by John Legg
“None of your business, Mr. …?”
“Guthrie, Jack Guthrie.” He paused. “And I reckon it is my business—if you’re headin’ where I think you’re headin’.”
“And where might that be?”
“You tell me.”
The two men stared at each other, wills locked. Finally, Larson bluffed, “Going to visit an old amigo of ours.”
“And who might that be?”
“Feller named Pete Kinchloe.”
Guthrie rolled his tongue over the one molar for a moment before saying, “You know, lyin’ don’t become you, Mr. Larson.”
“I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a liar, Mr. Guthrie.”
Guthrie shrugged. “Truth hurts sometimes.” Larson picked some wax out of his left ear and flicked it away. He straightened, the move bringing his right hand near to the Colt he wore in a crossdraw holster. “I reckon you’ve had your chat, Mister Guthrie. Me and my friends have business to tend to, and we don’t have all the day to sit here and pass the time with the likes of you. Now, we’ve been more than patient enough with you. I’d suggest you get your ass out of the way—before it gets planted.”
“One more question,” Guthrie said, seemingly nonplussed.
“Be quick about it,” Larson said, some irritation showing in his voice. “I’m about out of patience.”
“Did Lem Tyrell, fool that he is, tell you boys what was gonna happen if you rode over to Kinchloe’s?”
“No,” the Mexican said.
“What makes you think we even know this Tyrell feller?” Larson asked, shooting a quick, venomous glance at the Mexican.
“If he didn’t mention it, I will. I told that little pile of cow droppings that if he sent anyone out after Kinchloe—or anyone connected to him—that whoever it was he sent would come back dead.” He paused to let the four gunmen digest that. “Now, you got to decide—right now—whether you want to go back there ridin’ your horses or lying across ’em.” He grinned maliciously. “Your choice, boys.”
“Y’all talk mighty big for a man’s outnumbered like you are,” the other man in the suit said.
“Was I facing four real pistoleros, I might be a little concerned,” Guthrie said nonchalantly. “But since all I’m facin’ is you boys, well, hell, I ain’t worried at all.” He shrugged to show his lack of anxiety.
“That’s a foolish thing,” Larson drawled.
“I expect not.” Guthrie yanked out his Remington and plugged Larson straight off. He was not usually one to draw first, but when he faced four men—gunmen all, even if they might not be in the top echelon of that group—he was taking no chances.
Larson was knocked off his horse, a bloody hole high in the center of his chest. But Guthrie did not see him fall; he had already turned his attentions elsewhere.
While he had been chatting with the four men, Guthrie had taken stock of them. After a decade or so of bounty hunting and such, Guthrie could pretty well assess his opponents accurately and quickly. He had determined that Larson would be the most deadly. So he had shot Larson first. He had figured the other man in the suit as the next most dangerous, with the other two men not far behind in abilities.
Before Larson had hit the muddy ground, Guthrie had shot the other man wearing the suit in the heart and wounded the Mexican. The two now unoccupied horses—belonging to the men in the suits—snorted and ran off, both down the gully, southward.
The man in the wool had finally gotten his pistol out after some struggling.
“Don’t,” Guthrie warned him icily. The Remington was pointed straight at the man’s head.
The man froze, abundant sweat coating his pasty face. He licked his lips, and his pistol jiggled loosely in his hand, not far from his holster.
Guthrie suddenly swung the Remington around and fired. The bullet caught the Mexican in the throat. The Mexican had been weaving in his saddle after being shot earlier and had thought he might get Guthrie since Guthrie’s attention was diverted. But the blast of the bullet knocked him backward, dead.
Guthrie snapped his pistol back toward the man in the wool. He, too, thought he might have a chance when Guthrie’s attention went elsewhere. He managed to get off one shot before the last shot in Guthrie’s Remington caught him high in the gut. He groaned and started to slide sideways out of the saddle. He managed to grab his saddle horn, but his strength was going fast. He fell, still alive but in considerable pain.
The man had, however, winged Guthrie with his one shot. The bullet had cut a bloody furrow across the side of Guthrie’s left leg just above the knee before being stopped by the hard leather of the saddle.
