by Neil Hunter
‘You got a nerve comin’ back here,’ Turkey said.
‘Take it easy, Turkey, I’m not looking for you this time,’ Colter said.
‘You still found me.’
‘Last time we tangled you ended up with a busted arm,’ Colter reminded him. ‘You want to make it a matching pair?’
‘Ease off, Turkey,’ Rattigan said. ‘What do you want, Colter?’
‘Interested in a couple of your boarders. Pair outside in the yard. Should be another rider with them.’
‘Colter, I don’t ask questions. They pay the going rate I leave them alone. That’s the way it works. Anyways you don’t work for the Army any more. Haven’t for a few years. That’s right? So maybe your clout ain’t so heavy these days.’
‘Liam, I never used the Army to back me. Not about to do it now. This is personal.’
Colter picked up his rifle.
Rattigan scowled. ‘Don’t you go causin’ any trouble.’
‘You don’t want trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Then let me go my way, Liam. That goes for you as well, Turkey. Deal yourself in you get treated as a full partner.’
‘Keep it outside, Colter,’ Rattigan said.
‘The third rider?’
Rattigan sighed, then decided to answer if it meant keeping any problems out in the yard.
‘He took off yesterday afternoon. I heard say he was trailing south.’
If Rattigan was telling the truth, and Colter supposed he was, then Rachel wasn’t here after all. That meant the pair outside were the only ones he could get answers from.
Colter stepped out of the building. He narrowed his eyes against the bright sun. He crossed the dusty yard, the Henry held muzzle down at his side, and as he closed in on the two men the one wearing the big spurs turned to face him. McCall moved in to cover the pair himself.
‘I know you, mister?’ the burly man asked Colter.
‘Not as well as you’re going to.’
‘Hell does that mean?’ the burly man asked.
‘Ben Colter’s the name.’
The burly man immediately went for the gun on his hip. It was a foolish move. Because it immediately associated him with the raiders who had hit Colter’s ranch, and it also became a direct challenge. He was fast but not so fast to avoid Colter’s response. His fingers had barely brushed the wooden butt when Colter’s rifle swept up and round, the metal barrel cracking down across the back of his gun hand. The burly man howled as he felt knuckles crack. Blood squirted from the ragged gash left by the rifle. Colter followed up with a short, hard sideswipe with the stock of the Henry. It clouted the burly man across the side of the face, sending him stumbling forward until he collided with the corral where he hung against the rails. Colter switched his rifle to his left hand, leaving his right clear…
…Spurs had dropped his whiskey bottle and made a grab for his own weapon. The tip of the barrel cleared leather and Spurs was beginning to feel he’d made it. By this time McCall had made his own move and his Winchester swept round and clubbed Spurs under the jaw. The blow snapped Spurs’ teeth together with a jar. He fell back, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, his head buzzing from the shock of the blow. Before he could recover McCall hit him again, this time driving the rifle into Spurs’ exposed stomach. Whiskey-sodden air gusted from Spurs’ open mouth as he sagged forward. McCall held back, catching a glimpse of Spurs’ left hand dropping to the top of his boot. The hand swept forward, now holding a thick-bladed knife. Spurs grunted with the effort as he slashed in at McCall’s exposed stomach. McCall hauled back, sucking in his gut as the keen tip of the knife arced round. There was a moment Spurs was off-balance, trying to fight his own body weight and cut back at his target. McCall didn’t give him the chance. He slammed down hard with the stock of his rifle, catching Spurs across the back of his neck. Spurs gave an odd grunt and belly flopped. He hit the ground in a loose, heavy sprawl, and didn’t move again. McCall snatched Spurs’ revolver from his holster and hurled it over the corral fence. He kicked the dropped knife across the yard…
‘Son of a bitch,’ the burly man yelled. He was bleeding from the gash down the side of his face and was hanging against the side of the corral. He had snatched a second pistol from where it rested in his belt at his back. He held it in his left hand, snagging back the hammer as he hauled the weapon into view. A crooked grin turned up the corners of his mouth. That grin was still in place when Colter drew and fired his own weapon in a smooth move that caught them all unaware. His shot struck the man in the chest, punching through to exit between his shoulders. He went down with a thump that raised dust.
