by Neil Hunter
It took him almost an hour to reach the spot. The terrain was uneven. Crisscrossed with rocky stretches. Deep gullies and replete with difficult spots that forced him to turn aside and seek alternative routes.
He could smell the smoke well before he reached the source. It was the remains of a timber cabin and corral. Close by a thin stream coursed its way alongside the cabin. Most likely why the cabin had been constructed there.
From the rising smoke Frank judged the burn to be a good few hours old. The cabin structure had fallen in on itself, with only a few uprights still standing, the timber charred and blackened.
A few yards from the smoking remains of the cabin lay a motionless body. Face down, with a pair of bullet wounds in the back. The blood stains Frank could see were long dried.
He read the sign left by the visitor. The rider had come in on one horse, but the prints leading away showed two horses. The man had an extra mount now. Frank picked up on the tracks leaving the scene.
Still trailing north.
So no change in the rider’s line of travel.
Frank sighed as he moved off. One thing about his quarry. The feller was damned consistent.
North—always north. It made Frank wonder what was drawing the man.
He settled in his saddle, accepting he was in for another long ride. It was part of being on the hunt. Long hours of mind-numbing tracking. He didn’t favor it but there was no choice.
Frank fell to wondering how Luke was faring. With little else to occupy his thoughts he was unable to banish concern over his grandson. It was with him constantly. Never fading. Forever nagging on the fringes of his mind, refusing to go away.
~*~
Jubal Larch took his weary horse across the shallow creek and drew rein on the opposite bank, reaching up to drag off his hat. Sweat had formed around the head band and it was irritating his skin. The heat in general was causing him discomfort.
Damned country.
He stared ahead at the still distant hills. At least when he reached them he could hope for some cooler weather. Dust stirred by the ever present wind sent gritty particles that peppered his clothing. It had been like that the last couple of days.
Ever since he had met up with Breck and Kell he recalled. They were men he had come across before. A pair of no ‘count drifters willing to take on any job that would earn them easy money, and with no objection if that job called for them to use their guns. Larch had quickly seen an opportunity to cover his back and the pair had readily agreed to do it. Greed overcame any considerations about taking a life. Breck and Kell, scavengers on two legs, had accepted Larch’s offer, eyes lighting up when he had paid them.
‘Now you boys take heed. I ain’t yet seen any lawdog on my trail but I just got me a feeling someone is shadowing me. We hit that bank in Vermijo and cleaned her out. It might be a pissant town but losing all that money is going to make some folk mad.’
‘Mad enough to come after you?’
‘They took on a woman as sheriff,’ Larch said. ‘Mebbe they organized a posse as well. Or sent out for the US Marshal.’ He stared at the pair. ‘That got you scared?’
‘We’ll take heed what you said. If’n somebody comes sniffin’ your backtrail well it’s goin’ to be their bad luck.’
‘Deal fair with me, boys, and I won’t forget it,’ Larch said. ‘I know you won’t figure to let me down…’
‘We make a deal we stick to it, Larch,’ Breck said. ‘Might not be much in some eyes, but we don’t turn against someone who hires us to do a service.’
‘Get word to me when it gets done,’ Larch said.
Kell nodded. ‘We’ll pass it along the line.’
Larch hunched his broad shoulders as he recalled the discussion. The wind was starting to rise again and he felt the first indications of a dust storm. He saw the dark clouds forming. He gauged the distance to Burgough’s and reckoned he would reach the place by dark. It would be a sight better than bedding down outside. Hot food and coffee. A bed for the night. Sounded good.
Behind him Kell and Breck would be well along the back trail. If anyone was tailing him the pair would know and deal with whoever it was. They might not look more than a couple of saddle tramps but when it came to stalking and killing no one could better them.
If Larch’s suspicions proved correct his hope was Kell and Breck dealing with them. Past masters at ambushing and cold-hearted when it came to carrying out their trade they would doubtless clear the way for Larch to carry on his journey undisturbed.
