Dark Horses

by Ralph Cotton

  • • •

  In moments, sleep had overcome Summers and the rest of the camp as well. Yet, in the middle of the night, the camp was quickly awakened by shouting from two Mexican riflemen who had come to relieve the guards sitting watch over the prisoners. Summers’ eyes flew open at the feel of hands shaking him roughly. He sat up, blinking and staring into the angry face of the stocky guard, Hector, while around the campfire men rose from their blankets and hurried over toward him, guns in hand.

  “Tell me where they are, gringo,” Hector demanded, “or I will beat the chit out of you!”

  Summers just stared at the Mexican, bleary-eyed, his mind not yet fully awake.

  “Mis compadres are dead!” he said. Behind him on the ground, the two Mexicans on watch lay dead in pools of blood. One’s throat was slashed; the other’s head was bashed in by a bloody rock lying three feet away.

  The Mexican drew back a pistol and started to swipe the barrel across Summers’ face. But before he could make a swing, Miller’s hand reached down and grabbed him by his wrist.

  “For God sakes, don’t knock him out, Hector,” he barked. “He won’t be able to tell us anything!”

  Hector backed away. Miller himself stood crouched over Summers, the end of the sliced rope in one hand. He gripped Summers by his shirt, held the sliced rope in his face.

  “How’d they get the knife, mister?” he demanded. “Which way are they headed?”

  “Let me at him, Sheriff,” said Clifford, moving in close beside Miller. “I’ll loosen his tongue—kill two of our men, will they?”

  Miller shoved the deputy away and wagged the sliced rope in Summers’ face. But before he could say anything more, a man called out from the place they had tied their horses.

  “They’ve stolen our horses, Sheriff!” he shouted.

  “Jesus!” said Miller. “All of them?” He looked over at the shadowy darkness the other side of the flickering campfire.

  “No, but damn near all,” the man called back to him. “The ones tied farthest out of the light—even the packhorse.”

  “Those thieving sons a’ bitches know every trick,” Miller said with contempt. He swung his face back to Summers. As he spoke, Endo Clifford ran across the camp and looked at what few horses were left.

  “Where are they headed?” Miller demanded of Summers.

  “Sheriff, I wasn’t a part of this,” Summers said quickly, holding up his tied wrists. “If I was, would I still be sitting here?”

  That stopped Miller. He stared for a second, then cursed under his breath. He stood up over Summers and looked all around as the men gathered closer.

  “How many horses are we left with, Endo?” he called out across the campsite.

  “His string and three others,” Clifford called out in reply.

  “Well, well, what a coincidence, mister. Your horses and three others,” said Miller, glaring down at Summers. Firelight flickered on the dark anger in his eyes.

  “I had nothing to do with it, Sheriff,” Summers insisted, looking up.

  Miller grabbed him by his tied hands and yanked him to his feet. Summers staggered in place.

  “Start checking their tracks,” Miller called out to the men.

  “Buster already did, Sheriff,” said one of the Americans, a Texas gunman named Red Warren.

  “That’s right. I did, Sheriff,” a tall, stout Missourian named Buster Saggert called out in reply. “They scattered our horses instead of taking ’em with them.”

  Miller considered it for a second. He looked at Summers, then back at the two posse men.

  “That means they’re crossing the river,” he said. “Didn’t want to be pulling too many horses along in that swift water.” He looked back at Summers, checking his expression. “Right, mister?”

  Summers kept his mouth shut, knowing there was nothing he could say that would do him any good. But he agreed with Miller. They had scattered the horses to keep the posse men busy as long as they could. Then they had headed straight for the river—that’s what he would have done, he told himself. The Río Azul was high, fast and dangerous, but still a better choice than swinging from a rope.

  Miller looked away from Summers, at one of the Mexicans stooped over the bodies of the guards. The body of the guard with his throat cut lay closest. Miller shook his head slowly, seeing that guard’s rifle was missing and his side holster was empty, yet his knife still stood in its sheath on his side.

