Without a word, Rawlins sat and drank from the bottle. He wiped the neck carefully with his hand and replaced it on the table. All his movements were extraordinarily precise and neat for so large a man.
“You got trouble, Tom?”
“A mite.” Ball came right out with it. It was best to be direct with this man. “If I go after Sam Spur and Cuzie Ben, do you side me?”
Rawlins blinked. It was a hell of a question and both men knew it. He hesitated for a moment, nodded and said: “Sure.”
Ball smiled and scratched his whiskers.
“That makes it even Stephen,” he said. “Who else is there?”
“Prebble and Mangan would come for the hell of it, I think. But do you want Sam and Ben or the stallion?”
“All three. I want them two boys mutton an’ I want the stud. I’m goin’ to have that stud, Mig.”
“Sure,” said Mig. “Money would get us two-three more.”
“There’s another way,” Ball said. He, leaned forward and talked.
When he finished, Mig Rawlins looked thoughtful. It might work, he said. Anyroad, he’d side Ball. The famous outlaw grinned. He was pleased with himself. Once more he had proved himself the most cunning of men. He got up and walked out of the cabin. Mig followed him. They were both going to make certain that a strong party of men went out after Spur and Cuzie Ben.
The Kid was exhausted and in pain. The pain was so bad that he was beginning to wonder if he could make it. He had found what cover he could on the cattle range and this consisted of a light scattering of rocks and some sparse timber. From one of the trees he had broken himself a branch and this constituted his only weapon. With this he was going to win his way back to total independence. This would have deterred a lesser man, but the Kid was short on neither raw courage nor self-confidence. The world was full of suckers and fools and he was smart. He’d win through.
He had tied the horse and sat down with his back against the base of a tree. He would have slept from sheer exhaustion, but the pain in his leg prevented that. He drifted off into a kind of hazy daydream, half-awake and half-asleep.
It was while he was in this state that he heard the distant sound of horse’s hoofs. At once he was alert. Getting to his feet, he worked his way through the trees and peered out at the approaching rider. The man was coming from the east at an easy canter, at a good distance still, lolling lazily in the saddle. If he kept the same line of advance he would pass some two or three hundred yards north of the trees. The Kid moved as fast as he was able. Hurrying back to his horse, he tightened cinches, got into the saddle and rode out of the trees on the far side from the stranger. Then he turned the horse and allowed it to wander into the open of its own free will. The Kid now put on an act. He drooped forward in the saddle, arms grasping the neck of his horse. At once the picture of a man at his last gasp. He looked in fact what he was—a man shot in the hills by outlaws and desperately seeking help.
Not once did he glance up at the other rider. His stick he had thrust away in the saddle boot for the rifle he didn’t possess. When he reckoned that the other man had sighted him and was headed toward him, he let go his grip on his horse’s mane and allowed himself to fall slowly to the ground. It hurt his leg, but he groaned with reality and was groaning still when the rider came up and looked down at him.
The newcomer was young, scarcely into his twenties. The usual run-of-the-mill, thirty-and-found cowhand, dressed in a wide-brimmed hat that had seen better times, overalls and chaps that were battered and scarred. At his hip, he carried the six-gun that the Kid so coveted.
This young cowman swung down from the saddle and approached the wounded man. At once his eyes took in the blood-soaked pants and the white of the bandage showing through the rent in the cloth. Carefully, he rolled the Kid over on his face and saw that of a boy not as old as himself.
The Kid groaned again for good measure and whispered: “Water,” in pathetic tones.
The other young man straightened up and turned back to his horse and his canteen. That was all the Kid wanted. With the speed for which he was so famous and which his wound did not rob him of, he darted up and forward, his right hand grasped the butt of the man’s gun and whisked it from leather.
The cowhand turned in surprise and alarm to find himself staring into the muzzle of a cocked gun. He looked in that second like a man who’s heart is turning over, his face was pale with fright. In that second he saw himself as a dead man.
The Kid in that second was transformed. He now had a gun in his hand. Though wounded, he was master again.
