Spur heard a shout. He looked up and saw somebody riding toward him. It was the Kid, trotting his horse without concern. Spur stood up.
When the Kid came up, he asked: ‘Doolittle hit?’
‘No sign of a wound,’ Spur said. ‘I reckon he landed on his head.’
Other hoofbeats sounded. Cusie Ben and the Basque were riding up. Cilveti was concerned when he realized that it was his boss who was down. He dropped on his knees beside Doolittle, trying to force some water from his canteen between his pale lips. After a while, Doolittle spluttered, coughed and opened his eyes. He sat up, a dazed look in his eyes.
Spur said: ‘Ben, you an’ the Kid scout those rocks. Go careful now.’
‘Why me?’ demanded the Kid. ‘You think it don’t matter if I get killed or somethin’?’
‘Does it matter so much?’ Cusie Ben asked.
The Kid gave him his killer glare that was supposed to quell the most dangerous of men, but Ben only grinned at him. The Kid turned his horse and rode south.
Doolittle gained his feet and groaned.
‘Feels like I broke every bone in my body.’ He looked at his dead horse with regret. ‘That was a damned fine horse.’
‘The territory’ll pay,’ Spur told him. Doolittle grunted. Money couldn’t repay a man for the loss of a horse he liked.
Spur said they’d distribute Albert’s load among them all and Doolittle could ride the giant mule, if he could get astride him.
‘I hate to ride a mule,’ Doolittle complained.
‘Best ride you ever had,’ Spur said, ‘if he consents to move with you up.’
A short while after, Cusie Ben and the Kid rode back to report that whoever had been shooting at them had departed. There had been no more than one man. They talked it over and it was generally agreed that the fellow had been placed there as a delaying tactic. Spur said from then on they should increase their pace. The pursued were getting nervous. They redistributed Albert’s load, Doolittle mounted the mule, had a short battle of wills and then they were on their way again. This time Cusie Ben scouted ahead. Doolittle declared he’d pay some bastard for that horse and for his aching head before he was through.
Chapter Seven
What Maddox was doing wasn’t easy and he didn’t fool himself that it was. The difficulty of it made the whole undertaking an added pleasure for him. He was a man who liked to be challenged and extended. This scheme was going to take every ounce of nerve he had in him. If the men who rode with him knew just what he hoped to accomplish, maybe they wouldn’t have been so enthusiastic about being in his company.
By now they knew that they were headed back for town. The risk that involved was enough to brace them up a mite and put them on their toes.
Maddox smiled to himself as he rode. If they knew that he was planning to release Gaylor and to take the gold as well, even those tough numbers might have been somewhat shaken.
The hoofs of the horses were clattering loudly on rock. Then the men ahead stopped and Maddox himself halted and heard the sound of running water. He knew they had reached the tricky part. It wasn’t easy to hide tracks in the dark. Billy was going to be put to the test now.
They waited some ten minutes or so, but Maddox didn’t grow impatient. He knew there was no sense in hurrying at this point. Billy had to get them off the rock and into the water without leaving sign that a man could find in daylight.
He heard one horse move off ahead and Martie Bell, immediately in front of Maddox, turned in the saddle to tell him: ‘Stay put. Billy’s leading the horses down to the water.’
After a while Bell’s horse went forward, then, a few minutes after, the Indian was beside Maddox with his hand on the horse’s bridle.
They went forward some twenty yards and Maddox felt brush scrape against him. Billy turned the horse sharp right and then sharp left. The animal was led slowly down a steep incline and it slipped a little on the steep rock. It lunged forward so abruptly that Maddox was hard put to keep his seat. The Indian jumped to one side and the horse plunged into the creek. Maddox was aware that the other riders were gathered around him. They stayed where they were for some twenty minutes or so while the Indian worked above them on the bank. Then he rode his horse down into the water and said: ‘Maddox, you come ahead now.’ Maddox followed his dim form upstream.
