The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Gil said nothing, walking the length of the room. From the front door, he could see Van and Long John coming on the run. From the opposite direction came Sheriff Gid Henneagar, and several men had just left the barbershop. Gil waited. He didn’t intend to tell it but once. Henneagar was first in the door, the others on his heels.

  “Did you fire that shot?” the sheriff demanded.

  “No,” Gil replied. “Somebody shot at me from behind the saloon. He got away before I could get back there. I’m thinkin’ he might have ducked in here through the back door.”

  The three patrons at the bar began to look uncomfortable. Henneagar turned to the barkeep.

  “Harvey, has anybody been in or out through that back door in the past few minutes?”

  “Nobody went out,” said Harvey, “and nobody come in, ’cept the gent right next to you. Kicked the door open and come in with a pistol in his hand.”

  “He’s right,” said one of the men at the bar. “Wasn’t nobody in here but us, an’ we ain’t went out.”

  This was getting them nowhere. Gil pushed through the swinging doors, Van and Long John following.

  “Mebbe we oughta mosey along wi’ ye,” said Long John.

  “No,” said Gil. “Take care of your business here, and don’t stay longer than you have to. We don’t know if somebody just has it in for me, or if I just happened to be the best target. He might take a shot at any one of you.”

  Gil got his ventilated hat, loosed the reins of the horses, and swung into the saddle. Leading the packhorses, he rode on to Vento’s store. Rosa stood on the long porch, her eyes full of questions. Gil dismounted and half-hitched the reins of his horse and the lead ropes of the packhorses to the rail. Then he turned to Rosa.

  “Somebody took a shot at me,” he said. “I’ll be in the store awhile, and then I’ll have to go back by the livery. When I leave, I want you ready to ride out with me.”

  Her eyes on the hole in the crown of his hat, she didn’t argue. Instead she returned to the store, and Gil followed. When they were finished, Gil secured their purchases on one of the packhorses and they rode on to Gid Henneagar’s livery. Henneagar had stashed the horseshoes and nails in four open-topped wooden kegs.

  “Any idea who might have been shooting at you?” the sheriff inquired.

  “No,” Gil said. “There’s some, I reckon, that’d like to cash in my chips, but I don’t know of any this far west. Anyway, we won’t be in town that long. Another day at most.”

  Gil and Rosa rode out, Gid Henneagar thoughtfully watching them go. It was just as well he didn’t know that Gil only wanted to get Rosa out of town.

  Gil had decided that once Van, Long John, and the other riders returned to camp, he would allow the rest of the outfit to ride in, and he would go with them. If somebody wanted him dead, the bastard wouldn’t stop in Tucson, and Gil Austin purely didn’t aim to dodge a bushwhacker all the way to California. With himself as bait, he would end it here. Now that he knew he was in danger, he had an edge. He would do some sniping on his own, and the hunter would become the hunted.

  Morgan Pinder hid out in the brush, cursing himself for having missed a perfect opportunity. Now he had to stay out of town and out of sight until dark, lest he be recognized. All this Texas outfit had seen him clearly as the Indian had tortured him. If any one of them saw him now, they’d know he had tried to kill their trail boss, and he’d be hunted down like a coyote. Sweat dripping off his chin and burning his eyes, he hunched in the meager shade of some greasewood, longing for the cool gloom of the saloon. The time dragged. Impatient, he considered sneaking to the springs where the herd was, and trying for a shot at the hated Indian. Then he recalled how Estanzio had moved like a shadow, taking him captive in total darkness. What chance did he have in broad daylight? Morgan Pinder shuddered, sleeved the sweat from his face and waited for the night.

  Within two hours after Gil and Rosa had returned to the herd, the rest of the riders who had gone to town rode in. Those yet to visit Tucson had been given the money Gil had promised them, but only Juan Alamonte, Manuel Armijo, Domingo Chavez, and Pedro Fagano would be going. While Mariposa and Estanzio had accepted the gold, they had declined a trip to town. As soon as the first riders returned, and before the last four rode out, Gil spoke to them all.