“Try anything,” he said in cold tones, “an’ you’re plumb dead. I’m takin’ your horse an’ your gear.”
The young man swallowed.
“You goin’ to kill me?” he asked in a fearful whisper.
The Kid surprised himself. He had intended to kill the man he robbed, but now he didn’t see the necessity.
“I’m takin’ your horse,” he said. “Start walkin’.”
“It’s ten mile,” said the cowhand. The thought of walking at all was hateful to the perpetual rider. Ten miles was almost as bad as a death sentence.
“Good,” said the Kid, “get goin’.”
The boy gave him a despairing glance, turned and started off into the east. Once he stopped and looked back as if to beg for a remittance of sentence. But the Kid waved him on with the gun and he went on. The Kid didn’t waste any time. He ran his eyes over the new-acquired horse, saw that it was even more tired than his own animal and mounted the bay. He threw away his stick, transferred the carbine from the other boy’s boot to his own and felt, except for his wounded leg, on top of the world. He’d make out now. He’d head for California. The pickings were good there. He headed west and rode into the hills. The rider back there wouldn’t raise the alarm for several hours and by that time the Kid would be long gone. He wondered again why he had not killed him. Maybe he should have. The boy was a witness to the theft of horse, saddle and rifle. Sam Spur would have let him go. Sam was at the top of the profession. It didn’t make sense. The Kid shrugged and went on.
Chapter Eight
Tom Ball walked out of the cabin I in the cold light of dawn. The sight that met his eyes was a pleasing one. His spiel last night had done the trick. It had brought more than a dozen men to his aid. It had been simple. He had told them that Spur and Cuzie Ben had been offered pardons if they broke up the Wolf’s Lair. The governor had declared that the operations of a lawless nature that were instigated by the inhabitants of the outlaw village must come to an end and he didn’t particularly mind how it was done. The two former outlaws could bring in the denizens of the Wolf’s Lair dead or alive.
Ball had put the story over convincingly, inside a few minutes he had created something like panic among the men. He almost carried it too far and some of them were ready to saddle up and ride out.
Men started talking of going south of the Border, running for California or getting right away from US law into the land of Canada. He then had to talk them back into an aggressive frame of mind. He reminded them of their various reputations, of the fact that Spur and Ben were after all only two men and could be stopped by a bullet as soon as any other man. He wasn’t going to run. He would never be able to hold up his head again if he did so. He had a reputation to think of. He singled men out and reminded them of the reckless acts they had performed in the past.
It was Annie Coleman who tipped the scale. She breezed in and, somewhat to Ball’s surprise, declared that she liked it up here and she wasn’t going to be run out of her home by a couple of no-good bounty hunters and one of them a nigger beside. This statement did the trick. The panic subsided. Men started to think and talk tough. Those who had decided to opt out began to feel that they were something less than men.
The result was that a small army of formidable fighting men were gathered in the hollow that could be called the main square of the village. Their horseflesh would have aroused the envy of any Western m
an worth his salt. Certainly it was better than any posse could hope to bring against them. The men were armed to the teeth and there wasn’t one there that wasn’t a master in the art of either shooting with the belt-gun or with a rifle.
Among them was one Charlie Gunn. And the success of the enterprise really rested upon him. Charlie was a half-breed Ute Indian and the living creature wasn’t born who could travel without leaving sign which the half-breed couldn’t follow given time.
Ball had talked with him. He told Gunn that he wanted Spur and Cuzie Ben before they could get the red stud out of the country and he promised the man a substantial reward if he led them to it.
Charlie Gunn was something of a loner. He had killed a couple of men in Denver the year before and had thrown in with Ball when he had promised that he could hide Ball’s tracks after a bank-raid in Goliad. He had done this successfully and had earned the respect of the badmen in their roost. But he hadn’t gained their liking. He was a sullen and vicious man, given to the use of the knife. And when he used a knife he invariably planted it in a man’s back. He was treated with suspicion and fear by his fellows.
