When he stepped outside it was dark, and quiet. He thought he could hear the ghosts of Dodge City around him—or maybe it was Chance’s ghost, asking him when he was going to avenge his death.
Tomorrow, old friend. I start tomorrow.
* * *
* * *
In the morning he had a hearty breakfast, then began to put together the gear he would need to hunt Seaforth Bailey.
Jake had never been a gunman, never worn a badge, but as a young man, he had joined on several posses when asked. So he had an idea of what he would need.
First, a good horse.
He went to the largest livery in town—the one where he had put up his horse and his animals from the drive—and told the hostler exactly what he wanted.
“I need a reliable animal, lots of stamina, five or six years old . . . and, oh, a gelding.”
“Jesus, you know exactly what ya want, don’t ya?” the old hostler said.
“Have you got somethin’ like that, or do I have to go somewhere else?”
“No, no,” the man said, “I got just the thing for you. Come on out back.”
They went out the back door of the livery to a corral that had about a dozen horses in it.
“Which one?” Jake asked.
“The red sorrel,” the man said. “Just recently gelded. Go on in and take a look.”
Jake entered the corral, put his hand on a couple of the horses to get them to move aside. When he reached the sorrel he admired the strength of it, the flaxen mane and tail, no sway to its back, good teeth, strong neck and flanks.
He walked back to the hostler and said, “I’ll take him.”
“I ain’t toldja the price.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You don’t wanna dicker?” the man asked, surprised.
“I don’t have the time.”
Jake had all the money from his sale of the cattle on him. If he had to, he was going to spend it all to avenge Chance McCandless. The hostler quoted his price, and Jake paid it. He also told the hostler he could have the other animals—the entire remuda.
“If yer gonna throw them in, I’ll lower the price,” the man offered.
“Don’t bother.” He took the money out and handed it to the hostler.
“I got a better saddle than the one you rode in on,” the hostler said. “I’ll throw that in.”
“Good, thanks. I’ll take it. I’ll pick everythin’ up tomorrow mornin’, first thing.”
“I’ll have him saddled. You wanna know his name?”
“I ain’t givin’ him a name,” Jake said.
“He’s already got one,” the man said. “I’m callin’ him Red.”
“Good enough.”
Jake left the livery, went to the mercantile, bought some new clothes, and ammunition for his pistol and rifle, both of which he considered reliable. He also had Chance’s guns. He’d get rid of the extra rifle, but he was going to keep Chance’s Peacemaker as a backup to his own. His rifle was a Winchester ’76, which fired heavier ammunition than the popular ’73 model. It would kill a bear as easily as a man.
The rifle he’d carried during the war had been an 1860 Henry, but the Henry became the basis for the Winchester, which was among the first repeaters manufactured. He had a ’73 when they first came out, but when the ’76 appeared he quickly switched his allegiance.
He bought enough supplies to keep himself going for a week or so—coffee, beans, beef jerky, and some cans of peaches. Eating this way would make sure that by the time he got back to Texas he would have lost some weight. He had lost very little on the drive, thanks to Carlito’s cooking.
If he was going to hunt men, he needed to be in better condition. Rather than shape him up, the trail drive had shown him just what terrible condition his body was in. He had given in to age a long time ago; now it was time to try to fend off the effects of it—at least until he did what he had to do.
The last thing he bought was a holster. He had never worn one before, outside of a kind with the flap that folded over the gun, during the war. This one had no flap, was simply a leather pouch designed to attach to his belt and hold a pistol. He simply needed the gun to be easily accessible for his hunt.
He left with his supplies in a gunnysack, which he brought back to his room. In the morning he would tie it to his saddle horn, put his extra clothes and Chance’s gun in his saddlebags. He put on the newly purchased holster, shoved his gun into it so he would get used to wearing it.
He left the hotel again as it started to get dark, and headed for the Long Branch.
* * *
* * *
He thought he would find some of the boys at the saloon. As it turned out, only the Mexican cousins were there—Taco, Desiderio, and Carlito, seated at a table with a whiskey bottle in the center.
The bar was crowded, and all the tables were filled. Nobody paid the least bit of attention to Jake as he crossed the room.
“‘Evenin’, boys,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”
“Jefe!” Taco said, glad to see his friend. “Please, sientate. Sit.”
Jake sat in the empty fourth chair at the table, and a saloon girl came right over.
“Beer,” he told her. “Anythin’ more for you fellas?”
“No, jefe,” Desi said, raising his shot glass of whiskey, “we are doin’ well.”
Jake waited for the girl to bring him his beer, lifted it, and wet his whistle.
“Where are Curly and Dundee?” he asked.
“They have been at the whorehouse since last night,” Taco said. “They are young men!”
“I am a young man!” Desi complained. “Why am I not at the whorehouse?”
Taco slapped his cousin on the back and said, “I have been wondering the same thing myself, cabrón.”
That was a word Jake had heard before—dumbass!
The cousins laughed.
“When are you leaving town, señor?” Taco asked.
“Tomorrow mornin’,” Jake said. “I’ve got a new horse and saddle, some new duds, and I’m on my way.”
