The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories

by Various Writers

  Abruptly, the downpour stopped. The sun came out, blazing. Already, the mill race was subsiding as Epstein’s garments steamed in the sun.

  Soon he crossed over on dry bottom. Toward sunset, Epstein came to the wagon and the dry camp.

  HURLEY said, “Wiley fell off. Wheel crushed him, but he may live.”

  “The buzzards say he won’t. Let me look.”

  The peddler knelt beside Wiley, and shook his head. “There is nothing left to fix.”

  The man died within the hour. After they had buried him under a cairn of rocks, Epstein asked, “He was drinking?”

  Hurley cursed bitterly. “I busted the bottle and told him I’d bust his head, but he had another one.”

  “You need a helper with the mules.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

  “Then hitch my wagon on behind, and I will take the job.”

  “It’s a deal, Saul!”

  The following day they paralleled the mountains. That evening, while getting camp gear from the wagon, Epstein found a case of whiskey cached among the canned goods.

  “Maybe,” said Epstein, in announcing his discovery, “Wiley was going to do some private trading in Panamint.”

  “Where the devil’d he get the price of a whole case? Old man Hoskins might trust him for a tin dipper of red eye from the barrel, but never for a case. There’s something salty in this deal! Some one aimed to cold-deck me.”

  Epstein followed the hint and found a sales slip from the general store. It was a duplicate receipted by J. Wiley. But the goods had been sold to Lee Ballard.

  A hail from the darkness startled the two. A man, weaving and lurching, stumbled into the circle of light. His clothes were bedraggled and torn. Bloodshot eyes stared from a taut face. He carried a satchel which he would not relinquish, even when Epstein caught him by the elbow to help him make the final step beside the fire. “Water!” he croaked.

  “Here is coffee. Wait, I will get some grub.”

  “Not now. There are others. All in. I chased your firelight. They’re all played out. You’ve got to help us.”

  Epstein said, “What happened, where do you come from, on foot?”

  “The stage from Poplar Junction was caught in a draw. We’ve been walking ever since. Lot of the road was washed out. Got lost, and then saw this fire. Take us to Poplar Junction, or to the nearest town in the other direction. I’ll pay you well.”

  “Who the hell are you, hiring an outfit so free and easy?” asked Hurley, who had been studying the man.

  “Jubal Garlock.”

  “You could be the Governor of Nevada, for all I care. We’re bound for Panamint. Ride with us, or walk to wherever you please.”

  Garlock got up, stiffly and painfully. “I’ll go tell the others there’s grub and water, anyway.”

  He had scarcely gone beyond the circle of light when a woman exclaimed, “Oooh! That coffee smells good!”

  And the first of the group to take shape at the fringe of the firelight was Emily Crawford. She had slashed her tailored skirt to knee length. A piece of the garment had been used to make an outlandish sunbonnet. Other pieces were bound to her feet.

  Hurley recognized her before she recognized him, since the fire dazzled her eyes. He took a step to meet Emily. She recoiled, and the face of the man following her changed. Hurley had command of the situation.

  “Lucky Ballard!” he said, with an ironic bow. “But I’m kind of lucky myself, seeing you and Emily so soon after some one butted in on our talk.”

  Ballard stopped short. His hands made jerky motions, as though he could not decide whether to raise them or reach for a gun.

  And then Epstein came over from the wagon. “Meals at all hours,” he pattered, amiably. “Anything you want, ask for it—it gives bacon and biscuits and canned peaches.”

  Smiling, Hurley said, “Set down folks. I was only mocking you a bit. Saul, give them coffee, it’s better’n water, for folks plumb fagged out and all a-thirst!”

  Epstein obeyed. Hurley came after him with a bottle. “Take a dollop in your coffee, Lucky. You, too, Garlock.” He regarded the label and displayed it to his guests. “Best in the West, Lucky. Got a whole case of it, barring a couple bottles. Wiley drunk ’afore he fell under the wheels and killed himself. Yes, Sir, old man Hoskins does carry good case whiskey.”

  Ballard managed to keep his face immobile. Garlock, who had not spoken since his return reached out with his pannikin’. And as he drank, he kept a caressing hand on the satchel.

