”
Willie John nudged his horse in a step closer, looking down at Sweeney. “Are you on foot?” he asked.
“No, I put my horse back there out of sight soon as I first spotted you coming,” Sweeney replied.
“Then let’s go get it,” said Willie.
“Are we going to head right out, try to catch up with Hopper and the gang?” Sweeney asked.
“No. We’d be smart to lay low a few days. Let everybody settle down. Then we can head south and catch up with the others. Unless I miss my guess, Hopper and Earl are going to want to come back and take that bank. It’s the nearest around.”
“Well . . .” Sweeney seemed to consider things for a moment. Then he said, “All right. It makes sense, I reckon. Lay low, catch up to the others later on.” He looked around the land. “Any idea where to lay up?”
“Yep,” Willie nodded. “The kid here knows a hiding place up there a ways. Says nobody’s been there for a long time.”
Billy Odle gave Willie John a stunned expression. “We wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, Willie!”
“It’s okay, kid. Sweeney is one of us. We’ve got to stick together, right, Sweeney?”
“Ab-so-damn-lutely.” Sweeney grinned. He reached a hand up, wanting Willie to take it and pull him up behind his saddle. “Give me a lift to my horse, Willie.”
But Willie refused him and shook his head. “Huh-uh, Sweeney. You best walk back to where you hid your horse. Riding double’s a bad idea right now.”
“What’s wrong, Willie, don’t you trust me?” Sweeney asked.
“Look at this plug I’m riding,” Willie responded. “He’s barely able to carry me.” He gave Sweeney a flat smile and stepped the horse back, keeping Sweeney in front of him. “After you, amigo,” he said.
As Sweeney circled upward into the rocks with Willie John watching his every move, Billy Odle said to Willie in a lowered voice, “I wish you hadn’t told him anything about the hideout. I wanted it to be our secret.”
“What else should we have done?” said Willie. He looked Billy Odle up and down as the boy seemed to pout and stare toward Sweeney. “Don’t worry about him. I know how to handle Huey Sweeney if he causes any problems. Right now, we still don’t want any noise carrying back in the direction of Hubbler Wells.”
Once again Billy Odle looked surprised. “You mean you’re going to—?”
“Shhhh, keep it down, kid,” Willie whispered harshly. “This is no time to go tipping our hand.”
“But you act like you and him are partners . . . good friends. Like you’re going to be looking out for one another.”
“Easy, kid,” Willie chuckled. “Don’t let all the friendly talk fool you. He’s out to save his own neck, same as me. We don’t owe one another a thing.” He turned his gaze from Billy back up in the rocks, watching Sweeney step down toward them, leading his horse. “Nobody owes anybody else a thing in this world, kid. That’s something you better learn real quick, if you want to stay alive.”
Billy stared at Willie for a second, then said in a timid voice, “But you don’t feel like that, do you? I mean about me, the way I helped you?”
“No, kid, don’t talk stupid,” said Willie, dismissing it. “I’m just telling you how it is with men like Sweeney. After what you and your pa did for me that time . . . and now all this. You and I are buddies, Billy. Don’t ever forget it.”
When Huey Sweeney brought his horse down from the rocks and mounted it, Willie John motioned him forward up the trail, then fell in behind him. “What am I doing up front?” Sweeney asked, “I don’t know where we’re headed. Get up here, boy,” he said to Billy Odle.
Seeing Billy Odle start to nudge his horse forward, Willie John reached out and grabbed Billy’s horse by its bridle, holding the animal back. “Huh-uh. You’re good right there, Huey,” said Willie John. “Just go the way my partner here tells you to.”
A few minutes later, the three of them stepped down from their mounts and Billy led them up onto a slim path that led across a flat rock face. Willie John brought up the rear, still keeping Sweeney in front of him. Looking around, Willie said, “I believe you were right, kid. There’s been nobody come this way for a long time.”
“This way,” said Billy Odle, pointing at what appeared to be nothing more than pure open sky where the land dropped away. Willie and Huey Sweeney gave each other a dubious glance.
“Damn, are you sure about this, boy?” Sweeney asked Billy.
Before Billy could answer, Willie John cut in, saying to Sweeney, “He knows what he’s doing, Sweeney.”
“That’s right,” said Billy Odle. “Don’t worry about me. I know how to keep up my end of things.”
Willie John and Sweeney passed one another a knowing look and followed quietly. “You feeling all right, Willie John?” asked Sweeney. “You look feverish.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m feeling fine.”