  “As those of you who were in town know, and as the rest of you are about to find out, somebody tried to ambush me this morning. Those of you who have yet to ride into town, I’m asking you to tend to your business and return as soon as you can. Maybe this bushwhacker tried for me because I was alone and the best target, but I don’t know that he won’t cut down on some of you if he gets the chance. I believe, or at least I hope, he’s just gunning for me. If he is, I aim to give him a chance he can’t pass up. I’m riding back to town for as much of the night as it takes to end this thing. While he’s hunting me, I’ll be hunting him.”

  “That’s a damn fool scheme,” said Van. “Take some of us along to watch your back.”

  “No,” said Gil, “it has to look like a sure thing, and it won’t with some of you following me. Van, you’re in charge, whatever happens.”

  While Gil was saddling his horse, Rosa went to him with a final plea.

  “I fear for you,” she said, “and I wish you would not do this thing.”

  “It has to end here, Rosa. Would you like it any better if I ran away from this, only to be shot in the back somewhere along the trail? Besides, if he fills me full of lead, it might solve your problems where I’m concerned.”

  He had said it as a joke, but she ignored his grin.

  “I do not wish to have my problem with you solved in that way.”

  “Then you do care,” he said, serious now. “A little, anyhow.”

  “I will always care, and you know it. Even if I must leave you, I would not wish you hurt or dead. I do not want you tempting this bushwhacker. It does not matter to you that I care this much?”

  “It matters,” Gil replied, “but there are things a man has to do if he aims to go on callin’ himself a man. A woman’s got no right to set limits, and if that’s your test for my carin’, then I reckon I’ve failed it.”

  He mounted and rode away without looking back. Reaching town, he found the horses of his four riders tied outside Vento Henneagar’s store. He wanted them out of town, reducing this conflict to the simplest possible terms: himself against the unknown gunman. Since it was Saturday, the stores would be open late, and the saloons maybe all night.

  A good two hours before sundown, Gil stopped in a little café and had supper. There was roast pork, potatoes, onions, and apple pie. Twenty-five cents seemed a little high, but it was a good meal, and Gil enjoyed it. He hoped he could rid himself of this bushwhacker in time for them to have one quiet day in town before they moved on. He would have enjoyed treating Rosa to a town-cooked meal. Now he doubted she would go with him. He figured he was on the bad side of her again, which would diminish the pleasure of the first cash money they’d had in a coon’s age. With time on his hands, he lingered in the café. When he stepped out the door, he saw the hitch rail at Vento’s was free of horses. His riders had gone elsewhere. Except for the saloons and the cafés, there were few other places a man could go. He thought, after his warning, they had already ridden back to the herd. Gil went into the store and found Vento Henneagar alone.

  “Vento, I need to know about the country between here and Fort Yuma. I need to know where the water is. Want me to bring you some supper from the café?”

  “Thanks,” said Vento, “but I have a late dinner on Saturday, and delay supper until I close. Gid’s got his bowels in an uproar ’cause somebody took a shot at you this morning.”

  “Somebody did,” Gil replied, “but I aim to ride out alive, for my sake as well as Gid’s. That star he’s wearin’ is gettin’ mighty heavy.”

  “I know,” Vento sighed. “Makin’ him sheriff was a mistake, but nobody wanted the job. You know Jeremiah, our daddy. He shamed Gid in
to takin’ the star. Jeremiah’s an old stove-up mountain man, and he’s never been satisfied with Gid and me living in town, running a business. Gid’s been touchy as a bronc with a burr under his tail ever since he pinned on that sheriff’s star. There’s some hardcase that’s been here a few days, hanging around the saloons, living off his poker winnings. Slick dealer, I hear. Gid looks for trouble, and he’s no gunman. But this Morgan Pinder is. Wears his Colt low, like a real gun-throwin’ killer.”

  “Sounds like a bad one,” said Gil, with no change in his expression. “I reckon I’ll mosey on; there’s some-thin’ I have to take care of.”

  “What about the country between here and Fort Yuma?”

  “It’ll wait,” said Gil. “I’ll get with you before we leave.”

