by Ralph Cotton
Real pieces of work, these two . . . Sam shook his head a little, considering these men whose dark menacing lives he’d committed himself to bringing to their bitter ends.
It was his job, he reminded himself.
The second man was Texas outlaw and escaped convict Bobby Hugh Bellibar. Another hard-case with nothing to lose, Bellibar’s crimes over the past years were so numerous and diverse, Sam was certain the courts must’ve had a hard time deciding whether to list his heinous offenses alphabetically or in the order of their perpetration.
Sam stopped and looked out over a valley a few hundred feet below. A thin glittering river wound out of sight at the bottom of a steep hillside. He thought about the empty canteen he’d found along the trail three hours earlier. He’d known then that it wouldn’t be long before they gravitated toward whatever water lay nearest them. And there it was, he told himself, Winchester in hand, leading the stallion behind him.
Twenty minutes later he came upon a lone horse standing to the side of the trail, its reins dangling loose to the dirt. The silvery-gray dun stood dark with sweat and lathered in white foam. Upon seeing the ranger, the animal shied away a few steps, favoring its right forehoof. The horse with the out-turned hoof, he thought, not surprised that it would be the first horse to falter under the weight of its rider and the rigors of this steep, rocky trail.
He let Black Pot’s reins drop from his hand, knowing the stallion would stay there. First checking for any sign of an ambush, Sam eased forward, his rifle hammer cocking under the pull of his thumb.
“Easy, boy . . . ,” he murmured to the silver-gray dun, picking its reins up from the ground. He examined the animal’s right forehoof, lifting it up between his crouched knees for a closer look. The horse chuffed and grumbled a little as Sam pressed with his thumbs and worked the horse’s hoof around with his gloved hands.
“There’s nothing wrong with you that a little rest and water won’t cure,” Sam said. “The water’s not far, but you’ll have to rest while you walk.” As he spoke, he loosened the cinch and dropped the saddle from the dun’s back. “That’ll help some,” he added.
The horse looked at him, grumbling and scraping its good hoof on the ground as if in protest. Sam rubbed a hand along its withers.
“I know,” he said as if the animal understood him, “but it’s walk with us, or spend the night here alone, feeding wolves.”
The horse stared at him through caged eyes, but then it took a wary step closer and probed its frothy muzzle toward him.
“That’s what I thought,” Sam said. He chuckled to himself, rubbed the horse’s muzzle and drew the tired animal over beside Black Pot. He stepped back up into his saddle. “Don’t worry,” he said to the sweaty dun, “we’ll take it nice and easy down to the water.”
On the same trail, miles ahead of the ranger, Hodding “Hot Aces” Siebert lay prone on the gravely stream bank, his face and the upper half of his body submerged in cool rushing water. Bobby Hugh Bellibar stood beside him, holding the roan’s reins loosely while the thirsty animal drank.
“Here’s the hard truth of it, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, his palms supporting him on the gravely bank. “I’m not riding double the rest of the way to Copper Gully. Your horse gave out on you. We keep riding double, mine will do the same before we’re off these hilltops.”
“I hear you, Aces,” Bobby replied.
“This is nothing personal against you, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, “but when riding stock gets in short supply, every man has to fend for himself.” He paused as if in reflection, then said, “If I had dollar for every man I shot over a horse, or thought about shooting over a horse, I’d be rich as a pound cake.”
“I understand,” Bellibar said acceptingly. “Me too.”
“So, figure something out before we leave here,” Siebert said with resolve; and with that he lowered his face into the clear, cool water.
Bellibar watched him drink.
“I think I got it figured,” he said as Siebert finally pushed himself up from beneath the water.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Siebert said, water running down from his wet hair, his clothes.
“I’m taking your horse, Aces,” Bellibar said flatly.
“You’re talking out of your head, Bobby Hugh.” Siebert gave a sharp grin and turned sidelong to where Bobby had stood watering the tired roan a moment earlier. But Bellibar wasn’t there, and neither was the roan.
“Back here, Aces,” Bellibar said, behind him.
“Right,” said Siebert, getting the gist of it. He rolled over onto his back, his wet hair hanging in dripping points down his forehead. “I expect you think you’ve caught me at a disadvantage,” he added, cocking his head slightly.
“Yep, that’s how I make it,” Bellibar said, the horse’s reins in his left hand.
“You make it wrong, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, the grin still there on his wet face. “Don’t you think I already thought of this before I said anything about the horse?” He gave a dark, confident chuckle. “That’s why I unloaded your Colt earlier while you were dozing against that big pine. You’re jackpotted, pard. Now I kill you and take your power.”
Take my power . . . This crazy bastard.
“You’re bluffing,” said Bellibar. “I heard that one before—tell a man his gun’s not loaded, then gun him down when he makes a move to check it.”
“Already heard that one, huh?” Siebert sighed, shaking his head a little.
“Yep,” said Bellibar. “It might even have been you who told it to me.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Siebert. He pushed himself up from the ground and stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart. He wiped his left hand across his face, pushing his wet hair to the side. His right hand stayed poised near the tied-down holster on his hip. “Only this time it’s a fact, Bobby Hugh,” he added, in a stone-serious tone of voice. “I’ve got your bullets in my pocket. Want to see them?”
“Nope,” said Bellibar, his demeanor still confident, unwavering. “I believe you did it, you sneaking son of a bitch.”
Siebert gave a short shrug. There was no sign of bluffing in his eyes.
“Like I said, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said quietly, “times like this it’s every man for himself. You should have listened to me.”
Bellibar could tell the older gunman was ready to make his play. He saw Siebert open and close his gun hand, getting ready.
“I did listen to you, Aces,” he said. His expression softened a little. “That’s why I took your Remington from your holster while you sucked water.”
“Nice try, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, “but I ain’t falling for it—” As he spoke his right hand slapped against his empty holster and stopped him short. His eyes suddenly took on a look of desperation.
Now it was Bellibar’s turn to give a wide, confident grin. He reached behind his back, taking his time, and grabbed Seibert’s big Remington.
“See?” He wagged the gun back and forth in his hand. Looking down at it, he cocked it toward Siebert’s chest and said, “I bet you didn’t unload it, did you?”
“No, Bobby Hugh,” Seibert said in defeat. “Damn it to hell, I didn’t unload it.” In a flash he thought about the small Colt Pocket pistol he carried behind his back, shoved down into his belt under his shirt tail. But it was too late.
Bellibar’s hand bucked, once, twice, three times, as he recocked and fired the big Remington.
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