Dark Angel Riding

by Paul Lederer

  ‘She’s a fine lady,’ Billy Dent said appreciatively.

  ‘She’s got spunk.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Dent said with a crooked smile, ‘she’s got that. And what makes it more remarkable is that she wasn’t born in the West. Aaron Blythe met her back East somewhere when he was on a cattle-buying trip. He left a bachelor and came back with that tiny little bride. People were taking bets on how long she’d last out here, not being used to the long land and the dry winds, the stink of a cattle ranch. But she settled in to learn the business. She took over the books for Aaron, who wasn’t much of a man with numbers, even used to ride out on the range with him once in a while on a head count.

  ‘Everyone was wrong about Cassandra Blythe. She’s got twice the will of most men in this country.’

  Dancer had been listening without hearing, his eyes searching the land which here began to lift and fold into gently rolling hills where purple sage and nopal cactus flourished. Beyond these he could see the sawtooth mountains rising high and stark against the pale sky. There were gathering clouds in the notches, coalescing into a dark mass. John Dancer pointed them out, but Dent shrugged in response and told him:

  ‘The clouds bulge up this time of year, but we almost never get rain from them.’

  ‘Where are the cattle gathered?’ Dancer asked the young cowboy.

  ‘We’ll get over that way soon. There’s a valley – some flats actually – called Tortuga in yonder direction.’ He raised his arm to point toward the north. ‘That’s where we’re holding the herd. We’ll drift over that way. But first, I know that Jared would want me to show you something else,’ he said as they crested the slate-gray hill. ‘There is where you don’t wish to be riding.’ Dent removed his hat and wiped his perspiring forehead with the sleeve of the same arm.

  They were overlooking a dry wash clotted with willow brush, which was carved crookedly across the desert below them. ‘That’s Paiute wash,’ Dent advised him. ‘It’s the borderline between Rafter B and Pinetree. Wander across it at your own risk.’ He said quite seriously, ‘Those boys will shoot. Especially now that they’ve got it in their heads that we’re trying to rustle some of their cattle for the trail drive.’

  ‘How’d they ever get that idea?’ Dancer wanted to know.

  ‘Who can tell. Cattle do wander. And there’s some even on Rafter B who think maybe Champion or Weaver have picked up a few Pinetree strays.’

  ‘Those are the bootstrap ranchers?’

  ‘Yeah. Double X and Snake Eye. They came into the country late and their land is poor. Just small men trying to make a go of it. I don’t know – I’m fairly well acquainted with old Ben Champion, I can’t see him as a cattle rustler.’

  They drifted northward idly, Dent pointing out a clump of wide-spreading oak trees in the distance, where a pond could be found even at this time of year, and a ribbon of a trail leading further into the rocky hills where one of the three line camps was located.

  They dipped down through a shallow arroyo and rode up the sandy slope opposite, the horses laboring a little with the soft footing. They were within a few yards of achieving the flats above when the rifles behind them rang out.

  FIVE

  Dent cried out in pain, threw his hands into the air and tumbled back down the sandy slope. Dancer kneed Washoe roughly and the big gray crested the rim of the wash. The horse had taken only three strides before Dancer, unsheathing his rifle, reined up hard and swung down from the still-running animal.

  Washoe ran on in confusion while Dancer eased his way to the rim of the gully on his belly, his Winchester across the crooks of both arms. Three, four shots rang out from across the arroyo, but whoever was shooting was below Dancer; and he offered them no target silhouette and their bullets flew wide and high.

  His hat lost, Dancer crept nearer to the edge of the sandy bluff. Looking down he saw what he had feared. The little spotted horse that Dent had been riding had thrashed its way to its feet, and was now scrambling up the slope toward the flats, its reins hanging free, its eyes wild with confusion. Dent lay face down in the sand, a red stain spreading across the back of his white shirt. He wouldn’t be getting up again. Dancer’s conscience encouraged him to slide down into the wadi to check on Dent, but his mind, studying the inert figure of the cowboy, told him that it was already too late and that trying to reach Dent would only result in two dead men littering the slope.

