The Sacket Brand (1965) s-12

by Louis L'Amour

  "Now, I know there's signals you could give that man, and I could be took ... taken, I mean.

  I could be taken right here and now. But when they take me, they would take me with you dead at my feet.

  If you're the man I want, you know you'll die anyway, but if you ain't, you'd be an awful fool to die for what somebody else did."

  "You're a fool, Sackett. Why don't you take the horse and ride out of the country? You haven't a chance."

  "You order that horse. The only chance I want is to kill a man, the man who killed my Ange."

  "I am sorry for that."

  "Order the horse."

  Well, he got up, very carefully, and he went to the tent flap. "Dancer? Saddle up that dun gelding, will you? Put Al's spare saddle on it. And a pack horse with a week's grub.

  I want it right away."

  He came back and sat down. "You won't be likely to make it, but you'll get your chance.

  Take my advice and ride out of here."

  "You don't look like a man who would murder a lone woman."

  His face went white, and then he colored up.

  He was mad, clean through. "I know nothing about it ... if it ever happened."

  "It happened." Gesturing toward the tent flap, I said, "Your man Dancer was within a mighty close distance when it happened. He was among those who hunted me after Macon shot me off the cliff."

  "You seem to be well informed."

  "I overheard talk. They came mighty near me."

  We stayed quiet a minute or two, but my ears were busy. The camp was going along just the way it had. No use my trying to watch outside, for I'd have to take my eyes off him. I would have to chance it, and mighty slim chance it was.

  I shifted my Colt to my left hand and unslung my Winchester. Covering him with that, I thrust my Colt into my waistband. There was another gun lying there on the cot, so I picked it up.

  "Whilst you're idle," I said, "you write out a bill of sale for that outfit I'm taking.

  Even swap for mine."

  "You don't miss much, do you?" He wrote it out. "How can a man as shrewd as you buck such a stacked deck?"

  "Mister, that girl of mine was all I had, all I ever had. She was murdered. I don't much care what happens to me as long as I get the man who did it. And I have an idea if a body did some hunting, he might find other dead women on that man's back trail."

  His head swung around, his blue eyes hard.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "I've read his sign, and it reads pure lobo. The man's a killer. At first I figured he went panicky, but now I ain't so sure. Maybe he was following a pattern he'd made up long since. There's folks missing out in this country, folks nobody will ever account for.

  "This man is no youngster, that's how I read him. A man like that either knows better, or he's laid out his path long before."

  We'd kept our voices low, and when the sound of the horses approaching became clear I held up a hand and he was still. The hoof-falls stopped outside the tent, and Dancer spoke.

  "You ready, Mr. Swandle? I got the horses."

  "Tell him to come in," I said.

  "Come in, Dancer."

  He came in, a solid, deep-chested cowpuncher with a shock of black hair and a broad, cheerful face. He looked at me, then at his boss. "Well, now. I was wonderin' why the pack hoss. You want I should try him?"

  "No, Dancer. As you've probably guessed, this is Sackett."

  Me, I put in my ^ws. "Dancer, I've nothing against you. All I want is the name of the man who ordered you to hunt for me."

  Dancer grinned right back at me. "Now you don't figure I'd tell you? You try to beat it out of me, and I'll whop you, big as you are.

  And ever'body for miles would know what was happenin'. Was I you, I'd give up right now."

  "And have your boss hang me? He wants to do that, Dancer, and he wants you boys to help him.

  He wants his skirts clean on this."

  "I want him to get out of this tent, Dancer,"

  Swandle said. "I'll not lose a good man when I'm not sure what the stake is."

  Me, I stood up, and had to bow my head to do it. "Dancer, I figure you're clear. I figure Swandle here is. I don't see fingernail marks on his face, and there weren't any when I saw him several weeks back. I saw Ange's nails before I buried her. She put up a fight ... she was a little thing, but she fought, and she had hide and flesh under her nails."

  A moment there I paused, listening. It sounded as if somebody was coming. "Dancer, you look like a man to ride the river with," I said, "so don't go to shooting for no man that would murder a lone woman."