It was slow going with the stream against them. The horses stumbled occasionally on the poor rocky footing for a good while and then they were walking on a sandy bottom. Nobody spoke. Finally, the Indian halted and looking half-left, Maddox saw a light glimmering faintly and he knew they were near the town.
‘It okay now,’ Colorado said. ‘Ford here. Plenty horses come. Sign all over.’
‘Go ahead,’ Maddox said.
Billy led the way ashore and the horses came dripping from the water. Maddox halted on dry land and peered through the darkness as the others passed him. One figure was paler and smaller than the rest. He knew this was the girl.
‘One yell,’ he said, ‘and you know what happens.’
They filed up from the water and reached the flat on which the town stood. It was late, but they could hear music and laughter from a Mexican cantina. They curved around the south side of town and pretty soon they smelled the freighter’s corrals. They moved off a little south to keep clear of it. Doo-little kept an armed guard on his stock and they didn’t want to be spotted.
To the south of town, there was a scattering of trees. They dipped down into an arroyo and climbed the far side. They circled a high rise in the ground and then they halted. They had reached the house. Holy Madder stepped down from the saddle and they heard the butt of his quirt rapping on the door. A minute passed and a light showed briefly as the door opened and a man came out and closed it quickly behind him.
This was Pepe Peralta—a not very honest man and, as Maddox knew, a not too trustworthy man. This was another risk. But men like Peralta would stay loyal if they were paid enough and if they were scared enough.
He came up to Maddox and Maddox swung down from the saddle. When he stood near the man, he could smell the fear on him. Other men’s fear always angered him.
‘Is everything prepared?’ Maddox asked.
‘Everything, señor,’ the man said in Spanish. ‘Everything is as you would wish it. Could it be otherwise? I will take the horses now.’
‘No,’ Maddox said, ‘you will stay here. Holy, you know where to put the horses.’
‘Sure.’
Saddle-leather creaked as the others dismounted and Holy Madder gathered the lines and led the horses away. Maddox took the girl by the arm and led her into the house.
No more than a faint light burned in there, for it was a poor place and oil cost money. Maddox had given orders that there should be a light there. They crowded into the one large room of the adobe. The Mexican woman crouched there in the light of the lamp and looked at them fearfully, for gringos had never been before in her house. The two children who huddled close to her, gazed up at them in wide-eyed wonder. They looked curiously at the girl.
Maddox looked at her in the light of the lamp. She had come a long hard way, but she still had that infuriating calm look about her.
Peralta said: ‘You did not mention the woman, señor.’
‘So I didn’t mention the woman,’ Maddox said. ‘Find her somewhere to sleep. She is tired. Clean blankets. No bugs. Hear? And, hombre, she doesn’t leave here. She leaves this house before I say so and I have your hide.’
The Mexican’s eyes widened.
‘She is a prisoner?’ he said in amazement.
‘That’s right,’ Maddox said. ‘Now food.’
He beat the dust from his clothes and the air was full of the fine stuff.
‘You pay now,’ Billy Colorado said.
Maddox turned his eyes on him.
‘Who let that goddam Indian in here?’ he demanded.
Burt Simons said: ‘We let him out, he’ll talk. We can’t risk that.’
M
addox knew the man was right and he cursed himself for not having thought of this possibility before. He thought of himself living cheek by jowl with the Indian for days in this place and he felt sick to the stomach. No, by God, he thought, I haven’t come to that.
‘Tie the girl,’ he said, ‘and keep the Indian here. I’m going into town.’
Martie Bell said: ‘Hell, that’s a real risk.’
‘Why? I’m not tied in with anything. I have to size the place up.’
‘That nigger might of recognized us at the stage.’
‘My word against a nigger’s. What whiteman would believe him?’
‘Spur mebbe.’
‘Spur!’ There was disgust in Maddox’s voice. ‘Burt, you take charge here. Everybody stays close. When we move, we move fast. Not tonight, but any night after. It’s not too fancy here, boys. But just think what’s at the end of it.’
Bell and Simons nodded and smiled a little.
‘The agreement,’ the girl said, ‘was that you wouldn’t tie me again.’
