Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  There was no need for his long coat, tied to the back of his saddle, and he didn’t want to carry the wool blanket tied there, either. He took off his suit coat and tied it around his waist, not willing to leave the new garment behind. His shoulder-holstered revolvers were heavy but comfortable from wearing the rig for several years.

  The sun was pounding against his tired shoulders as he walked toward the broken rock bench, laced with wild cactus and mesquite. Gray sage dotted the cruel land along with an occasional juniper. The outlaws had laid in wait for them a long time. He cursed himself for not being more careful, but it wasn’t a likely place for an ambush. Or he hadn’t thought so. A man could see for miles across the hot, barren land. Or so he thought.

  After another step from the rocks, his anger took hold. He spun back toward his dead horse and fired his revolver four times, shooting from his hip. Three vultures, resting on McDugal’s lifeless body and the dead animals, flopped and fell over. The fourth flew away, screaming.

  “Not today, you bastards. Not while I’m here.”

  It wouldn’t keep vultures and coyotes away long, but the shooting made him feel a little better, a little less guilty. After reloading his revolver and returning it to his waistband, Holt continued to climb over the uneven ridge and found one of the outlaws spread, facedown, against the rocks. His earlier shooting in response to the ambush had killed him. Blood on the rocks had dried and turned an odd shade of brown on the stony surface. Not far away were more spots of dried blood. Maybe he had wounded the other man as well, but not enough to keep the outlaw from stripping the dead man of his weapons and escaping with the extra horse.

  It appeared the outlaw had changed directions and was now headed south, toward the nearest town. Hammonds, Texas, was a sturdy settlement of farmers, miners, and small ranchers. It probably meant he intended to catch up with the other two there.

  Holt was in trouble and knew it. That’s why stealing a man’s horse was a hanging offense in most of the West. To leave a man afoot usually meant he would perish in the vast lands. He resettled the saddlebags over his shoulder as well as the two canteens, even the one with the hole in it—though luckily toward the top so it still held some water. He slid his rifle sling on the other shoulder and headed south. After a few strides, he paused beside an old mesquite tree that looked like it could tell many stories. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

  As if appearing from within the gray land, a gray-and-brown dog trotted into view.

  “How are you, boy? Did they hit you, Tag?” He knelt, laying his carried items on the ground, and petted the ugly dog, checking the animal’s body for any wounds. Half the time, the dog had ridden in the saddle in front of him. Now the animal would have to walk.

  “They got Buck, you know. So we’re going to have to walk. Want some water?”

  Taking the bullet-holed canteen, Holt pulled a tin pan from his saddlebags and poured a small amount of the tepid liquid still remaining, using one of the holes for the pouring. Tag lapped up the water gratefully. When the ambush began, he had ordered the dog to run. Staying close to him would have only brought stray bullets.

  “We’ll have to watch our water close. Got a long way to go.”

  He stood and adjusted his gear, then touched the cardinal feather in his hat again for luck. The only thing he had going for him right now, besides a strong constitution, was his knowledge of the land. He and his brothers had covered this part of Texas often. Riding through here certainly wasn’t his choosing, but it was the fastest way between towns, if a man had a good horse, a full canteen, and knew where he was going. Now he was afoot and in a parched land, inhabited by scorpions, rattlesnakes—and Achak’s band. Scattered war parties of Kiowa were also known to ride through here, too. Most of the Indians were on reservations now, or were supposed to be. It was the bad ones that weren’t.

  Water was the key. As it always was. Certain water holes were well known and well used, like Turkey Wing. Others were rarely used, except by animals, birds—and, of course, Indians. For a moment, he considered hiking back to Turkey Wing, but it would be a false security without a horse. He was better off headed south. That’s where the outlaws went. And the bank’s money.

  “Come on, Tag. We’ve got to get to that little spring up ahead. It’s in a box canyon, but you’ll like it there.”

  He tried to smile, then touched the sacred stone in his pocket and asked the spirits of the land to help him. His own way of praying.

