Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  He hurried to his horse and mounted up, still not sure what he was going to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  For the moment Jake could do nothing but follow the six riders.

  He rode down from his position in the rocks and started trailing them. He couldn’t afford to move close enough to see them, because they might see him as well. He simply stayed on their trail, riding over their fresh sign. Eventually, they were going to get to the spot where he veered off from Taco and doubled back. At that point they would have to decide whether to follow the tracks of the single horse moving forward, or the one that was doubling back. Or—and Jake would have preferred this—they would split up. If three of them followed the trail he left when doubling back, they would soon realize he had been watching them. But by that time maybe he and Taco could take care of the three who had continued on. He wondered what Seaforth would do, though. Continue on or double back?

  Okay, maybe this decision of the raiders to have six men follow his and Taco’s trail wouldn’t turn out to be so bad, after all.

  * * *

  * * *

  The raiders rode in a triangle formation, Sequoia in the lead, Seaforth and Garfield behind him, and the other three men behind them. Seaforth was much more confident, now that he had his breed scout riding point, that they would catch up to Motley. He would show “Big” Jake Motley who was truly big.

  They rode for several miles before Sequoia stopped, holding up a hand for them to stop behind him.

  “What is it?” Seaforth called to him.

  Sequoia turned his horse and rode back to Seaforth and Garfield.

  “They have split up again,” he said.

  “Dammit!” Seaforth said. “Which one is Motley?”

  “One is the horse we have been following, assuming it is the Mexican’s,” Sequoia said. “The other could be Jake Motley’s.”

  “But?” Garfield said.

  The breed looked at him.

  “But we are only assuming the first horse is being ridden by the Mexican. These could be two different men.”

  “No,” Seaforth said. “It was the Mexican’s horse, and the other one is Motley.”

  “So what do we do now?” Garfield asked.

  “Maybe,” Sequoia said, “they switched horses.”

  “You mean Motley could be riding the Mexican’s horse?” Seaforth asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Garfield asked.

  “Because Motley wants me to find him,” the Major said. “Or, he wants to find me. Either way, he’s not trying to get away from me.”

  “So what do you want to do?” Garfield asked. “Split up again, too?”

  “No,” Seaforth said. “Forget about the Mexican. We’re all going to follow Motley back.”

  “What about the others?” Garfield asked. “They’re still following Motley’s other men.”

  “We can’t change that now,” Seaforth said. “But we’re not following that Mex anymore.” He looked at Seqouia. “We’re following the other trail, the one leading back.”

  “As you wish,” Sequoia said.

  “Take the lead again.”

  Sequoia nodded.

  As they headed back, following the trail of the single horse, it was not on a road, or a path. At times they had to skirt around trees, and rock formations, and Sequoia had to relocate the trail so they could continue. It was slower going . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  When Jake reached the point where he and Taco had split up he saw that all six men had veered off and followed his trail back. That was actually a good thing. It meant Taco was safe, and the six men had no idea where they were going. Then he heard something from up ahead and before he could decide whether to take cover or not, he saw Taco riding back toward him.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he demanded.

  “I had the feeling, señor, that they were not following me any longer.”

  “You’re right,” Jake said, “but you should’ve kept goin’.”

  “No, señor,” Taco said, “I knew I should ride back.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you stubborn Mex.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “Well,” Jake said, “the only reason I can see for them to all follow one trail is because they think it’s me.”

  “But . . . it was you.”

  “I know,” Jake said. “That breed scout must be with them. He knows what he’s doin’.”

  “Well,” Taco said, “they will not follow your trail back to the three-way fork, where they split up. What then?”

  “I think I may play with them a bit,” Jake said. “Try to get inside their heads.”

  “What would you like me to do, señor?” Taco asked.

  “Go and find Dundee and Curly. I want to know if they’re safe.”

  “Where shall I take them?” Taco asked.

  “Back to the three forks,” Jake said. “Seaforth and his raiders should be gone by then.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Hopefully,” Jake said, “chasin’ another false trail. I’ll see you later.”

  “Vaya con dios, señor,” Taco said.

  Jake turned his horse and started after Seaforth’s Raiders, who thought they were following him.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sequoia held up his hand for them to stop.

  “What’s wrong?” Seaforth called.

  The breed turned in his saddle and said, “We’re here.” He pointed.

  Seaforth hadn’t recognized the spot, as they were coming at it from a different angle.

  “So he led us right back here,” he said.

  “Yes,” Sequoia said.

  “But why?” Garfield asked.

  Sequoia looked around, then up, and pointed.

  “Those rocks,” he said. “He either is, or was, watching us from there.”

  “And if he is,” Garfield said, “he just saw you point at him.”

