by F. M. Parker
Russ moved to his horse and began to replace the cartridges that had been in his six-gun and belt when he had gone into the river with fresh ammunition from his pack. As he did so he watched Caloon practice. Watched the movement of his hand become swift, the draw becoming smooth, effortless, and pointing very accurately at the selected targets.
“We have plenty of cartridges if you want to fire a few practice rounds,” said Russ.
“No, not now,” said Caloon, holstering his pistol. “It’s dangerous here. There could be enemies nearby. Let’s pack all the extra gear on the spare horse and ride out.”
“These horses have traveled all night and are tired. We’ll need a place to lay up and rest before too many miles more.”
Caloon nodded and expertly tied the packs to one of the lawmen’s mounts. He swung into the saddle of the second animal and, leading the packhorse, rode down into the river. Russ climbed aboard his roan and crossed the Gila beside Caloon.
* * *
They topped out on the bench above the river and halted for a moment to look to the north at the tall Palomas Mountains lying ten miles or so away. Then they struck out across the broad flood plain of the river, holding a course that would take them just east of the base of the dark volcanic mountains.
Heat was building rapidly and they rode at a moderate pace, winding around the brush and saguaro cactus. Caloon restlessly searched the land. He spoke to Russ. “If you see anything strange, anything at all, let me know.”
“I’ll do that,” answered Russ.
* * *
Gray Antelope ran swiftly, holding below a low ridge that cut across the valley lying ahead of him. Big Wolf ran silently behind him. Off to the right of the two running men, a steep rocky hill jutted upward against the light blue sky.
From their lookout on the peak of the hill, the Quechans had seen the two men ride up out of the river bottom. In another minute the Indians would intersect the route of the two horsemen. Perhaps the white men had seen the escaped convict called Crazy Caloon and could give directions to find him.
Gray Antelope knew he and Big Wolf would have to approach the white men cautiously, yet openly. Renegade Indians still hid in the mountains and made raids down into the valleys to kill travelers and loot isolated ranches. The men might begin shooting upon first sight of two armed Indians, misinterpreting the reason for their approach, judging it to be one of attack. Even if the men would talk with them, they might not give information about another white man to an Indian.
The two Indians slowed and finally stopped to stand quietly. Gray Antelope could see the two men but they had not yet discovered him. He stepped from the brush and into the trail of the horsemen. He held his rifle in his left hand and raised his right in a sign of friendly greeting. Big Wolf also moved into full view of the white men and about a hundred feet behind Gray Antelope. He stood alert and watching, holding his rifle ready.
Russ and Caloon pulled their horses to a quick halt. Caloon reined his mount slightly to he left and moved his hand near his six-gun.
He was surprised to see the Quechans here. The last time he had seen them they were on a fast pace toward the Colorado River. But now he knew the Indians’ strategy, their hurried departure from the prison to the west had been a ruse, a trick to throw anyone watching off the true direction they planned to take.
Gray Antelope swept his eyes over the two horsemen and then fixed his questioning gaze on the older one. The man seemed faintly familiar.
“We look Yuma prisoner escape two days ago,” said Gray Antelope. “You see?”
Caloon smiled from under the broad brim of his new hat, showing his teeth in a coyote grin.
Sudden recognition of the white man’s strange smile burst into Gray Antelope’s mind. “Crazy Caloon!” he cried in warning to Big Wolf and jerked his rifle up to his shoulder.
Caloon drew and fired in one blurred movement. The bullet slammed into Gray Antelope’s chest, driving him down onto the rock and dust. Caloon swung the barrel of his pistol to point at the second Indian.
The range was long for a snap shot, maybe too long. But he had no time to hesitate; the Indian’s rifle was now at his shoulder, the wicked eye of the barrel seeking a target.
Caloon fired, saw the Indian flinch as the bullet skittered along his ribs. Fired again and the Indian staggered backward, still trying to line up the sights of his rifle on Caloon. The white man emptied his gun into the brown skin of the reeling Indian.