  He diverted his anger toward settling a score. It was hot as hell. Somewhere distant thunder growled low, like the threat in a guard dog’s throat, but the air was still. Dancer’s face was sheened with perspiration, and he angrily wiped his eyes clear as he settled in behind the iron sights of his Winchester.

  There was a low screen of chaparral on the opposite bluff as there was on this side. Chia, sumac, twisted manzanita, but none of it tall enough to conceal an upright man or pony. Knowing that the ambusher must still be where he had been, unless he had bellied away over the cactus and volcanic rock – unlikely – Dancer forced himself to adopt patience as his best weapon.

  He settled in uncomfortably, propped up on his elbows, waiting as the day heated and the thunderheads over the mountains began to creep toward them, their grumbling continuous, ominous. Sweat trickled into Dancer’s eyes and stained his shirt, front and back. Still there was no movement across the broad land but the low brush swaying in the ruffling breeze. A lone vulture circled high above them, its dark silhouette like a judgment to come.

  Dancer shifted slightly from time to time, wondering if he had mistaken his man. Maybe the sniper had managed to crawl away and was now miles distant. He did not think so and so he continued to wait.

  An hour had passed, judging by the shadows, perhaps more, when the bushwhacker rose from cover across the arroyo and unleashed two wild shots in Dancer’s direction. Dancer watched the man weave through the brush, saw him catch up a horse which must have been hidden in a small declivity. The hatless horseman heeled his pony roughly, turning it on its hind legs, intent on a mad dash for safety.

  The front bead sight of Dancer’s rifle seemed to nestle into the V of his rear iron sights and he touched off, instantly levering another cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester. The first shot missed low. Now Dancer elevated the muzzle slightly, compensating for the fall of the bullet over the distance and squeezed off another .44-40 round. This one tagged the ambusher.

  The man’s arms flew out wildly and his horse shied violently. As Dancer rose to his feet, readying another shot, he saw the sniper slump to one side of the saddle and tumble from his pony’s back. His boot slipped through the stirrup iron as he fell and Dancer watched as the spooked horse raced off across the rocky ground, dragging its dead or wounded rider by the foot.

  Dancer lowered his rifle slowly. The rising wind shifted his dark hair and tugged at his blue shirt.

  He had been here for two short days and had already shot two men. He might as well have stayed in Alamogordo.

  He slid down the bank until he reached the still form of Billy Dent, managed to shoulder the young man and waded back up the sandy bluff. Ahead, in the thin shade of a thorny mesquite tree, Dancer saw Washoe standing uneasily, watching the confusing human games. Nearby Dent’s spotted pony stood quivering. Its herding instinct had apparently kept it near the well-trained Washoe. The dapple pony’s eyes were wide and it shied away each time Dancer approached it, making John’s unhappy task difficult. But eventually he was able to drape Dent’s body over the saddle, settle the spotted pony somewhat and swing onto Washoe’s back.

  The day brooded upon itself; the wind began to gust fitfully and, as Dancer swung into leather the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.

  The skies grew dark, and lightning struck near at hand twice, followed by the earth-shaking clamor of sudden thunder. Dancer tugged his hat lower and rode on. Mentally sketching the lie of the land, he turned northward – the wind and driving rain at his back – and rode on toward the line camp that Dent had pointed out earli
er. It was much nearer than the home ranch.

  If he could find it.

  The rain slanted down in pitchforks. Small, quick-running rills appeared where none had been before. The gloom of the day increased. The late sun was lost completely, smothered by the roiling storm clouds. Washoe labored on; Dancer rode with his head bowed, still gripping the reins of the following dapple carrying its master to his final resting place.

  Dancer was sure he was lost now. Nothing looked the same as it had at a distance and he had never been in this country before. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, ran down his body pasting his shirt to his back and shoulders. Cursing his luck, he rode on.

  Not half a mile further on he became aware of another sort of darkness surrounding him. Looking up he saw that he had entered a small oak grove – fifteen or twenty trees at most – and just beyond the stand of trees a dim light burned in the window of a small stone house. He made his way toward it, Washoe’s hoofs sloshing now through shallow mud and rainwater. Dancer approached the cabin with caution, for a new thought had presented itself: what if he had completely lost his way and crossed over onto Pinetree range?