  Hurley was breaking out blankets when Ballard said, “Ben, personal differences can wait on a better time. Carry us to the road and the nearest town. I’ll see you don’t lose out.”

  “I’m going to Panamint. Ride with me, or walk your way.”

  “Oh, Ben!” Emily cried. “You can’t do that! It’ll be a couple of days before they miss the stage. They’re likely to find just enough wreckage to make it seem none of us lived through it.”

  “I said, you can ride to Panamint.”

  “My God!” Ballard exclaimed, indignantly. “You can’t make a woman face that.”

  “When Saul came up, just as Wiley died, account of some one giving him a case of whiskey,” Hurley said, remorselessly, “I knew I’d get a sign that meant, shove on. Now with you two moving in on me, I know it’s all the more a sign. It’s Big Medicine—it’s desert judgment— and I can’t back down.” He dug the charge slip out of his pocket. “The whiskey was on you, Lucky. Now—see what I mean?”

  “But—but—Emily—!”

  Emily interposed. “Ben, Lucky was heading South, to look at his property. I was going to visit relatives in Yuma. I am sorry you jumped at conclusions, but I can understand. And you needn’t carry on with what happened in the hotel. We all understand. Let’s just forget it.”

  * * * *

  In the morning, Hurley acted as though there had been no dispute the previous night. “All aboard!” he shouted, as he climbed to the driver’s seat. Epstein, after helping Emily, took his station toward the rear of the load. The cargo, well stowed, shifted hardly at all, but Emily, perched precariously and muffled in a blanket, lost her balance. In trying to check herself, she landed in Epstein’s arms. Then, as though at a signal, Ballard pounced forward, while Garlock turned toward the back.

  “Take it easy, Saul,” Garlock said from behind his short barreled revolver. “Let Emily take that gun you got stuffed under your shirt.”

  Epstein pretended to be a good deal more scared than he was. “I don’t want trouble,” he stuttered. “Watch out—it’s loaded.”

  Up front, Ballard had a pistol against Hurley’s back. “Pull up, Ben! You’re covered.”

  Hurley obeyed. “What’s all this monkey work?”

  “You’re going to take us to town,” Ballard answered. “I’ll take your gun first.”

  Disarmed, Hurley faced about, hands shoulder high. “Can any of you skin mules?” he asked, leaning forward, chin outthrust, brows beetling. His hands seemed about to reach out and slap down. Epstein broke out in a sweat lest Hurley try the fatal trick of making a swipe at Ballard’s weapon.

  “Can you skin mules?” Hurley repeated.

  “Yes,” Ballard answered, “even though I didn’t get my start that way.”

  “She’s all yours, then.” Hurley clambered down. “I’m whipped.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ballard demanded, warily.

  Then Epstein spoke up. “I’m going with him. I got to get my cart loose. Do you have to keep my pistol?”

  Epstein unlashed the vehicle. He picked up gun and cartridges Garlock dropped. “All right, Ben,” he said, cheerfully. “Panamint or bust. We’re on our way!”

  Hurley wheeled about. “There’s not a drop of water in tank or barrel. While you pounded your ears last night, I gave every jughead all he could drink. You can backtrack and follow my wheel tracks, but nary a drop of water for three days. The nearest water is toward the mountains yond
er. A spring hidden so’s you could die of thirst within a hundred yards of it and never know it was there. Pull down on me, and you’re shooting yourself out of your last chance of a drink till you find it in hell. Let’s go, Saul!”

  Epstein bent to the push-bar of his cart. Stretching his legs in a long, swinging stride.

  Hurley set the pace.

  A pistol whacked.

  Hurley swung along as though he had heard neither report nor the zip of the wild bullet, but Epstein, looking back, saw that Garlock was grappling to disarm Ballard.

  When this was done, Garlock raised his voice. “You win, Hurley! He lost his head for a second. Come back, and take over.”

  Hurley turned, grinning. “Bring me all the hand guns.” And once they were back at the wagon, he said, “Saul, they didn’t even look to see if I was a-bluffing. Show ’em!”

  The tank and barrel were dry.

  By the time Hurley reached the promised spring, his passengers had learned a few things about thirst.

