by Neil Hunter
The man’s weapon was almost on target and Ballard knew there was no time to deliberate. Ballard triggered his own Colt, felt the weapon jerk in his hand. He fired twice, fast, saw dust spume from Trinity’s Nankeen shirt as the heavy .45 slugs struck home. Trinity toppled back with a harsh cry, his own weapon slipping from his fingers.
Ballard clamped a hand to his bleeding side, moving to stand over Trinity. He watched him fade away, and saw his chance to get information die with the man. A bitterness rose in him. All the way he had come and it had resulted in nothing. Trinity had fought to the end, leaving Ballard with no option but to defend himself.
Ballard didn’t know how long he stood over Trinity. He failed to notice the shooting had ceased until Tula, leading his horse, came into sight. The Apache had a bloody gash down the left side of his face and there was more blood on his shirt—which turned out not to be his own. He looked down at Trinity’s body, then at Ballard.
‘He would not speak?’
Ballard shook his head. ‘Only with his gun. Wrong choice. How is it with you?’
‘Yanno will not lead any more foolish young men into wasteful battles. He too ignored my offer of peace.’
~*~
‘You had any more time to figure what these fellers want?’ McCall asked.
‘All I been thinking about,’ Colter said. ‘That it must be something big to do what they did. Chet always told me I think too much when I have something on my mind.’
‘You and Chet go back a way? Both had spells working for the army.’
Colter eased back on his reins, reaching down to free his canteen and take a slow drink. All the time he was checking out the area around them, eyes moving back and forth. He put his canteen away, took off his hat and ran his hand through his thick hair.
‘Rachel was due to trim it for me. She’s right handy with a pair of scissors. And, yeah, I been thinking about when I scouted for the Army out of Brice. Chet was around too. We were chasing Apache all over. Caught some. Killed some. But I can’t see Apache doing something like this. Not their way. Not saying they can’t be downright sneaky when they want.’
‘You were talking about that one feller—Yanno. Way I heard it he was no friend.’
‘True enough,’ Colter said. ‘Yanno was a mean hombre. Be the first to admit that. It just doesn’t sit right. Yanno would shoot you soon as he set his sights on a man. But what happened at my place was plain mean. Not how Yanno would do it. And those tracks were made by shod horses, Jess. I’d be plain dumb if I thought Apache never rode shod horses. But not all of them.’
‘Son, you’re cuttin’ down the odds then.’
Colter smiled. ‘Hell, Jess, maybe some but not by a lot.’
McCall eased his horse alongside. Looked far beyond the direction they were moving. He pointed towards the distant sawtooth of mountains ahead.
‘Sandia range,’ Colter said. ‘Over to the west it’s all rock and pretty desolate. East you’ve got easier slopes. Well timbered.’ He leaned forward to ease his spine. ‘Got nothing but a feeling, but I’m pretty sure that’s where our bunch is headed.’
They had camped out the previous night, picking up the easy trail in the morning and it was close on noon now. Colter was good company, despite his worry over his wife, yet now McCall could see he was becoming a shade more tense. He understood the man’s concern. Bad enough his home had been destroyed. The Apache working for him killed out of hand. Hard enough for any man to take in. But the worst of it was losing his wife to the raiders. Colter’s logic told him they were white men and Ben Colter was no fool.
‘We got this pinned down to whites,’ McCall said, ‘who does that lead you to?’
‘I’m no saint, Jess. Had my run-ins with a few. Some might still be carrying a bellyful of upset with me. I’d expect them to come for me with a gun their hands. Shooting a man in the back would make more sense than this damn cross-country chase.’
‘Sooner or later, son, we’re going to find out who this feller is. When we do you can ask him direct what the hell game he’s playing.’
‘If he’s hurt Rachel in any way there might not be any time for him to offer his excuses.’
Colter rode on ahead and McCall could see by the set of his shoulders he meant every word. Colter would want his reckoning and Jess McCall couldn’t argue that point. When the raiders took Colter’s wife they had crossed the line.
~*~
‘Three riders,’ Tula said. ‘They are following us.’