  He walked Washoe across the muddy yard of the cabin, and as he neared the door he could now see that it was open bare inches, just wide enough for someone to peer out – or wide enough for a gun muzzle. He hailed the house.

  ‘Anybody in there!’ There was a brief pause and then a deep voice answered.

  ‘Yeah, ‘we’re in here, and you’re covered, brother. What’s your business?’

  ‘We got ambushed on the trail. I’ve got Billy Dent with me. Dead.’

  Again there was a pause as if consultations were being held. The voice inside inquired:

  ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘Billy Dent.’

  ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘Name’s John. I’m a new-hire. Jared Fine sent Billy out with me to show me the boundaries and how the land tilts. We got bushwhacked along the way.’

  Again, a brief silence, then: ‘Swing down carefully, John. Keep your hand away from your sidearm and come up onto the porch.’

  Dancer did as he had been instructed. Before he stepped onto the plank porch, however, he took care to loop the reins to Dent’s pony around the hitching rail. It wouldn’t do to have the skittish horse, spooked by lightning or its own lingering fear, run off into the storm carrying its somber burden.

  Dancer stepped onto the wooden porch of the stone house, whipped his hat to remove the rain from it and approached the dimly lighted doorway with his hands at shoulder height. The door was suddenly flung wide, the glare of firelight bright against the gloom of the storm. A man with a shotgun in his hands appeared there, backing away to a safe distance as he invited: ‘Come on in, John, and tell me again what happened and just who in the hell you might be.’

  The fire in the low fireplace with the arch-shaped stone hearth was bright, but the smoke it gave off seemed heavy and drifted in ghostly fashion across the room. Maybe the falling rain was resisting the rising heat with its cold fury.

  The interior of the stone house was only a single room. On one side of it bunks for four men had been placed against the wall, the upper ones hung on angled chains. The other side of the room held a camp stove, a pantry and a narrow closet. A puncheon table, long enough for six men to seat themselves occupied the center of the room, dividing it. The man with the shotgun gestured with his weapon for John to sit down in one of the roughly hewn chairs. Dancer did as he was told. You don’t argue with a man with a shotgun.

  The chair scraped the wooden floor. John Dancer removed his wet hat and placed it on the table, then folded his arms on its scarred surface. The man with the shotgun seated himself heavily at the head of the table. His lean face might have been amiable enough in normal times, but now he was scowling deeply, his dark eyes uncertain. He wore an untrimmed red mustache that flared out across his cheeks, a long John shirt and twill trousers held up by black suspenders. The crackling flames in the fireplace ghosted his face with shifting shadows. His shotgun remained on the table, the twin muzzles pointed in Dancer’s direction.

  His right hand was bandaged heavily with stained muslin. Rusty splotches could be seen where blood had leaked through the poor bandage and dried. Dancer nodded at the injured man’s hand and asked:

  ‘Dally thumb?’

  The wounded man nodded unhappily. It was a not uncommon injury on the range. A cowboy has to rope a steer quick and fast, drawing his pony to a halt while looping a dally knot around the pommel of his saddle. If he’s a little too quick, or a little too slow he risks having his thumb pinched off. This explained why the man was alone in the line shack instead of having been out on the range when the storm broke.

  ‘I was going to cauterize it, but I hadn’t the nerve,’ the cowboy said. ‘Which explains why it’s still bleeding two days on.’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘None of which is why I’m sitting here talking to you. Tell me again what happened to Billy Dent and who you are.’

  Dancer did, as succinctly as possible. The firelit eyes of the wounded man barely left his face throughout the recital. Nor did the muzzles of the shotgun shift as the cowhand watched, his left hand resting near the double-twelve’s triggers.

  ‘How do I know you didn’t shoot Billy?’ the cowboy asked when Dancer was finished.

  ‘I guess you don’t,’ John said honestly, his gaze as steady as that of his inquisitor.