Big Wolf, blinded by the shock of the bullets tearing into his body, collided with the thorn-laden trunk of a saguaro cactus. He did not feel the hundreds of piercing spines. Slowly he collapsed against the base of the giant cactus and d.
Russ sat stunned at the rapidity and violence of the killings. His hand had not touched his weapon. But what had the Indian screamed to his companion? What had he called Caloon? Had he said “Crazy”? Was he riding with an insane man?
Caloon turned and looked at Russ, noting the expression of shock and suspicion on the young man’s face. It bothered Caloon, that mistrust, and while he reloaded he spoke, trying to explain.
“Those murdering, bounty hunting Quechans won’t kill another prisoner in this world.”
He climbed down from his horse and went to search the Indians. From small pouches fastened to their belts, he extracted four gold coins. After taking their knives and rifles, he went to the spare horse, untied the pack behind the saddle, and retied it, enclosing the weapons.
“Extra weapons always come in handy,” Caloon said to Russ. He hoisted himself astride his horse and kicked him ahead. “I feel damned Iucky those Quechans didn’t come across me before I get hold of a gun.”
As they rode past the two bodies sprawled in the dirt, Caloon spoke again. “It appears I haven’t lost my shooting eye.” But to himself he admitted his shot at the first Indian was a hand’s width farther right than he had intended.
Russ touched the butt of his holstered six-gun. Never again, he vowed, would he be caught by surprise by what this strange, maybe insane man did.
* * *
Near noon Russ and Caloon found a brush-and-grass- covered marsh area of three or four acres where rim of the valley met the base of the Palomas Mountains. They halted their tired horses and for several minutes sat cautiously, probing with wary eyes the two-hundred-yard-long expanse of green vegetation.
On the left and slightly above them, the spring that watered the meadow bubbled out on top of a lava outcrop. The water splashed down over the face of the rock, wetting it to reflect glassy in the sunlight.
Two dozen cottonwoods, very old and with thick trunks, grew clumped together in some deeper soil on the far side of the wetland. On the topmost branch of the tallest tree a large gray hawk with a white band on its tail watched with suspicious eyes every move of the humans. His beaked head swiveled from side to side and the compact body squatted against his roost, the wings tensed for flight.
At last, bothered beyond endurance by the closeness of the intruders, the hawk launched himself into the wind. His wings pumping powerfully, he climbed the hot air. Then, fully airborne, he turned directly away from the men and was soon lost from sight.
Finally, reasonably certain there was no danger, the two outlaws rode in under the cottonwoods and dumped their packs and saddles. After staking out the horses on the end of their lariats, they lay down in the shade of one of the giant cottonwood trees.
Russ wiped the sweat from his forehead and placed his pistol near his hand. He rested on his back, looking up into the branches of the tree.
A fine mist of water droplets, invisible to the eye and only felt, rained down from the thousands of leaves of the ancient tree. Striving vainly to keep its temperature low enough to survive under the burning sun, the moisture-loving tree sucked hundreds of gallons of water into its roots from the soaked soil, lifted it up the live inner layer of its bark, and allowed it to evaporate out through millions of pores on the underside of its leaves. The miniature rain fe
ll cool and comforting on Russ.
Russ spoke to Caloon without looking. “I would say you know where you are heading. You haven’t deviated a degree from a course that will take us to that big range of mountains on the skyline to the north.”
“You’re right,” responded Caloon.
“What’s up there?”
“Those mountains are the Kofas. And Raasleer, the most daring and successful cattle rustler in the Arizona Territory, rules them. I expect to join him.”
“Rustling cattle doesn’t seem like a very good way to spend the rest of your life,” said Russ.
“I plan to do it just for a year or so. Long enough to get a small stake and then I’m off to Montana.”
“What size gang does he have?”
“A large one, but it varies in number and, like most outlaw gangs, many of the members change over time. Some are always leaving with part of them coming back from time to time. And a few new ones keep coming to join. I hear he has a bunch of about five or six men that more or less make up the permanent core of his gang.”
