The afternoon wore on and Perley never took his eyes off the line of treeless hills from which the shots had come. He could see the entire slope, from the eastern end to the western end, and he constantly scanned the hills. There was no chance anyone could approach his position by the creek without his seeing them.
Finally deeming it time to ride, he climbed into the saddle, and with a firm nudge of his heels, signaled Buck to spring into a lope along the edge of the creek. He picked a spot to cross the creek some thirty yards or so past the point where he and his horses would be exposed to the would-be horse thief. As he’d expected, he was once again under fire as several shots rang out. By the time he heard the third shot, he knew he was in the clear, but he held Buck and the packhorses to the pace until he had left the creek far behind him.
Reining the bay back to a fast walk, he cut back more to the east, since his dash up the stream had taken him off his intended course.
When he came to a series of rolling hills, he rode to the top of the tallest and paused to look over his back trail. For as far as he could see, there was no sign of anyone following him. That seemed to confirm his thought that his bushwhacker might be on foot, but he was not content to count on it. He wheeled Buck and the packhorses and loped down the grassy hill, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and whoever the shooter might be.
Even though his horses had not rested as much as he normally would have rested them, he held them to a steady pace until it was almost dark. When he came to a small creek, he decided to make his camp there, afraid he might not come to another one all night. After his experience at his previous stop, he thought it best to set up a mock camp, just to be cautious. Unlike his last stop, there were no trees of any size on either side of the creek, but random clumps of small wild cherry trees and thick berry bushes provided some cover. After unloading his horses, he built a fire to make some coffee and fry some bacon. His distraction at the last creek had caused him to go without anything since breakfast. It’s a good thing that one was a good one, he thought, else my belly would have rubbed a blister on itself.
He felt reasonably sure that he had left his assailant behind, but thought it common sense to assume the opposite. After satisfying his hunger, he added wood to his fire and made a decoy with his rain slicker, the hide from the last deer he had killed, and his saddle as a pillow. As another precaution, he hobbled the two packhorses to prevent them from wandering very far.
He took his blanket behind a clump of the berry bushes, where he could guard his horses. Thinking to put the gold he transported to good use, he made his bed with the four sacks situated around him. Maybe that gold will slow a bullet down. He’d been protecting it all day. It might return the favor by protecting him at night. When he felt he had taken all the precautions he could, he crawled into his gold-lined breastworks, his rifle close beside him, and tried to sleep.
It didn’t come easily, but sleep finally overtook him, accompanied by the singing of the night critters that called the creek home. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, the sounds of the insects ceased, replaced by a whinny from Buck.
It was enough to cause Perley’s eyes to flicker, accustomed as he was to the big bay’s warnings.
In a minute, he realized he was awake, unaware that Buck had alerted him. Perley listened for a few moments, but hearing nothing, he turned on his side, hoping to go right back to sleep. A few moments later, his eyes snapped open when he heard Buck whinny again, registering that something was wrong. He raised up on one elbow to look toward his campfire, no more than glowing embers. A dark shadow approached the lump that Perley had fashioned to resemble a sleeping body. Before moving, Perley looked all around the creek bank to see if others were closing in on his camp.
Sure there was but one, he silently rose to his feet. In the darkness, he could determine that it was not an Indian as he had assumed, and he had caught up to him pretty fast, too fast to be on foot. He was undecided what to do until he determined the man’s intention. That only took a moment, however, for the intruder slowly raised a pistol and fired it into the dummy, cocked it, and fired a second and third time. He stood there, staring down at what he thought was a body, until he heard the unmistakable sound of Perley’s Winchester as he levered a cartridge into the cylinder. He whirled around, only to feel the impact of the .44 slug before he was able to raise his weapon. He staggered backward, dropping his pistol as he went to his knees.
Perley cranked another cartridge into the cylinder, ready to fire again, but his would-be assassin could not reach the weapon he had dropped.
In obvious pain, and helpless to defend himself, he started whimpering, “I’m done for,” he pleaded. “Don’t kill me.”
