Hard Texas Trail

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘Witney best stay with ‘em,’ he said.

  Blessed hesitated.

  ‘All right,’ he said after a moment’s thought.

  They handed their lines to Witney and Oaks led the way through the brush. Blessed observed that he moved unerringly. It was plain that he knew the country around here well. They walked for maybe fifteen minutes and then they came to an abrupt hill. The climb to the top puffed Blessed. He sank to the ground and rested for a moment, wiping his face and panting. He thought of cool beer and could have wept. What a man would do for money.

  ‘There she is,’ Oaks said.

  Blessed looked up, startled, thinking that the man referred to the girl.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Yonder.’ Oaks jerked a thumb. Blessed scrambled to his feet and joined him. It was then that he realized that the man referred to the house. He parted a bush with his hands and stared down. It stood about a quarter to a half-mile away, lying squat on the dusty soil of Texas, hugging the flat of the clearing in the brush. He ran his eye over the corral, the barn, the yard. Movement caught his eye and he reached into his pocket for his glass.

  In a moment, Clay Storm was in the circle before his eyes. He was so clear that he seemed to be looking right into Blessed’s eyes at close range. The effect was almost alarming. It seemed impossible that the boy couldn’t see him. Blessed’s instinct was to hide. Then the brief alarm passed, for Storm turned away. Blessed raised the glass and saw the girl.

  My God, he thought, when had he seen such a beautiful woman? It really seemed a terrible waste ... Then he thought of the money and his qualms passed.

  She walked up to Storm and put a hand on his arm; she was smiling up at him and he smiled back at her. It seemed strange that they looked so close and yet he couldn’t hear their words. One thing he was sure of, though - they were besotted with each other. That fool Storm was head over heels in love with her. Well, he was in for a shock.

  Oaks was getting nervous. They ought to move. It wasn’t too safe there. There could be riders near.

  Blessed waved him silent. He ran the glass over the place, saw the other two Storm boys and didn’t know who they were. He handed his glass to Oaks and asked him about them.

  Oaks said: ‘That’s Jody and George Storm.’

  ‘Where’re the other hands?’

  ‘If they was ridin’ range, the Storms’d be with ‘em. They gone home is my guess. They’ll come back for the cow-hunt.’

  ‘You think there’re no other men on the place?’

  ‘Can’t be sure, but I’d reckon that’s the size of it.’

  Blessed told himself that he would have to be satisfied with that. There was always an element of risk in a thing like this.

  He telescoped his glass and put it away.

  ‘Good enough,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘Let’s go.’

  Oaks led the way down the hill. When they reached the bottom, Blessed said: ‘You haven’t shown me the quick way out of here.’

  Oaks said: ‘Easy. There’s a trail leads down to the main trail over yonder. Runs just west of the hill we was on. Go north-west three mile down it and you’re on the main trail. Take you clear to the river.’

  Blessed digested that. His sense of direction was pretty good, he told himself, but he couldn’t help wondering how it would hold up in this country. As they walked, he went over his plan again. Now that the time was near, it didn’t seem so sound. He would have to kill the girl here, because he dare not have witnesses. Just the same, her death must be notified to the authorities, so that Lincoln Hurley could make his claim.

  The more he thought about it, the riskier it seemed. He chided himself for being a coward. This was the chance of his life, the chance he had always been waiting for. He couldn’t back out now. So he killed the girl and made a run for it. If he went the easy way and took the main trail, he might be spotted. It would be safest to make his getaway after dark, but he dared not risk it in this country. No, he would have to gamble on Witney finding his way to town by the back-trails. Then his alibi was Lincoln. That was the weak spot in the plan.

  They reached the horses.

  Oaks said: ‘I’ll take my money an’ git.’

  Blessed summoned a cheerful smile to his sweating face.

  ‘Surely,’ he said heartily. ‘And we’re grateful to you.’ He took some money from his pocket and started counting notes. One fluttered to the ground. Oaks stooped to pick it up.