‘I just broke it,’ Maddox said. He walked out.
He felt in a good mood as he strolled easily into town. It was pleasant walking after so long in the saddle. Although he should have felt tired, he was conscious only of being stimulated and alert.
The first place he came to in town was a Mexican cantina. He paused outside it, listening to the music, but decided against Mexican company which he didn’t favor. He walked on into the Anglo town and came to the Travelers’ Rest—hotel and saloon. Proprietor: Vince Marvin. Not approved of by the respectable folk in town, but a pretty solid citizen and it was said that he had backed Spur in the jailing of the ex-sheriff, Wayne Gaylor. Maddox and he knew each other. Maddox respected the man. He knew how to make money and how to take care of himself. Talk said that Marvin could handle a small up-and-over like nobody’s business. The man was honest and hard. Maddox understood the hard part of the man’s character, but the honest part puzzled him a little.
There were maybe a couple of dozen men in there. All kinds. A cowhand or two, one or two locals, a hill nutty garrulous after weeks alone in the hills, a bullwhacker slaking a titanic thirst with beer and whiskey, one delicious drink chasing the other on the way and clearing the dust from the man’s thick throat.
Vince Marvin was behind the bar, polishing glasses, an activity he performed with a kind of quiet menace.
Maddox went and leaned on the bar.
Marvin said: ‘Maddox,’ in greeting.
Maddox said: ‘Marvin,’ in return.
Marvin didn’t offer anything more. You didn’t ask a man like Maddox what he was doing in town or how business was going. It was very much a case of live, and let live.
‘Whiskey.’ Bottle and glass came. Maddox poured. He broke the first rule of the Western saloon. He drank alone and showed that he wanted to keep it that way. He was known there. Nobody approached him. When he had shot a couple of drinks down his throat, he said: ‘Spur in town?’
‘Rode out,’ Marvin told him.
‘Must be something urgent to take Spur out of town at a time like this?’
‘Stage was stopped.’
‘Do tell.’
‘They tried for the gold, but they didn’t get it. They took a girl instead.’
Maddox showed surprise.
‘What would make ’em want to do a thing like that?’
Marvin shrugged.
‘Don’t ask me. Craziest thing I ever heard. There ain’t a man in the country wouldn’t string ’em up after a trick like that.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘Netta Manson. Come out from the Cimarron country to marry Spur. Hell, that man ain’t goin’ to rest till he catches up with the sonsabitches did it.’
‘I can imagine,’ Maddox said nodding. ‘Spur go alone?’
‘No.’
‘Who was with him?’
Marvin looked reluctant to inform him, but he said: ‘Doo-little, Cusie Ben, Doolittle’s Basque and the Kid.’
‘Sure ’nough good men,’ Maddox said. ‘If they don’t catch up with ’em nobody can.’
So the Negra was along with Spur on the trail. He hoped to God Billy Colorado had done a good job. He worried a little. But he knew nothing could be gained by worrying. He drank again, slapped some money down on the bar and walked out.
He stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the moonlit town. Strolling south, he took a look at the jail and the post-office. He wondered if the gold was in the post-office. Only one way to find out.
He angled across the street, casual, kicking the dust idly. The post-office was in darkness. He rapped on the door.
Silence.
He rapped again.
Shreaveley’s plaintive voice came—‘Who’s this?’
‘I have a letter to mail.’
‘Get clear of that door. I have a loaded shotgun in here. Come back in the mornin’.’ The man grumbled on at being disturbed at that time of night. Maddox smiled and walked away.
He passed near the jail.
A voice said softly from deep shadow: ‘Stay away from here, mister, if you value your life.’
‘I value my life,’ Maddox said and went on.
He went back to the Travelers’ Rest. Marvin stopped wiping glasses as he walked in. The talk stopped.
‘Do you have a room?’ he asked.
‘I have a whole house full of rooms,’ Marvin said.
Maddox decided he would cut this bastard down to size before he quitted this place.
‘The best,’ he said, ‘and I want a bath.’