Guthrie slid the big Remington away and pulled the smaller one, keeping his eyes on the other men. The only one moving was the man in the wool shirt and pants. Being gut shot as he was, Guthrie did not think the man would be going anywhere. He was in too much pain.
Guthrie eased himself out of the saddle. Favoring the left leg, Guthrie moved about, checking his adversaries. Wool Shirt was the only one alive. He might linger for minutes, or hours, and be in agony the whole while. Guthrie was not concerned about him. He did, however, toss the man’s revolver far away into the mud bog that was supposed to be a stream.
After checking the buckskin horse, Guthrie took a couple of swallows of water from his canteen. From his saddlebags he pulled a small bottle of whiskey. Hobbling over to a rock, he sat heavily, facing in such a way that he could keep sort of an eye on the man in the wool clothing, should that man decide to try something. It was doubtful, Guthrie knew, but he had learned a long time ago to be as cautious as reasonably possible.
He took a swig of the whiskey. Then, gritting his teeth, he poured some of the whiskey over the wound. He hissed as the harsh liquid burned across the bloody canal, but the pain subsided to a dull fire after a moment. He set the bottle down and pulled the bandanna from around his neck and tied it around the leg.
As he tied the knot tight, he smiled ruefully. Florence Kinchloe would be mighty angry at him for having gotten hurt, he thought. He was just glad that Addie was back in Apache Springs. He would hate to have to face her and explain what he had done.
He sighed and had another swig of the whiskey. It was truly foul stuff, but it was all that Kinchloe had had available. He bought the homemade brew from some old boy who ran a still outside Goat Fork. But it helped dull the ache.
Guthrie looked at the bottle. It was less than half full. Shrugging, he grinned and polished it off and then tossed the empty bottle away. It landed with a splat in the mud.
Guthrie was loathe to do it, but he had to get up. He knew the leg would stiffen up on him fast if he didn’t get some movement. First though, he ejected the empty shells from the Remington and then reloaded it. He pushed up, wincing as pain shot through the leg. But it settled down. Pulling himself up onto the buckskin was something of an adventure, but even that didn’t seem so bad once he was settled in his perch in the saddle.
The horses belonging to Wool Shirt and the Mexican had drifted away, and were chomping at the lush grass along the muddy slough of a stream. Guthrie went for them first. They were easy enough to grab up. He hobbled them and then went for the other two horses. They were not hard to catch, either, though they had run almost half a mile and then wandered even farther.
By the time Guthrie got back, Wool Shirt had expired. Guthrie felt a little better at that. He would not have wanted to just have to shoot the man to put him out of his misery. Nor would he have liked slinging a still-breathing man over a horse, even when he knew the man would die sooner rather than later.
It took almost an hour, with the pain in his leg coming back, to load all four bodies on the four horses and bind them down tight. He tied the four horses in a string.
He wished now that he had not finished the whiskey off earlier. He would have enjoyed a slug or two now. He settled for several sips of warm water from his canteen while he sat on a rock and smoked a cigarette.
Finally, Guthrie cli
mbed back onto the buckskin, grabbed the rope to the other horses, and rode out. Two hours later, he stood on the rise near the small, stunted tree. “Go on home,” he said softly, smacking the first of the four men’s horses on the rump.
The animals trotted down the hill, heading toward the Tyrell ranch house. They could smell the water and feed in the barns.
Guthrie watched, a sullen grin on his almost-handsome face, at the consternation the arrival of the horses caused down at the ranch house. Then he mounted the buckskin and rode away, heading for Kinchloe’s place.
Chapter Seven
The cattle made a wavering line along the flatness a short ways south of where Guthrie stood on a slight roll of land. It was a fine sight. Guthrie was not usually moved by the sight of cattle, but this time, he was glad to see them, since it meant that this batch of one hundred seven steers, cows, and calves would be gone and out of his life forever. There were, he acknowledged, another eighty-four of them, plus three bulls back at Kinchloe’s small ranch. But that was a manageable herd.
