by John Glasby
The trail moved on out of the rugged terrain, looped between tall green walls of timber. It was first-growth pine, broad at the base, the trunks rising sheer and unadorned by branches for almost forty feet before the wide canopy of green opened out overhead. In places, the intertwining branches were so thick that they shut out the light of the sun, letting only a pale green glow filter through. It was cool riding under the trees and the sharply aromatic smell of the trees lay in their nostrils. Underfoot, fallen pine needles formed a thick carpet that muffled the sound of their horses as they rode through the timber, moving downgrade for a mile or more before Cantry suddenly reined his mount where a narrow trail led off from the main one, branching up among the trees.
‘This is where I leave you, Garth,’ he said, nodding towards the trail. ‘If you need any help from me to round up these coyotes, just send a message and I’ll come a-ridin’ with a posse. I doubt if you’ll get much help from Jessup. He’ll ride if he’s forced to because there’s no other way out, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to be out hunting drunken Indians or non-existent outlaws when there’s need for gettin’ a posse together and go after Turrell and his gang.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Garth said. He stretched out his hand, grasped the other’s firm grip, then kicked spurs against his horse’s flanks, rode swiftly along the wide trail. At a bend, he paused for a moment to look back. Cantry was still there, his mount motionless. The other lifted a hand in farewell and then rode up into the timber.
The trail was a solid streak of dust as the trees thinned on either side and he came out into more open country, to feel the full searing blast of the sunheat on his back and shoulders. There was still that sun-blasted desert to cross. When he came to it a little more than an hour later, with the sun lifting steadily and remorselessly to its zenith and the heat head piling up around him, he touched rowels to his horse, urging it on, now more in a hurry than ever.
Through all of the punishing labour of the afternoon, when each breath he took struck like fire in his lungs, searing his chest, he saw no one along the whole of the trail. The hills on the skyline shimmered and danced and the dust devils whirled across the still face of the desert like living things, entities possessed with life all their own. As he rode, he turned over in his mind all that he knew about this outlaw band, operating around Triple Peaks. He was sure in his own mind that Turrell was leading them. Only Ed Turrell would have the cunning, the experience, to carry out these attacks on banks and stages, and slip away into the hills like a ghost before he could be captured by the law. Only Turrell would set himself up against the law like this, deliberately choosing a place on the very frontier where things always favoured the crook and the gambler.
There was, he realized, only one way of trapping the other. To play on his greed and his belief that he was smarter than anybody else. He began to turn over in his mind various schemes for trapping Turrell and his men. There had to be a way.
The sun was just beginning to slide down from its zenith when he rode into the rolling swales, indicative of the more prominent upthrusts of ground ahead before he reached the hills. It hung in a faded brassy sky, sending the waves of heat rolling over the desert’s dusty face, bringing all of the moisture in his body boiling to the surface, oozing from every pore. His horse began to slow now and he did not press it.
Topping a long, low gravelly ridge, he spotted the cluster of tumble-down weathered buildings less than a quarter of a mile from the trail. He did not recall seeing them before, then realised that he had ridden this way in total darkness. He was on the point of riding past when a second glance showed him smoke curling from a battered chimney and, acting on impulse, he wheeled his mount off the trail and cut over to the buildings.
He was fifty yards from them when he caught the sudden movement at the small window. A few moments later, the door opened and a white-haired man stepped out on to the broken-down porch, an ancient rifle in his hands. The barrel was pointed unwaveringly at Garth.
‘Stay right where you are, mister,’ said the other thinly.
‘Come another step nearer and I’ll let you have it.’
Garth reined up. He recognised the other’s fear, his instant suspicion of strangers. Keeping his hands well spread from his body he leaned forward on the pommel horn and said quietly, evenly: ‘Put up that rifle, old-timer. I just want to have a talk with you.’
‘I got nothin’ to say,’ snapped the other. The barrel of the rifle continued to point at his chest and the spark of suspicion still flared in the other’s eyes.