  Blessed nodded across to Witney.

  Oaks straightened up and Blessed handed him a roll of bills. Witney drew his gun. Blessed prayed he wouldn’t be a fool and fire the thing and give their position away. He misjudged the man. As Oaks started to put the money into his pocket, Witney struck him a powerful blow on the back of his head with the barrel of his gun.

  Oaks fell without a cry.

  ‘Finish him,’ Blessed said. ‘Quietly. ‘

  Witney put his gun away and drew his knife. Blessed didn’t see him use it because he was busy picking up the money that had scattered over the ground. When he had it all safely in his pockets, he regarded Witney’s handiwork and saw that Oaks’ throat had been cut.

  ‘Good,’ Blessed said.

  He stood there, staring at Oaks. A sort of rising fury took a hold of him. The letting of blood always did it to him.

  Now, he told himself, I must do it now.

  He’d put a bullet into the white forehead of the girl. Just by the pressing of a trigger he would buy his ticket into affluence and ease. All the women and the comfort he’d ever hungered for, the status and the dignity of money.

  His head started to ache and he passed his hand across his eyes. Then he smiled at Witney charmingly and said: ‘You’re a good man to have around, Chad.’

  Witney nodded without emotion and wiped his knife on Oaks’ shirt. He put his knife away and said: ‘We’d best get outa here.’

  ‘No,’ said Blessed, ‘we’ve only just begun.’ Witney frowned. ‘Don’t worry. All you have to do is hold the horses. Take them west a hundred yards or so away from that.’ The flies were gathering to the blood already. They moved away with the horses. When they halted, Blessed took his rifle from the saddle boot on his horse.

  Witney got down from his horse and stood watching him. He was frowning.

  ‘There’s somethin’ here I don’t know about,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have to know about it?’ Blessed asked. ‘Don’t I pay you enough?’

  ‘There’s somethin’ big here,’ Witney said. ‘I can smell it.’

  ‘All you have to do is stay here and hold the horses,’ Blessed told him. ‘A child could do that.’

  Witney said: ‘You and Hurley’s onto somethin’ big. You need me with Hurley hurt. Cut me in.’

  Blessed knew he would never get out of this country without Witney’s help. The man was right. A promise could always be broken. A debt could always be paid with a bullet.

  ‘You’re right,’ Blessed said. ‘I can’t pull this off without you. I didn’t tell you about it because I thought it would be too strong for your blood.’

  For the first time since he had first seen him, Witney smiled.

  ‘Too strong for my blood?’ he said. Then he frowned again. ‘What in hell’re you tryin’ to pull?’

  Blessed weighed the pros and cons of telling him the truth and came down on the side of the truth.

  ‘I’m going to kill a woman,’ he said.

  Witney stared at him with a face like stone.

  ‘How much is in it for me?’ he said.

  ‘Two thousand dollars,’ Blessed told him.

  It was a lot of money for a man like Witney who would have killed a man for fifty. Blessed wanted to take his breath away, to stun him. If he succeeded, Witney didn’t show it.

  ‘Play it straight with me, Blessed,’ he said. ‘I ain’t a man to fool with.’

  ‘I’ll play it straight,’ Blessed said.

  ‘As you said: I need you.’

  He tur
ned and walked away a few paces. Then he turned and said: ‘You hear shooting, you bring the horses in on the run. I’ll be near the house.’

  Witney nodded and Blessed went on his way.

  He walked to the hill and skirted it on the west side, going with enormous caution. He had respect for Texans and their guns. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he didn’t want anything to go wrong. He wanted that girl dead, then he wanted out of there. He relied on the Storms to notify the authorities that the girl was dead. That was maybe the most important part of the action.

  He found himself in deep brush and could not see the house. The heat was enervating and he wished he had a drink with him. He found that even in the moment of excitement his movements were sluggish. He tramped on for some time and began to suspect that he had lost his way in the brush when suddenly there was the house in front of him. He drew back into cover and inspected it.