  His eyes studied my face, and then he stepped back out of the tent and held the flap. Motioning Swandle to go ahead, I followed them out.

  It was still out there, a warm, lazy day of early spring. We could hear the voices at the chuck wagon.

  "I'm going to ride clear. I'll tell you all just like I told the others ... stay out of this.

  I'll kill any man who gets in my way."

  "Everything I've got is in this outfit,"

  Swandle said, "Every dime. If it's lost, then I'm broke."

  "You figure what it's worth, mister. If they get me, there's fifty, maybe a hundred more Sacketts. They'll hear of it, and they will come ridin', as many as needed, and they'll keep comin' as long as they're needed. Maybe it don't make sense, Swandle. I ain't the one to say, but when somebody kills a Sackett he buys grief and death and disaster.

  "You get shut of him or you'll go down with him, because I'll wipe him out. When I have to, I'll run; when I can, I'll fight, but whatever I do, I'll not quit. It ain't because I've got more nerve than the next man, it's just that I'm not very smart. Nobody ever taught me when was the time to quit."

  I waved a hand around. "Mister, you get twelve dollars out of all you own, and you'll still be alive. You figure it. I never knew of a bullet that had any sense of discrimination. I owe you no trouble, but you'll show up mighty black against a skyline."

  "Do you want us to drop our belts?" Swandle asked.

  "No ... if shooting starts I never want it said I killed an unarmed man. You just stay clear."

  With that, I taken my Winchester in hand and I led my horses over to the chuck wagon. I balanced the rifle easy-like and I said to the cook, "I'll have a gallon of coffee and that sandwich there. You like whiskey?"

  "Hell, yes. What's that to do with it?"

  "You fetch me that grub and you stand back, or you'll have so many holes in you, you'll drain whiskey faster'n you can drink it."

  So I stood there and ate the beef and bread, swallowed the coffee, and then ate three-quarters of a fresh-baked apple pie, picking it up a quarter at a time and eating each quarter in three juicy bites. When I had wiped off my face with the back of my hand and had drunk the last of the coffee, I swung into the leather and looked around, sizing it all up.

  "Mr. Swandle," I said, "Globe is a likely place. Why don't you boys ride off down thataway?"

  That wrangler had been standing there, eyes bulging at me, and it was plain that something was worrying him.

  He was thinking of how when he told of this around the fire somebody might ask what he did, and so instead of being smart, he decided to have something to tell them.

  He was wearing a belt gun and it was likely he had been doing some practice out back of the trees. Anyway, as I started to swing my horse, he grabbed iron.

  He was a damned fool, for my rifle was gripped in my big right hand, and I'm tall and strong enough to use a rifle like a pistol, almost. So when he grabbed for it I tilted that Winchester and let him have it through the shoulder. It was no hard thing to do ... he wasn't eighteen feet from me at the time.

  He hit ground and stared up at me, hurt and sick-looking, because this was never the way he'd imagined it.

  I said to him, "You go to pitchin' hay, son.

  You got the hands for it." And then I walked my horses away from there, knowing that rifle shot would bring them a-run
ning.

  Out of sight of camp, I lit out a-riding hard. Me, I had talked a big show, but I had no liking for forty men all to once. Or even half that many.

  Back there I was counting on good sense, and most western men have it. They know that when a man holds a gun he more than likely is willing to use it, so there's no use to provoke him. That wrangler now, he'd live to get some sense. Most youngsters who want to pack a gun always see themselves winning.

  They never see themselves stretched out in the dirt and blood, with themselves shot open, and maybe crying from hurt and fear.

  That night I camped in the cave under the natural bridge on Pine Creek, hard by Buckhead Mesa, and thought of Ange, lying cold in the ground not two miles off. I lay there awake into the small and lonely hours, a-thinking of her, and how little she'd had in her short years.

  Nobody deserves to die like that, alone and in terror, hopeless with fear and pain. Had I not left her there, she might be alive now, but a dozen times before I'd gone ahead to scout trail, and a dozen times I'd hurried back to her side.