  ‘Or that you even work for Rafter B? I sure never saw you before.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that either,’ Dancer replied. ‘But if I was a Pinetree hand, it would be damned funny – me riding up to a Rafter B line shack. No matter who I might be it would be plain crazy for me to lug a dead man along instead of leaving him where I’d killed him.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ the man with the red mustache answered with a heavy sigh. ‘That don’t make any sense. Things have been bad around here, mister. Everyone is jittery. Billy … he was a good kid.’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  ‘He was my cousin,’ the injured cowboy told him. More thoughtfully he added: ‘Well, my sister’s husband’s cousin. I don’t know if that makes him anything to me. I called him “cousin” anyway. I brought him into this country with me from El Paso last summer. …’ The cowhand fell into thoughtful silence. The fire found pine-pitch in a log, sparked and crackled with a muffled explosion.

  The red-mustached man’s eyes were serious now: perhaps he believed he might have been partly responsible for his cousin’s death by bringing him to Nevada.

  ‘This is just bad-luck range,’ he said at length. ‘Just plain bad-luck range.’

  Later, after they had fallen into a sort of wary amiability, Dancer asked about stabling the horses and was told there was a rough lean-to affair behind the house. Going out into the rain which still drove down, Dancer saw to the chore of stabling the horses. He left young Billy Dent to the dark chill of the lean-to as well. There was nothing else to be done, not on this raging and remorseless night.

  Later Dancer curled up on one of the lower bunks, watching the gold and crimson of the dying fire through the smoke that continued to shadow the room. He considered his host’s dismal assessment of the situation he had landed in and found himself reaching agreement with him. The two days spent on Rafter B had been unrelieved hell. Two men dead at his hand. Caught in the open in a fierce storm, lying now in soaked clothing on a wooden-plank bunk under a single thin blanket. Someone out on the range willing to kill him from ambush. Maybe it was just as the man said:

  Just plain bad-luck range.

  Dancer remembered Foley’s advice on the day he had arrived. He should just climb aboard his horse and slap spurs to it. That, he could not do with honor, since he had hired on to do a job – no matter that the job he had expected had transmuted into some dangerous undertaking that he did not even understand.

  Or, rather, he did understand – all too well. The law of the gun had been imposed, and he wa
s expected to be an officer of that law. It was too similar to the circumstances in which he had found himself in New Mexico. There he had been hired for his skill with weapons, then disposed of nearly outlawed – when the struggle was ended. He had wanted only to work as a cowhand again, to leave his past behind.

  Perhaps, he considered morosely, a man carried his past, his destiny with him and nothing could change the course of his life.

  Foley had had a point. There were still a few shoestring ranches further north who would need help at round-up time. When the storm broke, he could ride out in that direction once more. No one would ever know or care – he could be easily replaced. It was a solution to be considered.

  Restlessly Dancer rolled up in his blanket, his eyes still open, studying the low-burning fire. He could ride on in the morning. True. But he had given his word. And as he closed his eyes against the firelight he had a vivid image of the person he had given his promise to. A small, golden-haired, widowed woman, her eyes fixed sadly on the past, and so hopefully on her future.

  Chapin – for that was the red-mustached man’s name – was up before dawn. By the time Dancer rolled out, the morning had arrived with bright new promise. The door to the stone cabin stood open. There was coffee on the stove, bubbling and boiling, its rich scent filling the room. Dancer glanced out at the skies; they were clear except for a few vagrant clouds orphaned by the storm flock. The birds were chirruping in the oaks; the thirsty desert was rapidly soaking up the rainfall.

  ‘I’ll help you with Billy,’ Dancer promised as he seated himself at the table. Chapin placed a tin cup of coffee in front of John and shook his head solemnly.

  ‘I’d rather do it myself. He was family.’

  ‘With your hand as it is—’

  ‘I’d rather do it myself, John,’ Chapin said with unexpected sharpness.

  While Chapin set grimly about his task, Dancer saddled Washoe, considering his next move. It seemed that his best option was to ride on ahead and catch up with the gathered herd at Tortuga Flats. There he could report to Fine or Charley Spikes – one of them was bound to be around – and follow any instructions they might have to give him.