Hard Texas Trail

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘we’ll git away.’

  All he wanted was rain so the Indians couldn’t pick up the tracks of the horses at dawn.

  As if to show him that he wasn’t going to have all the luck tonight, the clouds parted and. a few bright stars showed through. He groaned.

  After a while, he stopped and he and the woman listened again. This time they weren’t distracted by the sounds of this village and they heard the horsemen behind. Clay urged the horse forward.

  Chapter Three

  It was as though the Indians knew by instinct almost exactly which way they were headed. Clay ran the horse mile after mile and whenever he stopped to listen he heard the sound of the pursuit. He’d heard that Indians didn’t like to fight or move at night. Whoever had told him that had been a liar. Those Indians moved at night and he didn’t doubt that, if they caught up with him, they’d fight. The only thing on his side was the fact that he had hours of darkness ahead of him.

  But even so after an hour of steady riding and not being able to shake off the men behind the horse under the pair of them began to flag. He knew that he could gain nothing except a little time by going on ahead.

  He angled left a little and pretty soon the starlight was reflected in the waters of the creek. He rode along it for about a half-mile and then saw what he wanted, or so he thought, on the far side. He at once turned the horse into the water and crossed. Once again it was not too deep and they made the other side without mishap. Once across, he stopped and listened again. He could hear them coming on steadily.

  He went on.

  They were at the base of a fairly steep slope. He urged the tired horse up this and reached the top. Here his luck returned to him and he found rocks. At least they would have some cover if it came to a fight.

  He stopped the horse and said to the woman: ‘Git down.’ She slipped to the ground and he told her: ‘Git into them rocks.’ She didn’t move. He stepped down stiffly from the saddle and suddenly he was looking into her face.

  Maybe there were Indians almost on top of them. Maybe they could be dead inside an hour. But for a brief moment, he forgot the danger he was in.

  He was conscious of nothing but the face of the woman in front of him. He caught his breath. He was so taken aback that he forgot even his bashfulness with women.

  She was young, younger than him. For a moment, he was aware of nothing but her eyes, as large as saucers in her face. Her hair was dark and was pulled straight down from a part in the center.

  His first thought was her beauty, soft and glowing in the faint starlight.

  His second was: Have I got a white-talkin’ Indian here?

  His eyes dropped to her mouth. It was generous with finely-modeled lines. Her lips were slightly parted and he saw the gleam of white teeth.

  She seemed to be dressed in doeskin. It didn’t matter what she was dressed in - he was held by her face.

  Then he heard the Indians.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘git in them rocks.’

  She turned and was gone and he couldn’t believe she had ever been there.

  He led the horse after her and clamped his hand over the horse’s nose.

  For a moment, he couldn’t hear the Indians. Then he heard the murmur of their voices.

  They know we’re here, he thought. In a minute or two they’d be pushing their ponies through the creek after them. He remembered that the Henry was nearly empty and his pistol was completely so. But he didn’t move a finger. His whole attention was on the Indians. He thought he saw faint movement, but couldn’t be sure. He held his breath. He was aware that the girl had come to stand beside him.

  After an age, the Indians moved. They went on down the creek on the far side. Now his worry was for Manning and Juan. Maybe the Indians had some way of knowing that the horse herd had followed the line of the creek. What could he do to stop them with the girl along? What could he have done if she wasn’t here? He waited till the sound of the Indians had died away, then he mounted and swung the girl up behind him. This time he was terribly conscious of her touch, of her arms around him.

  He went forward cautiously, wanting to find his two comrades and fearful of being spotted by the Indians. The girl clinging to him was silent. They went forward about a mile and then stopped and listened. They heard nothing but the sighing of the wind.

  ‘You won’t let them take me again,’ the girl said.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t let ‘em take you.’

  He wished he could be as sure as he hoped he sounded.

  They went on for a while, curving east to avoid a bend in the creek. They must have ridden for about an hour when the girl’s voice said softly in his ear: ‘Did you hear something?’

  At once he stopped the horse and listened.

  He heard it right off.

  There were horses coming toward them from directly ahead.

  His first impulse was to get out of their road. It could be Manning and Juan, but it could also be the Indians. They may have crossed the creek for the return journey to their village.

  He turned the horse to the right and headed for the creek, hoping to find some cover there. Within minutes, they were headed down a slope and pretty soon the dark shape of brush showed between them and the gleam of the creek water. He thought they were willows and pushed into them, throwing his leg over the saddle horn and jumping down. He reached up for the girl. Why was he helping her down this time? Was it because he had found out she was pretty?

  He clapped his hand over the horse’s muzzle and he felt the girl close against his left side. He slipped an arm around her shoulder. The action was involuntary.

  Now he could hear no other sound but the lapping of the creek. He strained his eyes and ears and after a while he picked up the sound of the horses again. They were trotting steadily and he knew from the sound that they were scattered out. It didn’t take long for him to be sure that there was at least one rider close along the edge of the creek.

  A little panic fluttered in him.

  The girl clutched at him as she too heard and his arm tightened momentarily around her slim shoulders.