‘Then you got any objection if I have a drink of water? It’s been a long, thirsty ride across the desert.’
‘All right, step down and help yourself.’ The offer came grudgingly. The other gestured with the rifle towards the olla suspended from the corner of the porch. ‘But don’t make any funny moves towards your guns, or I’ll pull this trigger.’
Sliding from the saddle, keeping his hands well in sight, Garth went over to the olla, upended it and drank until he could drink no more. The water was cool and slaked his thirst.
‘If you’ve had enough, get back on your horse and ride on out of here,’ said the other, continuing to watch him.
‘Just what are you afraid of, old-timer?’ Garth asked slowly. He fixed the other with his gaze. ‘Outlaws?’
By the narrowing of the other’s eyes, he knew that he had hit the mark. He went on quietly: ‘I know there are outlaws operatin’ in the hills yonder. It’s part of my job to see that they’re brought in for trial.’
‘How do I know that, mister?’ said the other. The suspicion was there, but he no longer sounded quite so belligerent. ‘I ain’t ever seen you before. You could be one of them for all I know.’
‘Would I come ridin’ in like this if I was?’
‘No, maybe not,’ agreed the other reluctantly. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’ll help you. I know those critters. If they ever get to hear that I’ve given information to a lawman this hut would be burned down about my ears and there’s little enough I have in the world now for me to want that to happen.’
‘But you know somethin’ about them, don’t you?’ Garth went on. He saw now that the other had lowered the rifle, that it was no longer pointed at his chest.
‘Maybe,’ said the other with a faint show of impatience. ‘I see and hear a lot out here. I know more ’n I dare tell. So far, they don’t care about me. I’m just an old fool livin’ out near the middle of the desert. But if they guessed how much I really do know, then they’d care and my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.’ There was a bright and beady wisdom in the other’s eyes now in place of the suspicion.
‘You know where they have their hide-out in the hills?’
‘Nope.’ The other shook his head at that and Garth knew instinctively that he was telling the truth. ‘But I reckon they’ll have got back there by now. The posse from Triple Peaks came by here ridin’ hell for leather a while ago. They scouted this side of the hills, lookin’ for a trail I guess, then turned and headed back.’
‘You’re sure they came from Triple Peaks?’ Garth felt a little stab of apprehension run through him. What had happened while he had been away?
‘I’d recognize Jessup anywhere,’ he said thinly. ‘Besides, the news is that they held up the bank in Triple Peaks a couple of days back, got away with all the gold they were carryin’ in the vaults, shot one of the employees dead when he tried to stop ’em.’
Garth absorbed the news slowly, sucking in a sharp intake of air that betrayed his lack of knowledge. The other searched his face closely. ‘You didn’t know about that raid on the bank, then, stranger?’
‘No. Like I told you. I’ve just ridden in from Culver City. I’ve been out of touch with things for the past four days.’
‘Well, that’s what happened, mister.’ The other leaned the ancient Sharps rifle against the side of the porch. ‘You a sheriff?’
Garth shook his head. ‘Let’s just say t
hat I’m interested in bringing in these coyotes, dead or alive,’ he answered.
The other studied him briefly and when next he spoke, his voice sounded bitter towards him. ‘You’re a lawman, no matter what you say. You want to avenge a murder with more murders. I’ve seen so much goddamned violence in my life that I came out here to get away from it all, if that’s possible. But I’ve now found that to do that you have to get away from human beings. It’s the only way.’
‘Somebody has to bring in killers and outlaws,’ Garth said defensively. This was an outlook, an attitude, and he was unsure how to deal with it. ‘I know how you feel, but I’ve been a lawman for almost eight years now and I reckon I’ve seen about every kind of killer there is. The worst kind are those who work behind masks, hiding their identity. They’re cowards and if you don’t stop them, they get around to thinkin’ that they’re brave and there’s not many men more deadly on this earth than a deluded coward. Maybe someday the townsfolk of Triple Peaks will thank me for what I’m doin’.’
