by Cotton Smith
Deed mounted first and walked his horse away from the creek bed and over a slight rise. He reined up and studied the broken land ahead of them. It was mostly prairie, marked only with a few tumbleweeds interested in going somewhere else, rocks, and strong-willed plants. He hoped to see dust in the distance that would indicate riders, in spite of the earlier light rain, but saw nothing.
“Wonder where they’re headed,” he said to himself, and pulled field glasses from his saddlebags. “There isn’t any water until . . . Turkey Wing. That’s got to be it.”
Riding up beside him, Holt looked out across the same desolate terrain. The dog rested on Holt’s saddle in front of him.
“It’ll be just about nightfall before we reach Turkey Wing. No water before then that I know of,” Deed said. “Figure they’re headed there. Agree?”
“Makes sense to me. We’d better keep a sharp eye out, though. Plenty of places to hide and ambush us. Outlaw or Comanche.”
“Yeah. Picked up a passenger, I see,” Deed said.
“Couldn’t just leave him.”
“I know you couldn’t.”
“Would you have?”
“You know I wouldn’t. Carrying him is smart. Won’t slow us down, waiting for him to catch up.” Deed grinned and loped away.
They passed a dry lake that once had been the goal of the earlier stream. The outlaws had crossed it, but one rider had peeled back as if to scout their back trail, then rejoined the gang. A few feet from the lake’s now dry shore were two long spoon-like indentations that had once been buffalo wallows.
“Think he spotted us?” Deed asked, assuming the others read the sign as well as he had.
“Naw,” Mason answered. “Too far.”
“Better figure he did,” Holt countered. “There’s no way we can’t be sending up some dust.”
Mason clamped down on his pipe but said nothing more. McDugal sneezed; his eyes were red. Overhead, a buzzard flew looping circles in the graying sky, looking for supper. They crossed over a low hill and startled two small deer.
“How ’bout we get ourselves some supper?” Mason said, and raised his rifle.
“Can’t risk it.” Holt waved his hand. “A gunshot’ll carry a long way out here.”
“I think yur a mite jumpy, Sheriff,” Mason said, lowering his rifle. “They ain’t nowhar close.”
“Maybe. But still no shooting.”
They rode past a shoulder-high fish-shaped stone surrounded by mesquite and long grass. There weren’t any other huge stones in the area. The stone was larger than a man on horseback, and it looked like God had decided he didn’t want to mess with it any longer. Holt studied the formation as they went by and decided it was a sign of good luck. The fish shape was the sign that the early Christians used. He looked over at Deed, but his brother was watching the fading landscape.
Holt patted the dog in front of him and Tag licked his hand. His Winchester was propped between his thighs and the dog. He wouldn’t be able to bring it up as quickly as the others, but he wasn’t about to make Tag walk. The dog was clearly worn out from catching up. Holt didn’t want to admit he was pleased to have the animal along, but he didn’t intend it to slow them down, either.
The clouds pushed on without relieving themselves of rain, and only a bitterly hot sky remained. The afternoon dragged with only the sign of horses’ hooves to guide them and the only sounds, saddles creaking and McDugal’s sneezing.
The last streaks of a dying red sun were upon them as they closed in on the rocky area known as Turkey Wing. It was another odd-shaped sandstone configuration that someone years ago thought looked like a turkey wing, only huge, and the name had stuck. Below the signature boulder was a deep crease that cut through the entire rock structure, creating a jagged opening at its base.
In front of the crack was a large rock basin that usually held water trickling from an underground spring. Around the basin itself were several other pockets in the rocks that often held rainwater. Turkey Wing was known to savvy travelers and used by them, except for Indians. They believed the area was haunted and didn’t come near. That idea was strangely comforting, at least at the thought no Indian would be around.
Not far from the rock formation was a painted buffalo skull with a tied eagle feather blowing in the wind. Brush and tumbleweeds surrounded the skull, and two stunted oaks and a lone cottonwood stood on its south side. Holt guessed it was a tribute to the spirits that the Indians thought lived there. A huge cottonwood had fallen years before; its roots praying toward the sky.