  Warily Gil left the store. Now he recalled the man who had seemed so familiar yesterday, the man who had ducked hurriedly into the saloon. Gil had no doubt it was the same man who had shot at him this morning, and it left him facing a dilemma. Should he confide in the nervous Gid Henneagar, or just do what had to be done? The sheriff obviously had his pride, since he hadn’t mentioned the troublesome Morgan Pinder to him. Now, confronted with the virtual certainty that Pinder had fired at him, what would Sheriff Gid Henneagar do? Gil had no trouble answering that question. The nervous sheriff would get himself shot dead. Gid was just stuffy enough, prideful enough, to allow his vanity to override his common sense, and Gil decided what the younger Henneagar didn’t know might save his life. Though it wasn’t even dark, the saloons were tuning up for the night. Gil shouldered his way through the bat wings of the Pick and Shovel.

  “I’m lookin’ for Morgan Pinder,” said Gil to everybody in general and nobody in particular.

  The room became suddenly quiet. Finally a brawny, red-faced man kicked his chair back from the table and stood up.

  “What might you be wantin’ that bastard for? You a friend of his’n?”

  “I’m a Texan,” Gil responded quietly, “and where I come from, we don’t bother answerin’ a man’s questions that are none of his business.”

  “Siddown, Charlie,” growled the barkeep, sensing trouble. He turned to Gil and spoke. “We ain’t seen Pinder today, and if we never see him again, it’ll be too soon.”

  Gil visited the other four saloons, receiving the same answers, the same negative response. Following his unsuccessful ambush, Pinder was laying low. He was the kind who wouldn’t try again until he had an edge. He would wait for darkness. Since Gil had nothing to do except wander about town, it was inevitable that he would encounter the sheriff.

  “You’ve made all the saloons,” said Henneagar, “and you’re not a drinking man. It’s like you’re lookin’ for somebody.”

  “No law against walkin’ in a saloon and out again,” Gil replied.

  “None that I know of,” said Henneagar, moving on down the boardwalk.

  Gil watched him go. The sheriff knew he was looking for Morgan Pinder. Add that to Pinder having disappeared for the day, and the nervous sheriff also knew why he was looking for Pinder. Gil only hoped Henneagar had the good sense to stay out of it, now that his riders were out of town and he was free to hunt Pinder without interference. But now, when it was shoot or be shot, how could he be sure this dedicated but inept sheriff wouldn’t be caught in the cross fire?

  Gil had thought Gid Henneagar was bound for Vento’s store, but somebody from the barbershop called to the sheriff, and he went there. Hurriedly, Gil crossed the street to Vento Henneagar’s store. He needed help, and Vento was the only man he could turn to. The older Henneagar was alone in the store, and Gil didn’t waste any time.

  “Vento, Gid may walk in before I finish, so I’ll lay the important part on you first. I know who tried to bushwhack me, and I aim to settle with him. I’ve managed to keep my outfit in camp, but now it looks like I might have Gid in my way. Is there any way you can get him off the street for a while?”

  “Since he took the star,” said Vento, “he’s got night help at the livery. But he’ll fill in for me in a pinch. If I was sick, I could keep him here until maybe ten or eleven.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Great,” said Vento, “but I could be feelin’ poorly by the time Gid gets here.”

  “For his sake and mine,” said Gil, “keep him here as long as you can.”

  Without awaiting Vento’s response, Gil left the store, just as the new sheriff left the barbershop.

  When Gil had ridden away, Van sat down beside the dejected Rosa.

  “He said that if his going was a test of his feelings for me, that he has failed,” said Rosa. “Why must a man get himself killed to prove he is a man? I have demanded no proof.”

  “He’s demanding it of himself,” said Van. “It’s something he has to do.”

  “You said it is a fool scheme.”

  “It is,” Van replied, “but there is no better way. He’ll have to settle it here or risk being shot in the back when he’s least expecting it. I’d have gone with him if it had been possible, but if half the outfit was there watching his back, the killer would just ride away and wait for a better chance.”

  “Will he . . . can he . . . win against one so devious and cowardly?”

  “I think so,” said Van, “and more important, so does he. It isn’t that he wouldn’t have liked for some of us to side him. He has to make the odds look good enough for the bushwhacker to come after him.”

  “If he is right, then I will have to admit that I was wrong. But was I wrong, not wishing to see him shot dead?”