  Adjusting his rifle sling, canteens, and saddlebags over his shoulders, he started out with Tag trotting beside him. If they could get to the tiny spring by nightfall, they could eat, rest a little, and then move on. From there, he planned to walk at night, when it was cooler, and sleep during the day when it was too hot to go anywhere. Finding a resting place that was defendable was crucial. If there were any Comanche in the area, they would soon pick up his trail and try to run him down. Just for fun. But there was nothing he could do about that.

  Off in the distance were grayish cliffs; they must get there by nightfall. Water was there and, hopefully, no war party.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Before long, his leg wound began reminding him of its presence. His large Mexican spurs dragged in the soft, hot earth; there was no reason to attempt hiding his trail. It couldn’t be done. Not enough to fool an Indian anyway. If Comanche came before he reached the spring, he would die, but die fighting.

  Maybe that was the best way for a man like him to go. If he died, Judge Pence would miss him for a while, until he found someone else stupid enough to take the job of sheriff.

  Of course, Silka would mourn and so would his brothers. But there was no wife. No children. Not yet anyway.

  His eyes took in the searing horizon. There was no sign of a ride in any direction. Obviously the outlaws figured he would die trying to walk out. Or thought he was badly wounded and couldn’t. He hadn’t tried shooting back for at least an hour after they rode away. They might have taken that as an indication of his inability to move.

  After an hour of walking, he sat down, cross-legged. Tag came over to nuzzle his unshaved face. They shared several pieces of jerky from Holt’s saddlebags and water from the good canteen. He took a look through his saddlebags to see what they still contained. Overhead a buzzard patrolled the yellow sky.

  “Maybe I’ve got a horse hidden in here, Tag,” Holt said with a wolfish grin.

  More jerky was kept in a wrapped cloth. There was a potato, an extra shirt, a small sack of coffee, a tin cup and plate, a small skillet, a handful of wild onions, and another of Indian root. A few corn dodgers were gathered among the onions. A jar of medicine salve, secured from a Navajo shaman, sat at the bottom of one bag.

  A book of Tennyson’s poems with several pages loose nestled beside the jar. His old war field glasses were there, along with a small fire-starting kit of tinder and matches. And a sack of grain for his horse and a can of peaches. So was a thick roll of buckskin and rawhide strings. And a small sack of shredded tobacco for leaving tributes to the spirits. Something else he had picked up from Indians.

  There was enough food for three days. Four, if he was extra careful. Water was the key. It always was out here.

  Taking off his hat, Holt wiped his sweating brow with his shirtsleeve, ran his finger through the bullet hole, and returned his hat to his head. His lips were parched and cracking; his tongue across them brought only momentary relief.

  “Better get going again, Tag. You game?” He started and looked down again. “I’m sorry, little friend. You didn’t bargain on this.”

  Tag responded silently and began to walk beside the young lawman. A rattlesnake slithered across their trail four feet ahead. Holt’s decision was as quick as his gun. His revolver fired and the snake’s head blew into pieces. Tag was too tired to check it out.

  “Dinner for us tonight, my friend.”

  He shoved the reptile’s body into his saddlebags and continued. The shot would be heard a l
ong way, but he felt the risk was worth it. After two hours, he realized the dog was lagging far behind. Turning around, he retreated until he reached the unmoving Tag and lifted the worn-out animal into his arms. It wasn’t easy handling the saddlebags, rifle and two canteens, and the sturdy dog, but he knew this had to be done. He’d lost two friends this day in Ira McDugal and his horse, Buck, and he didn’t intend to lose another. He trudged on, unthinking, unfeeling, and uncaring.

  Where were Deed and Silka? Did they run into an ambush, too? It was foolish to think they might come looking for him. They would assume he and the others were all right, if they thought of him and the others at all. Maybe they would be rejoined in Hammonds, if he could get there.