“Billy?” Perley gasped. “Billy Tuttle?” He was stunned. “It was you takin’ potshots at me today?” He shook his head, amazed. “And now, you just murdered me in my sleep, so you thought.”
“I never meant you no harm,” Billy wailed. “I just wanted to take a look in them bags you’re totin’.”
Even more amazed, Perley responded. “You never meant me no harm? Billy, you walked into my camp and pumped three rounds into what you thought was me. That qualifies as harm.”
Billy groaned, supporting his right arm with his left hand. “I reckon you could look at it that way, but I’m willin’ to let bygones be bygones, long as nobody died.”
Obviously, he was an imbecile.
Even knowing that, Perley was finding it hard to believe Billy’s logic. The question was what to do about it. He would be perfectly within his moral and legal rights to finish his assailant and be done with it. But somehow it didn’t feel right to simply put Billy out of his misery like you would a crippled horse or a wounded deer. From Billy’s response, Perley wondered if he was that simpleminded, that he really thought his attempt to murder could be forgiven.
Perley reached down and picked up Billy’s pistol while he wrestled with the decision he had to make. “There ain’t no bygones be bygones when you set out to murder somebody in their sleep. You gotta pay for what you tried to do.”
“Oh, me,” Billy moaned. “I think I’m bleedin’ out pretty fast. I reckon I couldn’t blame you for leavin’ me here to die.”
“Nice try, but you ain’t hardly wounded that bad,” Perley said. “You just ain’t gonna be usin’ that shoulder for a while.” Still uncertain what to do with him, he couldn’t let Billy go free to come after him again.
“If you’re fixin’ to kill me, please tell me one thing before you do it. What’s in them four sacks?”
Perley shook his head, perplexed. “Seed corn,” he answered, still unwilling to give Billy the satisfaction of knowing he had sniffed out a big prize.
Perley decided then what he would do. It would delay his journey even more, but he was unwilling to execute him, partially because it was not in his nature, and partially because Billy’s father was a good man. Since it was out of the question to leave Billy to recover and stalk him again, he decided to take him to his father’s home in Cheyenne. He would turn Billy over to Tom Tuttle and let him decide what action to take with his son.
With that settled, he tied Billy hand and foot, ignoring his painful protests when he pulled his wrists behind his back. With his prisoner hog-tied, he then examined the bullet wound in his shoulder. “It’s in pretty deep. I think it’s best to leave it till a doctor can dig it out. I’ll stuff something in your shirt to slow the bleedin’ down. Where’s your horse?”
“Back yonder on the other side of the creek,” Billy answered. “There ain’t but two of ’em. I sold the dun and that mule I had. These ropes are painin’ me somethin’ awful. They’re pullin’ on my wound too much. Can’t you ease up on ’em a little bit?”
“Reckon not,” Perley answered. “I want you to be here when I come back.”
“I give you my word, I won’t try nothin’.”
“Well, now, that makes me feel a lot better,” Perley said. “I can take a handfu
l of that sand by the creek and mix it up with your word, and I expect I’d end up with a handful of sand. You just sit tight and I’ll be right back.”
Lying there, his shoulder throbbing with the pain of the bullet lodged deep in the muscle, Billy could only blame himself for one mistake. He hadn’t thought Perley would suspect someone was trailing him. Billy had been careful. Leaning against a post at the railway depot, he had watched Perley ride out of town, leading the two packhorses. “Well, it took you long enough,” he remembered mumbling to himself, having waited the whole time Perley was eating breakfast. He had remained against the post until Perley put a safe distance between them before climbing into the saddle and starting out after him. He had been careful to stay far enough behind to keep Perley from spotting him.
What he had in mind was going to be done at long range.
Having seen Perley’s skill with the .44 he wore, Billy knew he was no match for him close up. Convinced that if there was nothing hidden in those bags of corn, Perley would not have objected to letting him see, Billy was more determined than ever to empty them. He figured since Perley was on his way back from Deadwood, it was most likely gold he was hiding. He had shot Luke and Jeb down to keep them from opening those sacks. Billy had been more than willing to bushwhack Perley to get a look inside them.