  “No,” Van said, “you were not wrong in that. You were wrong only in trying to stop him from doing what he had to do. Gil can be mule stubborn, but I think he knows why you didn’t want him to go. I’d leave it alone. When he rides in with no bullet holes and no blood leakin’ out, that ought to satisfy his ego.”

  Once it was dark, Gil rode from one end of the town to the other and back again. When he passed a saloon or store where lamplight bled through a window or open door, he kept to the far side of the street. But nothing happened. The bait must become more attractive, and the odds must be bettered in favor of the bushwhacker. Gil rode almost to Gid Henneagar’s livery, dismounting before the last saloon on the street. It was called the Silver Dollar, and it suited his purpose in several ways. Since it was at the very end of the street, who could doubt that he would ride back the way he had come? Next to the saloon, along the way he would ride, there were no less than three dark, vacant buildings. Once he left the saloon, there was all the cover a bushwhacker could ask. Gil slipknotted his reins to the hitching rail and shoved in through the saloon’s swinging doors. While he wasn’t a drinking man, he could stand an occasional beer, and he ordered one. He needed some excuse to remain in the saloon awhile. He feigned interest in a poker game for a few minutes, and then stood through another beer at the bar. Judging he had been there half an hour, he pushed back through the swinging doors.

  It was still too early for the moon, and in the dim starlight the three vacant buildings stood dark and silent. Earlier Gil had decided that the space between the first and second, or between the second and third, would provide excellent cover for his bushwhacker. That meant as he rode even with the killer, Pinder would have only a few seconds to shoot before he passed into the protective shadow of the next building. Pinder would have to wait behind the Silver Dollar so the bushwhacker would know when he left the saloon. The hitching rail extended along the boardwalk toward the first of the three vacant buildings, and Gil had purposely tied his horse a little away from the front of the saloon. If Pinder were hiding behind the saloon, he must be able to see Gil mount. Pinder might shoot from there, but Gil doubted it, because the saloon’s back door was open. Gil counted on Pinder taking the safest position, with less risk to himself, and that had to be between two of the vacant buildings.

  Loosing his reins from the hitch rail, Gil took his time mounting, as though he might have had one drink too many. Once he had passed
into the shadow of the first darkened building, he stepped out of the saddle, the reins in his left hand. In his right he held his Colt. The horse kept walking, Gil between it and the dark, vacant buildings. Just as they came even with the darkened gap between the first two structures, from the narrow tunnel of darkness came the roar of a Colt. The lead went high, perfect to knock a man out of his saddle. But there was no rider in the saddle. Gil crouched on the ground and fired three times. Once at the muzzle flame, again to the right, and a third time to the left of it. There was a cough, a groan, and then silence. But the silence was short-lived. The Silver Dollar emptied in a hurry.

  “Who’s shootin’?” somebody bawled.

  “The shooting’s over,” Gil answered. “Somebody took a shot at me, and I shot back. One of you ride down to Henneagar’s store and get the sheriff. Tell him to bring a lantern.”

  Gid Henneagar came at a mad gallop, the lighted lantern swinging wildly. In his eagerness to dismount, he almost fell off the horse.

  “Sheriff,” said Gil, “I just shot the bushwhacker who shot at me earlier today. His name is Morgan Pinder. He’s a killer and a thief, part of an outlaw gang that jumped us in New Mexico Territory. I’ll be around for the hearing or inquest, or whatever the law requires.”

  “Inquest, hell,” growled a voice. “Drag the slick-dealin’ son off in the brush fer the coyotes an’ buzzards.”

  Gid Henneagar, accompanied by a pair of the saloon patrons, had gone in between the buildings and confirmed the identity of the dead man. Morgan Pinder had played out his last hand.

  “My God,” said one of the men who had seen the body, “three shots, three hits. That’s some shootin’ in the dark. Mister, you must be thunder and forked lightnin’ in daylight.”

  “Sheriff,” said Gil, “unless you have some objection, I’m ridin’ back to my outfit. I’ll see you again before we move out.”

  “Ride on,” said Henneagar. “Self-defense if I ever saw it. Anybody disagree with that?”

  “Hell, no,” said a voice. “We oughta pass the hat an’ raise a reward.”