  “Where do you suppose they got a knife, Julio?” he asked the stooped Mexican.

  The Mexican only shrugged as he stood up. Other posse men had begun to gather in closer.

  “I expect we’ll never know the answer to that, Sheriff Bert,” said Endo Clifford, turning to walk away as he spoke. “These bastards have a way of getting their hands on stuff—”

  His words stopped short as Miller’s hand grasped the back of his leather vest at his beltline and kept him from walking away.

  “Hold it, Endo,” said Miller. He jerked Clifford’s vest up and stared at the empty knife sheath stuck down behind his belt. “Where’s your knife?”

  “My knife . . . ?” Clifford’s hand went back and clutched at the empty sheath, feeling all around. “Hell, it’s right here—” His words stopped short again. “Damn! It was right there, where it always is!” His voice took on an uneasiness.

  “Endo, you damn fool!” said Miller. In his rage his hand went instinctively to the butt of his gun. “You let Collard Belltrae wrestle your knife from you!”

  “No, no!” Clifford insisted, shaking his head wildly. “He didn’t get my knife from me. I don’t know what happened to it. But he didn’t get it.”

  “The hell he didn’t!” Miller grabbed the shaken Clifford and pressed him down over the body of the dead Mexican guard. “There, did you do that? Did you cut this man’s throat?”

  “No, damn it, turn me loose!” Clifford shouted, struggling against the sheriff’s ironlike grip on his shoulders. “You know damn well I didn’t!”

  “Then the Belltraes did it with your knife!” said Miller. He looked all around at the other men’s faces. “Anybody else missing their knife?”

  The men only looked back and forth at each other, touching their hands to their sheathed knives.

  “Huh? No?” said Miller. “I didn’t think so.” He shoved Clifford away from him. Clifford sprawled on the damp ground. “Just you, you bungling idiot,” Miller said to him.

  Summers looked down at Clifford as he scrambled up onto his feet.

  “Here’s the one you ought to be accusing!” he shouted. He lunged at Summers as he shouted, “He’s the one—”

  His words turned into a deep, painful gasp as Summers anticipated his move, sidestepped and swung a hard kick that planted his boot toe solidly into Clifford’s groin. The kick lifted Clifford onto his toes. He hung there for a second as if suspended.

  “Holy Jesus,” said Red Warren, cupping himself, watching Clifford bow slowly at the waist and finally topple stiffly to the ground.

  “Dios mio,” said a Mexican named Gorge in a hushed tone, “ha le patearon la bolas sueltas!”

  “Sí,” said Julio, turning his words into English, “he has kicked his balls loose.”

  Buster Saggert started to step toward Summers, but Miller stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Leave him alone, Buster,” Miller said firmly. “Clifford had it coming. I wish I’d done it myself.” He gestured at Clifford, and said to Saggert, “You and Red get him on his feet.” He looked at Summers. “Do something like that again, it won’t matter if Swann vouches for you or not. I’ll stick a bullet in your head.”

  Summers only stared at him in silence.

  “All right,” Miller called out to the posse men, “everybody get out of here, round up our horses. Let’s get after these horse-thieving curs!”

&nbs
p; “What if they’ve crossed the Blue River?” Red Warren asked, motioning toward the sound of the rushing water. “It’s running high.”

  “If they crossed it we’ll cross it too!” shouted Miller. “We’re not going to be turned back. Swann will want those two’s hides when he hears what they’ve done to his stallion.”

  The Mexican posse men gave each other guarded looks, then moved away at a trot, spreading out, rifles in hand, following the tracks of their scattered horses.

  Chapter 5

  It was full daylight by the time the posse men had gathered the horses the Belltraes had scattered all along the banks of the swollen river. Will Summers stood up when Miller rode in leading Summers’ gray behind him. A Mexican, now mounted on his own recovered horse, led the string of fillies behind him, some of the posse men having ridden the young mares out on the search. Summers’ gray and the fillies were all mud-streaked and worn out from the hard morning ride.

  Miller stepped down from his saddle, watching Summers look his muddy dapple gray over.