Ballard nodded without looking back. ‘I picked up on ’em a while back. They’re trying to keep out of sight but not making a good job of it.’
‘Pinda Lickoyi is becoming smarter,’ Tula said.
‘I had a good teacher. Two good teachers. Nante and my good friend Tula.’
‘What shall we do with these clumsy riders?’
‘Let them follow until we choose our place to fight.’
‘Now I hear the words of Nante.’
‘Wise words, schichobe.’
‘Yes, but, let us not allow caution to draw them into becoming too confident. The words of Tula.’
Ballard took Tula’s suggestion, seeing the wisdom there. If the pair following them were intent on harm, and Ballard had already accepted it as close to the truth, then making any move needed to be brought into play quickly. He reverted back to Nante’s wisdom.
Ballard and Tula were being stalked. No doubt there. There had been no attempt to make friendly contact, and men who trailed close without announcing themselves had to be judged by their actions.
‘The hollow ahead,’ Ballard said quietly. ‘Soon as we hit the downslope, break apart and leave your saddle. By the time those three react we can be in cover.’
Tula made the briefest of responses.
Now he had addressed the fact they could have hostile men behind them Ballard experienced a moment of unease. Right now a gun could be pointing at his back. A man’s finger already on the trigger. He had to fight back the urge to slam in his heels and kick his horse into motion. A reckless move while he was still in the open. It only took a fraction of time to squeeze that trigger. Less than a heartbeat to send a slug in his direction. The thought formed. Ballard resisted. Kept his actions casual, his gaze on the lip of the hollow which seemed all of a sudden to be a sight further away than it had been. He knew it was an illusion but that didn’t make it any less acute in his conscious mind.
As they came to the lip of the hollow both men readied themselves, knowing they had to make their move now … and as they urged their horses forward the crash of a shot reached them …
~*~
At six-foot four Vic Parmalee was the taller of the pair. His lanky frame carried little spare flesh over his bones, so his clothes hung loosely. Like his partner Hoyt Sykes his personal appearance was of little interest to Parmalee. His shirt and pants had not seen a washtub in a long time. Likewise Parmalee wasn’t a bather. His unshaven face, sunken cheeked and leather tanned, bore the look of man older than he actually was.
Sykes, a shade over five nine, was bulkier than his partner, with wide shoulders and a tendency to stoop forward. His thick hair hung limply from beneath his shapeless hat, leaving half his face in shadow. He favored a rough beard that never seemed to get to be more than an unsightly stubble. Sykes constantly had a mouthful of chewing tobacco he replenished at regular intervals. He was always spitting out streams of juice that dribbled down his chin and fell onto his shirtfront. The never-ending chewing had stained his large teeth yellow. Parmalee often found himself wondering how his partner managed to eat and drink when the wad of chaw never seemed to leave his mouth.
Parmalee and Sykes’s untidiness didn’t extend to the weapons they carried. They were always fully armed. Wore holstered .45 caliber Colt Peacemakers and had .44-40 Winchester repeating rifles in their saddle boots. Matching calibers meant they had interchangeable ammunition. They each had sheathed knives on their belt and Parmalee carried a straight edge razor in a shea
th hanging from his neck. Sykes also had a 12-gauge, short-barreled side-by-side shotgun in a sheath on his horse’s opposite side. He liked the weapon for close work.
They were unrepentant sociopaths, who carried little regard for anyone. As a pair they were ideally suited, living only for their own personal needs and siding with each other on all things. Neither of them had a shred of compassion. That extended to both men and women. In truth Parmalee and Sykes live solely for what they could take out of life.
The business of hunting men for the bounty could have been created solely for them. It appealed to their twisted logic. It gave them pleasure and they were paid for doing it. It set them apart from the hardest men. Not that it was of concern to the pair. As long as a man had been posted, along with a reward, Parmalee and Sykes did not worry about moral issues. They hunted and they killed without compunction.
And there was a sideline to their business, though not as lucrative as it had once been. It was scalp-hunting Apache. With the reduction in numbers the demand for their hair had shrunk. Even the Mexican outlet had been severely truncated. Not completely but the demand had dwindled.