  The gray seep of heavy dusk was taking over as he half stumbled into a narrow box canyon and toward a rock-rimmed spring. He was dizzy and weak; the rawhide strings holding his carbine and his shoulder holsters felt like they were cutting into his shoulders. The box canyon and its water were not well known. He was thankful the recent tracks were of small animals. A sentinel of scraggly shrubs and prickly pear cactus guarded the cracked lava basin. After cutting away a bush, he laid Tag in the opening, next to the seeping water. Gratefully, the dog began to lick up its life-giving wetness.

  Every movement Holt made seemed in slow motion. His eyes were glazed from the heat, and his body was so drained he could barely keep moving. When Tag finished drinking, the young sheriff lay down his gear and rifle, half fell on the cracked rocks, and drank the cooling liquid. It was a deep spring, he thought, but far enough from any trail that few knew of its existence. Why would anyone come into a box canyon anyway? The entire area was laced with canyons, arroyos, and washes; there was no reason to pick out this particular canyon.

  The water within this spring ran most of the year, he thought, but sometimes it was little more than a brownish ooze. Of course, the desert ridges held so-called water tanks, many of them pits hollowed out by time. They held rainwater for months. He knew such tanks would be waiting, if he could get there.

  For now, though, he and Tag were fine and he forced himself to think only of the moment. That was Silka’s training. Meet the problem head-on, the former samurai would always say, deal with it with all your energy and all your skill, and move on. Silka would know how to take care of himself, if any man could. And Deed wasn’t far behind.

  Using twigs, a few dry leaves, and a little dry mesquite, he soon had a small fire going, propped against waist-high rocks. The glow would barely exceed the stone blockage, and it delivered little, if any, smoke. Brass cartridges in his belt reflected the small flame. Rattlesnake meat, along with some wild onion, broiled in the small skillet, tasted like a grand meal. He had found some squaw cabbage and added a few stalks. A cup of coffee brewed in the tin cup completed supper.

  “Well, Tag, that wasn’t half-bad, was it?” he said, sipping his coffee and watching the dog finish the meat. “We’ll move up there and rest a while. I want to cover some miles tonight, before it gets hot again, you know.”

  He sounded more confident than he felt. At least forty miles remained to reach town, moving through sparse and broken country. The next water was about fifteen miles north. A sometime pond used by a small rancher. Or if it were dry, one of the water tanks on a ridge would be the next possibility. Tomorrow, he would need to pay close attention to any birds he saw. They might lead him to the closest water.

  Glancing at his small fire, he saw two blue sparks. Signs of nearby spirits, he thought. Taking a handful of shredded tobacco from his pouch, he sprinkled the offering in all directions.

  “Spirits of the land . . . watch over Tag and me. Help us,” Holt muttered, then said what he could recall of the Lord’s Prayer from his youth and Blue’s urging.

  The canteen with the bullet hole was the next project on his list. Taking two pieces of rawhide, he plugged the entry and exit holes, wadding the leather tightly into the spaces. It wasn’t perfect, but it should hold most of the canteen’s water. He filled both, then scattered the remains of his fire and headed twenty yards away. The plugged holes dripped a little, then stopped.

  The location would give him a good view of the land from three directions. Tag curled up beside him and went to sleep. At Holt’s side was his Winchester. Night sounds were gathering and comforting. Cicadas sang their lulling tune. A half dozen bats zoomed through the canyon, searching for insects for their dinner. Only half of an icy blue moon took position in the dark sky. Soon the Big Dipper appeared, supported by a hundred tiny stars.

  Retrieving the medicine stone from his right vest pocket, he grasped it tightly. It was during a fierce battle against a Kiowa war party, his first Indian fight after the war, that he found it. Five Confederate guerrilla fighters had been surrounded by eighteen warriors. He saw the stone, laying at his feet, and decided to put it in his pocket. All of the Rebels survived and he had kept the stone close ever since. He knew the Indians believed in the strength of personal medicine, usually something of nature, something that gave them courage, strength, and protected them. Who was he to question the idea? Wasn’t that really why he had carried that panther’s claw for so long?

