“Good choice,” Flagg said. “Cavins can shoot with the best.”
“They called him ‘Dead Eye’ in the war,” Dag said.
“You boys better take some grub with you, and make sure your canteens are filled. Oh, here comes Jo now.”
Jo came over with two paper packages. She handed one to Cavins, one to Dag.
“Some hardtack and jerky,” she said. “Felix, be careful, won’t you?”
In that mysterious grapevine that seemed to have no source or conveyance known to mortal man, half the camp knew about the stolen horse and who the thief was. Men walked up to wish them luck. Their faces blurred as Dag acknowledged them, impatient to start tracking Horton. Tracks aged, he knew, and it could rain and the wind could come up and wipe out all trace of Nero and Horton.
“We’re going, Jubal. Thanks, Jo. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Goodbye, Felix,” she said, her voice choking up on her so that she had to bite her lip and turn her head.
Dag turned his horse and he and Cavins rode out, following the clear tracks on the ground as if they were markers on a map. For some reason, he did not wave goodbye.
“Vaya con Dios,” Flagg said, as he watched the two ride out on the hunt for Horton.
The tracks led them over hard ground, but were easy to follow. Dag kept looking ahead and on both sides of the game trail Horton had taken. The landscape was bleak, rocky, strewn with several varieties of cactus and islands of grass.
“At least we got the sun at our backs,” Cavins said.
Dag turned to him and put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Cavins nodded, and they continued for another half hour or so. The land started to rise, and the only sound was the ring and clank of their horses’ iron shoes on stone.
Then, as they were starting up the shallow slope, Cavins reached over and touched Dag’s shoulder. He pointed straight ahead to the top of the knoll.
Dag swallowed hard. There, lit by the sun, his black hide glistening with shots of brilliant light, stood Nero, standing hip shot, gazing down at them, his ears stiff and twitching, his tail flicking at flies.
A rifle shot shattered the silence like the crack of a bullwhip. The sound reverberated in every direction and hung in the air with ominous echoes. Dag felt as if someone had driven a dagger into his heart as he saw Nero go down. The horse kicked its legs for several seconds, then stiffened and lay still.
Dag swore under his breath.
Cavins jerked his carbine from its boot and hunched down in the saddle.
It took Dag a moment to get his bearings. It just wouldn’t sink in, that fateful moment when Nero twitched from the shock of the rifle bullet and went down. He shook his head.
Cavins ticked his horse’s flanks with his spurs and started forward, up the slope.
“No,” Dag whispered, drawing his pistol. “Don’t go up there, Lonnie. That’s what the bastard wants.”
“Damn it, Dag!”
“Take a wide circle to the right. I’ll circle left. Did you hear where the shot came from?”
“Way off to the left.”
“That’s what I thought. Horton is waiting up there, somewhere. He’s hid out and he’ll pick us both off if we show up top of that rise.”
“Why don’t I circle left with you, then? No use in me going right.”
“You’ll make a full circle and we might come at him from two sides. Watch yourself, hear?”
“I’ll see you,” Cavins said, and turned his horse to the right.
Dag let him get some distance before he backed Firefly down and started making his wide circle. He was breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He choked back tears as he thought about Nero up on the hill, his beautiful mane rustling in the breeze, his tail flat and lifeless, fanned out on the ground like a stain.
What kind of a man could kill such a fine horse as Nero? Dag wondered. What kind of skunk? And for that matter, what kind of person could murder another human being for money? The lowest kind. Such a man did not deserve to live, but did he himself have the courage to take another’s life? Even take life from a man like Horton?
Dag wrestled with these and other thoughts as he continued to circle where he thought Horton had been when he shot Nero. Then he started closing in on the ridge. He made a crucial decision while he still could see Nero’s body up on the top of the slope. He holstered his pistol and slipped the heavy Henry Yellow Boy from its sheath, then eased out of the saddle.