  Toward the end of the day’s drive up the ravine, they came to another spring, small but sweet. On the cliffs were marked figures that looked like a schoolboy’s attempt at drawing men and animals. Epstein studied these and turned and eyed Hurley. Since they stood well apart from the others, he risked a single word: “Indians.”

  Hurley nodded. Both scanned the cliffs and the bare suggestion of trail which snaked along toward the rim-rock.

  Hurley announced, without any mention of Indian sign, “We’re shoving on as long as we can see. Drink up, and we’ll make for the open. We have no time to lose.” Ballard was becoming more and more uneasy, which was odd, since he had not noticed the drawings on the cliff. He had been too busy squinting at the upper slopes of the mountains. Epstein baited him by getting his binoculars and saying, “Here, have a good look.”

  Ballard snatched at the glasses. He muttered something about the kinds of ore indicated by the bands of green which streaked the slopes.

  * * * *

  Well out on the mesa. Hurley pulled up to make camp. He said, “Just to be sociable, everybody gets his shooting iron. Whoever craves to drive back is welcome. Saul and I can hoof it from here to Panamint. We’ve answered the question whether wagons can get through with freight. Saul—get out some of that whiskey Lucky sent with us—we’ll have a drink to good fellowship.”

  Before dusk closed in, Epstein picked a spot, somewhat apart from camp, close enough for him to be handy, yet not in the middle of things. Issuing guns and whiskey had been a taunt and he feared Hurley was pushing his luck too far.

  After supper, Hurley and Epstein decided to stand watch, each taking a four hour trick.

  “Saul, which’ll you have?”

  “I’ll take the second. What do I watch out for—passengers or Indians? You’ve been rubbing it in on Ballard. If you are looking for a showdown, you will win a gun fight but lose the girl.”

  “Mmm...you’re right. What do you make of Garlock?”

  Epstein shrugged. “What does Emily say about him?”

  “He is some kind of engineer, studying irrigation and reclaiming land for sodbusters.”

  “I’m moving my cart over by those rocks, so I can watch the camp and the mules, too,” Epstein said sagely. “The way things are, I’ll need four eyes to see in all directions at once.”

  * * * *

  When voices awakened Epstein, the moon was spreading its glow across the mesa. He saw Emily, blanket about her shoulders, going with Hurley toward a small outcropping.

  Emily was saying, “Ben, do quit trying to get my mind off the track! What more is there to what you were going to say?”

  Hurley drew a deep breath. “Maybe Lucky told you the truth when he said he was strictly on the level, staking Wiley to a case of whiskey to sell in Panamint. Maybe he didn’t aim to undermine me the way it looks he did. But look at it all—everything!

  “I once heard a fellow say every man, woman, and child has an angel tagging along, watching him. Well, it’s been as if some critter with wings big enough to cast a shadow over half of creation has been riding herd on the whole pack and passel of us.”

  “All of us?”

  “Sure! Look back at all the freak things. Saul running into me in town, and being able to give me a lift when lacking Wiley. And you three, wandering around half loco from thirst, finding my camp which wouldn’t’ve been there at that time, excepting Lucky had staked Wiley to whiskey. That’s how it came to me, that night, to give the mules every drop of water.”

  “Condemning us to this trip!”

  “No! But I’m facing judgment with the rest of you. Couldn’t I’ve shot it out with him ’afore now?”

  “You couldn’t force a fight with a man you’ve taken into your camp. Can’t you understand—this ring is not an engagement ring. He didn’t give it to me, it’s family jewelry. And where else’d I keep a ring but on my finger? I know you think Lucky was just too lucky, selling out of that bank when he did—but you’d’ve done the same, if you’d had a sudden opening in a good land investment. But you suspect him as though he’d made the bank crash!”

  “Honey, that’s why I stick to the one thing that does show up clear—this here is a desert judgment to answer things. If I knew he’d been fixing and planning to sink me, I’d have shot it out.”

  Emily, despite herself, was impressed, yet she said, “You’ve not accounted for Jubal Garlock. Your dark angel, your desert angel must’ve had some reason for putting him into this!”

  He shrugged off the hollow-hearted mockery, knowing why she offered it. “Betwixt here and Panamint, that’ll be answered.”