  Sequoia lowered his arm and did not answer.

  “Let’s circle around those rocks,” Seaforth said. “Garfield, you take two men that way; Sequoia, Walker and I will go that way. If he is up there, we might be able to surround him.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Garfield said. He waved at two of the men to follow him, then rode to the left.

  “Sequoia, take the lead,” Seaforth said.

  “As you wish.”

  They started riding the opposite way.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake followed the tracks left by the six men, but it was obvious they were going to follow his trail all the way back to the three-way fork. He decided to try to circle them and get there first.

  Thanks to the surefooted sorrel, he did so, reaching the fork ahead of the raiders. He set himself up to watch.

  * * *

  * * *

  Seaforth, Sequoia, and Walker got halfway around the rock formation and met up with Garfield and his men coming from the other side.

  “Anything?” Seaforth asked.

  “No.”

  They all looked up.

  “It’s obvious he’d have to go up and come down this way, but on foot,” Seaforth said. “That means his horse would have to be here somewhere.” He looked at the breed. “See if you can find it.”

  Sequoia nodded and turned his horse.

  “I suppose you want me to go up there,” Garfield said.

  “No,” Seaforth said, “you and I will stay down here. Send Walker and the other men up.”

  “And if Motley’s there?” Garfield asked.

  “I don’t want them to kill him,” Seaforth said. “Just bring him down here.”

  Garfield looked over to where Walker was wa
iting with the other two men.

  “I’ll tell them.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake saw Seaforth and five of his men—the breed and segundo included—come out of the trees. They had a discussion, and then the breed pointed up. After that the riders began to surround the rock formation.

  He continued to watch.

  Walker and his men started up the hill to reach the top of the rock formation. As they approached the top they drew their guns, but were unable to spread out. They had no choice but to approach the plateau single file.

  Walker was first to the top, stepped up and sprang to one side, allowing the next man to follow. In seconds all four men were on top with their guns out.

  There was no Big Jake Motley.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake was glad he had not taken up his former position high on those rocks. If he had, they’d have him now. But instead, he remained in the trees and watched as they surrounded his former hiding place. By now, they knew he wasn’t there.

  He turned, mounted his horse, and began to leave his new trail for them to follow.

  “He was there,” Walker said. “There are scuff marks on the rock.”

  “Are you sure?” Seaforth asked.

  “I know enough about reading sign to see that,” Walker said.

  “It’s true,” Clark, one of the other men, said. “I saw them, too.”

  Seaforth looked at Garfield, to see if his second in command was satisfied with the report of his men. Garfield nodded. And at that moment, they heard a horse, and Sequoia returned.

  “So?”

  “I found where he must’ve left his horse last time,” the breed said. “But nothing now.”

  “He’s playing with us,” Walker said, “like a cat with a mouse.”

  “Yes,” Seaforth said, “but it’s time for the mouse to become the cat.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jake made sure his trail was easy to follow.

  In spite of the fact that he was in front of Seaforth and his men, he finally felt that he was actively hunting the man who killed Chance McCandless. He’d had many jobs as a young man, before finally getting his own ranch, but bounty hunter had never been one of them. He had hunted for food, and on several occasions hunted predators who were victimizing his stock, but he had never hunted for sport or enjoyment. And he never knew what it felt like to hunt a man, until now. And while he would certainly take no joy in killing Major Seaforth Bailey, he thought that he would take a certain amount of satisfaction in catching him. After all, he had promised his friend at his gravesite that he would avenge him. That was a promise he fully intended to keep.

  While laying down his trail he wished that he had heard some explosions. It would have meant that Dundee had accomplished his task, and the explosions might play on the mind of Major Seaforth. But either Dundee hadn’t carried out his mission, or he had and it happened too far away for the sound to carry. He fervently hoped it was the latter.

  As for Curly, he would have to succeed at his appointed task with his rifle, and certainly that would happen too far away to hear.

  But with six men on his trail, Jake once again wished he had a few sticks of Dundee’s dynamite in his saddlebags. All he had was his pistol and a rifle, and he had never been the marksman Chance had been.

  He still wasn’t sure how he was going to separate Seaforth from his five men. Perhaps he’d even have to wait for Taco, Dundee, and Curly to rejoin him before taking them on. Until then he’d have to lead them on a merry chase.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sequoia had ridden up ahead of Seaforth, Garfield, and the others. His orders were to follow the trail and, if he happened to catch up to Jake Motley, not to engage him or kill him. But the breed had other plans.

  Sequoia didn’t like Teddy Garfield, and wanted to supplant him as Major Seaforth’s segundo. In order to do that he was going to have to prove his worth. So he fully intended to catch up to this Big Jake Motley, capture him, and turn him over to the Major for his pleasure. After all, he was a hunter, and Motley was a rancher and no match for him.