‘Reckon you’ve got to catch the critters first,’ said the other pointedly. He gave a slight chuckle, half-wise, half-foolish. ‘You want a bite to eat? It’s still mighty hot and you’ll travel quicker when it gets cool.’
‘Why, thanks, old-timer.’ He followed the other into the shack. The meal was frugal, but filling and when it was over, Garth felt a sense of well-being, the gnawing hunger pains in his stomach having gone.
As they went outside, the oldster said, calculatingly: ‘If you do meet up with this hombre who leads these outlaws, don’t jump at conclusions about him because he wears a patch over one eye. The man is better than he looks.’
‘Thanks for the meal,’ said Garth and stepped up into the saddle.
‘You won’t forget what I told you?’
‘I won’t forget,’ said Garth, and rode off.
*
The afternoon was almost gone now and the heat head was beginning to diminish although very slowly. During most of the day nothing had relieved it. Even though he had rested up for that short period at the shack, the day had been a punishment to him, every breath he drew in a distinct labour in his lungs as they strove to extract sufficient oxygen from the superheated air for his needs. The edges of his saddle were now too hot for real comfort and the red rays of the setting sun were directly in his eyes, glinting off the metal pieces of his bridle.
A little before six o’clock, the country lifted again. He ran into isolated clumps of trees warning him of his approach to the hills. Now they were black and menacing, brooding on the near horizon, with the setting sun throwing them into deep shadow on his side. Bulky and high, they loomed over the trail which was now only a thin, yellow streak through the dust, running over the last few miles of desert in a twisting, cross-cross fashion.
Although it would be dangerous to camp in the hills, he recognised that he had very little choice in the matter. His mount was in no condition to continue to ride west through the night. The day had been more of a punishment for it than it had been for him, and there was still a whole day’s journey to travel once he got through the hills that stretched themselves across his path.
Turning off the trail once he was well into the foothills, with the sky darkening rapidly overhead, he made cold camp among the tangle of trees and thorn. Hobbling his mount, he settled out in his blankets, placing his gunbelt near the saddle which he used as a pillow. The ground was hard and moist under him and once it grew really dark and the coldness settled over the world, there was a rising, misty dampness in the air that chilled him to the marrow. Around him, the vague noises of nocturnal animals, rooting through the brush, kept him awake for a long while and when he finally did fall asleep, it was an uneasy doze from which he woke at intervals, listening for the sounds around him that would warn him of the approach of danger. Once, he jerked himself up on to his arms, every sense and nerve in his body straining as he caught the distant sound like a washboard being scrubbed with knuckles. A rider, moving along one of the many trails about him. As he listened, however, the sound faded into a dull murmur, then was gone altogether.
When he woke for the last time, he smoked a cigarette in the chill darkness and sat shivering in the cold, waiting for the steely palings of the dawn as they gradually streaked the eastern skies. Nearby, his mount grazed quietly. All about him the hills were still and hushed, a strange, foreboding quiet that began to eat at his nerves, stretching them taut.
As he smoked, he tried to think things out in the light of what the old man had told him the previous afternoon. It certainly altered things a little. If the outlaws had got away with all that gold, and killed a man in the process, the chances were that they had not headed back into these hills, but were even now riding hell for leather to the border. They must surely have realized that things were bound to get too hot even for them, that if they wanted to stay alive to spend any of the ill-gotten gains from their activities, the sooner they fled out of the country, the better. Sooner or later, their luck was going to run out. They could not continue to rob and murder with impunity much longer.
Eating the last of the strips of beef he had brought with him, washing it down with ice-cold water from a nearby stream, he saddled up, rode out with the dawn. Mountain shoulders sloped down towards him on both sides, cramping the dim trail he had chosen through the range. He had deliberately avoided the main stage trail through, just in case anyone was watching it. It seemed quite likely to him that the outlaws in these hills, out of a sense of mutual protection, would have a system of watching the main trails.