It would be money well spent.
A swirl of dust tugged at his clothing, pushed by the wind. Larch reached behind him and freed his heavy short coat, working his way into the sleeves and buttoning the garment to his neck. He urged his horse forward, wanting to reach the shelter of Burgough’s as quickly as possible. Snugging his hat lower on his head Larch pulled his neckerchief across his mouth. Dust stung his exposed face, the harsh grit making him gasp. Larch concentrated on the ride ahead, his mind occupied with the hard ride he was forced to make. As far as he was concerned the threat of pursuit, imagined or no, would not threaten him now Kell and Breck were involved.
He was wrong, and would find that out before too long had passed…
~*~
Luke kept his horse at a steady pace, following tracks that were fresher than they had been previously. He kept himself in a calmer state of mind than he had been earlier after the face off with the pair of drygulchers. Telling himself he had justification in killing the pair to stay alive himself. There had been little else he could have done. They had been ready to put him down without much in the way of thought. He had acted faster than they might have expected and survived.
As time passed, staying on track, Luke rationalized the incident by accepting the man he was after had coolly paid to have Luke murdered. Simply shot out of hand to cover his escape. That two men had died as a consequence made little difference to the pursuit. Luke was still able to carry on, determined even more to catch up with the man. He had his own personal agenda now.
He considered his emerging feelings.
Was it wrong for a lawman to think of personal revenge?
His oath and the acceptance of a badge stood him aside from such matters. It meant he had to administer the needs of the law above his own feelings.
Right at that moment Luke wished he had Frank with him, advising how he should act. His grandfather would have laid it out in no uncertain terms. But Frank wasn’t there so Luke had to make his own decisions and stick by them.
~*~
Larch reached Burgough’s place late afternoon, seeing the squat, ugly building as he pushed he weary horse down a brush covered slope. The wind-swept dust blurred the outline of the place. Smoke from the chimney was snatched away the moment it emerged.
Burgough’s would never be called anything but functional. A broad, low structure, part timber, part stone. The roof was laid with thick sods overlaid with pinned wooden strips. To the side stood a timber stable. The area around the place was clear of vegetation, the ground well trampled and dusty; when rain fell the earth was turned into a muddy quagmire. Yet as unlovely as the place was it always came as welcome whenever Larch approached.
He took his horse across the yard and drew rein at the stable doors. Hunching his shoulders against the constant slap of the heavy wind Larch dismounted and hauled open one of the big doors, leading the animal inside. He tied the horse in one of the stalls, noting there were a number of other animals already housed. He unsaddled, filled the feed trough from a large barrel of oats and made sure the water bucket was topped up. He slung his saddlebags over one shoulder, took his rifle and left the stable, securing the door as he stepped outside.
Larch crossed the yard, his body buffeted by the constant wind and dust. Reaching the main door he lifted the latch and moved inside, pushing the door to.
A good blaze in the big stove threw heat across the wide room, filling it with an orange light. Oil lamps hanging from c
eiling beams added more illumination, dispelling the shadows.
Larch made out two men at the long, wooden communal table. Roughhewn benches provided seating. To Larch’s right was the bar that consisted of long timbers resting on a number of large barrels.
Behind the counter stood the lanky, bearded Elmo Burgough. He stared at Larch until recognition set in.
‘By god, Jubal Larch, I done heard you was dead.’
‘Do I look dead?’
Burgough slapped a big hand down on the counter, giving a hoarse laugh.
‘Well, hell, if you are I ain’t ever seen a healthier corpse.’
‘You got any coffee on the go?’
‘Always.’
‘I’ll take some and something to eat. Got me a powerful need for a meal.’
‘Sounds like you been on the move a while.’
Larch nodded. ‘Damn right there.’
‘You got trouble on your tail?’
‘Mebbe. Right now it’s just a notion.’
‘Go find yourself a place to set an’ I’ll bring your coffee.’
Larch chose an empty space on one of the benches, acknowledging the men already seated. He placed his saddlebags at his feet and leaned the Winchester against the table.
