by Ralph Cotton
“Ma’am! Ma’am! Please wake up! Please don’t die!” he said, shaking her.
Her eyes were lazily open, but severely crossed and unfocused. Drool seeped from the corner of her lips and ran down her cheek. He could think of no chant for what he’d done, nothing to be said in any language to make up for having stone-knocked the wrong person.
“Aiiieeee . . . ?” she groaned mindlessly, asking some strange question to which there could be no answer.
Yet Little Foot let out a sigh of relief at just hearing her groan. When her eyes lost their glazed leer and uncrossed, he scooped her up into his thin arms and hurriedly limped back to the waiting horse.
“What hit me . . . ?” Silvia mumbled half-consciously into his shoulder as he lifted her up back into her saddle and climbed up behind her.
“I don’t know,” said Little Foot, “but lucky for you I came along when I did.” He batted his heels to the horse’s sides and sent it continuing up the trail at an easy gallop.
* * *
Less than a mile farther up the trail, Gilley stopped and looked behind her, dropping the bag of money from her shoulder. This wasn’t right, no matter how she looked at it, she told herself, unable to shake from her mind the hurt look on Little Foot’s face when she’d left him behind. She owed him nothing; they were not friends, partners, lovers. Nothing. Just a couple of people thrown together a few steps ahead of a wildfire, she told herself.
Still, she couldn’t square what she’d done. She saw the Indian’s hurt face, and she saw the way she thought the Ranger would interpret her actions, although she owed him nothing either—all right, she did owe the Ranger, she admitted. Maybe she owed Little Foot something too. She wasn’t sure. . . .
“Damn it!” she cursed out loud.
Jerking the money bag off the ground, she dragged it roughly off the trail, deeper into the brush and pine. Moments later she stepped onto the trail again, dusting her hands together, and started walking back in Little Foot’s direction. All right, she’d go back and stick with the Indian. She was angry with herself for doing it. It wasn’t like her. But it seemed right. Here I go. . . .
“Ranger, I hope you’re satisfied,” she said under her breath.
But before she had gone thirty yards, she heard the sound of hooves coming up the trail toward her. She ducked away into the trees and stood watching from cover until she saw Silvia bobbing limply on Little Foot’s chest.
“Now what?” she whispered to herself, stepping out onto the trail, waving the horse down.
“What happened to her?” she asked, looking up at Silvia as Little Foot reined the horse to a stop.
“She got hit by a rock,” Little Foot said. “It’s a long story,” he added, dismissing the matter. “You didn’t get very far,” he said. “Where’s the money?”
“I hid it,” Gilley said. “Nobody is going to get it but me.”
“I understand,” said Little Foot. He looked back along the trail. “I thought I heard a horse coming. This is not a good place to be.” As he spoke, he swung down from the saddle and handed her the reins. “You ride for a while. I’ll walk.”
Gilley just looked at him.
“I told the Ranger I would look after you,” he said. “A warrior is as good as his word.”
Again, the Ranger influencing everybody’s actions, Gilley told herself. She took the reins and said, “I’ll ride for a while, but then it’s your turn.”
Little Foot nodded; Gilley swung up behind Silvia and let her flop back against her.
“Did you . . . hit me?” Silvia asked dreamily, the knot on her head turning the purplish color of fruit going bad.
Gilley gave Little Foot a quizzical look.
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” Little Foot said quietly.
* * *
The Ranger walked through a wavering drift of silver-gray smoke. Behind him, more sinister, black, flame-streaked smoke broiled up from the valleys and hill-
sides. The barb walked along easily at his side, smelling the scent of cat, hearing the roar and crackle of fire, but growing less skittish toward either one under the Ranger’s confident guidance.
At the edge of a high cliff, the Ranger held his battered telescope with one hand and surveyed the fiery hills that stood between him and the town of Iron Hat. Any thought of the colonel’s posse catching up to him was out of the question now, he knew, seeing the raging nightmare of flames licking into the blackened sky. Had they tried earlier, they would have given up by now. Had they not given up by now, it was a good bet they were dead, he decided with finality.