Florence’s brother, Case, had arrived two days earlier—bringing seven tough cowboys with him. Thor had rested up a little and looked over the cattle Kinchloe wanted to sell. There was a little haggling, but not much, since this was family. Besides, despite Kinchloe’s hardships with Tyrell, his beef was still prime stock, and Case McTeag knew it.
“You sure we ain’t gonna have no trouble once we start movin’ these beeves, Pete?” McTeag asked as they all sat down at the dinner table. They made a respectable-sized crowd in the small house.
“I’m sure,” Kinchloe said firmly.
“After all the troubles you said Tyrell gave you before?” McTeag asked skeptically. “How can y’all be so sure?”
“Jack took care of things,” Kinchloe responded nonchalantly as he reached for the bowl of potatoes.
“How?” McTeag asked, raising his eyebrows at his brother-in-law as he sliced into the seared beefsteak on his tin plate.
Much to Guthrie’s discomfort, Kinchloe explained it, pretty much the way Guthrie had explained it to him. They had had no trouble with Tyrell or his men since Guthrie had killed the four in that arroyo. Guthrie, Kinchloe, and his three wranglers had been wary in the week since, but Tyrell did not try anything.
Still, it was with some relief that Kinchloe had greeted Case McTeag and his seven hands. Tyrell would never try anything now that so many rough- and-tumble men were bunked at Kinchloe’s ranch.
McTeag and his men looked at Guthrie with some wonder—and more than a little fear. Guthrie tried to ignore it, filling his mouth with food. But he could sense the eyes on him, and he felt the heat rising on his neck. He hoped it would not show.
“You think your lessons’ll keep Tyrell from botherin’ us when we herd them cattle out of here?” Guthrie shrugged. He finished chewing the mouthful of steak and potatoes and swallowed it. “I reckon Tyrell will think twice before he really tries something now. But, I aim to ride herd on you and your boys.”
“Watch for an ambush?” McTeag asked, nodding. “Yep.” Guthrie cut some more beefsteak. “I doubt Tyrell will send anyone against us from the front. Not after what happened to the last bunch he sent out. But I wouldn’t put it past that fool to try something sneaky.”
“I agree,” Kinchloe said. He glanced around. Assured that his wife’s attention was taken up by the stove, he said, “Tyrell ain’t got the balls to come against us head-on. But I’d wager a month’s wages that he’ll have something waitin’ for us.”
“Then what’ll we do?” McTeag asked, shoveling potatoes into his mouth.
“Just head the cattle out come mornin’ like you ain’t got a care in the world,” Guthrie said. “I’ll be gone before you get on the trail, out there somewhere keepin’ an eye on things. Pete, you best stay here with your hands—just in case Tyrell decides to send someone here, figurin’ we’re all gone.”
“Bastard better not,” Kinchloe mumbled angrily. Guthrie smiled harshly at Kinchloe. Then he said, “Have your boys keep their eyes peeled, Mr. McTeag. I can’t be everywhere at once.” He paused. “Though I’ve been over most of this land quite a bit in the last couple of weeks, and I think I know the few places they could pull something off. Still, I expect he’ll wait a few days, till you’re well away from here, out past Goat Fork. If that happens, I don’t know the lay of the land, and he’ll have something of an advantage.”
“How long will you tag along, Mr. Guthrie?”
“All the way to Sweetwater, if the need arises. I don’t think it will, though. I imagine if Tyrell’s gonna try something, he’ll try it not too far east of Goat Fork.”
“Why?” one of McTeag’s hands asked.
“Me and Pete know the land between here and Goat Fork too well. Tyrell knows he’ll never be able to surprise us. But beyond Goat Fork, well, we don’t know things so well. And from what you boys said, there’s several good places for an ambush. And, Tyrell won’t want to wait till you get too close to Sweetwater. He has Marshal Mead in Goat Springs in his pocket. I don’t reckon he holds nearly as much sway in a big place like Sweetwater.”
“Good reasoning, Mr. Guthrie,” McTeag said, nodding appreciatively.