To this man Ball had carefully described the spot where the outlaws had been braced by Spur and Cuzie Ben. He now rode out to inspect the sign and make what he could of it. With him went two other men to bring back word of the trail that Gunn had taken. Ball could have followed it, no doubt, in time, but time was not a commodity that he had spare. He wanted that stud and fast.
Ball inspected the men with something like pride and excitement. There was only one small point that troubled him. That was the mention by Spur that the Cimarron Kid had been up in the rocks when Spur and Ben had cut down on them. It could have been a bluff. On the other hand, it could have been true. Spur and Cuzie Ben were a formidable enough team to face, but the addition of the Cimarron Kid made it even tougher. He didn’t mention the fact that the Kid might be along to his men and he hoped fervently that neither of the wounded outlaws would remember and mention it.
He mounted his thoroughbred horse and the other men followed his example. Annie Coleman swung up on her fine sorrel gelding and trotted it alongside him. She was grinning. This was a lot of fun to her. Looking at her, Ball thought that when it came to this sort of thing that she was maybe the best man of them all.
They moved out, the women and children gathering to wave them good-bye. They made a brave show, clattering out through the narrow pass. The guard high in the rocks lifted his hand in farewell and yelled good luck. The boys were laughing and talking among themselves. They seemed to feel no tension at all. Ball wished he could claim the same thing.
They had gone no more than a few miles when one of the men who had gone ahead with Charlie Gunn came riding back to say that Gunn had found the sign clear and easy. He had gone on northeast at a fast clip. The band of outlaws swung around at an angle and headed for the walls of the valley. Ball stepped up the pace. Not long after they rode into the camp that Spur and Ben had left. Charlie Gunn was still there. He demanded with some ferocity that they all keep back from the sign. Men dismounted, built smokes and talked.
After a while the half-breed took Ball aside and talked. They squatted and Charlie said: “Goddam, Tom, three feller here. One go off thataway on his lonesome.” Charlie indicated with the edge of his hand that the lone rider had ridden off to the north. So, thought Ball, Spur had spoken the truth. There had been a third man. Could he have been the Cimarron Kid? He hoped not. Why had he ridden off alone?
“All right, Charlie,” he said. “They haven’t hid their tracks. We’ll keep up with you.”
“Good,” Charlie said. He rose and gave his horse to another man to lead, loping off through the rocks, running along the sign left by the two outlaws.
Ball’s hopes started to rise. He saw himself possessing that stallion before the sun went down.
Spur and Ben made a cold camp. They followed the Kid to the edge of the hills and dark had overtaken them. Ben was still trying to persuade Spur to change his mind and let the Kid go to hell if he wanted. And, truth to tell, Spur was beginning to wonder if he were being foolish about the boy. He asked himself why he was doing this and couldn’t rightly find an answer. He knew that he had been impressed by the boy, there seemed to be potential there. Perhaps he had been horrified by what he had seen in that young face. When a man went bronco, two things could happen to him. He could keep ahead of the law and stay true to the code by which he had lived all his life. Or he could give way to the pressures that the lawless mode of life imposed on him. He could go wholly bad; he could become a mindless and conscienceless killer. The pressures were enormous. The law of survival was the strongest in man and a man’s own life became more important than anything else. The lives of other men were valueless.
Spur watched Ben, wondering how far he had gone along the downhill road. The Kid was well on it, going down fast. Could he be stopped? Spur didn’t know why he cared, but he did care and he knew that he was going to do his best to do something about it.
He was shy of his feelings and he didn’t like to talk about them to Ben. At the same time, he didn’t feel that it was right to drag his partner into what might be called his own foolishness.
“Ben,” he said, “you don’t have to go along if you don’t want. Take the stud and ride out. I’ll meet up with you later. Tucson, El Paso, you name it.”
The Negro grunted.
“All right,” he said. “I ain’t nothin’ but a no-good nigger. I don’t have no feelin’s.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“We throwed in together, didn’t us? We’m partners, ain’t us’ns? You got git thet fool boy, I string along.”