  Tomorrow I was going to lay flowers on her grave.

  Tomorrow I would ride up Buckhead Mesa, and then I would ride to find my man.

  A man named Allen. ...

  Chapter twelve.

  On the ride to the cave I had taken mighty good care to keep under cover of the trees and brush.

  Studying the rim and the peaks round about, anywhere at all where a watcher might be, I worked to keep myself hidden. It was likely I'd gotten to the cave unseen, but there had been other times when I thought I was safe, and was not. But the way up Pine Creek through the canyon was so hidden that a watcher would have had to ride right on my tail to see me at all.

  If Allen was my man he had little time now.

  He knew as well as I that time was a-pressing.

  This much I'll say for Swandle. He had given me a mighty fine horse in trade, andwiththe bill of sale I had for it andforthe pack horse, he would never get me on horse-stealing.

  Also Zabrisky I had seen, but where were Romero, Sonora Macon, and the others? It taken me no time at all to find out.

  Before daylight I was out of the cave and moving.

  Along the way I gathered some spring flowers and put them on Ange's grave. Then I turned back to my horse and saw three riders coming up through the trees.

  There was no chance to run, nor was I of a mind to. If they wanted it, they could have it. So right there I made my stand, in the open andwith my Winchester to hand.

  They didn't see me right off. They came riding up, coming out of the trees maybe thirty yards off, all of them riding Lazy A horses.

  "You hunting me?" I yelled at them.

  They pulled up short. One of them grabbed for his gun and I shot him out of the saddle. Then I dropped to one knee and fired again, jacked another shell into the chamber, and was firing my third shot before the first one came in reply. It was a clean miss. The rider I'd got with my first shot was on the ground. His horse had shied as he fell, disturbing the aim of the others. I fired again and the two remaining riders lit out for the brush on a dead run, one of them hanging to the saddle horn with his left hand, his right dangling useless.

  Keeping the fallen man covered, I walked up to him. He was hurt bad, shot through the chest.

  He was a big, bearded man with a scar on his face, and he stared up at me, fully conscious.

  "Am I going to die?"

  "You came hunting me. What do'you expect?"

  Picking up his guns, I studied him for hide-outs, and then I walked over to where his horse had stopped. I took his Winchester and his saddlebags, although what they contained I had no idea.

  "He'll get you," the wounded man said.

  "Allen will get you."

  When I did not answer, he said, "You ain't got a chance. This time he's got a plan."

  "What plan?"

  "You're already trapped. You couldn't leave this country if you wanted. They've got you surrounded and now they're going to move in."

  "He hasn't got that many men."

  His face was white and he was sweating with the pain he was beginning to feel as the shock wore off. "He's got maybe a hundred Apaches.

  ... He's promised 'em ... rifles and whiskey." The ^ws came with difficulty.

  Apaches ...

  That would do it, all right. The White Mountain or Tonto Apaches would know this place inside and out. This was their country, and they would know every nook and cranny. The circle would tighten and tighten, with me in the middle. I'd seen wolves hunted on the prairie in just that way.

  The man died while I stood there looking down at him.

  I mounted up and rode out of there. I headed due west, riding hard and steady. I held to low ground, and saw nobody. Twice I did see signal smokes in the distance, a sure sign that what the man had said about the Apaches was true.

  This was rugged, broken country, and what I needed now was speed. At Dead Cow Canyon I turned south and plunged into the lonely wilderness of the Mazatzal Mountains.

  It was hot and still. The coolness of the morning was far behind me now, and the climbing had worked my horses hard. On the slope of a cactus-covered ridge I drew up to let them breathe and to contemplate the countryside.

  It was good to sit quiet a moment and look upon the land, for the flowers were out and it was carpeted with beauty. Little enough time I had for that, but it came to me through the air I breathed, for the loveliness of this land was always with one who traveled through it.

  Far away the mountains were a blue rim.