Guthrie watched from his vantage point on the grassy bluff. The position gave him a view of the herd crossing from his right—the northwest—to his left down on the flat. He also could keep an eye on a deep, narrow wash that angled in from the south. The herd would have to cross the wash, with a muddy trickle of water at the bottom within a hundred yards of where Guthrie stood on the ridge. There were some small cottonwood trees and a few patches of thick brush in the wash. It was a good place for an ambush—the best Guthrie had seen in the four days since the herd had left Kinchloe’s ranch. They were two days east of Goat Fork, too, and Guthrie figured that if his reasoning about Tyrell was correct, an attack ought to be coming soon.
He stood yet, unmoving, right hand resting on the buckskin’s mane, watching the herd’s slow progression toward the arroyo. He shifted, careful of the left leg. The wound was almost completely healed, but it still gave him a twinge of a time. Guthrie smiled, glad to see that he had been right all along, when he spotted half a dozen men stopping at the far end of the cottonwoods in the wash. They dismounted and tied off their horses. Three splashed through the trickle of mud toward some brush on the north side of the wash, while the other three stayed where they were. The lead steer was barely fifty yards from the edge of the arroyo.
Guthrie made sure the buckskin’s rein was tightly tied to the picket ring. Then he pulled out the Sharps Big Fifty and a box of shells for it. Favoring his left leg, he lay prone, sitting the small box on the ground next to him. He made sure the heavy rifle was loaded, and then drew a bead on one of the men in the side of the wash nearest him.
Once again he felt a twinge of remorse at having to kill—especially shooting someone in the back. But the feeling lasted but an instant. He knew that if he didn’t kill at least one of the men down there in the arroyo, then several of his friends would die. Getting shot in the back was, he told himself, the risk one took when one planned to ambush innocent parties.
Buckeye Walsh, who was riding point for McTeag’s herd, was almost at the wash now, and Guthrie saw that all six men waiting in ambush had unlimbered their weapons and were waiting.
“No time like the present,” Guthrie muttered as he adjusted his sight and squeezed the trigger.
The Sharps Big Fifty could drop a buffalo at better than four hundred yards, so Guthrie had no worries about what it would do to a man at two hundred. As the puff of blue powder smoke got swept up in the breeze and whipped away, Guthrie could see the man he had aimed at lying sprawled amid the tangle of a bush. The five other men looked around in consternation.
Buckeye Walsh had heard the report of the big rifle and knew instantly what had happened. He immediately began to turn the lead steer southward, curling within a few yards of the arroyo. He figured to drive them into a circle, where the
y would not be so inclined to stampede should the shooting get too furious.
Guthrie nodded and ejected the spent shell from the Sharps. He slipped fresh cartridge into the breech and aimed at another would-be ambusher. He fired and the man was kicked forward by the force of the bullet.
The others did not wait to lose any more men. They jumped up and ran for their horses. Guthrie hurriedly reloaded and fired again. But the men were moving furiously, and were partially screened by brush. He thought he missed all four fleeing men completely, but he wasn’t sure. That annoyed him. Still, he had accomplished what he had set out to do.
Guthrie picked himself up, brushed himself off, put the cartridges in his saddlebags, and slid the Sharps into the scabbard. He stood for a moment, watching Walsh still curling the herd in on itself—the process had been started now, and could not be stopped. Guthrie pulled out the picket pin and tied it to the saddle. With a sense of heaviness at all the violence he had encountered, he pulled himself into the saddle and rode down the ridge toward the herd.
They had no more trouble in the four more days into Sweetwater. McTeag and his ranch hands took Guthrie down to the Longhorn Saloon, where they all tied on a good drunk. With aching head and knotted stomach, Guthrie rode out the next morning, heading back toward Kinchloe’s place. Unhindered by the plodding herd, he made good time, and was back in four days.
“You ready to leave now, Pete?” Guthrie asked over supper just after he had arrived.
“Reckon it won’t seem so much like runnin’ no more, would it?”
“No, sir,” Guthrie said with a grin.
“Still, Tyrell’s gonna go around tellin’ everyone he run me off,” Kinchloe said, half-annoyed, half-angry.
“We’ll see about that,” Guthrie said, a slow grin spreading across his face. When Kinchloe gave him a quizzical glance, Guthrie added, “Oh, I reckon we can leave him a few surprises.”