The elusive Tula, still a wanted man who stayed isolated between his lightning raids, had suddenly shown up following the death of his nephew Chey. The killing of the younger man had brought Tula from his hideout in the remote mountains. He had put himself on the vengeance trail, allying himself with the man called Ballard. With the help of Turkey the bounty team had picked up the information and the trail left by the two men when they had ridden out from Rattigan’s Halt …
~*~
To his limited way of thinking, Turkey had a legitimate grievance where Ballard was concerned. The Texan had inflicted considerable damage when he had hit Turkey. His nose was completely crushed and his mouth torn badly. He had also lost a couple of teeth, snapped off and leaving jagged edges. On top of the pain Turkey could barely open his mouth. In simple terms Turkey wanted payback. He wanted Chet Ballard to go through what he was suffering. And Turkey still hadn’t forgotten the time Ballard had broken his arm.
When Parmalee and Sykes had showed up at Rattigan’s Halt, Turkey had seized the opportunity to maybe make his wish come true. He knew the pair as well as any man could and the moment presented itself when they walked in and ordered a bottle of whiskey.
‘What the damn happened to you?’ Sykes asked when he saw the damage to Turkey’s face. ‘You have a losing fight with a buffler?’
‘Son of a bitch Indian lover,’ Turkey mumbled through swollen lips.
‘We know this feller?’ Parmalee asked, the mention of Indian rousing his interest.
‘Name of Ballard. Rode in and done this to me.’
Behind the counter Rattigan said, ‘Turkey, let it go.’
‘Ain’t about to let anything go … look at my face …’
Rattigan reached out to put a hand on Turkey’s shoulder.
‘No profit in makin’ any more than it is. You pushed Ballard too hard.’
‘What Indian we talkin’ about here?’ Parmalee said.
‘I can tell you …’
‘Drop it, Turkey,’ Rattigan warned. ‘Let it be …’
Turkey spun around, his hand falling to his side, grasping his holstered pistol. All of his anger, built up from the hurt he had suffered, exploded in a moment of pure madness. Without further warning he drew, raised the .45 and put a single slug directly between Liam Rattigan’s eyes. The close range sent the lead through Rattigan’s head and blew out the back of his skull in a burst of red. Rattigan stepped back, mouth falling open as he dropped to the floor.
‘There’s one way to end an argument,’ Sykes murmured.
He glanced across at his partner who shrugged.
Turkey’s patience had come to an end. Bad enough what Ballard had done to him. Rattigan’s constant badmouthing him had finally reached its limit and Turkey had simply reacted.
He lowered his smoking gun and put it away.
‘We need to go,’ he mumbled. ‘I can find Ballard’s trail for you. Looks like we all got something to settle.’
He stepped behind the bar and handed full bottles of whiskey to Parmalee and Sykes. Then he searched for and found the metal box where Rattigan kept the proceeds of his trading. It was packed with cash. Paper money and coins. Turkey spread it on the bar top and divided it into three equal piles, offering a stack to each of the bounty men.
‘Help yourselves, boys. A donation from Mister Rattigan.’
Turkey searched the goods shelves and found a large bandanna he could wrap around his lower face to protect his injuries. He was thinking ahead. The covering would stop dust irritating his sore face. As hurt as he was Turkey was determined to have his settling with Ballard.
Parmalee suddenly slammed a hard fist down on the counter to attract Turkey’s attention.
‘The Apache? Hell’s teeth, Turkey, who is he?’
‘Yeah. Name of Tula. Sure you boys know the name. He’s been on the wanted list some long time.’
The bounty pair looked at each other, eyes shining with interest. They knew the name.
Tula.
The Apache had eluded capture for a long time. Using his knowledge of the territory to keep himself from being found. No one had ever come close to locating him. When he wished to he simply vanished and left any pursuers at a loss to where he had gone. He only appeared when he needed something. Food. Ammunition. He knew the old Apache trails. The secret places to hide. Most of the time he lived off the land as the Apache had done long before the Pinda Lickoyi had come. In those far off days The People had owned the land and everything that lived on it. They had roamed free, taking what they needed and life had been good. But the coming of the whites had changed all that and in the end the Apache had become outcasts in their own territory.