The horses and the mule grew tense, stepping out onto a rim path that stood over three hundred feet above the earth on their right. Beneath them, the tops of long pine and cedar trees swayed on the cold air in a light swirl of snowflakes. On their left stood almost seamless rock, reaching straight up fifty feet or more. “My God,” said Huey Sweeney, “why would anybody have ever come to a place like this unless they were stone-cold crazy.”
After a few more yards, they stopped and looked back into the opening beneath an overhanging shelf of rock. Sweeney and Willie John stood speechless for a moment staring at ancient wooden ladders la
id against flat hand-set stones, leading upward to stone doorways filled with the blackness of night. “An Injun ruins,” Sweeney finally whispered. “And we’re talking about ancient Injuns!”
Billy Odle put his hands on his hips in satisfaction, saying to Willie John, “Well, what do you think? Is this a hideout or not?” All three of them turned a slow complete circle, Willie and Sweeney taking in the wide common area where petrified firewood lay in a heap, and where on the surrounding walls ancient hands had left pictures painted with the stain from berries, colored clay and bloodroot.
“Yes, kid,” Willie whispered as if in awe, “it’s a hideout sure enough.” He stood with his free hand pressed to his shoulder wound where fresh blood had seeped through. “You’re sure nobody knows about it? Your friend maybe?”
“No, I told you,” said Billy Odle. “Nobody knows about it except me.”
Willie turned to Sweeney with a faint smile. “He told me he’s kept this place a secret in case he needed to hide out someday.”
Sweeney laughed under his breath. “You must think you’re an outlaw in the making, boy.”
“I don’t like being called ‘boy,” ’ Billy snapped at him. He shot a glance at Willie John for support but saw none.
“Yeah?” said Sweeney. “Well, sometimes it ain’t what you like in life, boy . . . but what you have to get used to.”
Observing Billy Odle, Willie John saw a dark shine of fire in the young man’s eyes. But then Willie saw how quickly the lad was able to check himself down and turn away from Sweeney’s taunting. “I’ll go up along the rim and rustle up some brush and kindling,” Billy said in a tight tone. “We’re out of the wind here, but it’ll turn colder come dark.”
Billy turned to walk away, but Willie John caught his arm. “Good work, Billy,” said Willie John, meaning it.
Billy nodded and walked on, feeling his chest fill with pride.
Huey Sweeney stood watching until Billy Odle was out of sight. “Damn, Willie,” Sweeney chuckled. “Looks like you found yourself a guardian angel—for a while anyway. Where’d you run into this pup?”
“It’s a long story. I met his dad once when I’d been shot and was on the dodge. The kid feels like we’ve become friends.”
“Yeah?” Sweeney grinned. “Well, he’s got lots to learn, you can see that in his eyes. Anybody out here in the cold when they could be laid up somewhere near a warm stove ain’t got much sense anyway you look at it.”
“He’s a good kid,” said Willie John. “Him and his family’s had some bad breaks lately.”
“Bad breaks?” Sweeney acted surprised. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for somebody, Willie. I don’t believe it!”
Willie walked away, leading his horse and the mule deeper underneath the shelf overhang. “Believe what you want to believe, Sweeney,” he growled.
Sam Burrack had picked up the Ganston Gang’s hoofprints easily enough once he’d gotten around past the town garbage dump and headed north toward the hill line. Judging from the length of the horse’s stride, the rider had been pushing hard. But once Sam followed the prints a few miles onto the flatland, he saw where the horse had slowed down, almost to a walk in some places; yet, the direction never wavered. The rider wanted the protection of the rock trails and hill passes. Once at the base of the hills, Sam swung off to the left and found two more sets of prints—the ones left by Billy Odle and Willie John. He nudged the Appaloosa forward, taking his rifle from his saddle scabbard and placing it across his lap.
Atop a rocky perch in the distance, Lester Phelps saw the lone rider coming. He slid back from the edge of the cliff, stood up, dusted himself with his cold hands and turned to Hopper and Earl Ganston. “It’s one of the lawmen who were on us before we hit Hubbler Wells. There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
“Damn it!” said Hopper. “We’ve got to get him off our rumps if we’re ever going to do ourselves any good!”
“I can nail him in another hundred yards, if he keeps coming the way he is,” said Lester.
Hopper and Earl Ganston squinted out across the flatlands at the tiny figure beneath them in a light swirl of snow. “Like hell you will,” said Earl.
“I’ve got him,” said Lester. “You can count on it.”
Earl and Hopper looked at one another. “Lester is one hell of a shot with that big Spencer, Earl, I got to admit it,” said Hopper.
“All right, then,” said Earl, turning to Lester. “Give us a ten minute head start toward Hubbler Wells, then let him have it.”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” said Lester. “I wasn’t figuring on you two leaving me out here.”