“It appears to me they’d be suspicious of newcomers. Will they just let us ride up and join?”
“No. Someone Raasleer trusts will have to vouch for me and then I’ll vouch for you. About a year ago a fellow I know, named Tanwell, was released from Yuma Pen. I think he’s with Raasleer now. If so, he’ll stand up for me.”
Russ settled himself into a more comfortable position in preparation for sleep.
Caloon spoke again. “Are yon sure you want to go that far with me? Better think that over very carefully. You might want to ride on across the Kofas, turn west, and travel straight to California. I’ve heard tell San Francisco is one hell of a town to visit.”
One of the horses tossed his head and snorted. Both men turned their heads to look at the disturbance. The animal stood with his ears thrust forward, looking down as if there was something in the grass not to his liking. He walked off a few paces and began to graze again.
Russ did not answer Caloon’s question. He closed his eyes and slept.
* * *
Something touched Russ’s shoulder and his hand leaped for his pistol.
“Easy, Russ. It’s just Caloon. It’s about two hours ‘til dark. Let’s ride along a little and find a safer place to make camp for the night. Good water like this might draw some people we don’t want to meet.”
Russ stood up, holstered his gun, and stretched. The sun hung low in the western sky, a golden ball barely a finger’s width above the horizon. The air was less hot and the cotton- woods no longer rained down their mist.
The two men walked toward the horses, kicking up a flurry of grasshoppers that flapped away with a noisy chatter of dry wings.
“Still planning to go into the Kofas with me to join Raasleer’s gang?” asked Caloon as they finished saddling the horses.
“I guess so. I don’t plan to leave the Territory,” answered Russ shortly as he coiled the last rope and swung into the saddle.
“Do you have any money?”
“Only a couple of dollars.”
“I’ll give you one of those fifty-dollar gold pieces those Indians had if you want to change your mind,” said Caloon without looking at Russ. “That would tide you over until you find an honest job if you want to try it. You don’t have to make up your mind right now. You’ll have a couple of days to think it over. It’ll take that long for us to find that rustler gang.”
Russ said nothing. He reined his horse out of meadow and rode into the desert brush.
* * *
Russ and Caloon rode steadily and had covered nearly ten miles before the dark forced them to halt. The valley had narrowed down and low rolling hills surrounded them. The distant Kofas could no longer be seen, hidden by the darkness.
They found a patch of sandy soil at the base of a tall sloping rock outcrop and, figuring it would make a soft bed, made camp. It was a dry camp with no water for the horses and only the canteens for the men. They hobbled the front legs of the animals and turned them loose to graze.
In the darkness they ate beef jerky and dried fruit taken from the packs of the dead marshals. They did not talk, sitting silently together, looking out across the desert and chewing the tough food. The dry grass rustled softly in the faint evening breeze. Now and then the thump of a horse’s hoof came to them as the animal hopped about on tied legs, searching for forage.
Russ spread his blankets and lay down. He stared upward at the stars hanging like bright pricks of light against the velvety blackness of the sky. As he watched, the sky grew lighter and the weaker stars faded. He rolled his head to look to the east and saw the moon, like a half disk of silver, sail up from the darkness below the horizon.
“Caloon, how do men like us, outlaws and killers, finish out their lives?” asked Russ.
Silence stretched for a long moment and Russ decided the man was not going to answer. He closed his eyes and prepared for sleep.
“They early, violently, and among strangers,” Caloon finally answered, his voice cold and flinty.
Russ was surprised at the harshness of the reply. But he knew the man spoke the truth.
“Caloon, would you let me carry one of the gold pieces? You know, just in case.”
“Sure,” said Caloon and dug one out of his pocket. “Here.” He extended his hand out through the half darkness toward Russ. “If you decide to leave, you don’t have to say anything. Just ride out. I’ll understand. If you’re not here in the morning, that might be the best thing you ever did.”