He pointed Firefly toward the place where Nero’s corpse lay and slapped its rump hard with the flat of his hand. The horse galloped off in that direction, scattering rocks and making a racket as it galloped away from him. He levered a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle and, hunched over, started running toward the top of the ridge.
When he cleared the ridge, Firefly was still on the run. That was when he saw the silhouette of a man rise up from the ground, holding a rifle in his hands. The man brought the rifle up to his shoulder and tracked the running horse.
“Horton,” Dag yelled.
Horton turned in surprise and swung his rifle toward Dag.
“Drop it,” Dag yelled.
The man fired straight at Dag, without hesitation. Dag ducked even more and heard the bullet sizzle the air like an angry hornet.
“You son of a bitch,” Dag yelled as he stood up. He lined up the rear buckhorn sight with the front blade sight and squeezed the trigger. The butt of his rifle bucked against his shoulder.
Before Horton fell, Dag saw a puff of smoke, a belch of orange flame and felt a sledgehammer smash in his left shoulder. He spun around from the impact and saw clouds race by in a spiraling whirlwind. He pitched down and struck the ground. His rifle slipped from his hands and clattered on the rocks.
He heard a yell from somewhere as he fought against blackness and oblivion. He lay there, the breath knocked out of his lungs, and felt his head settle and his vision return. He reached out, grasped his rifle, and stood up.
“You got him, Dag,” Cavins yelled. “You nailed the bastard.”
Blood streamed from Dag’s shoulder. He staggered toward the figure of Cavins standing over a dark shape on the ground. He squeezed his left arm against his rib cage, out of some instinct, perhaps, to stop the bleeding. He gritted his teeth against the pain that now seeped from his arm into his shoulder, down his back and up to his head.
He staggered up the rocky slope to where Cavins was standing over the body of Horton.
“You got hit?” Cavins asked.
“Yeah,” Dag said, through clenched teeth.
“Let’s have a look.”
“Is he dead?”
“Plumb dead. You got him in the ticker, Dag.”
Cavins laid his rifle down across Horton’s legs. Horton’s shirt was soaked with blood, but his heart was no longer pumping and flies boiled over the wound.
“You took a bullet in the arm,” Cavins said, “but it went on through, kind of creasing you. Lot of blood and some ground-up meat, but he missed takin’ your arm off or hittin’ a big vein or such.”
He untied the bandanna around his neck, shook it out, then folded it flat. He tied a tourniquet above the wound, knotted it, and then reached down and found a small stick, which he placed inside the knot. He tightened that, then took a couple of turns until the blood stopped gushing out.
“You’re gettin’ pale, Dag. We got to get you back and put some liniment and a proper bandage on you.”
Dag’s face was pale and he felt dizzy. The arm did not hurt so much now, but he was giddy, and a little bit addled. He looked around.
“Find his horse, Lonnie. We’re packin’ Horton back. Can you do that while I go over and pay my respects to Nero?”
“Sure, Dag,” Cavins said quietly. “You go right ahead. I’ll pack this piece of shit.”
Dag looked up the hill and saw the hulk of Nero and started walking toward it. He laid his rifle down on the ground like a man bewildered, but going through the motions of life. Th
e breeze was fresh and warm against his face, but it cooled the sweat that bathed his cheeks and forehead, that trickled down from under his hat.
Nero lay lifeless on the ground, his mane fluttering, his big brown eyes glassy and frosted over with the mist of death.
Dag knelt down and patted the horse’s neck, bowed his head. He thought of all the rides he’d had with the animal, and the loyalty and trust Nero had shown him. His eyes misted over and he fought back tears as he ran his fingers through Nero’s mane.
“You were a good horse, boy,” he choked. “I hope you go to good pasture where the grass is high and green and have the company of your own kind. I am goin’ to miss you, Nero boy, and I hope you miss me too.”
Then Dag crumpled up and began to weep softly. After a minute, the sobs came from a deep place and he couldn’t stop them. He put his head on Nero’s neck and rubbed his back with soft strokes.