‘He was mean enough not to let it go,’ McCall said.
‘He should have thought that out,’ Colter said.
Squatting beside Spurs’ limp form McCall rolled the man over. He knew from the way Spurs flopped that the man was dead. McCall’s blow had broken his neck.
Colter saw Liam Rattigan standing at the door to the post. The Irishman looked back and forth between the two dead men.
‘Sweet Jesus, Colter, it’s like you never been away.’
‘All I wanted was to ask a few questions.’
Rattigan sighed. ‘Bucko, when you ask questions the fur always flies.’
‘This pair were part of a bunch who hit my place. Burned my buildings to the ground and took my wife away with them.’
‘Why’d they do that?’
‘That was what I was going to ask this pair.’
‘Seems your luck ain’t changing for the better,’ the sneering voice of Turkey said.
He was standing against the wall, watching with a sour expression on his face.
‘Now I don’t know you, son,’ McCall said quietly, ‘but I’m taking against you real fast.’
Turkey eyed the big Texan and decided not to push his luck any further.
~*~
Ballard had followed the tracks and showed up at Rattigan’s Halt short of sundown. By this time the bodies had been buried and Liam Rattigan had been expecting the Texan. He showed little surprise at Ballard’s appearance when he walked inside.
‘Before you ask,’ the Irishman said, ‘your friends were here earlier. Ben Colter and a big hombre name of McCall.’
‘They find who they were looking for?’
‘Two of them. They’re planted out back. Third feller had already ridden out. Name of Trinity.’
‘Used to trade guns and bad whiskey to the Apache.’
Rattigan handed Ballard a mug of coffee.
‘Still does far as I know. Business ain’t as good as it used to be what with the Apache broke up and scattered. Mind that crazy buck, Yanno, is still raising hell out of the Sangre de Cristos. Makes his raids then vanishes again.’
‘You hear what happened at Colter’s place?’
‘I heard. Bad news for Colter.’
Ballard managed a thin smile. ‘I’d say bad news for whoever took his wife and razed his spread.’
‘What about Nante? I figure he wouldn’t be pleased to hear about Chey.’
‘One we should worry about is Tula. Wherever he is he’ll be ready to take up the hunt.’
‘That is already done.’
Ballard turned at the sound of the deep, slow voice.
And came face to face with a stocky, black haired man clad in a dusty shirt and cotton pants, knee-length N’de b’keh adorning his legs. A tight headband held the hair back from his brown face. He stared at Colter through dark, bitter eyes.
Colter knew him well.
The Apache was Chey’s uncle.
The warrior called Tula.
‘Nante told me you had returned Chey to his people, Ballard. It was a good thing.’
‘No more than he deserved, Tula.’
Tula made no move to enter the building. He stood with his rifle resting against his left arm, cradle across his broad chest.
‘It has been a long time since you rode along the Gila River with me.’
‘We had good days then, Tula.’
‘They are gone now, Ballard. The People have little left. The soldiers from Fort Brice watch us. They break the old trails and try to keep us herded like cattle.’
Ballard didn’t miss the words try to keep us herded. The beleaguered Apache, small in number, still resisted and kept the Army busy.
Rattigan appeared with a mug of coffee and took it to Tula. The Apache gave a brusque nod of thanks.
‘Colter and a friend of mine have followed the trail left by the raiders,’ Ballard said.
‘I have seen their tracks. And the trail left by the one called Trinity. I think he is going to rendezvous with Yanno. I have heard Yanno has come down from the mountains to trade. It has been long since he did that. Yanno is loco. He talks the younger men into joining him on the killing trail. Those who are foolish enough will end up dead. Too many have already fallen for his words. If we find him I will put an end to his foolishness.’
‘And Trinity might be able to tell me where the raiders are going,’ Ballard said.
