by F. M. Parker
Caloon lay back and tried to relax. The stone above him grew hot as the wall of an oven and heat poured down on him. He began to sweat. It would be a terrible day.
* * *
The brown spires of the desert mountain reared above Spring Creek in a high, jagged silhouette against the pale blue sky. At the bottom of the mountain, narrow brush- covered foothills radiated outward. Like the outstretched talons of a giant eagle, they pierced deeply into the valley of the San Cristobal Desert. On the slopes between the rocky crest of the mountain and the rim of the desert, dried bunch clothed the steep land like a yellowish-brown blanket.
Lava ledges jutted out like bare ribs from half a dozen locations on the flanks of the mountains. On those bony prominences the eagles perched and the bobcats came out in the cool of the evening to lie and watch the sun go down while they waited for the darkness to fall and the night-long hunt to begin.
Russ Tarlow carried a double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun as he hunted quietly along the ridge of the hill that extended to the north in the direction of the Gila River. Early in the spring he had seen quail chicks, no larger than his thumb, watering with a nervous hen at the creek. By this late in the summer, the young quail should be nearly grown and would make a delicious fry.
Russ skimmed his eyes over the hillside searching for the birds’ hiding place. He knew that somewhere he would find them in a covey in the shade beneath a brush or ledge of rock.
On Russ’s left two birds spurted upward from under a palo verde tree. They darted away, their beating wings a noisy whirr of power.
The shotgun came up to Russ’s shoulder without conscious thought. He shot the quail flying straight away from him first, the bird dying in a bursting cloud of feathers. Then he pivoted and fired upon the second bird, killing it before the first had struck the ground.
He did not reload, for these two shots had been the last shells for the shotgun. But that was all right for his father would return soon and they would go to Yuma and buy a new supply of ammunition. He moved forward to recover the fallen quail.
A third bird exploded from cover, its wings flailing the hot air, pumping upward. Russ tossed the empty shotgun to his left hand and stabbed for his six-gun. He drew, pointed the gun by instinct, and fired.
The strong gray wings ceased their hurried thrusts as the bullet knocked the bird into a cartwheeling tumble. It plummeted to earth.
Russ grinned in appreciation of the shot. Much practice under the critical eye of his father had gone into making his hand so skillful. But Russ knew some luck was involved in hitting the small moving target at that long range.
He retrieved the birds and walked to the rim of the hill to look down into the valley. Even though he knew robbers and rustlers roamed the newly settled Arizona Territory, he paused in admiration of the beauty of the view. A warm, secure feeling took hold of him as he ran his eyes over what he and his family had created.
A quarter mile away and five hundred feet below him, a house, constructed of stone to last, nestled beside the flowing water of Spring Creek. He was proud of the house, mostly built by himself with only an occasional stint of help from his father.
Upstream from the house a few hundred yards, Russ had piled boulders across the creek bed, partially damming the stream. From the pool backed up behind the rocks, water was shunted into an irrigation ditch.
The ditch had been dug by hand with great labor over many weeks. Now it carried the water at a gentle grant, holding the precious liquid high on the slope, positioning it to water the fertile soils of the benchland.
Near the house, a portion of the water was released to irrigate a garden and a small orchard. Farther downstream an emerald-green patch of meadow, nearly thirty acres, was nourished by the remainder of the water, which flooded over it in scores of hand-dug corrugations.
The creek was the center of life for the ranch. Its waters were birthed on the high reaches of the mountain where a layer of rhyolite lava outcropped. The impervious rhyolite forced the cool liquid that percolated down through the hidden crevices and faults inside the mountain to emerge from its dark passageways and gush forth as a mighty spring.
Over the millennium, the cascading water had carved a deep plunging channel down the rocky flank of the mountain. Cottonwood and willow lined the valley from the stream’s headwaters to the desert floor.
Downstream from the ranch, the stream disappeared into the deep sand and gravel of the valley bottoms, sinking down through the porous rubble and flowing along the top of the bedrock until it reemerged forty miles away as another spring in the bottom of the Gila.
The ranch was prospering. During the four years Russ and his parents had lived in the valley, their herd of cattle had increased from sixty head to over two hundred. He and his father had ambitiously talked of enlarging the herd to a thousand head.
Jack Tarlow was a horse trader, often gone for days at a time. He knew horses and was a good trader, almost always returning home with substantial sums of money. Often he brought expensive gifts to Russ and his mother.
Russ pulled one of those presents, a brass-tubed telescope, from his pocket. Extending it full length, he glassed down at the ranch house.
His mother came out of the front door and began to hang wash on the clothesline fastened between two cottonwoods. Miniaturized by the distance, she was a tiny doll dressed in blue gingham. Russ almost called out to her, telling of his success with the quail, but decided it was too far for a voice to carry.
He swung his magnifying glass to the mountain. The cattle were on the summer range. He located several scattered about in the bunch grass on the high upper slope.
Three buzzards floated into the field of view of the telescope. Circling around and around with their wings fixed and stiff, the birds were augering in on the scent of something dead. Carefully Russ marled the location. When it grew cooler in the evening, he would ride up and take a look.