He thought about the hours he had spent hanging helplessly from the beam in the barn at Hat Creek until Robert Davis found him the next morning. He wasn’t sure Davis believed his story about having been jumped by a would-be horse thief when he’d slipped into the stable to check on his horses. Since none of the station’s horses were missing, Davis had had no real reason to detain him.
Billy had been confident that he would kill Perley. All he needed was a clear open shot with his rifle, and he had been patient enough to wait for the opportunity. He had thought that luck was riding in his favor. He believed that because it had been luck when he’d stumbled upon the tracks that told him where Perley had left the road to Cheyenne and headed up a wide stream to camp. He had found that camp and the tracks that led off toward the southeast, and not toward Cheyenne. It was luck again when he’d decided that if Perley wasn’t going to Cheyenne, then he was likely headed to Ogallala. After riding his two horses half to death, he had finally caught up with him. It was hard not to believe that luck was on his side, even finding himself in the position he was currently in.
* * *
With no thoughts of going back to sleep that night, Perley found Billy’s two horses, tied Billy to the base of a large bush, and revived his fire. It was still a couple of hours until first light, so he decided to make some breakfast. By the time they finished eating, it should be time to load the horses and turn back toward Cheyenne.
When the coffee was ready, Perley served up a fresh cup and a couple of thick slices of fried sowbelly to chew on. He even untied Billy’s hands so he could feed himself while sitting across the fire with Perley’s pistol leveled at him.
When he was finished, Perley tied him up again then packed up to get underway.
“I reckon you know you whupped me,” Billy confessed. “I won’t try to give you no trouble. Hell, I can’t. My shoulder’s so bad I can hardly move it. I know I was wrong comin’ after you, but I was really just wantin’ to partner up with you. We’da made a helluva pair, but I’m done. I’m ready to pay for my crimes.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Perley said, thinking Billy had a strange way of partnering up with someone. Having already decided that Billy was operating with some loose screws in his head, Perley was still reluctant to execute him. With a shake of his head, he surrendered to his prior impulse. “I’m takin’ you back to Cheyenne and turning you over to the sheriff. It’ll be up to him what he wants to do with you. Your daddy’s a friend of the sheriff. Maybe they can work something out for you.”
“That sure-enough sounds like a good idea,” Billy said. “Maybe he’ll work out some way that I can get my good name back again. You reckon?”
“Maybe so, if you convince everybody you’re on the level,” Perley answered
“By crackee, that’s what I’ll do, and I’ve got you to thank for it. I’m a new man. Let’s get started back to Cheyenne. I’ll make my old man proud of me yet.”
Billy’s enthusiasm seemed genuine, but Perley wasn’t ready to accept his word that he would behave on the long ride to Cheyenne. It did relieve Perley of his guilt for not going for a kill shot, however, when Billy had turned to shoot at him. “All right. We’ll start back, but you’re gonna be ridin’ with your hands tied behind your back and I’m keepin’ my eye on you the whole time.”
“Right!” Billy exclaimed, enthusiastically. “That’s the way I want it. So you’ll see I’m a changed man. I’ve been rattlin’ some sinful thoughts around in my head for a spell now. Thanks to you, I see where I was travelin’ down the wrong road. I aim to get myself on the right trail from now on.”
Used to hearing Billy speak out of both sides of his mouth, Perley took the declaration with a grain of salt. “I reckon that’ll make it easier on both of us. Let’s get mounted and we’ll start out for Cheyenne.” Before helping him up in the saddle, Perley took the horse’s reins and tied them around a stout branch of a chokecherry tree. “I wouldn’t want your horse to bolt before you got yourself in the saddle and hurt that shoulder. I’ll tie your hands after you pull yourself up.”
“I ’preciate it, Perley. My shoulder has started achin’ somethin’ fierce.” He paused before lifting his foot to the stirrup. “Let me get my breath for a minute, then I’ll be all right.” He seemed to be holding on to the saddle for support, so Perley waited for him to recover.