“Damn, it ain’t right,” Dag husked, and stood up, the sobs lessening now, some semblance of reason returning. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, closed them to squeeze out the last of the tears.
“So long, pard,” he whispered, and the tears came back again, choking him, uncontrollably.
He looked up at the sky through wet eyes and saw the clouds and the blue ocean and thought he heard Nero whinny from some far place, but it was only an illusion. The wind rose and blew against him. The scent of Nero wafted to his nostrils, not the scent of the dead horse, but the one that was still alive in his mind.
He did not look again at Nero, but started walking back down the slope, the wind at his back, and the acrid stench of death filling his nostrils and strangling his hammering heart.
Chapter 22
The delirium and the fever lasted three days. Dag lay on a makeshift cot inside the wagon that Finnerty had rigged for him. Fingers figured out that he could store food and utensils beneath the sickbed and not lose any space. Jo fed Dag hot and cold broth and wiped his feverish face with wet clothes while Dag raved or slept or hallucinated. It wasn’t until after they had crossed Palo Duro Creek, a creek that had no connection with the canyon, that Dag started to come around. The wound in his arm had scabbed over and the broth helped him regain the blood he had lost.
The herd moved on, into New Mexico Territory.
For the past several weeks, Flagg had been training the herd not to stampede if it heard gunfire. He started out by having a man shoot one shot from his rifle at some distance from the herd. Each day, and always during the day, he ordered each shot to be fired closer to the herd. And for the past several days, the single shot had been fired within sight of the herd. The cattle had soon learned that they were not in danger from these odd noises.
Now Flagg wondered if the herd would stampede if a lot of rifles were fired and the animals were sent into a panic that caused them to run helter-skelter. He had been watching his backtrail and seeing the flash of mirrors. He had known, for a time, that they were being followed by Comanches, perhaps the same ones who had dogged them through Palo Duro Canyon.
Then the flashings had stopped, and he thought he knew why. The Comanches were closing in. The signaling had stopped shortly after they had burned Nero. The fire had sent a tall column of black smoke into the sky, which could be seen for many miles.
And he lied to Dag about that.
“What did you do with Nero?” Dag had asked during a lucid moment.
“We gave your horse a proper burial,” Flagg said, “buried him deep to keep the critters from getting at him.”
“Thanks, Jubal. What about Horton?”
“We stripped Horton naked and left his corpse on an anthill. I expect he’s just bones by now.”
And then Dag had drifted off again. But he remembered the conversation, because he thanked Flagg again.
“You won’t believe what we found in Horton’s boot, Dag.”
“What?”
“It’s almost like a signed confession. It’s a contract between Deuce and Horton. Says if he murders you before we reach the Red, he gets your ranch and everything.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“You’re going to have to deal with Deuce when you get back home, Dag. But you got proof enough to send him to the gallows. We’ll all give testimony if there’s a trial.”
“There sure as hell’s gonna be something,” Dag said, a bitter tone to his voice.
Then the Comanches rose up out of nowhere, and they were everywhere, their faces painted for war, their arrows nocked on taut bowstrings, war clubs and lances piercing the skyline, tongues trilling, screams tearing from their throats.
“Look out,” Manny Chavez yelled on the left flank where he was riding point.
Flagg turned in his saddle and saw them, their feathers rippling in the wind as the Comanche converged on lone riders at every manned point on the herd. He drew his rifle from his scabbard and turned his horse. He levered a cartridge into the chamber, cocking the rifle. He brought it to his shoulder and picked out the nearest target, a nearly naked Comanche, chest and face daubed in brilliant colors, loincloth flapping, charging Chavez with a lance. He led the running brave, squeezed the trigger and saw him fall as he launched his lance into the air.