Both horses and men were weary, thirsty, and hungry; the horses smelled water and wanted to advance. It was possible the outlaws could still be at the watering hole, waiting for the posse, and Deed told them to hold back.
“Likely spot for an ambush,” Holt said, and eased his rifle from beside the dog.
“You boys stay here,” Deed said. “I’ll ride close and see what’s going on.”
“I’ll go wi’ ya,” Mason declared.
McDugal sneezed and the men stared at him. Rose blessed him.
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” the stout clerk said.
“Well, keep your handkerchief handy,” Deed advised.
Deed and Mason pushed their tired horses into a gallop.
Fifteen minutes later, Deed returned. “They’ve been here and rode on. No one’s around now.”
“Where’s Mason?” Holt asked.
“He stayed behind to start a fire.”
“A fire? You think that’s a good idea?”
The clothing store owner rode beside them. “Coffee would sure taste good.”
“Mason said he was going to build it down in a gully. Wouldn’t be seen,” Deed added. “It’ll be all right. We’re going to have to stop for the night. Can’t see much even now.”
“Can you tell where they’re headed?” Holt asked.
“It looks like they split up. Two headed south and two west. We’ll know for sure in the morning,” Deed said. “I can’t track at night, can you?”
“Not worth a damn,” Holt answered, and looked at the former samurai. “Silka, can you track at night?”
“Only with very bright moon. Not so this night.”
“All right. We’ll camp here,” Holt said, remembering he hadn’t eaten all day.
They rode into the Turkey Wing area, keeping their horses away from the water until they cooled down. Shadows lying across the rocks created all kinds of strange-looking shapes. A batch of windblown willows struggled to keep watch in a narrow hollow that offered some grass. A few hardy catclaw, Spanish dagger, and Apache plume grew among the cracks in the rock.
Mason’s fire was burning higher than either Corrigan thought was smart, but the old-timer said some of the dry wood surprised him at how hot it was burning.
Gradually, the horses were unsaddled, rubbed down, and watered, then tied to a rope stretched between the cottonwoods. Each horse was tied to the main rope with a lead line that allowed grazing. Deed and Silka checked the horses’ hooves to make certain none were carrying lodged rocks.
From the tracks around the rocks, it was clear many animals depended on the source for the precious water. Deed and Holt walked the outlaws’ trail leading away from Turkey Wing. Tag jogged along, refreshed by the water. It was getting dark quickly and the posse could soon only see a few feet ahead.
“See? They split up. At least that’s what it looks like,” Deed said, pointing at the ground.
“Yeah. We’ll do the same in the morning. Three and three.”
“Have to,” Deed responded, staring off into the black. A timid star had climbed into the night sky, leading the way for others.
Holt leaned over to pet the dog. “How far ahead are they?”
“If they kept running, I’d say we haven’t gained any on them. Haven’t lost any, either.”
“You think they know somebody’s after them?”
“I wouldn’t bet against it.”
They heard McDugal sneeze and c
huckled. Rose’s blessing was a hiccup behind.
“Give him credit. He’s not used to this. Probably has some kind of reaction to the desert,” Holt said.
“He’s a good, steady hand. So is Rose.”
“Yeah, good men.”
Deed stood looking toward their camp. “Wind’s coming up. Feels good.”
“Yeah, nothing’s close that shouldn’t be. Night sounds are all around us.”
They strolled back to camp; walking was hard on Holt’s leg but he managed. Coffee smelled good, so did the frying bacon. It had been a long, hard day for all of them. Holt noticed the fire was crackling with occasional blue flames. To him, that meant spirits were near. He wondered why the Indians thought the area was haunted. The idea bothered him, but he said nothing.
After they finished eating, Deed suggested they pull away from the fire to sleep and keep spread out. The fire would be allowed to die. He would take the first watch, Silka the second, and Holt the third.
“You think they’ll jump us . . . tonight?” Rose asked.