CHAPTER 7
Caloon woke before dawn and raised up to sit on his blanket. He moved slowly and quietly so as not to wake his new comrade. The moon had already flown its arc through the heavens and, continuing its plunging fall to the west, now hid behind the looming bulk of the Kofa Mountains. The stars seemed more than normally distant, providing little light, and the land lay in pitch-black night.
Russ’s breathing, low and strong, came from the darkness nearby. Caloon knew the young man’s luck was bad; not quite a man yet, his life was aimed down the hard, vicious life of the outlaw. But that path had been chosen by Russ through his own action. Caloon shrugged his shoulders. Russ’s past was his own fault, the future his own responsibility.
The rhythm of Russ’s breathing subtly changed, increasing slightly. Then the volume faded and Caloon could no longer hear it. He knew with certainty Russ was awake, that somehow even though asleep he had received a signal of danger and was now roused and alert.
Barely audible, muffled by Russ’s blankets and probably also by his hand, Caloon heard the click of the six-gun being cocked. Caloon smiled and nodded in the blackness. With his keen reflexes Russ might survive for a short time in this dangerous world. Maybe just for a little while.
Caloon remembered the strength of the young man’s hands on his neck. Even half drowned, the man’s grip had been strong. The outcome of that struggle might have ended differently had the fight started fairly. But few fights start fairly, and any man who expected it to happen that way was a fool.
Caloon spoke to his unseen companion. “It’ll be daylight in an hour. It’s always best to leave camp in the darkness in case some enemy has found you and is lying in wait to kill you at first light. So do you want to get an early start?”
“Yes. Sounds right to me,” said Russ in a wide-awake voice.
They rolled their blankets and then stood looking out into the night, listening for the horses to move, giving away their location. But the land was silent; even the night insects rested voicelessly.
“The horses must have wandered off or are sleeping,” said Russ. He whistled a low-toned note between his teeth. Instantly a friendly answering nicker floated up the hill to them on the night breeze.
“That’s my roan,” said Russ.
Caloon felt Russ leave, treading noiselessly. A minute or so later his voice called out of the night, “All of them are here. I’ll bring them up.”
Russ led the thre
e animals near the pile of gear, and he and Caloon began to saddle.
“We’ll pick a trail just above where the foothills meet the steeper side of the mountains,” said Caloon. “That way we can see for a long distance behind us and have a better chance of seeing anyone following. Should also be more likely to find water up there.”
“It’ll be cooler up higher, too,” said Russ. “But do you expect anybody to be on our tracks so quick?”
“No, and if we stay in the rough country we’ll be less apt to run across riders we don’t want to see. We should take a great deal of trouble to hide our trail from here on ‘cause we don’t want to lead a marshal or Indian tracker to Raasleer.”
Russ tossed Caloon’s and his extra gear up on the back of the third horse and tied it into place. “I’m ready to go,” he called.
They rode at a slow pace, letting their mounts pick the way through the brush and rock with their night-seeing eyes. From time to time, the men reined the horses into the hill, forcing them gradually to climb as they progressed across the slope.
The tops of the first range of foothills were reached and the horses stopped on their own volition at the very crest to blow and catch their wind after the long hard climb. The riders sat watching the morning sun burst forth in brilliant orange above the eastern horizon. A ray of sunlight found the peak of the mountain and began to inch downward toward them.
“No wind and no clouds. Going to be another scorcher,” observed Russ.
Caloon did not answer. He twisted around with a squeak of saddle leather to look south across the broad Palomas Plain still filled with gray dawn shadows. Hidden beneath the dark shadows and more than thirty miles away lay the Gila River, and the bodies of four men he and Russ had killed.
Caloon turned back to the front, dismissing the past, and swung his hand to encompass the great bulk of the Kofa Mountains rearing above them to the north and west. “All of that is Raasleer’s domain. Counting the Kofas and the smaller mountain range nearby, it must be sixty miles across. Some of the roughest and most godforsaken land in the Arizona Territory. There’s a thousand secret places for an outlaw gang to hide. And dozens of springs and canyons to hold the cattle they steal.”