An hour after setting out, he rode down a narrow canyon whose steep-sided walls funnelled the wind along it endlessly and he smelled the faint scent of a cooking fire but when he rounded a bend in the trail and came in sight of the fire, he found it to be merely grey ashes that were not even warm. He wasted several precious moments quartering it though, just to be on the safe side, not wanting anyone on his back without him knowing of it. Then he rode on, up to the crests, over the top of a wide, high ridge and down the further side. Here and there, he spotted the decrepit wooden buildings of the old mine workings he had been told about, most of them with their roofs fallen in, no longer habitable; but once or twice, he spotted others which seemed to have been erected more recently, and he guessed that these places would afford shelter to the wanted ones who lived in these hills, away from the eyes of the law.
By the time he had reached the benchlands that opened out on to the wide prairie, black thunderheads were rising over the mountains in the distance and a black, filmy curtain of rain came sweeping forward out of the west. The sun still shone brightly at his back, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before the storm reached him and he huddled forward in the saddle, seeing no place here where he could possibly shelter from it, knew he was going to finish the rest of the journey back to Triple Peaks wet to the skin. He sighed, then put the thought out of his mind. A man liked to ride dry and in comfort, but nature was not like that and there were times when he had to grin and bear it.
The storm struck half an hour later. Preceding it, the wind rose, and there was a short period when it caught at the sand and dust and whipped it up into a thick, stinging cloud of irritating grains that beat furiously at him, whipping his clothing around his body, his chaps cracking like pistol shots. He rode with his head lowered, unable to see more than a few feet in front of him, relying on the horse to keep to the trail. Fortunately, the sand storm did not last for long. When the rain came, falling in large drops on his hat, it slaked the sand, brought down the dust. But even the rain, driven at him by the fierce force of the wind, made it impossible for him to see where he was headed, or even if he was still following the trail. It churned the ground into a quagmire of mud and ooze, the horse’s hooves sinking deeply into it, splashing through the puddles that formed in the multitudinous hollows.
Lightning slashed and zigzagged across the beserk heavens and the thunderclaps were monstrous sounds that threatened
to deafen him. This was elemental nature in the raw and at its most frightening. He rode without lifting his head, conscious only of the rage of the elements all about him.
Chapter Eight: Shoot-out
As he entered the main street of Triple Peaks, Jessup stepped down from the boardwalk and came over to him. He looked questioningly at him as Garth sat tall in the saddle.
‘I never expected to see you ridin’ in here again,’ he said belligerently. ‘When they told me at the hotel that you’d pulled out, I had you figured for the same kind of man as this fella Smith.’
‘Now you see how wrong you were,’ Garth said evenly, keeping all emotion out of his tone. He stepped down from the saddle, took off his wide-brimmed hat and shook it so that the water spilled from it in a cascade of glistening drops. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand. He felt tired and relaxed now that he had arrived in town. But he was totally unprepared for the sheriff’s next question.
‘And where did you leave your friends — out there in the hills, while you rode back to see if you could pick up some information? They must sure be wonderin’ what we mean to do now?’ There was no mistaking the harsh grimness in the sheriff’s tone. He seemed to have taken on some of the hardness of the rest of the men in town.
‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,’ Garth said, matching the other’s direct gaze.
‘No? Then maybe I ought to refresh your memory. Those outlaw friends of yours rode into town four days ago and robbed the bank of all the gold in the vaults. But that wasn’t all. They shot Abe Carlton. Plugged him in the chest. He never had a chance.’
‘I heard about that,’ Garth said, ‘on my way here from Culver City. I’m sorry. But it only shows that we have to get some plan to destroy them before they can build up into something so big that we can’t stop it short of bringin’ in the troopers.’