  There was nobody about that he could see.

  He found that he was so tense that he was grinding his teeth together. His jaw ached. He knew that it wasn’t the killing of the woman that affected him. It was the danger he was in. He didn’t fool himself about it. He could kill the girl, but if the three men were around, he was in trouble.

  He forced himself to relax. The palms of his hands were wet with sweat and he wiped them on the legs of his pants one at a time, swapping the rifle from one hand to the other.

  He could hear the horses stirring in the corral. The fence rails of the corral obstructed his view of the front of the house. He shifted a little to the right, so that he would have a clearer view of the door.

  A man came from the barn, whistling. A tall man, young and easy in his movements. It was young Clay Storm. He stopped in the middle of the yard, looking at something he held in his hands.

  The door of the house slammed. He turned his head.

  The girl stood there.

  He could see only her skirt. The roof of the stoop shaded her from the hot sun.

  Clay Storm looked up at her and she stepped forward, coming down from the stoop into the sunlight.

  God, she was beautiful.

  Even at that distance, he could feel her beauty. And he was going to kill her. A hell of a waste. If only she had agreed to marry him. But she had looked at him as if he were dirt. She knew even as he spoke to her what his instincts were. Her attitude had earned death for her.

  She and Storm were standing close together, their heads bent. He heard her laugh. The sweat was running down his face, getting in his eyes. He pushed his hat back with his left hand and wiped the sweat away.

  This could be the best moment. Neither of the others were in sight. He’d aim, fire and Witney would come on the run with the horses. The girl would be dead and there would be a fortune in his hands.

  He raised the rifle and pressed the brass-bound butt into his shoulder. The range would give him no trouble at all. It was an excellent rifle that he knew well and he was a superlative shot. He could see her head and shoulders above the corral fence. He couldn’t miss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The girl raised her eyes and looked at Clay. She saw the strong line of his jaw, the sensitive brooding mouth and it was all she could do to stop herself from standing on tiptoe and kissing him. It was a moment suddenly and startlingly enriched with truth. Until then, she had thought that what she felt for him was deep gratitude. Now she was stunned by the fact that she wanted him as she had never wanted him before. The emotion took her so completely unawares that she could do nothing but stare at him.

  She was still staring at him when he raised his eyes and looked into hers. She knew then that she couldn’t go on fooling him anymore. She must tell him and she must tell him now.

  ‘Clay,’ she said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

  She knew, as he looked at her, that his own feelings were completely in accord with her own.

  ‘There’s nothin’ to tell,’ he said.

  He moved and put his hand to her face. She almost fell toward him.

  Whether he started his violent counter-movement before or after the shot, he never knew.

  All he was aware of was the girl’s face close to his and the terrible blow in his back. It knocked him forward, he and the girl were off-balance and they fell together.

  There was dust in his mouth, grating on his teeth.

  He raised his head and saw the terrified face of the girl.

  He heard booted feet pounding.

  He rolled on his back and saw Jody there, Jody lost in indecision.

  He heard George’s voice–’There he goes, yonder.’

  Clay yelled: ‘Git after him.’

  Jody was running for the corral. Clay watched his younger brother vault over the high corral fence. George reached the pole-gate and started removing them. The girl was on her knees watching them, her face streaked with dust. The horses were bunching in a far corner of the corral away from Jody. He ran for them. Now was no time for fooling. The horses broke to the right, running along the edge of the corral. George was inside, arms outstretched, yelling. A horse turned back and Jody dove for him. Nobody could get up on a horse like Jody, saddle or no saddle. The boy was hauled violently from his feet. He seemed to bounce his feet on the ground and jack-knife into the air. The next second he was astride and his legs were hugging the barrel of the horse. They went through the opening in the corral as if they had been catapulted out of there, Jody riding like an Indian, his eyes wild. This kind of action was the first chapter in Jody’s book.