  “You’ve got a fine horse, mister,” Miller said, handing Summers the gray’s reins, “if he’s really yours, that is.”

  “It’s my horse, Sheriff,” Summers said, returning Miller’s harsh stare.

  Miller ignored his reply and called out to the Mexicans leading the four fillies.

  “Bring those gals over here, Hector,” he said. “Let this man see they’re in the same shape they were before you rode them. If those are Mr. Swann’s animals, I want him knowing we’ve taken good care of them for him.”

  Summers looked the fillies over as the Mexican rode forward and handed him the lead rope. He looked them over closer as Miller and the posse men watched from their saddles. Endo Clifford sat bowed and stiff in his saddle, watching Summers with a dark scowl. The Mexican they had left guarding Summers stood by, his rifle ready in his hands.

  “Lajo, cut him loose,” Miller said, gesturing at the rope around Summers’ wrists. “You and your compadres stick close to him.”

  Summers looked up at Miller, surprised, as the Mexican reached out with a long boot knife and sliced through the rope.

  “I don’t want you slowing us down,” said Miller. “If you try anything, these men will chop you into dog meat. Do you understand me, mister?”

  “The name is Will Summers,” Summers reminded him, rubbing his freed wrists, keeping his eyes up at Miller.

  “Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Millers replied. “Until we find out more about you, keep in mind there’ll be gun sights on you, every move you make.” Over a low muddy rise, Red Warren came riding toward them as Miller spoke.

  “I understand,” Summers said.

  Miller jerked a nod toward the mud-streaked gray and the string of fillies. “Then hit your saddle, lead your string,” he said. “We’re about to cross the river.”

  Red Warren galloped up closer and stopped his muddy horse a few feet from Miller.

  “I followed their prints to the water’s edge where they crossed, Sheriff,” he said. “But I’ve got to say, this is awful risky. A few hours and the river will be settling back into its banks.”

  “I’m not giving them a few more hours,” said Sheriff Miller with resolve. “If the Belltraes crossed it, we’ll cross it.” He nudged his horse forward toward Warren. “Let’s get going.”

  As the horsemen turned their horses in behind Miller and Warren, Summers saw a look of hatred in Endo Clifford’s eyes, directed at him. He returned Clifford’s stare and gave his gray a chuck of the reins, sending the muddy animal forward, the four fillies strung alongside him.

  They descended from damp ground into a sloppy wet plain leading out to the rushing river. Following Miller and Red Warren, the riders splashed along at a gallop until they had skirted over two hundred yards downstream. There they came to a halt and bunched up on a narrow bar of rocky earth with water whipping up and lashing up at them.

  “Good God, Red, they crossed here?” Miller shouted above the roar of the water. Summers let the other men move up in front of him and his string, keeping a little more room for himself.

  “There they went,” Red said, pointing a wet gloved finger down at the tip of the bar where hoofprints led down and fell away in the swirling silt-filled water. He continued shouting, “If you ask me, we’d have to be plumb loco—”

  “I’m not asking you, Red,” Miller shouted above the muddy raging torrent. He looked all around, then at the grim faces of the Mexicans gathered around him. They stared in dark consternation at the rushing water.

  “Es una locura, Lajo?” Miller asked the Mexican nearest him as he gestured at the raging water.

  Lajo pulled a ragged blanket tighter around him against the spray of water.

  “Sí, es de locos, muy, muy locos,” Lajo said, looking Miller in the eye.

  “I never seen a river a Mex can’t swim a horse across, Sheriff Miller,” Buster Saggert put in. “If these fellows say it’s crazy, it must be tongue-slapping, bug-eyed nuts.”

  “Shut up, Buster,” said Miller. He looked back at Lajo. Lajo shrugged in his drawn blanket.

  “I don’t think they cross here,” he said.

  “Oh?” said Miller. He gestured at the hoofprints leading into the swirling water. “Then what do you make of this?” Water splashed high along the rock bar as he spoke.

