Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Gar—”

  “I’ll go around this way,” Garfield said, “and you go that way. After we take care of him, I’ll take care of you.”

  “Gar!” Seaforth called as the man turned and disappeared around the rock. Seaforth turned to do the same, but went down to one knee as his legs failed him.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake could hear the two men talking at the base of the rocks, but couldn’t make out the words. He only hoped that he had wounded at least one of them.

  He turned and looked down at his horse, decided to try to get to him and wait for Seaforth and his man to come around. He could end this long ordeal—from the trail drive to now. Plus, he didn’t want to take a chance of being trapped on that rock.

  He started down, carrying the two rifles. Suddenly his right foot slipped and instead of descending slowly, he slid down on his ass with alarming speed. When he hit the bottom, he immediately knew his shoulder had started to bleed again. Stunned, he tried to regain his composure, but suddenly Seaforth’s man was there, looking down at him. He had dropped both rifles when he landed, and now all he had was his holstered handgun, but Seaforth’s man already had his gun in hand.

  So it would end this way . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Garfield came around the rock just in time to see Jake Motley hit the ground. There were two rifles lying out of his reach, and a gun in his holster. He pointed his gun at the fallen man.

  But he didn’t pull the trigger.

  “Major Seaforth’s around the front of this hunk of rock,” he said. “You both have a bullet in you. You’re on equal terms. And I’m taking my leave of the whole situation.”

  He smiled and waved, sprang onto the sorrel’s saddle.

  “Good luck, Big Jake.”

  He laid his heels to the sorrel and galloped off.

  “Oh, damn,” Jake swore. He didn’t know what he regretted most, the bullet wound in his shoulder or losing that sorrel.

  He crawled over to the rifles and grabbed his. He had no way of knowing how much truth was in what Seaforth’s man had said, but he had to find out.

  He staggered to his feet and, leaning against the rock, started working his way to the front.

  * * *

  * * *

  Seaforth tried to get to his feet, leaning against the rock, but his legs buckled again and he was back on his knees. He had dropped his rifle, and now in haste drew his pistol from his belt, not knowing where Garfield or Jake Motley was.

  “Gar!” he shouted.

  He moved from his knees to a seated position, his left hand pressed to the wound to try to stop the flow, and his right holding his pistol. He kept looking left and right, not knowing from which side Jake Motley would appear. Or would there be a shot? Gar killing Big Jake? Jake killing Gar? Who would come around and find him sitting there in a spreading pool of his own blood? Goddamn Jake Motley, this was all his fault. All he had to do was give up that goddamned herd.

  Then he heard someone scraping along the rock, and turned to see Big Jake Motley come around from the right side, where Garfield had disappeared.

  Big Jake was staggering, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder.

  “Ah,” Seaforth said, “we’re even.”

  “That’s what your man said.”

  “Have a seat, then,” Seaforth said, “and let’s see who bleeds to death first.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Big Jake had made his way slowly around the rock, and when he came to the front he saw Major Seaforth sitting there in a puddle of blood.

  And when Seaforth said, “. . . let’s see who bleeds to death first,” Jake pointed his gun at the man and said, “You win!”

  * * *

  * * *

  But you’re killing the wrong man,” Seaforth said.

  Jake slid down onto his butt, but kept the gun trained on Seaforth.

  “How’s that?”

  “Where’s Garfield?”

  “Is that your segundo?”

  “That’s him, Teddy Garfield,” Seaforth said. “I didn’t hear a shot between you.”

  “That’s because he told me you were hit, got on my horse, and left.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, then,” Seaforth said. “There went your opportunity.”

  “To do what?”

  “To kill the man who shot your friend off his horse.”

  “That was you,” Jake said, gesturing with his gun.

  Seaforth also had a pistol in his hand, Jake saw, but didn’t seem to have the strength to lift it.

  “No,” Seaforth said, “I could never have made that shot. It was Gar who did it. He can shoot the wings off a fly. It was an easy shot for him.”

  Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger. He felt blood flowing from his shoulder, down his arm, just as the blood flowed down Seaforth’s leg.

  “Are you tellin’ me the truth?” he demanded.

  Seaforth laughed weakly.

  “At this point why lie?” he asked. “Okay, you’ve put a bullet in me, and I’ll probably die, but you missed the man you’ve really been after all this time.”

  Jake believed the man. But he pulled the trigger, anyway. That fella Garfield might have made the shot, but Jake was sure Seaforth had told him to do it. So they had both killed Chance McCandless.

  His bullet went into Seaforth’s temple and knocked him over.

  Jake knew he had to live. He still had Chance’s killer to track down. All he needed was to close his eyes and get some rest, first.

  He keeled over onto his side and lay there, a mirror image of Major Seaforth Bailey.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  When Jake woke it was dark, and there was a fire going.

  “What the hell . . .” he choked out.

  “He’s awake!” Curly shouted.