Tula remained true to his heritage. He followed the way of the Apache. Never asked for anything and only took what he needed. Fate had decreed he would cross swords with the Pinda Lickoyi and matters came to a head when he clashed with a wealthy rancher. After a confrontation turned bad and the rancher’s son was killed Tula became a wanted man. If the truth had ever been told it would have shown that the younger man had died because, trying to impress his father, he had attempted to restrain Tula. In the struggle that followed the young man died when a gun went off. The rancher only saw his dead son and a hostile Apache. Tula was blamed. A reward was issued, doubled by the rancher. The Apache saw no chance he would be listened to, so he ran. Escaped to the hills and the desolate escarpments of the high divide where a fleeing Apache could hide himself and wander the lonely mountains wondering about the injustice of the white man and his intractable need to crush the Apache underfoot.
Over the long months that saw summer turn to winter and back again to summer, Tula’s exile stretched before him with the bleakness of an empty dream that had no end. His only contact with his people came when he was able to visit the camp of Nante. It was during his latest visit he learned about the death of Chey and was able to stand over the body where he pledged to avenge the killing … thus eventually bringing him into meeting his old friend Ballard at the place they called Rattigan’s Halt and from that the joining with Ballard as they followed the trail left by the raiders who had struck Colter’s spread, kidnapped his wife and murdered Chey …
~*~
‘Tula,’ Sykes said. ‘McKindrick has offered one hell of a bonus on top of the official bounty. We bring Tula in we stand to make a pile, Vic.’
Lowell McKindrick was the wealthy rancher who had lost his son in the clash with Tula and had offered a substantial reward for the Apache’s death.
‘Turkey, you say you can find his trail?’ Parmalee said.
The man nodded. Right then he had said too much and his injured mouth was paining him fiercely.
Parmalee jerked a thumb at the shelves behind the counter.
‘Take what we need,’ he said to Sykes. ‘No sense letting all this go to waste.’
~*~
An hour later the trio rode away from Rattigan’s Halt and Turkey, hunched uncomfortably in his saddle, cast around until he found what he was looking for. With Parmalee and Sykes close behind Turkey led the way. Somewhere ahead of them the Apache, Tula, rode with Chet Ballard. If Turkey had his way he and his new partners would catch up with them and have their settlings. With Parmalee and Sykes backing him, Turkey figured he would get what he wanted.
He failed to notice the knowing, silent glances that passed between Parmalee and Sykes. If he had Turkey might not have felt so comfortable in their company. He had no idea his life depended on his ability to find Ballard and Tula, or the fact that once he had located them he would have nothing further to offer Parmalee and Sykes. As far as they were concerned Turkey’s usefulness would end the moment he fulfilled his promise.
After that all deals would be off. Turkey would find himself no longer required and the only severance pay he might receive would come out of the barrel of a gun—or the gleaming edge of a killing blade…
~*~
‘This is starting to look like Christmas,’ Parmalee said. ‘First we get to help ourselves to Rattigan’s store. Now we got a cache of new rifles to take our pick off.’
‘Ammunition as well,’ his partner said.
They had come on the dead Apache and the weapons Trinity had been about to trade with them. His own body was found a little distance away.
Turkey cast round and found the final set of tracks leading away from the scene.
‘Ballard and Tula,’ he said. ‘They caught up with Trinity and had their set to. Now they’re picking up to go on after the ones who raided Colter’s place.’
Parmalee and Sykes were only half listening as they picked through the abandoned weapons, choosing a rifle each. They loaded the weapons, then took as much extra ammunition as they could sensibly carry in their saddlebags. Watching them Turkey stepped forward and picked a new gun for himself.
No point passing up the chance of a new rifle.
He pulled out his old rifle and threw it aside, sliding his new one into the saddle boot. Leading his horse he stood over the body of Trinity.