He turned his lens from the direction of Iron Hat and onto the clearer trails below. Off to his right, he recognized the Cheyenne Kid and three of his men riding hard along an upward switchback trail. He scanned the trail right to left, judging the distance of a mile or less, seeing the two women and Little Foot moving along at an easy pace.
One level below, a mile between them . . . , he told himself. He felt the heat of the wildfire begin to creep through the back of his duster as he closed the tele-
scope, adjusted the sleeping panther cub in the crook of his arm and stepped into his saddle.
“I wish I didn’t have to ask you,” he said to the barb, nudging the animal off the trail, down onto a steep decline of loose rock, gullies and brush.
Halfway down the steep mile, he saw Little Foot look up, spot him and begin waving his arms back and forth. Sam wanted to raise his Colt and fire a warning shot, but he wasn’t sure they would understand. Not only that. He knew that firing the shot would tip off Cheyenne and his men that someone was on the trail ahead of them, maybe armed and waiting. So he held his fire and rode on, knowing it was up for grabs who would arrive first, him or the outlaws.
Luckily it was him, he thought minutes later as he stepped the barb onto the trail in a rise of dust, a spill of loose rock.
“Ranger, it is good to see you,” Little Foot said, taking the barb by its bridle and guiding it out of the rising dust. Sam looked at Gilley sitting atop the horse, Silvia sitting in front of her with a wet cloth held to her swollen forehead, having come around some over the past half hour.
“What happened to her?” Sam asked.
“Hit by a rock,” Little Foot said. In an effort to change the subject, he said, “I think we have gunmen on our trail, either Cheyenne and his men, or the outlaws who killed them.”
“It’s Cheyenne,” Sam said. “I saw them from up there. They’ll be here any minute.” He swung down and pulled the cub from inside his duster. The little cat raised a sleepy head and blinked back and forth.
Little Foot reached out and took the cub without being asked, and cradled it on his arm as Sam worked his own arm back and forth, getting it loosened up.
“Where’s the saloon money?” he asked Gilley, as if already knowing she would be the one to ask.
“I took it and hid it,” she said.
Sam nodded and said, “You seem to have a knack for taking Cheyenne’s money.”
Gilley smiled.
“I’m not keeping it,” she said, “since it’s not mine.” She gave him a look. “I’ll take you to it.”
“Maybe later, I hope,” Sam said, gazing back along the trail.
“Give me your rifle, Ranger,” Little Foot said. “I will side with you. We will stake ourselves out—”
“I have no guns to spare, Little Foot,” Sam said, cutting him off. Seeing the hurt look in the Indian’s eyes, he said, “Besides, I need you to get these womenfolk out of sight. If these fellows do kill me, you’ll have to get them down out of here on your own. Can I count on you?”
Little Foot jutted his chin.
“Yes, you can,” he said. “I will even take care of this panther cub. I will raise it on goat and mare milk until it is strong enough to eat red meat. I will be hon
ored to raise it, and even more honored to someday set it free.”
Sam smelled a lingering waft of whiskey on Little Foot’s breath.
“Are you drunk, Little Foot?” he asked.
“I was earlier, but not now,” Little Foot said. He glanced up at Silvia, then back at the Ranger. “I think I am better at some things when I’m sober.”
“All right.” Sam nodded and said, “Get them off the trail and out of sight. If this goes bad for me, head north until there’s no more sign of fire.”
“No, Sam, you go with us,” Gilley said from her saddle. “Go with us now! Don’t stay here and fight these men. Don’t be a fool. They’ll kill you.”
A fool . . . Sam just looked at her.
“I didn’t mean that, Sam!” she said quickly. “But please, just come with us! Nobody will blame you. There’s four of them.”
“Take her and go,” Sam said just between himself and Little Foot. “I hear their horses.” Sam drew the rifle from its saddle boot and checked it.
Little Foot grabbed both the horses’ reins and led the women and the Ranger’s barb off the trail, the panther cub asleep in the crook of his arm. Sam turned and walked toward the sound of hooves pounding along the trail toward him.