  She bounced to her feet. Then Ballard broke in on the two. Epstein knew he had to do something quickly. He moved, cat-quick, and silently.

  For such close range, the shooting light was perfect. Ballard made his move.

  There was a hiss, a blast, a cry of pain. “Don’t shoot!” Epstein shouted, but only after his whip had paralyzed Ballard’s gun hand and disarmed him. Then Hurley pounced and clouted him, dropping him in his tracks. Emily cried out, as though there had been an exchange of shots.

  The whine of the wind, combined with the dry rustle of sand blown against his sheltering rock made a curtain of sound which might have soaked up the less regular noises of the night, had Epstein not been so thoroughly at home in the desert. Presently, a mule snorted, making a sound which put Epstein more on edge. After some moments, he noted motion in the solid shadow. There was a dim glint of metal at a mule’s forefeet. Some one was cutting the hobbles. Epstein was certain only of one thing— an Indian was at work.

  Epstein drew his gun. Then the show opened as though at a signal, before Epstein fired his first shot. From his right a flight of blazing arrows thudded into the side of the wagon. Simultaneously, arrows with flaming heads raked the browsing mules.

  Epstein’s gun roared. The prowler jerked upright, then fell, kicking and clawing. The mules with fiery arrows sticking in their hides stampeded. Then the raiders turned on Epstein.

  Several had muskets. Epstein’s sheltering buttress of rock stopped a dozen arrows and several bullets. He let out a yell, and lurched into full view, to lie there, exposed.

  * * * *

  Seeing Epstein apparently finished, the Indians checked their rush. One said in paleface English, “Watch out for the other one.”

  His advice came too late. From beneath the wagon came the whack of a Winchester. The marauders scattered. The muzzle loader boomed again. Epstein, popping up from an unexpected quarter, had drawn the attention of the raiders long enough to give Hurley and the others a chance to gather their wits and fight back.

  The wagon sides, tinder dry, began to burn from blazing arrows. Jubal Garlock, who was sleeping on the cargo, grabbed a blanket to swing down at the flames.

  “Keep down, Jubal!” Ballard shouted, and Hurley called, “I’ll slosh it with water! Keep down!”

  Taking heart, the raiders made a rush. Emily screamed a warning. Ep
stein saw his chance to come into action. He took the enemy from the rear, now that they were bunched up and silhouetted by the blaze they had started. When his gun was empty, the show had ended: the survivors raced after the animals they had stampeded.

  Once the fire was out, Epstein learned that while Hurley and Ballard had suffered only scratches, Garlock had been nailed with an arrow, and drilled by a bullet.

  Once they got Garlock down from the wagon, Hurley demanded, “Saul, you can doctor a fellow. Get busy!”

  “For bullets, I can’t probe. But that arrow is so near through that if I drive it on, while he is unconscious, and cut off the head, I can pull the shaft out.”

  As Epstein set to work by the light of the lantern, Ballard demanded, “Let’s round up enough mules to pull the wagon without cargo.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Lucky! Mules are as good eating meat as anything else, and them Injuns’d fight to the last man to keep ’em!”

  Epstein, meanwhile, lost little time. He had the arrowhead cut off and the shaft withdrawn before Jubal Garlock regained consciousness. Then he said, “I have some laudanum for cholera medicine. It will keep him resting easy.”

  No one had thought of getting a look at any of the fallen raiders. As far as Epstein knew, he was the only one who had heard the use of English. He paused when he came to those that had dropped when he had caught them from the rear and it was not until he came to his cart that he found the one who had crawled to the shelter of the outcropping. He had been winged. And that man was white.

  Pistol drawn, Epstein knelt beside him and took the renegade’s gun. “Who are you?” he asked. “Why do you run with Indians? I’ve seen you in Poplar Junction. Or maybe in Silver Bend. Who set you on this job with Indians?”

  The man cursed. Epstein cocked his pistol. “Two things I can do. First, what a man deserves for running with Indians, I can fix it for you. Or I can give you something for the pain. And put some rocks on you when you are done so the coyotes won’t scatter your bones.” He hefted the big S&W, and resumed, “Not with a bullet. Just with a good pistol whipping—”

  “Ballard, the dirty son! He said—only two— only two—” The man choked and went limp. The face relaxed.