  Taco and Dundee came running over. Taco lifted Jake’s head and put a canteen to his mouth.

  “Drink, señor,” he said. “When we found you we thought you were both dead.”

  Jake swallowed some water, then said, “Very nearly.”

  Taco set his head back down.

  “Sit me up,” Jake said.

  “You should stay down—” Dundee started, but Jake cut him off.

  “Sit me up, dammit!”

  Dundee and Curly both helped him into a seated position. Jake felt something against his back and leaned.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Right where we found you,” Dundee said. “But we’re on the other side of the rock. Seaforth’s in front, dead. We left him there.”

  “We figure you got up on top and ambushed ’em,” Curly said.

  “Not proud of it, but yeah,” Jake said.

  “We count five,” Dundee said. “Including Seaforth himself. So you got ’im.”

  “There was a sixth,” Jake said. “His segundo, Teddy Garfield.”

  “What happened to him?” Dundee asked.

  “Got on my horse and lit out. Said he was leavin’ me and Seaforth on equal terms, each with a bullet in us. Had me under his gun, but instead of killin’ me he rode off.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Said he’d had enough.”

  “Perhaps it was true,” Taco said.

  “Maybe it was, but I can’t let him go.”

  “Because of the horse?” Dundee asked. “We got you another one. Found it wandering around out there.”

  “No, not the horse,” Jake said. “He’s actually the man who killed Chance.”

  “I thought it was Seaforth,” Dundee said.

  “It was both,” Jake said, “but Garfield’s the one who actually took the shot.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Curly asked. />
  “Seaforth told me.”

  “And you believed ’im?” Dundee asked.

  “I did,” Jake said. “He was dying, he had no reason to lie. And the man left ’im.”

  “Señor,” Taco said, “perhaps he simply did not want this Garfield to get away with leaving him.”

  “No,” Jake said, “I believed him. Still do. I gotta go after him.”

  “You’re pretty stove up, Jake,” Dundee said. “You were bleedin’ when we found ya.”

  “Did you patch me up?”

  “Taco did,” Dundee said, “pretty good, too.”

  “The bullet went right through, señor,” Taco said. “The wound looks clean.”

  “Then I’ll be ready to ride in the mornin’,” Jake said. “You boys take care of the others who were trailin’ you?”

  “All dead, Jake,” Dundee said.

  “Taco, I’ll need you to track this varmint for me.”

  “Sí, señor,” the Mexican said. “Absolutamente.”

  “And what about us?” Dundee asked.

  “You boys have done your part,” Jake said. “You’re finished.”

  “What if we don’t wanna be finished?” Dundee asked.

  “What if we wanna see it through to the end?” Curly asked.

  “Then I’ll say thank you in advance,” Jake said.

  “Señor, you should lie down and get some rest. I will wake you to eat. You must regain your strength.”

  “Ya, you’re right, Taco,” Jake said. Dundee and Curly both helped him lie on his healthy side.

  They woke him two hours later to feed him some beans and coffee, and then let him drift off to sleep again, this time for the night.

  * * *

  * * *

  Whadaya think, Taco?” Dundee asked later. “You known him the longest.”

  “I believe Señor Jake knows what he is doing,” Taco said. “If he says this hijo de puta, Garfield, killed Señor Chance, then I believe him.”

  “Hijo de . . . what?” Curly asked.

  “You would say . . . sonofabitch, señor.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And he’ll keep chasin’ ’im?” Dundee asked.

  “Oh, sí, señor,” Taco said. “Until one or both of them are dead.”

  “Okay, then,” Dundee said. “I guess that’s it.”

  “You think he’s gonna be able to ride in the mornin’?” Curly asked.

  “I think he will ride,” Taco said, “if he is able, or no.”

  * * *

  * * *

  In the morning they saddled the horses before waking Jake.

  When he did wake they let him gather himself and get to his feet on his own, then sat him at the fire with a pan of bacon and beans and a cup of coffee.

  “Where’d you get this stuff?” Jake asked.

  “We had it in our saddlebags,” Dundee said. “Curly had the beans, I had the bacon.”

  “How come I didn’t know till now?”

  “Well,” Dundee said, “after we got it, you started runnin’ cold camps.”

  “But now it don’t make a difference,” Curly said.

  “And you need the nourishment, señor,” Taco added.

  Jake wolfed down the plate and ate another one, then had more coffee.

  “Can you ride?” Dundee asked.

  “I’ll ride,” Jake said. “What am I ridin’?”

  “One of them raiders had a steeldust. We found it wanderin’ around.”

  “Any good?”

  “It’ll do,” Dundee said.

  Taco and Dundee broke camp while Curly saddled the horses. They walked the steeldust over to Jake, then helped him up into the saddle.

  “This saddle is shit,” Jake said.

  “The good news is,” Dundee said, “there’s money in the saddlebags. Enough to buy a new saddle first chance we get.”

  “Must’ve been his share from some job they pulled,” Curly said.