When the four horsemen rode up into sight, the Ranger stood in the middle of the trail facing them. Seeing them hesitate as they reined their horses down, Sam called out, “Cheyenne, you’ve had your run. Step down, it’s time we settled up.”
“He’s got our Sky-High money. I can tell by the way he’s acting,” Cheyenne said to the other three. “Gilley and that Injun brought it straight to him.” He raised the rifle from his lap and stood it on his thigh. “Let’s take it.”
Latin and Tarpis looked at each other. Tarpis said, “Yeah, let’s take it.” They looked back at the sound of Delbert Pace’s horse stepping off the trail into the cover of brush and pine. “Handy, you damned coward,” Tarpis called out to him as Pace slipped out of sight. Then he turned back and said to Cheyenne, “Ready when you are, boss.”
Sam raised his rifle to his shoulder as the three gunmen made their charge. First and foremost he wanted the Cheyenne Kid, he thought, the simple reason being Cheyenne was the only one with a rifle in hand. The other two held pistols leveled and firing at him—bad judgment, out of pistol range, firing from horseback. What kind of leader allowed that? He took aim. Only a leader who had gone too long with too many other things clouding his mind, he thought as he felt the jolt on his rifle shot and saw Cheyenne fall backward from his saddle.
Latin and Tarpis rode forward firing their revolvers, the shots falling ten feet short, kicking up dirt.
Sam’s second shot sliced through Royal Tarpis’ heart and sent him rolling off his horse in a spray of blood.
Latin realized their mistake and jerked his rifle from its boot. But the Ranger’s third shot nailed him dead center. He sailed off his horse and slid to a bloody stop. Sam walked forward, his smoking rifle hanging in his left hand. He stopped and stood looking down at Cheyenne, who lay against the cutbank side of the trail, blood running from his lips, a gaping hole in his chest. Cheyenne’s hand was wrapped around the butt on his holstered Colt.
“Get them . . . back, Ranger,” he said in a weak, rasping voice.
Sam could tell by the look on his face that the women had stepped back onto the trail and were coming forward. Without looking back he called out, “Everybody get back. This man is still armed.”
He saw the relief come to Cheyenne’s eyes and knew the women had fled back off the trail.
“Obliged . . . ,” Cheyenne said. He coughed violently, then looked back up at Sam. Nodding at the big Colt holstered on Sam’s hip, he said, “Can you help . . . me out?”
Sam paused, then nodded at the Colt in Cheyenne’s holster. “Only if you could help me help you,” he said quietly.
“I’ll try,” Cheyenne said. He paused, then said, “I never should have . . . tried to lead . . . hell, I done well just to follow.” With all his waning strength he struggled until he slid the Colt up from its holster and managed to half raise it.
From the edge of the trail, Gilley and Silvia both flinched at the single blast of the Ranger’s Colt. They stayed where they were, but Little Foot limped forward at a trot and drew to a wary halt at Sam’s side, the panther cub awakening and bobbing its head on his crooked forearm.
“He drew on you?” Little Foot said almost in disbelief. He stared at the bullet hole in Cheyenne’s forehead as the Ranger reloaded his spent round and lowered his Colt back into its holster.
The Ranger didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Don’t let the women up here. Wait until I get him off the trail. Then we’ll ride back the way we came.”
“Oh, you don’t want them to see him?” Little Foot said.
“They don’t need to,” Sam said. “They’ve seen enough.” He gazed away at the black sky and licking flames. “We’re going to have to ride a long way north to get ahead of this fire. Luckily, it looks like the wind has turned in our favor. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“A warrior lives his life on the turn of the wind and the rage of fire,” Little Foot said. He looked at the Ranger. “Or so I have heard.”
Sam nodded, reaching out and rubbing the panther cub’s furry head. The cub growled menacingly even though it smelled its mother on the palm of Sam’s hand—its mother’s scent mixed with that of burnt gun powder, leather reins and brass cartridge casings.