  He pushed his pony harder as the sign on the ground became fresher and fresher. In addition to his other advantages—youth and experience being the main two—there was no way the rancher’s horse could be a match for his mustang.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake Motley knew good horseflesh.

  That was the reason he had chosen the sorrel. The animal was built for stamina, which was an attribute he preferred over speed.

  So when he heard the horse coming up behind him, he knew he would never be able to outrun it. But it was the sound of only one horse. He believed the rider had to be Seaforth’s half-breed scout coming up on him. And from having watched the man, he knew he was riding a mustang.

  He started to look for a likely place to wait and face the man.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sequoia knew he must be gaining on Motley. He took his rifle from his scabbard so that he’d be ready when he saw him. His intention was to shoot the man’s horse out from under him. After all, the animal would be the biggest target.

  As he rode he alternated keeping his eyes ahead of him and on the ground. In doing that, he thought he would not lose sight of the tracks, and would spot Motley ahead of him. But suddenly, as he looked down, the tracks were gone. He reined in and stared ahead, but did not see Big Jake Motley. He thought he might have to ride back and hope he could pick up the trail again. But first he looked in every direction, and that’s when he saw Jake Motley’s sorrel off to his right, standing among some Brazilian bluewoods. Those kinds of trees did not grow tall, were often brushy, and formed thickets that were dense enough to hide a man.

  Sequoia had to make a decision.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake Motley might have been a rancher for most of his life but he had spent some time in his youth as a soldier. He had some knowledge of strategy and had already outsmarted Seaforth once, in order to keep his herd. Of course, he had been aided by the man’s own arrogance.

  In the war Jake had a superior officer who believed in the power of misdirection. “If you don’t think you can outsmart an opponent,” the officer had once told him, “then misdirect him.”

  Jake didn’t know if he could outsmart the breed, so he decided to take his old commanding officer’s advice.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sequoia watched the sorrel.

  The horse was standing stock-still, occasionally nibbling on some brush or looking around. It was enough, however, to hold the breed’s attention long enough for Jake to rise up from his prone position.

  But he should have known better. How could a fifty-five-year-old rancher sneak up on a half-breed twenty years younger than he was?

  There was one shot, and the bullet struck Jake in the left shoulder. He staggered back, the gun in his hand, feeling so much the fool as he fell onto his back. However, as he landed he reflexively pulled the trigger of his pistol, discharging a single bullet that seemed to have a mind of its own . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Sequoia knew the trick.

  Motley thought he would sneak up behind him while the breed was staring at his horse, standing off in the brush. But no white man—especially not a broken-down rancher—could sneak up behind Sequoia. He heard the brush rustling as soon as the man moved. He held his rifle with one hand, pointed it behind him underneath his arm, and almost without looking—he took a quick glance over his shoulder—pulled the trigger once.

  He had not intended to kill Jake Motley, but this appeared to be a kill-or-be-killed situation. And this under-the-arm shot with his rifle was one that was well practiced. So he wasn’t surprised when the bul
let hit Jake Motley in the shoulder.

  He was, however, momentarily surprised when Motley’s pistol fired a bullet that struck Sequoia right in the back of the head.

  It was a short-lived surprise . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake thought he was dead.

  He was lying on his back on the ground, and there was sure to be a follow-up shot to the one that had just hit him. Jesus, the breed had fired almost without looking. How could he have hoped to sneak up on a man like that?

  But there was no second shot.

  Jake pushed himself to a seated position and examined his wound. It appeared the bullet had gone through. There was blood, and pain, but apparently no deadly damage. All he had to do was stop the bleeding.

  He took a bandanna from his pocket, wadded it up, and stuck it inside his shirt against the wound. Luckily—or unluckily—he had been shot before, and knew when he was seriously wounded, and when he wasn’t.

  Picking up his gun from the ground, he got to his feet, and saw the man lying on the ground ahead of him. The mustang he had fallen from was standing still.

  He walked over to the man, pointing his gun ahead of him, but as he reached him he saw there was no need. His wild shot as he fell had struck the man in the back of the head and taken part of his face off. But still he could see it was the half-breed scout.

  Jake had made a major error in judgment, and by blind, stupid luck had come out of it alive. But he couldn’t count on that kind of luck the rest of the way. He was going to have to do a lot more thinking, and planning.

  If Dundee and Curly had taken care of their men, that left five he would have to deal with. But first, he had to decide what he wanted to do with the breed’s body.

  First he searched it, looking for something useful. In the end, he took only his rifle. An extra gun would come in handy.