He glanced in the opposite direction toward the San Cristobal Desert. His father was a week overdue from his planned date of return and Russ was concerned. But his father was a master with either a six-gun or rifle and should be safe.
Perhaps he could see his father returning if he went to the north end of the hill about two miles away. From that vantage point he would be able to see for a long distance. He placed the quail in the shade of a bush, leaned the shotgun in the fork of a limb, and headed down the ridge.
Minutes later, Russ found a seat in the narrow shade of an ancient saguaro cactus and methodically scanned the harsh brilliance of the San Cristobal with his telescope. Heat like swirling liquid streamed up from the desolate desert that stretched before him for two score miles or more. The tall saguaro that studded the desert floor and the distant mountains on the far side were twisted and contorted by the shimmering heat waves that poured up from the hot earth.
Something moved into the zone of magnification of the telescope—a black spot far out, miles away. It was an apparition of the heat waves that vanished only to reappear, that bobbed up and down and wound in and out between the trunks of the giant saguaro.
Russ watched the object intently. It slowly grew, heading directly toward him. It appeared to be following the main trail that came in from Tucson. If it continued on that route, it would pass just below him near the creek at the base of the hill.
Russ’s eyes strained and watered from the intensity of his scrutiny. Finally he was certain. The moving object was a gray horse without a rider.
His father rode a gray horse and Russ was greatly worried. He lowered the telescope to rest his eyes for a few seconds. Then once again he focused the glass on the horse.
Russ’s heart jumped, for he could see the outline of a man leaning forward from the saddle and lying upon the neck of the horse.
Two new riders appeared in the edge of the field of the telescope. Russ centered the eye of the glass on them. They were about a mile behind the gray horse and pushing their animals. He measured the progress of the two horsem
en and knew they were gaining on the first rider.
Russ moved the scope to bear on the first horse. It was much closer now. The rider still clung to the neck of his mount.
And then in the bright sunlight and under the magnification of the telescope, dark red blood became visible, staining the shirt of the man. And the side of the horse carried a large splotch of blood.
Russ stood up, ready to rush down the side of the hill to help his father. But he quickly lowered himself back to the ground. The outlaws who had shot his father and now pursued him to his very home had to be stopped. They must not find the ranch, must not find his mother.
The gray horse walked steadily along, carrying its wounded rider. They passed below Russ, not a hundred yards away. The animal had found its way home without guidance, for the hands of the man clutched only the mane, the reins hanging loosely.
Russ turned angry eyes back to stab at the outlaws. They were less than a mile away and coming at a fast gallop, intent on overhauling his father. As Russ watched, men and horses followed the trail down into the creek crossing. The moment they disappeared from view, he sprang from his hiding place and dashed down the side of the hill.
Quickly he stepped behind a saguaro near the trail. His hand brushed some of the thousands of thorns on the cactus and he jerked back. He quieted his excited breathing and ignored the pain in his hand and waited. One thought burned his mind: the gunmen had to be made to turn away.
Russ threw a quick glance up the path in the direction his father had gone. Horse and rider were out of sight.
The iron-shod hooves of horses rattled the rocks in the bottom of the creek. Then the outlaws’ mounts, puffing noisily from being pushed hard, climbed the bank.
The two horsemen rode into sight, towering above the brush not forty feet away. Russ stepped out from behind the cactus and pointed his six-gun at his father’s enemies.
Both men saw Russ instantly. For a split second they measured the armed man blocking the trail, saw his youth and the scared, uncertain look on his face. The one on the left locked fierce eyes on Russ and drew his pistol unbelievably swiftly.
Without ever having seen such a savage look before, Russ knew the eyes spoke death. He fired. The gun bucked in his hand. The bullet smashed into the man’s chest, rocking him in tire saddle. Then he tumbled sideways to the ground.
Russ hurriedly swept his gun right to cover the second outlaw. That man’s pistol was lining up on Russ, the wicked eye of the barrel nearly on target.
Firing more swiftly than he ever thought possible, Russ shot two bullets into the center of the man’s chest.
Tiny puffs of dust erupted from the man’s shirt as the hurtling chunks of lead slammed into him, driving him backward.
His vest flopped open and Russ saw a momentary glint of sunlight from metal on the man’s chest.
The rider’s feet came loose from the stirrups and he fell to the ground with a thump.
The horses of the men bolted out through the brush a short distance. They halted to stand snorting in fright at the fusillade of gunshots.
Russ dashed forward. He had to see what was on the man’s shirt, to make sure. There could not be a badge. His eyes must be playing tricks on him.
He grabbed the fallen man and rolled him onto his back.
The dying man’s chest heaved and made a sucking sound. A bloody froth bubbled up to his lips.
A pair of hate-filled eyes stared at Russ for a handful of seconds. “Goddamn you to hell,” whispered the man. Then he quivered and his head fell loosely to the side.
Russ snatched his hand away and rocked back on his heels, stunned. Controlling his reaction, he reached out and lifted the flap of the vest. A deputy U.S. marshal’s badge was pinned to the blood-drenched shirt.