“I’ve heard the same thing, Little Foot,” he said. “I believe it must be true.”
Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack is back!
Don’t miss a page of
action from America’s most
exciting Western author,
Ralph Cotton.
LOOKOUT HILL
Available from Signet in October 2012.
The Mexican Hill Country, Old Mexico
Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack rode up a long, slanted hillside above miles of smelting furnaces and mining encampments. When he’d reached a point where he could breathe without the acidy odor of melted copper burning his nostrils, he stopped and pulled his bandana down from the bridge of his nose.
Clean Mexican air . . . , he told himself, inhaling deeply, letting his lungs take their fill. Beneath him he felt the stallion chuff and blow and lift its muzzle to a cool passing breeze.
“You too, pard?” He said quietly, patting the big Appaloosa’s withers with a gloved hand. He nudged the stallion forward, his right hand holding his Winchester rifle across his lap.
Fifty yards up the trail, he found the tracks he had lost earlier when he’d started crossing a hard rock ledge. Now that the ledge had given way to softer dirt and gravel, he saw the hoofprints of the two horses he’d been tracking all the way from the foot of the Sierra Madres. For the last three days . . . , he reminded himself. Wanting a closer look, he stopped the stallion and stepped down from the saddle, rifle in hand.
Yep, it’s them all right . . . , he told himself, looking closer at the sets of prints. He had seen early on where a faulty nailhead had broken off one of the shoes, leaving a shallow gap imprinted in the dirt. Soon that gap had filled with packed dirt. But crossing the rock ledge, the impacted dirt from the shoe must have broken loose. Now that the two horses had left the stone surface, he knew the empty nail hole would fill with dirt again. But that was all right, he thought. He was back on their trail.
He had come to know the hooves of these two horses. At a walk, one of them veered a little to the left over a short distance of twenty or so feet—the sign of a lazy hand on its reins. The other horse, the one with the broken nailhead in its shoe, had a splayed right front hoof. With every step this animal took, the hoof print turned a slight bit outward—hardly noticeable except to the sharpened tracker’s eye.
Sam stood up from th
e prints and looked all around. He was not the gifted tracker that he would like to be, but he was still learning. Learning, with his fingers in the dirt. The only way to learn, as his captain would say. And his captain was right, he told himself, walking along, reins in hand, leading the stallion along the narrow trail.
Tracking required close attention to detail. Some men worked hard at learning it; others didn’t. Some men pinned on a badge thinking being gun-handy was all it took to be a good ranger. But even though he’d only been a ranger for a little over two years, he’d already seen that men who didn’t learn sound tracking skills soon left the trail in defeat, or worse. Some of them left in a plank box.
He’d not only learned the particulars about these two horses—how they moved and what identifying marks they left behind—but he’d also put more than just a little thought into the two men riding them. One was a quick-to-kill Missouri madman named Hodding “Hot Aces” Siebert. The folded wanted posters inside the flap of his bib-front shirt told the ranger that Hodding Siebert had been outrunning the law for over three years. Siebert knew that getting caught left nothing of his future but a hard drop at the end of a hangman’s rope.
Sam knew that with such a grim reckoning awaiting him, “Hot Aces” Siebert played out his life hard and fast. He took what he wanted when he wanted it, and heaven help the man who tried to stop him. But Siebert wasn’t the first killer the ranger had hunted down, nor did Sam have any intentions of allowing him to be the last. So, while Siebert’s murderous regard for the rest of the world gave Sam no cause for alarm, it did hold his attention.
Sam knew that in Siebert’s three years of freedom from Yuma Penitentiary, the man and his various cohorts had robbed some nine banks, three trains, and a dozen or more payrolls. At each robbery he’d left at least one dead man lying in his wake. In addition to the killings while in pursuit of his trade, Siebert was known for senseless indiscriminant killings all along the border country—an unpredictable lunatic with a gun. Especially when riding alone, left to his own devices, Sam told himself. Maybe riding with a partner would help keep him in check. He hoped so.