  Their mother had loved the land and he supposed his feelings for it had come from her. He planned to ask his brother’s wife about it when he next saw her. Bina was a Mescalero Apache, educated by missionaries, and a spiritual teacher in her own way. Her husband, Blue, said that being with her made him whole. He had used some of her views on life in sermons. Without the church members realizing it, of course.

  Their father believed in the need for righteous behavior, but also in never backing down. Both parents had died when the boys were young. Deed, Holt, and Blue, with Silka’s considerable help, had built up their family’s ranch a few miles outside of Wilkon. Theirs was one of an original group of five ranches doing well in the region. Their mother and sister died of pneumonia when Blue was eighteen; Holt, sixteen; and Deed, ten. Their father died six months before their mother from a broken neck after a horse threw him.

  Three years later, Blue and Holt had left to fight for the Confederacy while the much younger brother, Deed, stayed with Silka to keep the ranch afloat. While the older brothers were gone, Silka had honed Deed’s fighting skills. Blue had returned after the war with his left arm missing; Holt hadn’t returned and rode the outlaw trail for years, unable to accept the South’s loss, before finally coming back.

  He couldn’t remember going to sleep, holding the stone. It was the middle of the night when he awoke and returned the stone to his right vest pocket, next to his watch. The night was cold and the shapes of everything appeared mysterious and strangely beautiful. He had slept longer than he wanted, but clearly he had needed the rest. From the roll of buckskin, Holt made four thick, crude socks and tied them over Tag’s paws. The leather would help the dog’s feet on the hot earth. It was the best he could do.

  Gathering his things, he was on the march again in a few minutes, letting the pale moonlight guide his way. Tag was by his side, seemingly refreshed and enjoying his paw socks. Around the two of them, the land stretched forever. A curious nighthawk swooped low overhead and disappeared. They walked on with Holt judging the direction from the fading North Star.

  Red fingers of dawn crawled across the land and soon it was bright once more; heat taking control of the day. It was said an Apache warrior could make thirty-five to forty miles on foot. But not a white man.

  His body soon ached from the heat and the walking, but it was either that or die. He didn’t intend to die. Not here. Not now. He stopped at some thick cactus and cut off a chunk to suck on later. The cactus would be filled with water.

  They crossed a dry lake bed. It was hard to tell how long ago water had occupied the bleak expanse. Scattered bones of animals looking for water that wasn’t there were evident throughout the region. Foot tracks of the outlaws’ horses were evident; they had made no attempt to hide where they were going.

  “No need to,” he grumbled. “If th
ey want me, they’ll find me.”

  At the northern end of the dry lake bed, a few scattered oaks stood forlorn and bent. Overhead a buzzard circled lazily.

  “We’ll rest there, Tag.”

  After giving the dog water, a piece of jerky, and a corn biscuit, he cut into the cactus’s moist insides. He ate jerky and the remaining corn dodger, sucked on the cactus insides, and finally laid down to sleep. Tag would warn him of any danger.

  Nighttime finally came and they were walking again, following the North Star. A stop beside a rancher’s pond was brief; what water remained was brackish. Even Tag didn’t want to drink it. Three cottonwoods stood over the sometime water, and Holt wondered how they survived.

  To his left was a low set of rolling hills. In the dark they looked like a voluptuous woman lying on her side. He chuckled at the image as he kept moving. Would he ever see a woman again? He adjusted the saddlebags, canteens, shoulder holsters, and carbine sling on his shoulders. Yes, he would.

  Tag brushed against him and he leaned over to pick up the weary dog. He trudged on into the night and his mind was numb.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When a new morning began to separate rock from cactus and shrubs, Holt Corrigan selected an old buffalo wallow to spend the daylight. It was a wide and shallow pit where the great beasts had once rolled. No trees were in sight, but the deepness of the wallow would provide whatever shade could be found.

  “Tag, I’m ready to stop. How ’bout you?”

  Sitting down with the dog in his lap, Holt poured water into the tin plate for his four-legged companion and drank from the canteen himself. After eating some jerky and giving Tag an equal amount, Holt stretched out with his hat over his face. His carbine rested on his stomach. The day’s heat was already upon them.