‘You thinking of going after him?’ Rattigan said.
‘McCall and Colter are on the trail of the others. Might be worth hearing what Trinity has to tell us.’
‘I don’t see him doing that out of the goodness of his heart,’ Rattigan said.
‘Have to appeal to his sense of fair play.’
Rattigan gave a hearty laugh. ‘Good luck with that, boyo.’
‘Thanks for the coffee, Liam,’ Ballard said.
As he turned from the counter he caught a glimpse of Turkey stepping from the depths of the trading post.
‘Son of a bitch Apache,’ he yelled. ‘What’s he doing here?’
As he moved between Ballard and the door, Turkey snatched at his holstered pistol, dogging back the hammer. His face was dark with rage.
‘That scalp will be worth plenty and by God I mean to have it.’
Ballard moved fast. In close. His left hand reached out and closed over Turkey’s wrist, pulling it to one side. The Colt went off, the slug burning across the store to thud into the far wall. Before Turkey registered what was happening Ballard pulled him round, launched his right fist and punched the man full in the face. The blow was delivered with considerable force, flattening Turkey’s nose into a crushed mess that poured blood in red streams. Ballard followed through with a second punch that struck Turkey in the mouth, smashing his lips back into his teeth. Two of them snapped off under the impact. The force of the blow sent Turkey across the floor until he lost his balance and crashed own on his back with a solid thump. The Colt dropped from his limp hand and Ballard scooped it up and tossed it to Rattigan.
‘Keep hold of that until he stops seeing two of everything.’
‘Jesus, that could be a long time. That idiot never learns from his mistakes.’
‘Tula, let’s go.’
They crossed the yard and collected their horses. The Apache took the lead as they cut away from Rattigan’s Halt to pick up the tracks left by the man called Trinity.
~*~
They rode until dark fell and then some. Only when the weak moonlight made it difficult even for the Apache did they stop and make camp. Tula found them a place where a cold stream flowed and there was some grass in the trees for the horses.
‘I think Trinity goes to the place he has used before to meet Yanno,’ Tula said.
‘You know where it is?’
‘Ha’oh.’
‘How far?’
‘If we ride at sunup only a few hours by your time.’
The Apache was never one to waste energy on too much talk. Ballard figured he had all he was going to get. He pulled his blanket across his shoulders and lay down. Across from him Tula sat with his back against a tree and draped his own blanket over his shoulders.
At first light they broke camp. Ballard checked his horse and saddle, then led it to the stream and allowed it to drink. Tula’s horse had already been tended to and the silent Apache had walked off a way to scout the area. Ballard splashed water on his face, took himself a drink and replenished his canteen. When he stood, turning at a faint sound Tula was close by. Ballard allowed himself a thin smile.
‘Always the quiet one,’ he said.
‘It is the Apache way. You were a quick learner yourself, Ballard.’
‘You find Trinity’s tracks?’
‘He leaves a trail a blind man could follow. This one is clumsy. In too much of a hurry. He will not be hard to find.’
They moved out, Tula taking the lead with Ballard keeping watch on their back trail. With the way things were going he wasn’t about to get careless.
They were broaching the lower slopes of the jagged mountains now, the day growing bright and hot around them as the sun rose. Tula rode with the sureness of a man who knew his land well. This was home ground for the Apache. The place he had grown up in and with the instinct of a true warrior he rode with confidence.
Ballard realized they were climbing gradually, moving across craggy slopes that brought them into a maze of rocky escarpments and ravines. Around mid-morning Tula lifted a hand and waved Ballard to the side. In the shelter of a fall of rock the Apache slid from his horse and beckoned to Ballard. They moved in a silent formation, the Apache slipping from cover to cover like a brown shadow, until he motioned for silence and they peered out from their covering rock.