“Why not, Lester?” Hopper asked. “It won’t take all three of us to pull that trigger, will it?”
“No, but damn it—” Lester’s protest was cut short by Earl Ganston.
“Lester, there’s no reason for us not to get a jump toward Hubbler Wells, just in case something goes wrong. We’ll see if you got him or not. If you miss, won’t it be better if the two of us are in position to swing around behind him, and keep him off your back?”
Lester scratched his head. “Well, since you put it that way.”
“It’s the only way that makes sense, Lester,” Hopper joined in.
“All right, go on, then,” Lester said grudgingly. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.” He slid the Spencer rifle from the saddle boot and ran a hand along the barrel.
On the flatland, Sam brought the Appaloosa to a halt and stepped down for a second for a closer look at the hoofprints, noting how the swirl of snow had begun to increase over the past half hour. By the time he reached the hill trail, the snow might cover the prints altogether. He stooped down and brushed a gloved hand back and forth on the ground.
Lester Phelps leveled his rifle and kept the sights trained on the Ranger, following him as he stood up and stepped back into the saddle atop the Appaloosa stallion. Taking in a deep breath and holding it, Lester squeezed slow and steadily on the trigger, his aim pinned to Sam Burrack’s chest.
At a distance of over two hundred yards, Sam saw the shot a split second before he heard it. The bullet fell short and struck the cold ground near the stallion’s hoofs, sending a stinging spray of rock and dirt against the animal’s foreleg. The stallion reared and twisted in the air. Before he could settle it, Sam felt a second bullet whistle past his head. He brought the stallion down, batting his heels to its side. Black Pot sped forward, but Sam could already feel the difference in the stallion’s gait. He reined hard to the left and slid the stallion into the cover of a narrow crevice. Jumping down from the saddle, he yanked his rifle from its boot.
Lester Phelps’s eyes searched frantically through the light swirl of snow, knowing he’d missed his shot, and knowing what kind of trouble he was in, losing sight of the Ranger. He looked off in the direction Hopper and Earl Ganston had taken. Now he was worried. There was only two hundred yards between himself and a man he’d just tried to kill. He looked back down in the Ranger’s direction for only a second. Then he jumped to his feet and sprang to his horse, his heart starting to pound in his chest. “Wait for me, boys!” he called out in a weak voice, knowing the Ganstons were too far ahead to hear him.
Once on his horse, Lester used his rifle barrel to bat the horse’s rump. He raced along the trail, looking back in spite of the fact that the Ranger couldn’t possibly be close behind him. If there was any way for the Ranger to see him, it would be as he sped along a short stretch of trail that lay exposed to the flatlands where it dipped down along the side of the hills. But that stretch of trail was no more than fifty yards long. He spurred the horse hard as he reached it, then ducked low in his saddle.
By the time Lester heard the rifle shot below, the white-hot pain had sliced through his left side and blew out a hole through his right side. It took a second for him to realize he’d been shot. As the crack of a rifle resounded across the hills, Lester felt his legs let go of the saddle. His arms flew up involuntarily, letting go of the reins
. For a moment he seemed suspended in air. Then the ground came up fast, hitting him full force on his back.
Lester couldn’t begin to guess how long he had laid there. He was sure he’d been knocked unconscious, and what had brought him to was the sound of a horse’s hoofs moving toward him. At first he thought it was Earl and Hopper coming back for him; but when he felt the warm wet muzzle touch his cheek, he looked closely and realized it was his own horse. The spooked animal had run a short ways down the trail, then circled back. Lester raised his bloody right hand from the gaping wound in his side, then looked down at the wound itself and winced. “We got to get out of here,” he murmured to the horse. Reaching up, he took hold of a stirrup and raised himself to his knees. But then he stopped cold at the sound of a pistol cocking a few feet in front of him.
“Turn loose of the horse, mister,” said Sam Burrack. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Like hell, I ain’t,” Lester rasped, seeing the Ranger more clearly now. What he saw was a cocked Colt in a gloved hand and a long riding duster standing beneath the lowered brim of a gray sombrero. “You can go on and finish me off . . . if you’ve a mind to. But otherwise I’m leaving here.”
“You’ve put me afoot, mister,” said Sam. “Now I’ve got to have your horse.” He stepped closer, the Appaloosa stallion limping behind him.
“You taking me back, lawman?” Lester gave him a curious look.
“Do you think you’d make it?” Sam asked.
“Nope . . . I’m done for,” Lester wheezed.
“Then there you are,” Sam replied. He jerked a nod toward the Appaloosa stallion. “But I’m taking him back to get his leg treated. I’m sort of in a hurry.”