Gunshots rang out as startled drovers drew pistols and rifles and picked out targets. Flagg saw men fall from their horses with arrows sprouting from their bodies. He swung his rifle, dropped another Comanche, and then three of them came after him. He put spurs to his horse’s flanks and charged straight at them, firing once, swerving his horse, jerking the lever down, then back up and swerving again as arrows whistled through the air, then whispered past him, only to strike the ground and chip sparks from rocks or impale the ground at an angle, the shafts vibrating with a brittle hum.
A brave dragged a man from his horse. Another ran up and swung a war club. The club struck the man in the side of the head and smashed it like a ripe pumpkin, scattering brains and blood like boiled oatmeal streaked with ketchup. A drover riding drag took a Comanche arrow in the belly and screamed. Two warriors came at him on moccasined feet, slashing with war clubs. The rider swung his rifle at them, but the clubs smashed his knee-caps and shins. Ed Langley screamed in pain as he was dragged out of the saddle and brained until his face looked like a distorted mask floating at the bottom of a vat of water.
Jimmy Gough left Little Jake in charge of the remuda and rode to the rear of the herd, his rifle cocked. He shot on the run, dropping one Comanche, jacking another cartridge into the chamber and squeezing the trigger on another who was trying to kill one of the drovers with his lance.
Fingers and Jo halted the chuck wagon at the sound of rifle shots. But they were out of sight of the herd and could not see what was happening. Fingers turned the wagon broadside to the trail.
“Jo, hand me that Henry under the seat,” he said. “You grab the Greener and watch in case somebody comes after us.”
“Daddy, it sounds like the drovers are under attack.” She handed her father the rifle and put the shotgun on her lap.
Dag rose up in the back as the wagon was turning. He had been asleep. “Wha-what is it?” he asked, still groggy and thick-tongued.
“Felix, you lie still now, hear?” Jo said. “We’re just turning the wagon.”
“I hear shots.”
“I know. There’s nothing we can do about it. Now hush.”
Dag laid his head back down, realizing how weak he was. Just that small effort had put a sheen of sweat on his face, and brought back the throbbing pain in his arm.
The gunfire continued, fast and furious, sounding like the crack of whips in rapid succession.
Flagg saw them coming and swung his rifle on them. But at the same time, he saw a Comanche warrior drawing his bow back, aiming an arrow at him.
A dozen or more Indians came boiling over the ridge, leading an equal number of riderless horses, each to a man. The pack of charging warriors broke into single riders, who rode for the fighting men on the ground, picking them up one b
y one.
Flagg fired quickly, just as the Comanche loosed his arrow, then ducked. He saw the man jerk with the impact of a bullet just below his gullet, then collapse to the ground, blood spurting from his throat.
He swung his rifle toward the pack of Comanches, but by then they were split up. He saw what was happening. As each man on foot leaped on the back of a horse, the Comanches began cutting cattle out of the herd. They all converged and drove the stolen cattle off, yipping and screeching to keep them running away from the herd.
Flagg had never seen such horsemanship before. All of the Comanches were now mounted and weaving their ponies back and forth, herding the cattle perfectly while on the run. He fired a shot at one of the Indians, but it went high and wide.
And then the Comanches were gone, along with about a dozen head of cattle.
Matlee rode up, his face covered with sweat and dust. “Jubal, we goin’ after ’em?”
“Barry, there could be a hundred Indians just over that hill yonder, just waitin’ for us. Do you figger it’s worth it?”
“Hell, they stole our cattle. A couple of hundred dollars’ worth, at least.”
Flagg looked around. Men were moaning, lying flat on their backs or doubled up in pain. There were dead Comanches too. Riderless horses, under saddle, wandered in confusion. The cattle were bawling and milling, as if ready to bolt.
“This herd could jump at any minute, Barry. Let’s tend to what we got.”
Matlee scowled, but nodded, and turned his horse. “I got men down,” he said.
Flagg watched the dust hanging in the air, left by the retreating Comanches. He knew it was not worth the risk to go after the thieves when there was a chance they could lose the entire herd and spend days tracking the cattle down.
The Palo Duro Trail Page 13