By the time Perley realized Billy was actually fumbling with the flap on his saddlebag, it was too late to stop him. Already in his grasp was the extra pistol he carried there and he spun around to fire it.
Perley’s natural reactions took over and he dropped to his knee. They fired at almost the same time. Billy’s shot snapped a foot over Perley’s head, while Perley’s slammed Billy in the chest. Fatally wounded, Billy squeezed the trigger again, sending one shot into the ground beside him before he sank to his knees, then keeled over onto his side. Perley went quickly to him and took the pistol from his hand.
Billy made no effort to resist. “Damn you,” he rasped. “You’ve kilt me.”
“You shouldn’t have reached for that gun,” Perley said. “I didn’t plan to kill you. I was gonna take you back to Cheyenne, to your pa. I didn’t think about you keepin’ a spare gun in your saddlebag. I shoulda checked it.”
Billy coughed feebly, causing blood to run from the corner of his mouth as he grew visibly weaker. His eyelids flickered uncontrolled for a few moments before his face relaxed as if seeing Father Death coming for him. Apparently finished, his eyelids flickered half open again and he whispered. “There’s more ’n seed corn in them damn sacks, ain’t there?”
“Yeah,” Perley replied softly. “There’s a ten-pound bag of gold dust in each one of ’em.”
A hint of a smile appeared on Billy’s face. “I knew it,” he barely managed, then his face became a blank mask in death.
Perley sat back on his heels and stared at the body of the perplexing young man, half expecting him to come to and start yakking away again. He reprimanded himself for his carelessness. When he had killed the two men who had come after Billy, he had wanted no part of their possessions. He should have remembered that Billy came away from that fight with not only two horses, but also several weapons, as well. “There’s most likely another .44 in the other saddlebag,” Perley mumbled. “Careless!”
After a while, he got to his feet, trying to decide what to do. Tom Tuttle, Billy’s father, was a good man, and maybe Perley owed him the courtesy of telling him what had happened to his son. But Cheyenne was a hell of a trip out of his way. It was also a little difficult to go tell a man, “By the way, I killed your son.” He would have to think about that.
For the time being, he
figured he owed Billy a decent burial instead of leaving him for the buzzards and wolves to dispose of. Also to consider was the matter of Billy’s two horses, with saddles; the weapons and ammunition; not to mention what was left of five pounds of gold dust. All of that Billy stole from his former partners. Perley paused, undecided if it should go to Billy’s father.
“Hell,” Perley expressed to Buck. “None of that stuff belonged to Billy in the first place.” He looked again at the corpse lying at the foot of the berry bushes. “Feedin’ the buzzards is the last chance Billy’s got to do something useful. I ain’t got a shovel, anyway.”
He packed up his camp, rigged a line to lead four horses, then stepped up in the saddle and headed south again. He had a long ride before he would reach the Red River and Texas.
CHAPTER 7
Leading four horses, it took three days of hard riding before Perley sighted the buildings of Dodge City standing stark against the vast openness of the prairie. With no wish to endanger his sacks of gold dust, he was inclined to pass the wild town by, even though he knew he’d have an opportunity to sell horses there. He had two more than he wanted to bother with but decided to heed Walter Bray’s advice and steer clear of towns like Dodge City. He rode past the town, striking the Arkansas River a few miles west, where he made his camp for the night.
The next morning, he headed in a more southeasterly direction. Leaving the cattle trail he had been following, he rode a good thirty miles or so before striking a wide creek bordered on both sides with cottonwoods and thick bushes. His horses were due a rest, and he was due some breakfast, so he picked a small clearing in the midst of a stand of cottonwoods hugging the banks, planning to give them ample time to water and graze.
He still had plenty of coffee beans, but wondered if he should have ridden into Dodge City and bought some beans and hardtack. He was riding through country he was not familiar with and hoped he would come to a town or trading post in the next few days. He had a supply of bacon, but nothing to go with it. “Damn,” he swore. “I’m sick of bacon. If I don’t find something to hunt pretty soon, I’m gonna turn into a hog.”
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