“And supplies, jefe?” Desi asked. “For your hunt?”
“Yeah,” he said, “supplies for my hunt.”
“I still wish you would allow me to accompany you, Señor Jake,” Taco said. “I would also like to avenge the death of Señor Chance.”
“No, Taco,” Jake said. “This is my fight. I started it, and I’ve got to finish it. I just thought I’d find you boys here and have one last drink.”
“Gracias, jefe,” Carlito said. “We are happy you wanted to share your time with us.”
At that moment the batwing doors swung inward and several men entered, dressed in trail clothes, with guns tucked into their belts.
“Ay, mierda,” Desi cursed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jake leaned over to Taco.
“What did he say?”
“Shit!” Taco whispered.
Jake turned in his seat, saw the four men who had entered. They looked around the saloon, then walked to the bar. They used their elbows to make room, and nobody complained. He noticed the pistols they all had in their belts.
“What’s that about?” Jake asked Desi.
“Those four men, señor,” Desi said, “they do not like Mexicans.”
“So you’ve had trouble with them before?” Jake asked the three cousins.
“Sí, señor,” Desi said, “on the street.”
“They shouted their feelings so that everyone could hear them,” Taco said, “especially us.”
“And what did you do?” Jake asked.
“We stayed out of trouble, señor,” Carlito said, with a broad smile. “But I do not like the look of these hombres. Muy malo.”
And then, as if on cue, a loud voice shouted, �
�Well, lookee here, boys, what we got in the Long Branch.”
The speaker walked over to the table Jake was sharing with his boys, and the other men followed him. They were of a type, young—none older than thirty—and had obviously been drinking elsewhere.
“It’s them damn Mess-i-cans we saw on the street today,” the speaker said. “What are you Mess-i-cans doin’ in a white man’s saloon?” He leaned in close. “Didn’t we tell you to leave town?”
The loud voice had drawn everyone’s attention to them, and the room went quiet. Jake knew they were seconds away from a bloodbath, because he could see the angry looks on the faces of Taco and Desi and the worried look on Carlito’s. He also knew that none of the Mexicans were carrying a gun. He had to act fast, before one of these men pulled a pistol from his belt and did something stupid.
Jake stood up quickly, drawing his gun from his new holster, and brought the butt down on the man’s head. The speaker dropped to the floor in a limp heap.
His three friends stared down at him in shock, and then back at Jake, who was still holding his gun.
“You shouldn’ta done that to Eddie, mister,” one of them said.
“Take your friend out, and all of you sober up,” Jake told them. “If I see you startin’ trouble again I’ll turn you over to the law. Got it?”
None of them answered, but all three reached down to help their friend to his feet and, supporting him between them, they walked out.
A sudden raucous round of applause went up from the crowd, and Jake quickly stuck his Peacemaker back into his holster and sat down.
“Gracias, jefe,” Carlito said. “I thought a very bad thing was going to happen here.”
“So did I,” Jake said.
The same saloon girl came over and put a fresh beer in front of Jake with a big smile.
“That’s from Andy, the bartender,” she said, “as thanks for keepin’ trouble from happenin’.”
Jake picked up the ice-cold glass, turned to the bartender, and raised it in thanks. The big-bellied man nodded and waved back.
“And thanks from me, too,” the girl added. “You kept Big Andy from havin’ to use that damned shotgun he keeps under the bar.”
The applause died down and everyone went back to doing what they were doing before the excitement.
Jake finished his beer and stood up.
“Well, boys, I’ll be off in the mornin’. I wanna thank you all for everythin’ ya done.”
“You paid us, señor,” Taco pointed out.
“And very well, señor,” Desi added.
“Nevertheless,” Jake said, “I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.”
He shook all their hands and left the Long Branch.
* * *
* * *
The exhaustion was creeping into Jake’s bones again as he walked back to the Dodge House Hotel. But as he stepped up onto the boardwalk to approach the front door it became obvious he wasn’t going to be allowed to just turn in.
“Hey, old man!”
He turned, saw the four men from the saloon fanned out in the street in front of the hotel. They were barely illuminated by the streetlamps. On the other hand, he was brightly lit, so there was small chance they could miss him. Now he was sorry he was wearing the holster. He could have gotten the gun out of his belt much quicker.
But it was fairly obvious that he wasn’t going to get to ride back to Texas and avenge Chance McCandless. Not if these young fellows had their way.
He couldn’t tell them apart, so he didn’t know which one he had hit until he spoke.
“You think you’re pretty slick, hittin’ me on the head with that gun butt,” Eddie said.
“I was just tryin’ to keep anyone from gettin’ killed, son,” he said.
“I ain’t your son,” the young man said, “and I don’t need no reason to kill a Mess-i-can.”
“Well, those Mexicans happen to be friends of mine, so I couldn’t let you do it.”
“Then instead of killin’ them,” Eddie said, “we’re gonna kill you.”
“And then we’ll go back and kill them,” one of the other men said.
“Is this really necessary?” Jake asked. “I’ve still got some things I wanna live to do.”
“You shoulda thought of that before you butted in,” Eddie told him.