‘Barber down the street,’ the saloonman said. He reached behind him and placed a key on the bar. ‘Number One in front.’
Maddox pocketed the key and went down the street to the barber’s. The barber was a Greek and he talked. He talked while Maddox was shaved, he talked while he cut Maddox’s hair, he was still talking when he poured hot water over Maddox out back. At the end of the session he was left with the impression that for a native-born American Maddox was a fine intelligent man and a good listener. Maddox went poorer by a small amount of money and richer for the information the Greek had imparted to him.
He walked back to the saloon feeling luxuriously clean, his mind clear and with a determination to hit both the jail and the post-office tomorrow night. Easy success would depend on whether Clem Dokes had been able to hold Spur and his party up for a while or that Cusie Ben had found enough sign to lead him into the west, yet not enough to follow them back to town.
Maddox wasn’t too worried. He had a feeling that luck was looking kindly on him.
He climbed the stairs to his room, lit the lamp, stripped naked after he had wedged a chair under the door-handle and retired to bed. He thought about the girl and wished he had her with him now. Excitement and danger always tended to make him randy and he could surely do that little piece some justice right now. A few minutes with him and his prowess and she wouldn’t have a thought to spare for that punk Spur.
Chapter Eight
The shooting held them up.
Charlie Doolittle was badly shaken up and for a while they slowed the pace out of sympathy for him. Spur tried to make him turn back, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was going to get the man who had killed as good a horse as a man ever rode.
Cusie Ben went ahead and scouted the rocks, found them vacated and signaled back that he was going an ahead.
An hour later, the main party heard firing from ahead. On riding forward, they found the Negro forted up in some rocks and engaged in a heavy rifle duel with a man above him. The others at once tried to outflank the single marksman, keeping for as long as they could out of rifle range, but he slipped away from them unscathed. Nobody was hurt, but tempers were frayed.
Later in the day, when they were passing through more open but still broken country, Cusie Ben declared that he had now lost the tracks of the main party they were trying to follow and all he had seen for the last half-hour was the sign left by the ambusher.
‘Sam,’ he said to Spur, ‘we’s gettin’ to bein’ diddled. Y’all set awhile, I’m goin’ ahead and I’m goin’ to circle wide. We’s purely wastin’ our time.’
They talked this over briefly and they all thought that they had no alternative but to let Ben have his way. They loosened cinches and rested their now weary animals. It was a relief for the men to get down on firm ground and stretch their legs. Ben rode off.
Sam rolled a smoke. He was tired, but his mind was restless and he knew that he could not close his eyes and doze like the other three.
Time passed.
His thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of a shot. It was no more than a faint pop, but he knew it came from a gun. He jumped to his feet.
‘Mount up,’ he called.
They came awake instantly, their heads jerking up.
Two more shots came and they all heard them. Doolittle was legging it for the mule. Albert turned and showed him his vicious teeth. Doolittle batted his head aside. Albert turned and tried to use his heels, but the lank freighter was an old hand with mules. Those cinches were tightened and he was on the big animal’s back, kicking it forward and urging into the west. The others clattered away behind him.
They covered two-three miles before they found Ben and by then the fight was over. The ambusher had done something of what he intended and Ben’s horse was dead. The Negro was lucky to be alive. A bullet had grazed his cheekbone and he had drawn blood on an elbow when he had fallen. He was shaken up and mad, but nothing more.
Everybody was feeling pretty helpless and frustrated by now. They had come a good way, they were getting nowhere and they had lost two good horses.
The Kid said: ‘I vote for goin’ back to town. We ain’t goin’ to find these bastards. They’re laughin’. So they’re laughin’—that don’t hurt us none.’
‘Shet yo’ mouth,’ Ben said.
‘I ain’t shettin’ my mouth for no nigger,’ the Kid said.
Doolittle took hold of the Kid by the scruff of his neck and shook him till his teeth rattled.
‘Mind your manners, you little rat,’ he said, ‘or I’ll slap you clear into next week.’
Gun (A Spur Western Book 8) Page 5