On the slope in front of them was the man called Trinity, a couple of long wooden crates on the ground. The tops were open, exposing the long shapes of rifles. In amongst the crated weapons were smaller boxes of ammunition. Clustered around the contraband were a small number of Apache. Trinity was in conversation with the wide-shouldered, unusually tall Indian Ballard recognized as Yanno. The Apache was powerfully built, his face mobile as he conversed with Trinity. They seemed to be having a heated discussion about something and Trinity, despite his singularly isolated position, was reluctant to back down from whatever was causing the argument.
‘Seems a shame to bust in and break up the party,’ Ballard said.
‘I think now is a good moment,’ Tula said.
As he spoke he raised his rifle and opened fire. His first shots put two of Yanno’s men down.
Ballard followed suit. They were committed now, like it or not, and in a situation like this surprise could make a big difference to the outcome. He hit his first target, the 44-40 slug catching the Apache in the chest and dropping him hard. Ballard’s second shot kicked up dirt and he steadied himself before he triggered a third. This time he saw his man fall. Clutching at a bloody side.
For a time, in truth short, there was a vicious crossfire as the Apache targeted where the shooting was coming from. Slugs slammed against the covering rocks, howling off with angry sounds. Two more of Yanno’s renegades were dropped to the rocky ground as Ballard and Tula paced themselves to make their shots count. There was a great deal of noise and not a little confusion.
Ballard was keeping an eye out for Trinity. Having to go through Yanno’s band simply added a further complication to the task and it was made harder as dust began to boil up in clouds from. He lost sight of the man until he saw Trinity, on his horse, emerge from the dust. The man was making an attempt to ride clear.
‘Not this time,’ Ballard said.
‘I will deal with Yanno,’ Tula called as he broke from cover and angled in the direction of the remaining Apache.
Ballard saw Trinity urging his horse across the slope. He turned and ran to where he had left his own horse, flinging himself into the saddle and yanking the reins to pull his horse in pursuit of the fleeing man.
He thundered after Trinity, the final gunshots fading behind him as he urged his animal forward. Trinity had broken onto a clear stretch of the slope and was pushing his horse hard. The sound of pursuit must have reached him because Trinity turned to look over his shoulder as Ballard closed in. Trinity had lost his rifle and hauled his revolver round and triggered a wild shot that was wide of the mark.
> Ahead the slope leveled out. Trinity turned his horse in that direction, cresting the slope and vanishing from sight. Ballard raced up the slope, disregarding caution and went over the top.
Trinity had reined in the moment he dropped from sight and was waiting. As Ballard thundered into view Trinity swung his own mount around, slamming into Ballard’s. The impact jarred Ballard’s chestnut. It snorted, shuddering and Ballard felt himself being unseated. He had the sense to clear the stirrups as he left the saddle and fell headlong.
Ballard landed hard, losing his grip on the rifle. He felt himself slide across the ground, half-sprawled, dust fogging the air around him. He heard the heavy thunder of hooves and knew Trinity was still close. Pushing to one knee Colter let his body come round, snagging his pistol from its holster as he sensed the close presence of the horse before he saw it.
Trinity, hauling on the reins to bring his own lunging mount about, was up in his stirrups, swinging his revolver across his body, the muzzle seeking its target even as his horse settled.
They fired together, the shots merging, dulled by the noise surrounding them. Trinity’s slug clipped Colter’s left side drawing blood in a sudden hot flash of pain. Trinity jerked to the side as he caught Colter’s slug in his body. Colter let himself fall back, away from the plunging hooves of Trinity’s horse and as he landed he rolled, distancing himself, lining himself for a second shot from the Colt. But Trinity was already falling from his saddle, losing control. Ballard’s slug had burned deep into his body. He cleared the saddle and hit the ground hard, bouncing on impact. As Ballard rose to his feet he saw Trinity lurch upright, dust swirling around him as his horse pounded away. There was blood spreading across the front of Trinity’s shirt and a wild look in his eyes.
‘Damn you son of a bitch,’ he yelled, his revolver coming round to line up on him.
‘Hold it,’ Ballard yelled, but knew with cold certainty that Trinity was not going to hold back.