Mason snorted and continued cleaning the dishes with sand. McDugal washed his face and eyes and kept his handkerchief close at hand.
“It’s a smart idea to think so,” Holt said, and moved toward a dark place away from the others. He heard McDugal’s muffled sneeze and Rose’s quiet blessing. It had become an almost comical routine.
A light wind continued to push across the land as the men settled into their blankets. Deed took a position near where the horses were tied. He liked the smell of the land and truly felt alive when he was out like this. Mother Earth was relaxed and, everywhere, the night sounds were comforting. From here, he could see in all directions. All of the horses were munching grain from their bags.
Suddenly, a shrill moan cut through the darkness and all six men were startled by the haunting cry. Tag growled but stayed near Holt.
“What the hell was that?” Mason was on his feet, still dressed, with his Sharps carbine in hand.
“It’s coming from over there.” Deed pointed toward the crease. “Must be the way the wind cuts through.”
“A-are you sure?” Ira McDugal said, sitting up and holding his blanket against his chest. “Maybe it’s Achak. Doesn’t his name mean ‘spirit’?”
Silka walked over to the opening and listened. He looked up. “Aiie, wind talks through here. Is nothing.” He returned to his blanket and pulled a shirt from his saddlebags. After rolling up the shirt, he walked over and stuffed it inside the crease, covering most of the opening, and said something in Japanese. He returned to his blanket and was asleep in minutes. From his bedroll, Rose took a drink, then another, from his flask.
Holt went to sleep, too, comforted by knowing why Indians thought Turkey Wing was haunted. He kept his guns close under his blanket. His dreams were wild, glimpses of his previous lives, he thought. Before being asked, he woke up and saw Silka standing guard by their horses. Holt stood, strapped on his shoulder holster rig, picked up his rifle, and went over to the former samurai.
“Is quiet,” Silka said. “No more wind talking.” His grin was unexpected.
“Get some sleep.”
Silka said, “Dou itashi mashite.” It was Japanese for “You’re welcome.”
False dawn was an hour away, but all six men were up. The moaning had stopped, but worry about what lay ahead keep them from sleeping well. Mason had already rebuilt the fire. Too high again.
This time, Deed challenged him. “Mason, are you trying to warn them? What the hell are you doing with a fire like that?”
Mason frowned, shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry. I was cold. Didn’t figure it’d matter.” He avoided looking at Deed.
“You’re going to get us all killed with stunts like that,” Deed growled, and walked away. “Comanche can see a big fire forever.”
Holt strolled over from the horses, wiping clean one of his shoulder-holstered guns. When he looked up, there was a hole in the middle of the fire. A sign of death. He shivered and kicked at the wood to eliminate the gap and walked on, ignoring Mason.
After a quick breakfast of cold biscuits, jerky, and coffee, they saddled up. Holt rode out first with Tag trotting beside him. If any of the posse were uncomfortable having a dog along, no one said anything. Just outside of Turkey Wing, the outlaw tracks separated as the Corrigan brothers had thought. Even in the faint light of early dawn, the separation was clear. Deed, Silka, and Rose took the trail of two men leading south; Holt, Mason, and McDugal followed the other two riding west. Separating made all of them uneasy, but it was the only thing that made sense.
Quick good-byes and the two groups loped away, each with a packhorse. The outlaw tracks were easy enough to read even at first light. The bank robbers were keeping to a fast pace. The day promised a fierce, yellow sky. It would be hot, very hot, in spite of being late autumn.
Holt drew one of his shoulder-holstered revolvers and shoved it into his waistband for quicker access. His rifle was draped over his saddle as usual. He, Mason, and McDugal rode steadily for a mile, then eased their horses into a walk. Tag moved along without a problem. The other set of posse-men were long out of sight.
“We’ll stop by those rocks and give our horses some of our canteen water,” Holt said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
McDugal sneezed into his handkerchief. “Is there any water close by?” he asked, wiping his nose.
“Not till we’re into those hills.” Holt pointed. “We’ll be there tonight.”