  Close by, the canyons clung to their shadows, and setting quiet up there, I just let my eyes roam over the far country and the near, watching, searching.

  The Apache of the mountains is a fierce man, given to fighting and raiding, a man who knows his way about, and is always near when he seems far away. The numbers were so against me that there were only two things I could do ... I could find some place to hole up, leaving no tracks and hoping they would not find me; or I could try to filter through, to work my way into the outside and then ride for an Army post or Globe or Prescott and wait until Allen tired of paying Apaches. But my chances of getting through were slim indeed, andof hiding places there was no chance I could find one that was not already known to the Apaches.

  Far away a slim column of smoke lifted, and nearer I could see a small puff of dust, so I walked my horses up the slope and crossed Cactus Ridge on a low saddle and pointed north, toward Knob Mountain.

  I thought back to Swandle. He had been stern, but almost friendly. I could believe that he did not approve of what Allen was doing--Allen, the man who remained a mystery to me. And suddenly I remembered the startled look on Swandle's face when I mentioned there might have been other women like Ange. Almost as if he knew something of the sort.

  But it was time to face the facts. It was I, not he, who was being hunted by a superior force, and my chance of escape, let alone the chance of facing the guilty man, were almighty small. I was alone, and the forces moving against me were more than I could hope to defeat, and still I had not even seen the man I searched for, nor did I know anything about him beyond the mere name.

  Never in my life before had I wished for help, but I found myself wanting it now. I realized that there was almost no chance of my doing the hunting.

  Somewhere I had to find a place to hide out.

  Coming off the shoulder of Knob Mountain, riding toward Midnight Mesa, I saw three riders ahead of me. They came out of the trees and were riding down toward me. Rifle across my saddle, I rode toward them.

  They spread out a little when they saw me, but I kept right on, seeming to pay them no mind. My mouth was dry, and I was wary, because no man likes to tackle three tough men head-on, and any man I'd meet riding for Lazy A would be a tough man now. But on the steep slope there was no chance to run. It was bluff or fight, and so I kept right on.

  As they drew up, all three were set for trouble, and then I saw one of them glance a
t the brand on my horse ... I'd forgotten it was a Lazy A horse.

  He chuckled. "Had me worried there for a minute or two," he said. "I thought you was Sackett."

  They had all relaxed when they saw my brand, but I kept that rifle on them. "I am Sackett," I said. "You boys unbuckle.

  And if you want to lose your hair, just have at it."

  Oh, they were mad, no question about it, and they dearly wanted to try for their guns, but they had ridden too many trails to want to die easy.

  They used their fingers mighty careful as they unbuckled.

  Then I backed them off about thirty yards and made them dismount. I taken their horses and collected their guns. There was a pack of grub on one of the horses, and I tossed it to them.

  "Eat," I said, "and then walk down to the Verde. Sooner or later somebody will come along, or you can high-tail it up to Camp Verde."

  Two of them had cartridges I could use, so I stripped the loops of their gun belts. Their six-shooters I hung on a tree where they could be seen, but their rifles I kept. No telling when I might have to fight and no chance to re-load.

  And then I rode off and left them cussing me, which I didn't mind, nor did I blame them.

  It was a sore thing to be set afoot in rough mountain country, with riding boots and a long walk ahead of you.

  That night I hid out in the breaks back of Wet Bottom Creek--named for a cowpuncher who fell in--and I cooked myself a batch of bacon and some frying-pan bread. Their horses I had turned loose near sundown, figuring they would head back for the ranch.

  Just short of daybreak I rolled out of my blankets and was putting my outfit together for the trail when I heard a quail call. Something about it didn't seem right to me. There were quail all over this country, the blue Mexican quail, but that call sounded a mite odd. So I saddled up and packed up fast.

  Meanwhile, another quail answered, and then a third.

  My camp had been on an almost level spot under the cottonwoods and sycamores beside the creek. It was a quiet, pleasant place, with the creek chuckling along over the stones, and when the sun was up the ground under the trees was dappled with sunlight and shadow.