  “Might even be enough for a new horse.” Dundee laughed.

  “I don’t want a new horse,” Jake said. “I want that sorrel.”

  “What was in your saddlebags?” Dundee asked.

  “Nothin’ important. Just the usual.”

  “Not your money?” Dundee asked.

  “I carry my money on me, not in my saddlebags.”

  “Good thought,” Curly said.

  Taco came walking over to them.

  “I have the trail, señor. I recognize the tracks left by your horse.”

  “Good,” Jake said. “Let’s get movin.’”

  They all mounted up.

  * * *

  * * *

  What’s the nearest town?” Dundee asked, after they had ridden only an hour.

  “San Antonio,” Taco said.

  “That’s a big place,” Curly said. “Would he go there?”

  “Why not?” Jake asked. “Big place, lots of people to hide among.”

  “Maybe he is not hiding,” Taco said.

  They were riding just behind him, and he spoke over his shoulder.

  “Whadaya mean?” Dundee asked.

  “He might think that both Seaforth and Señor Jake are dead,” Taco said. “Or that Señor Jake killed Seaforth, and would not be coming after him.”

  “Or the other way around,” Dundee said.

  “No,” Jake said.

  They all looked at him.

  “He was sure Seaforth was dying,” Jake said. “He could have thought I might be, but he must’ve been sure I’d kill Seaforth, or he’d die before I got to him.”

  “So you don’t think he’s hidin’?” Curly asked.

  “No,” Jake said, “I think he’s just ridin’.”

  “He is going in the direction of San Antonio,” Taco said. “But there will be other towns along the way.”

  “Smaller ones,” Dundee said. “It would be easier to find him in one of them.”

  “If we catch up to him before he reached San Antonio,” Jake said.

  “That’ll depend on how long he stops at one of the smaller ones,” Dundee said. “For a meal and a beer, no good. But if he spends the night, maybe buys a whore . . .”

  “Then let’s hope he wants to satisfy all his urges,” Jake said.

  * * *

  * * *

  They camped the first night, and once again Taco made a meal of beans and coffee. Jake ached from riding, but didn’t let on. He ate, and then turned in, lying on his bedroll on his right side. He fell asleep quickly and didn’t hear the others discussing setting up a watch.

  “We don’t know what this fella, Garfield, is thinkin’,” Dundee said. “He could be watchin’ his trail, might’ve picked up the dust we’ve been sendin’ up.”

  “So you think he’ll come back in the dark instead of just increasing his pace?” Curly asked.

  “Who knows?” Dundee asked.

  “Señores,” Taco said, “if I may say?”

  “Sure, Taco, go ahead.”

  “Remembering the way he killed Señor Chance,” Taco said, “I believe if and when he realizes we are tracking him, he will fire on us from a distance, hoping to pick us off one by one.”

  “That makes sense,” Dundee said, looking at Curly. “Why take a chance on gettin’ close to the four of us?”

  “We could still set watches,” Curly said. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I agree,” Taco said.

  “Okay, then,” Dundee said. “Three hours each. That way Jake gets nine hours rest.”

  “He will not like that when he wakes,” Taco said, with a smile.

  “That’ll be too bad,” Dundee said. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  “Wake me in three hours,” Curly said.

&nbs
p; “I will make a pot full of coffee before I turn in,” Taco said.

  “Good,” Dundee said, “we’ll need it.”

  Taco worked on the coffee while Curly went and turned in away from the light of the fire.

  “There,” Taco said. “That should be enough to get us through the night.”

  “Get some sleep, amigo,” Dundee said.

  Taco nodded and went to his bedroll.

  Dundee picked up his rifle and sat by the fire, holding it across his knees.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  They camped a second night, and came to a small town called Beckett on the third day. There was no indication that Garfield had stopped there, but they decided to see if a doctor was available. There was, and while Taco took Jake to the office of a Doctor Lyons, Dundee and Curly went to see if they could get some supplies.

  “See if you can find me a better saddle,” Jake told them. “My ass is killin’ me!”

  “Right, boss,” Dundee said.

  In the doctor’s office they found a man about Jake’s age playing checkers with another, middle-aged man. He stopped when they came in and took Jake right back to his examining room.

  “You play?” the man asked Taco.

  “Sure.”

  Taco sat across from the man to set up his black checkers, and saw the sheriff’s badge on the man’s chest.

  “How’d your friend catch that bullet?” the sheriff asked while they played.

  “Ambush,” Taco lied.

  “By who?”

  “We’re not sure,” Taco said, “but we are tracking the man.”

  “You the tracker?”

  “I am.”

  “And he came here?”

  “No,” Taco said, “but he passed near here, and we wanted a doctor.”

  “Doc Lyons’s good at his job,” the sheriff said. “Your friend’s in good hands. King me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Taco lost three games of checkers to the sheriff by the time Jake and the doctor came out. Jake’s arm was in a black sling.