“When do you think we’ll catch up with them?” McDugal asked, looking around at the desolate land.
Mason squinted. “They’ll be ridin’ for Hammonds. Hell bent. Sure ’nuff. They ain’t worryin’ ’bout us none.”
Holt didn’t respond and changed the subject. He asked Mason how his brother got so good with a rope, one of the quickest he’d ever seen. The older man chuckled and said Alexander was always a good roper, best in the family. Holt smiled and nodded.
They reined up at the cluster of rocks. Mason pulled his horse about ten feet to the left of Holt. The fat clerk was about the same distance on Mason’s left.
“Reckon this is as far as ya go, Corrigan.” Mason’s voice was hard. In his hands was his Sharps carbine. He didn’t expect what happened next.
Instead of turning to talk or ask why, Holt stretched along the side of his horse, away from Mason. He drew his revolver from his waistband as he moved and fired under his horse’s neck in one smooth motion.
Mason’s Sharps roared where Holt had been, but the sheriff’s first shot hit Mason in the stomach and his second ripped into the man’s throat. Mason’s carbine banged against his horse and clattered on the ground. Mason was shoved sideways by the blasts and fell off his horse. He groaned and was still.
Holt straightened in the saddle and studied the unmoving body.
“What was that?” McDugal said, gripping his Colt revolving shotgun with both hands.
“That was a Bordner man set up to kill us if we got too close.” Holt shoved new cartridges from his coat pocket into his gun and returned it to his waistband. “I was worried about his big fires and telling us not to worry about the gang being close by.”
“I didn’t realize Alexander Mereford was good with a rope,” McDugal said, still staring at the body.
“He wasn’t. Worst I’ve ever known. My brothers and I used to wonder how he ever caught any of his cattle for branding.”
“So you knew.”
“I did then. For sure, he was not Mereford’s brother,” Holt said. “Let’s water our horses and get out of here. Got a feeling we’re getting close.”
McDugal sneezed.
They left Mason’s body where it was, stripping it of his guns and ammunition. McDugal led his horse and they rode on. The sun was halfway to noon and everywhere the land looked flat.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
Gunfire bloomed from an area ahead of them. McDugal stiffened and fell. Holt dove from his horse, drawing his revolver.
CHAPTER FIVE
A cruel sun sucked at Holt Corrigan. Not far was the unmoving corpse of Ira McDugal and the dead horses.
The barrel of Holt’s Winchester was too hot to touch as he wiped the bleariness from his eyes and stood. He was convinced the outlaws had left after their attempted ambush had failed. At least, with him.
“Guess they figure I’m a dead man too,” Holt muttered to himself. His voice was gritty with sadness as he squinted at the dead horses against the harsh glare of the day. “Too bad my rock medicine wasn’t protecting you, too, Ira.”
Only the wind answered.
He moved easily, belying the weariness that ate at his soul. His tired face, accented by a trim mustache, showed signs of lack of sleep. Holt’s vest pockets were jammed with bullets, an old silver watch and chain, his panther claw, and an uneaten piece of hard candy. In his shirt pocket was his sheriff’s badge, which he rarely wore except in town for official matters.
Also there, in his other shirt pocket, was his personal sacred medicine, a small red rock with a white star-like spot in its center. The rock, as a spiritual support, was one he adopted from the very Indians he had fought. He credited its special medicine with getting him through some tough times. No one knew that, though. Not even his two brothers. He was certain the stone was actually something that belonged to him in another life when he, too, was an Indian. The stone had waited for him to find it again.
Holt took another step away from the three dead horses, not wanting to see the oozing bullet holes in the once sturdy buckskin or the dead townsman. One bullet had torn through one of his two canteens; the other canteen had been saved. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and touched the medicine stone. From his saddlebags, he took a long strip of rawhide and tied it on his carbine as a sling. After lifting his saddlebags, both canteens, and his carbine, he walked away. He had been lucky; only his hat had been hit. The bullet hole through the now misshapen crown was pronounced.