Russ hastened to the first man he had shot and knelt down beside the body. He found the tin star of a second deputy U.S. marshal in a shirt pocket.
Slowly he sank down on the ground and sat in the dust and shivered at the horrible mistake. He had gunned down two lawmen. But they must be the ones who had wounded his father. There was no doubt they were trailing him. But why? Why?
Russ jumped to his feet and hurried toward the horses. One of the animals snorted and trotted off as he drew close. He slowed his pace so as not to spook further the already frightened animals. One stood its ground, tossing its head nervously and watching him with the whites showing in its eyes. Russ caught the bridle and jumped into the saddle.
His breath rasped in his throat as he raced toward the ranch house. There must be some terrible misunderstanding. His father could not be an outlaw.
CHAPTER 5
Russ pulled the horse down to a slow pace as he neared the ranch house and walked it in quietly. In the center of the yard he dismounted. His father’s gray horse stood near the door, the dark splash of blood on its shoulder drying in the sun.
Moving noiselessly along the front of the house, Russ drew near the partially open door and halted. Inside he heard his mother’s voice.
“Lay still, Jack. I must close the wound. The bullet went cleanly through your shoulder without hitting a bone, but you’re bleeding badly.”
A cloth ripped as his mother prepared a bandage. Then silence. Russ could see in his mind’s eye his mother’s gentle, sure hands tending the injured man.
Finally his father spoke in a weak voice. “Where’s Russ?”
“Out quail hunting. I heard the shotgun far up on the ridge of the hill some time ago. He will be very upset when he finds out you’ve been shot.”
“Russ must not know why I got shot. We’ll tell him some holdup men waylaid me for my money. That I escaped but they wounded me.”
His mother said something in a voice so low Russ could not make it out.
Jack Tarlow spoke again. “I thought I had shaken the lawmen off my trail, but they found me just before daylight.”
“Did they follow you here?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But they found me in the dark. They are good, very good. The town of Tucson hired them about a month ago and they have jurisdiction to go anyplace in the Territory.”
“Oh, Jack, why did you do it? We didn’t need the money so badly that you had to rob somebody.”
“You don’t understand. There was this cattle buyer for a packing company who had a lot of money . . .”
Russ clutched at the stone wall. He was unable to believe what he had heard. His head buzzing, he whirled about and hastily retreated from the door.
A great anger burned within him. Two marshals lay dead in the dirt. Two lawmen killed by him because his father had lied when he said he traded horses for his money.
He stopped and stared down at the creek without seeing it. What tore at his heart most was the fact his mother had kept the terrible secret—his father was a common outlaw, a man who rode out and robbed with a gun.
The ranch had been built with stolen money. No, not all of the ranch. Four years of Russ’s life and labor were buried in the stones of the house, in the long irrigation ditch and meadow, and the young calves.
Russ shook his head to clear it. Other U.S. marshals would come searching for their comrades. And whether or not Russ had shot them believing they were robbers who had shot his father would mean nothing to them.
He would be arrested and hung. And Jack Tarlow would go to prison, or maybe he would also hang. For perhaps he had committed murder during some of his crimes.
Russ moved with determination. Outlaw or not, his father must remain free to care for his mother. The bodies of the lawmen had to be taken far away from the ranch and hidden. And then as a double protection he would ride on, laying an obvious trail. In that way he might pull those who came to search for the marshals after him, instead of after his father.
He circled to the rear of the house and stepped silently through the open window into his room. Quickly he found a piece of paper and stub of a pencil and leaned over the table to write.
There were many things
he wanted to say to his parents: You lied to me and because of that I have killed. I am hurt and angry, but I still love you. To protect you I will carry away the dead lawmen and try to hide your crimes.
He wrote one word, “Good-bye,” and signed it “Russ.”
Hurriedly he gathered a few necessities and rolled them inside his bedroll. A box of shells for his .30-30 Winchester and two boxes for his six-gun placed in his saddlebags finished his packing. He picked up his rifle from where it stood in the corner.
Russ turned and surveyed his room for what he knew would be the last time. Many pleasant memories flooded through his mind. Beyond the door he heard his mother’s kind voice, as he had heard it countless times before. For a moment he listened to the loved tones, then he left soundlessly by the window.
Briefly halting at the well, Russ filled a large canteen. Then astride his long-legged roan horse, and leading the dead lawman’s animal, he headed down the creek.
Mounted on horseback, he easily caught the pony of the second lawman and headed in the direction of the ambush. As he neared the site, all the horses pulled back at the smell of death and had to be forced up near the bodies.
He swung down and hoisted the loose-jointed corpses across their saddles and tied their arms and legs together beneath the bellies of the horses. To be sure the bodies would stay in place, he roped their belts to the pommels of the saddles. He kept the marshals’ bedrolls, leaving them fastened behind the saddles.
Russ tied the head of one horse to the tail of the second and put a rope on the lead animal. He stepped astride his mount and, pulling the two reluctant horses with their load of death behind him, rode down into the creek bed.
In the middle of the stream, he stopped and allowed the animals to chink their fill. When they had finished, he kicked them ahead at a trot to the northeast, across the desert and toward the Gila River.