“I feel a mite bad about this. I don’t have no right—”
“Right ain’t got nothin’ to do with hit. Jest stop all this fool talk an’ git some sleep.”
Spur smiled to himself. Maybe Ben wasn’t on the downward path after all. Maybe he had kept some values. Loyalty was one of them. Spur knew that when they had first met, Ben had risked his life for him. He owed Ben. In their partnership Ben had found something that had been sadly lacking in his life before. For years the Negro had been a loner, the veteran of the outlaw trail, always one jump ahead of the law and never knowing when the odds would be too great for him or a bullet would knock him down from ambush. Now there was another gun to guard his back. Now there was more than that, there was human company and friendship, things that a man couldn’t measure. Now Ben no longer had to talk to himself on the lonely trails to stop himself going crazy.
Spur pulled the blanket up and dropped off to sleep. The last sound he heard was the horses munching on the grass.
Ball and his outlaw band were halted. They were in rough wild country and visibility was down to no more than fifty paces at times. It was dusk and Ball was asking himself if it was any use pushing on. Charlie Gunn was up ahead, sniffing out a trail. The quarry had taken to the rocks and their sign had almost petered out. They had hidden their trail to some extent, but Charlie reckoned that they were in too much of a hurry to do a good job. He was sure, he declared, that there were only two men riding together. The third was way out ahead.
Ball made up his mind and gave the word to make camp. The men started to off-saddle. Ball was starting to heave off his boots when the half-breed trotted into camp. He was grinning. His ugly face was shiny with sweat, he had come a long way and he had run hard. He squatted down by Ball’s bedroll and talked.
He had he said been about five miles to the north. He wore moccasins and his passage had been as silent as a man’s could be. It had been almost by luck that he had found where the two men had halted.
Ball’s pulse quickened.
“Did they have the stud with them?” he demanded.
The half-breed nodded. He had gone close and he had a good look. That was sure a lot of horse. He could see why Ball wanted it. The men were camped among the rocks and the horses were hobbled on grass pretty clo
se.
“We can hit ’em at dawn,” Ball said.
The half-breed shook his head. That would be foolish, just to do that. Let them do it the Ute way. Speed and stealth were necessary. Ball wanted the stallion, didn’t he? There was great danger to the animal if general shooting started. He might be injured or even killed. Ball agreed that that was so. What would Charlie suggest.
Charlie said: “Me great hoss-thief. The best. Steal hoss.”
He was grinning with pride and pleasure.
Ball asked: “You reckon you can do it, Charlie?”
“Sure. Steal from Blackfoot and Shoshone. Goddam. I steal teeth from head an’ you not know.”
“All right, Charlie,” Ball said. “You lift that stud and then me an’ the boys’ll hit the camp.”
Charlie talked on. He was worried by Ball’s insistence on attacking the camp. If the outlaws came too near to the camp while he was taking the horse, they could spoil everything. Sure, the white men were good fighters and they had courage, but they knew nothing of stealing horses. He was a master and he must do it his own way. He would go like a Ute in the night on foot and he would ride the stallion back to Ball.
“But he ain’t broke even,” Ball said. “Maybe he’ll give you a fight.”
“Sure,” said Charlie, “he fight. Plenty. Don’ worry. Charlie do it all right. Goddam.”
They talked some more, then, satisfied, Ball rolled into his blankets. He was elated. He saw himself riding that stud.
He slept as he had learned to sleep on the outlaw trail with his ears alert and one eye on his companions, wanting to know who came and went in the night, checking that the guards were in position. He seemed to doze off for no more than minutes at a time. About midnight, he saw the half-breed rise from his blankets and strip himself down to his pants. The man carefully oiled the upper part of his body and his arms. An old Indian trick that made it difficult for a man to grapple with you. When Charlie slipped away into the night, Ball saw that he was armed with nothing more than a knife and a rope which he had slung over one shoulder. Everything now rested upon luck. They had talked over their timing carefully the night before. Ball’s only anxiety was that he might not be able to find the right location in the dark.
The Cimarron Kid (A Sam Spur Western Book 5) Page 6