He heard the Burgough’s shuffling approach. The man had a crippled left leg, the aftermath of having it caught in a bear trap over ten years back. If it hadn’t been for his partners coming to his aid he most likely would have died. Burgough was left with a badly mangled lower leg that gave him a permanent limp. It forced him to seek a less hazardous life which in turn led him to take on the responsibility of the wilderness outpost that now went by his own name. He put all of his effort into running his establishment, open to anyone who stepped across the threshold.
Larch smelled the coffee even before Burgough got close. The man’s coffee was legendary. Black as the darkest night and strong, it had its own aroma. The heavy mug was placed in front of Larch.
‘Got some prime steak for cooking,’ Burgough said. ‘Only turned up a couple of days ago. Damned if I could see a brand on it. Fried potato an’ onions.’
‘Sounds favorable. Just make sure that steak is thick, Elmo, an’ I mean thick.’
Burgough leaned in close, keeping his voice low. ‘On the dodge, Jubal? I mean so’s I can keep an eye out for any trouble.’
‘Like I said, mebbe. But grateful for the offer.’
Burgough touched his shoulder. ‘You set easy, feller. I got me a primed Greener back of the counter iffen we need backup.’
Larch drank his coffee, feeling it course through his body as he hunched over the table. He accepted he was tired from his ride. He felt a bone weariness wash over him. The smell of cooking meat drifted across the room and Larch savored it. He’d had his fill of hastily prepared cooking over an open fire.
Movement caught his lulled senses and he sat upright, dropping his hand to the holstered Colt. It was only the two men seated at the table standing and crossing to the counter, calling out to Burgough. When he appeared from the kitchen out back the men paid what they owed and left. Minutes later Larch heard the sound of their horses as they rode out.
When Burgough laid the loaded platter in front of him Larch gave a short laugh.
‘That is some big steak,’ he said, staring at the massive slab of meat.
‘You asked for it.’
The sizzling steak proved that Burgough was a good cook. It sliced easily when Larch cut through it. The heaped fried potatoes and onion were well cooked and Larch surprised himself by emptying the platter. Burgough topped up his coffee a couple of times while he ate. When he had finished he sat back, rolled himself a quirley and lit up.
From behind the counter Burgough said, ‘You staying over?’
Larch nodded. ‘I’ll take a night to rest up.’
‘You got a place to go?’
‘Flagstaff.’
‘Be two … two and half days from here.’
‘I figured so.’
‘You bed down in back,’ Burgough said. ‘Sleep sound. Ain’t no one going to come in and surprise you.’
‘Grateful for that.’
‘Dust storm brewing outside,’ Burgough said. ‘No sense riding once it boils up. Man could get lost in five minutes. I told that pair you saw leave. They figured they’d be okay. Good luck there. They’ll need it if they ride into that storm, but what the hell, I let a man make his own choices.’
‘You find me some more coffee, Elmo, an’ drop in a taste of whisky.’
‘Might join you.’
Larch moved from the table and took a seat near the stove, letting the heat wash over him. He took the fresh coffee Burgough brought. They sat in an amenable silence.
‘You ever get to feeling lonesome out here?’ Larch said.
Burgough shook his head. ‘I allus was a loner. Happy with my own company. More I mixed with others I realized there was a deal of misery attached. Mebbe it’s me bein’ a contrary cuss. Out here I got all I need. Folk come and go. Long as they pay their way I got no complaints. I buy my supplies from traders who come by. There’s always somebody offerin’ meat they up and shot.’
‘And some they stole?’
Burgough’s laugh was free and hearty.
‘Hell, Jubal, I got nothin’ against free enterprise.’
Silence fell again for a time.
‘Ways back there’s a town called Vermijo. I was in with a bunch who had that place by the tail. We wrung it pretty dry. Had a nice thing goin’ until a shootin’ set the whole dam thing on its ear. Upshot was the main feller running things got hisself killed and the town turned against us. So me and a couple of the boys figured it was time to leave…’
Burgough drained his mug and leveled his gaze at Larch.