“But it was you who butted in,” Jake said, figuring the longer he could keep talking, the longer he could live. “I just reacted.”
“Well, react to this!” the spokesman said, but before he could draw they all heard the voice from the dark behind them.
“Oh, señor,” Taco said, “I would not do that.”
The four men froze.
“Is that you, Mex?” one of them asked.
“It is all of us, señores,” Desi replied. “We suspected you would not allow our amigo to go peacefully to his hotel to sleep.”
“So if you kill him,” Carlito chimed in, “we will kill you.”
Jake could see the men were conflicted.
“Looks like a Mexican standoff to me, fellas,” he said. “Which is kinda ironic, don’t you think? Seein’ as how you don’t like Mexicans.”
“All right, señores,” Taco announced. “You have three guns pointed at your backs. Now carefully drop yours to the ground, por favor.”
“You wouldn’t shoot us in the back,” Eddie said, without much conviction.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Jake said. “After all, they’re Mexicans.”
The four men looked at each other, and then, one by one, removed their guns from their belts and dropped them to the ground.
“Where are your horses?” Jake asked.
“Down the street.”
“Get on them and leave town,” Jake said.
“In the dark?” Eddie asked.
“Right now,” Jake said, “or I can’t be responsible for what my crazy Mexican friends might do.”
The men looked at each other again, then started walking away.
“And in case you’re plannin’ on grabbin’ your rifles,” Jake said, “my friends will go with you and keep you covered until you leave.”
“What about our guns?” Eddie asked.
“I’ll be givin’ them to the sheriff,” Jake said. “If you ever come back, check with him.”
As the four men walked off down the street, Desi and Carlito followed with their guns out. Taco came across the street to Jake.
“Taco,” Jake said, “thanks for this.”
“You need us, jefe,” Taco said, “for your hunt.”
“I appreciate the offer, I really do,” Jake said, “and what you did tonight, but I still have to go it alone tomorrow.”
“As you wish, señor.”
“Good night, Taco,” Jake said, “and if I don’t see you tomorrow . . . adiós.”
“Vaya con dios, Señor Jake.”
* * *
* * *
Jake woke the next morning, ready to go. He’d had a dream about Chance McCandless, during which he promised his friend he would find his killers and exact vengeance on them.
“You’re no bounty hunter, Jake,” Chance had told him.
“I’ll get the job done, Chance,” Jake said, “I promise you.”
“Just don’t get yourself killed doin’ it, old man,” Chance said, and faded away.
When Jake woke he felt as if Chance had really appeared to him, to warn him.
He washed up, put on his new clothes and his holster, picked up his rifle, saddlebags, bedroll, and gunnysack of supplies, and left the room. In the lobby he checked out and settled his bill. When he left by the front door he was pleased not to find anybody with a gun waiting for him.
He walked to the livery, where the hostler, as promised, had the sorrel gelding saddled a
nd ready to go. The saddle he had put on the horse was a plain one, but good leather and in perfect condition.
“Nothin’ fancy,” the man said, “but it’s fine quality.”
“It’ll do fine,” Jake assured him. “Thanks.”
“Good luck with whatever you’re gearin’ up for, friend.”
“Thanks.”
Jake walked the horse outside, then tied his bedroll in place, hung the sack from the saddle horn, tossed his saddlebags over the horse’s back, slid his rifle into the scabbard, and mounted up.
He was ready for his manhunt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The first day was Jake and the sorrel gelding called Red getting to know one another. He walked him, cantered him, galloped him. He moved him side to side, backed him up. The horse responded to his touch very well. He thought the animal would have been very handy during a roundup—only he wasn’t going to be doing any more roundups, was he?
Since he wasn’t pushing a herd anymore, he made it to Liberal in half the time it had taken him to get to Dodge from there.
He camped outside of Liberal that first night, having no reason to ride in. He built a small fire, just enough to make a pot of coffee, and ate the beef jerky with it. Then he sat and thought about his past with Chance McCandless. They had been in the war together, cowhands together, and then when Big Jake Motley bought the Big M, he made Chance his foreman. When he married Abby, Chance was his best man.
But then things began to go sour on the ranch, and Abby died. That was when Chance left. Jake knew Chance loved Abby, and he sometimes thought his friend had left the Big M because of it. And if he had, Jake could certainly understand why. She was a wonderful woman.
Jake didn’t feel the need to keep watch that night. He doubted the four men from Dodge would follow him out here. They had already been humiliated twice. And there was practically no chance Seaforth Bailey would come this far for revenge—not when the man probably knew that Jake would be coming for him.
He had seen many men like Seaforth Bailey during the war, men who thought they should be officers but never were. And he had met many men over the years who claimed more in the way of achievements during the war than they ever truly accomplished. But he felt that this man—though arrogant as hell—probably had some degree of intelligence. And if he didn’t, his segundo probably did. Either way, they would have to figure that Jake would come for his own revenge. After all, that had to be why they had chosen to shoot Chance in the first place. They knew it would hurt Jake, and they knew he would have to come for them once the herd was delivered.
Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive Page 14