  They were close now and he knew they were Indians. If his instincts weren’t correct, his pony knew. The animal stirred, bunching its hind legs under it. Clay cursed under his breath, scared that the animal would give their presence away. He took his arm from around the girl, transferred his left hand to the animal’s muzzle and drew his gun.

  He could see a rider moving across the shoulder of the slope above him, silhouetted dimly against the night sky.

  He could feel his pony trembling, fighting to free its head. The girl saw his problem. He felt her move and then her hands were over his on the horse and he had both hands free.

  There were two riders near, one on the edge of the creek and one about twenty yards further east.

  The near one slowed his horse to a walk.

  He has to spot us, Clay thought and placed his thumb on the hammer of his gun. Inside a few seconds there would be a dead Indian on the creek-side. Then the ball would open.

  The Indian called to the man above him in his own language. Was he warning him that he had spotted something?

  The man above called out.

  The riders stopped.

  This is it, thought Clay.

  The nearest horse was acting up. He had smelled the white-man’s mount.

  Clay reckoned the rider was undecided. It took a lot of nerve to challenge an unseen enemy in the dark. Clay didn’t know what to do. He wanted the girl on the horse, but he couldn’t mount in the saddle if she were already on the rump of the horse. He wondered if her reaction would be fast enough.

  The riders above were coming down. He had to make a break for it now or it would be too late.

  ‘Mount up,’ he said to the girl.

  She moved at once and swung into the saddle.

  The nearest Indian cried out.

  There came a twanging sound, sharp and clear and something
went whoosh through the darkness and through the willow.

  Clay cocked and fired.

  The Indian yelled. Clay didn’t know if he’d made a hit or not. He turned to the horse, saw the girl was in the saddle and vaulted up behind.

  ‘Git goin’! ‘ he shouted and hit the horse with the barrel of his gun. The animal jumped forward so violently that he nearly lost his seat.

  They burst out of the willow and started south along the edge of the creek. In alarm, the Indian had turned his horse to one side and was now into the water. Clay wasn’t too certain what was happening, but he thought he could hear the others bringing their horses around and after them.

  The girl could ride. She hit a good pace and urged the pony on. Clay didn’t think it would keep it up under the double-load. In plain flight, he reckoned they didn’t stand much of a chance.

  Then suddenly, it happened.

  It started to rain again. It seemed that they ran into a wall of violently descending water. The noise of it seemed to drown all other sound for a while, yet as they ran on he thought he heard the dull crack of a gun behind.

  The horse slipped and the girl managed to keep it on its feet. Of its own accord, the animal veered left and Clay saw that it was avoiding the once more changing creek. They started to climb a little. The horse strained against the slope.

  Then they stopped.

  They listened and heard nothing but the rain. Visibility was almost nil. Clay slipped off the horse and the girl followed his example. He couldn’t see her face at all now.

  Unaccountably, he found himself laughing.

  He heard the girl’s voice−’It’s good,’ she said. ‘It’s good to hear you laugh. ‘

  ‘I don’t know what the heck I have to laugh at,’ he said.

  He found himself shivering with cold. He was soaked to the skin. He took his slicker from behind the saddle and put it over the girl. It was too late to keep her dry, but it might help to keep her warm. She said Thank you’ nicely as if they were in somebody’s best parlor. He liked the sound of her voice.

  He asked himself what he should do now, what he could do? He knew that he was pretty well lost. All he could do was follow the creek and hope that he came up with the others and the horses. Getting his horses back didn’t seem such a good idea now. Getting wet was a quick way to cool a young man’s enthusiasm.

  ‘Couple of friends of mine,’ he said, ‘they ran off the Indian horse herd. They’re some place along this creek.’

  ‘Why did they do a thing like that?’ she demanded. ‘You aren’t a horse thief are you?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘The Indians stole our horses and they’re among the herd.’

  He got her into the saddle and started leading the horse forward, not riding now, because he wanted to save it. He still wasn’t too sure that they’d lost the Indians. They might have to make a run for it yet. He prayed they’d find Manning and Juan. He didn’t want to be caught out here with the girl if dawn came.

  He walked for a good while, leading the horse, not one word being spoken between the two of them, the rain beating down remorselessly in their faces. He began to wonder if he hadn’t passed the other two in the dark. He started to worry. He should cross to the far side of the creek. Then he thought: I don’t even know her name.

  He stopped the horse and said: ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  Did he hear a faint giggle?

  ‘Sarah,’ she said. ‘Sarah Bingham.’

  It created some wonder in him that a girl could giggle cold and wet as she was. He wondered about her - what kind of girl she was, what her folks were like. He walked on into the rain, heading down for the creek. When he reached the edge of the water, it was ruffled by the wind and he could hear the rain hissing down on its surface. It was fast-flowing and he feared to cross. Yet he had to find Manning and Juan. He got up behind the girl and urged the horse into the water. In a moment, the water came up to the horse’s belly and the animal staggered under the strength of the current. He went in a little deeper and knew the animal couldn’t make it with both of them up. He slipped down into the water and the ice of it took his breath away. He went ahead now, leading the horse, treading carefully, leaning against the strength of the current. His teeth were chattering like castanets. He could sense that the girl was scared.