  “It is, how you say . . . a hunting duck,” Lajo said, struggling for a way to explain himself. He looked back and forth among the Americans.

  “A what?” said Miller.

  “A not real hunting duck?” Lajo ventured.

  “What the blazing hell is he saying, Red?” said Miller, getting impatient.

  “Beats me,” said Red Warren, also impatient. He looked at Endo, who sat bowed against the lingering ache in his badly kicked testicles.

  Endo grumbled and shook his head in disgust.

  “I don’t know why we brought these Mexes with us,” he said. “The whole damn country don’t even speak English—most of ’em won’t even try.”

  “A decoy,” Summers blurted out, getting tired of listening to them.

  The posse men all looked around at him.

  “He’s saying the tracks are meant to fool you,” he said, nodding at the hoofprints. “The Belltraes didn’t cross here.”

  Lajo nodded vigorously.

  “Sí,” Lajo said, “señuelo, a decoy—a trick, is what I mean.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, Lajo?” Miller growled. But he looked out at the raging water and swallowed a dryness in his throat.

  “I try to,” Lajo said. He looked back at Summers as if grateful for his help.

  “Anyway, it’s nonsense. This is no decoy,” Miller said, ignoring Lajo’s reply. “I know a trick when I see one. They crossed here. There’s no two ways about it.”

  Summers just sat listening. So did the Mexicans.

  Miller stared out at the raging water in contemplation, until his thoughts were interrupted by Buster Saggert.

  “Riders coming, Sheriff,” Saggert said, staring back across the wet plain behind them. He raised his rifle from his lap and held it ready. Summers had also looked back and spotted the riders at the same time as Saggert. He pulled on his gray’s reins, starting to turn.

  Seeing rainwater splashing up in the wake of four approaching riders, Miller quickly jerked his rifle up as he started backing his horse up to get off the thin slice of rocky ground.

  “Everybody get off this rock and spread out,” he ordered, even as the men had already started turning and backing their horses back onto wider ground. “Get your string the hell out of their way!” he shouted at Summers.

  Summers was already turning his gray and his string of fillies. He pulled the animals aside.

  The approaching riders were coming fast, not letting the wet, soggy ground slow them down.

 
; As the posse men spread along the edge of the water and began forming a fighting line, Miller stood in his stirrups and gave the riders a closer look through the splashing water.

  “Everybody hold your fire,” he said to the men on either side of him. His voice took a bitter turn. “It’s Swann’s child bride.” He cursed under his breath and added, “Damn it, this is all I need. Why’s she still out here snooping around?”

  The posse men sat still, watching as the four riders splashed up across the soggy plain and reined their horses to a halt twenty feet in front of them.

  “Morning, Miss Bailey,” Miller said politely to the leader of the four. He took off his wet hat. On either side of Miller the posse men touched their hat brims respectfully. “I figured you and your boys would be headed back by now.”

  Boys. . . .

  The three young horsemen glared at Miller.

  “Morning, Sheriff,” said Bailey Swann. She wore wet range clothes, a tall brown hat, boots and a slicker. “Put your hat on,” she said to Miller in a no-nonsense tone of voice. “This is not a social call. We got caught by the storm yesterday,” she added. “I thought we’d see how your search is going before we head back this morning and inform Mr. Swann.”

  “Of course, Miss Bailey.” Miller’s face reddened. He pushed his wet hat back down on his head. “As you can see we’re hot on the Belltraes’ trail.” he said, his tone turning stiff, a little impatient. He gestured a hand down toward the tracks leading out into the rushing water. “We should have them treed and hanged before noon today.”

  “We saw you from the high ridges day before yesterday,” Bailey Swann said bluntly. “You had them. What happened?”

  “Fact is, they got away from us last night,” said Miller. As he spoke to her, the young woman dismissingly stepped her muddy horse over in front of Will Summers. She looked him up and down, appraising him curiously. In turn Summers noted to himself the age difference between her and Ansil Swann. The young woman before him was not much older than himself, midtwenties, late twenties. Swann was old enough to be this woman’s grandfather.