‘That was a few weeks back…word got around. I figure there’s more?’
‘Few of us decided to ride back to Vermijo and take the bank. Would have gone easy if the banker hadn’t tried to raise the alarm. That got his head busted real bad before we took off out of there. When we was clear of town we divvied up the spoils and went our separate ways.’
‘And you’re headed for Flagstaff.’
‘Yeah.’
Burgough got up and fetched more hot coffee.
‘But you got the notion they’s someone on your tail?’
Larch nodded. ‘Runnin’ the owlhoot gives man that feeling at times.’
‘Man should always follow his instincts.’
Outside the already present wind rose, peppering the walls with grit, a low wail of sound reaching them.
‘We’re going to get a hard storm,’ Burgough said. ‘Brother, it’s going to be a long night.’
~*~
The wide-ranging wind storm, to a greater or lesser degree, affected them all.
Where Frank rode, ever higher, the wind was steady. It buffeted him but had little effect on his line of travel. Gray cloud pushed in to darken the sky as the afternoon wore on. He had hit a wide stretch of softer ground and he found the tracks he was following easier to keep in sight.
In the later afternoon he had his first sighting of his quarry. The single rider was still a good distance away, briefly silhouetted against the skyline. Frank almost reached for his rifle before realizing the man was well out of range. He urged his horse forward, determined not to let the man slip away. A drift of dust obscured his sighting. It did little to alarm Frank. He had seen the rider now and he was about to close the gap between them.
‘Ain’t no place left to run, you sonofabitch, I’m coming for you,’ he said.
~*~
Cy Colston had looked back and saw the distant horseman as he made a cursory check of his trail. It was something he did every so often. Purely out of a natural response to his situation. It was done as a reflex action. Riding the owlhoot instilled caution in a man. In this case it did nothing to satisfy Colston when he saw the rider.
He hauled in on his reins and studied the dark outline. Still out o
f rifle range, but moving forward at a steady pace. Colston might have figured the man was just another rider but he didn’t consider it for a moment. The man was doggedly following his tracks, coming forward with a determined line of travel.
Reaching down Colston slid his rifle from the saddle boot, easing the lever to push a cartridge into breech. He held the Winchester against his right hip, running a hand across his stubbled jaw as he watched the oncoming rider. The man’s presence was unsettling. It was the way he came on. Keeping his line of travel. Dogged. Persistent.
Cy Colston never considered himself anything more than an ordinary man. He was not prone to making outlandish claims about his set of skills. There was no bragging. Little in the way of outlandish behavior about his ability with a gun. Yet when it came to the time to make his play he accomplished it well. He was no fast gun. Simply a man who got the job done with a minimum of fuss and while others had fallen at the wayside Cy Colston was still around. Which meant he was more than proficient at his trade.
He was no coward.
Yet watching the distant rider coming in his direction he experienced a feeling of unease. He couldn’t explain why. It was simply a feeling in his bones that told him the distant, approaching, figure was going to pose a threat to him.
His survival rested with him to take action. To initiate some kind of resistance ahead of the other man.
Colston caught a flash of sunlight coming off something on the rider’s hands. Gunmetal. A reflection from a weapon.
He reacted without thought. Raised his own rifle, shouldered it and sighted in.
The flat sound of the shot, the curl of gunsmoke, and Colston felt the rifle muzzle rise.
Instinctively he knew his slug fell short before it kicked up a spout of dirt yards in front of the rider.
Damn it, you’re actin foolish, Cy. Lettin’ him spook you.
The thought was still in Colston’s mind when the other man spurred his horse forward, making it run hard and covering distance fast. As he narrowed the gap between them he raised his own rifle and began to trigger a volley of shots in Colston’s direction. Regardless of firing from the back of a hard running horse the shots began to come close. Too close and suddenly in range. Colston felt the shots burn the air as they passed him.