  The water came up to his chest. It was all he could do to keep his feet. Then suddenly, he was out of his depth and swimming. The horse lunged violently and he heard himself call to the girl to hold on tight. The current took them. He put the line in his mouth and swam with both arms. His boots were impeding him. For a second, he thought he would never make it. Once he went under and floundered and threshed his way choking to the surface. When he thought that he was at the end of his strength, he found firm ground under his feet. Still fighting the current, he hauled the horse ashore.

  The girl jumped down and was beside him.

  ‘Are you all right? I thought you were drowning.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said.

  His gun and its loads were wet. He was shaking with cold. There wasn’t a hope in hell of getting dry and warm. The girl must be perished.

  ‘Manning an’ Juan can’t be far off,’ he said and wished he were right.

  ‘Git up again,’ he told the girl.

  ‘I’m cold,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk.’

  They stumbled along the edge of the creek side by side. She stumbled and he caught her arm with his left hand. It took effort to get through the wind and the rain, but still they did not become warm. Dare he stop and light a fire? If he did, was there any hope of getting a fire going in this?

  They went on.

  It seemed that they went on forever.

  Then the horse whinnied.

  They stopped. Clay’s heart leapt. Could that mean that the horses and his two partners were near? Or was it Indians? The belt-gun now being useless, he reached the Henry from its boot.

  He looked at the horse. Its ears were pointed south.

  Cautiously, Clay led the way forward.

  He heard the rain-damped nicker of a horse.

  There came the sound of a horse splashing through the rain-soaked ground and a rider loomed up ahead of them, hat down and slicker on.

  ‘Manning,’ Clay called.

  Chapter Four

  ‘That you, Clay?’

  Manning Oaks’ voice was anxious.

  ‘Sure is.’

  Then Manning was down off his horse.

  ‘Hell, we give you up. We was just goin’ to light out.’ Manning stopped short. ‘Who’s this?’

  He couldn’t see it was a woman.

  ‘Miss Sarah Bingham. She was with the Indians.’

  He heard Manning catch his breath. For a moment, the cowhand didn’t know what to say. Then his manners came to the fore.

  ‘Proud to know you, ma’am.’ Manning was in something of a fright and Clay could feel it. He didn’t blame him - stuck here in the middle of nowhere with a few hundred horses belonging to the Indians.

  They went forward and came to the horses standing with their backs to the driving rain, showing signs that they wanted to drift before it. They came on Juan Mora, wet and miserable. He showed surprise at the presence of the white girl and made it pretty clear that they ought to put some more distance between themselves and the Indians.

  ‘We leave the Indian horses, Clay,’ he said. ‘They’re no use to us. Just slow us down.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Clay, ‘the Indians come after us. We want something to bargain with.’

  Manning said: ‘You’re crazy. There won’t be no bargaining. They’ll just take ‘em.’

  ‘Will they h -,’ he remembered Sarah Bingham, ‘will they heck?’ He caught himself one of his own horses and made a hackamore from his rope. The girl could stay on the saddle. He said they should get the horses across the creek.

  ‘Can’t be done,’ Manning said. ‘She’s too deep.’

  Clay wasn’t in the
best of tempers.

  ‘Swim the damn things across,’ he shouted. He wished he’d brought somebody else along than Manning. He had too much to say for himself.

  They bunched the horses, wet and wide-eyed, and ran them at the creek. For a moment, Clay thought they’d refuse and prove Manning right. They tried to make a break south, but he and Juan headed most of them off. Some broke away to the south, but Clay thought what the hell. They almost created a tidal wave when they hit the water. They crossed all right and came dripping up the far side. The riders kept them on the move and Clay saw that the girl was doing her share of the work.

  Clay was still shaking with cold. All he had done toward getting dry was to empty his boots of water. He rode miserably through the rain without even a saddle under him. He could only look forward to the dawn and maybe the sun.

  The rain slackened off after a while and by the time the dawn came gray and wretched, it had reduced itself to a mere drizzle. The herd of horses showed itself to be some three hundred head. A pretty successful raid, but he wasn’t too sure where it would get him. If Pa knew, he’d say Clay had taken leave of his senses. But what else could he have done? He had to have horses to get home to Texas.

  He turned back to where the girl was riding.

  She greeted him with a smile.

  He couldn’t help wondering where or how she could look so bright on a morning like this.

  ‘How you feelin’?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m feeling good,’ she said. ‘So would you in my boots.’

  This was the first time he had taken a good look at her.

  She was of medium height and her hair was as dark as an Indian’s, but soft and wavy even in the rain. From under its dark veil her eyes looked at him brightly, a clear gray. He didn’t know where he’d seen more honest eyes. She was dressed in an Indian dress of doeskin that had seen better days and her legs were covered with leggings. Her face glistened in the rain. He thought even now on that cold dawn that she looked beautiful.