  He took that pony around the corner of the corral at a flat run and tore for the brush.

  It was only then that he remembered that he had nothing but a belt-gun on him. That shot had come from a rifle. If the gent up ahead wanted to stop him, he could without too much trouble. But Jody had the bit between his teeth and he kept on going.

  When he reached the base of the hill, he saw the man ahead of him. He tightened the grip of his knees on the horse and pulled his iron.

  The man heard him coming and stopped. The rifle came up. Jody was screaming like a wild Comanche.

  He never heard the shot. A puff of smoke came and it was as if the little sorrel under him had run into a solid stone wall. One second he was running with all his heart, the next his front legs gave under him and Jody was in mid-air.

  There was no time to land properly. He hit dirt hard and badly. The sorrel was screaming. Jody got to his hands and knees, dazed and confused. He knew the man was shooting at him. He rolled and found himself entangled in a thorn bush. Then he searched around for his gun and saw it lying in the dust near the kicking horse. There was a rider coming in from the south. He lunged for the gun and a bullet kicked up dust in his face. He cringed back into the thorn bush. Lead tore at it.

  Then the firing stopped.

  He craned his neck to see what was going on and this time nobody tried to shoot it off. He saw that a rider had come up with a led horse. The man who had been shooting at him was getting into the saddle.

  Jody dove for the gun, lifted it and jumped to his feet. It was a long shot for a belt-gun, but he made his try just the same. As the man’s butt hit leather Jody fired. The shot must have gone pretty close, because the man ducked low and the other turned a startled face towards Jody. They didn’t shoot back at him. Their minds were on escape. They wrenched their horses around and they spurred away. Jody emptied his gun after them and stood cursing insanely.

  His horse was still screaming and kicking. He reloaded one chamber of his gun and shot the animal through the head. There was nothing he hated more than having to shoot a horse. It went against everything in his nature. He reckoned he had the Storm soft streak in him.

  He heard the roll of hoofs coming from the house and a moment later George burst from the brush on board a little dun horse. And George was traveling.

  When he saw Jody standing there with his horse dead, he did what he could to pull in his racing pony. He went on maybe thirty yards and came trotting back.


  ‘Who got shot?’ Jody demanded.

  ‘How should I know?’ George said. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Sure, I’m all right. Get down and leave me have that horse.’

  ‘Like hell I do,’ George said.

  ‘There ain’t no time to argue,’ Jody said, ‘do like you’re told.’

  George tried to turn the pony and get it on the move again, but Jody caught him by the arm and yanked him from the animal’s back. George bounced and leapt to his feet, mad. Jody had the pony on the move, he pendulumed his body centering on his grip on the mane and swung onto the animal’s back. He was gone before the younger man could curse even. George stood there a moment so mad he couldn’t move or make a sound. He started back toward the house.

  When he reached there, he found the girl helping Clay into the house. Their backs were to him and he saw that the whole of the back of Clay’s shirt was covered in blood. Clay was too much weight for the girl. George took her place without a word and got Clay into his own room. He laid his brother face downward on his bed and started cutting away his shirt with his knife.

  Clay said: ‘You get him?’

  ‘No,’ George said. ‘Jody kept after him.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Saddle up and get after him.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘Go on. Git outa here.’

  George hesitated, but the girl said: ‘Leave him to me.’ George went out into the yard and saw that the horses were coming out of the corral. He drove them back in and selected a sturdy bay, got his saddle and threw it on him. He collected his rifle from the barn and mounted.

  Back in the house, Sarah started work on Clay’s back. As she washed out the wound, he said: ‘Tell me about it and I’ll tell you what to do. You ever see a wound before?’

  ‘During the war.’ He knew that she was frightened by what she had to do. But she had a grip on herself. He turned and looked at her. Her eyes were big in her pale face. He smiled at her and got a wavering smile back in return.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said. ‘They always look bad first off.’