That was where the Kid could have come in handy if he had thrown in with Ben. Poorly as Ben thought of him, he could handle guns and horses. But, it was no good wishing. He had to do this alone.
He rode with a grim determination and a kind of desperation, knowing that it would be easier for Spur to be saved before he reached the city than after he had been locked up in jail.
He thought he had maybe two days to pull the rescue off. That didn’t leave him much time.
He realized with something like a shock that Spur had committed him to thinking of somebody other than himself. Twice he had saved Spur’s life, maybe three times. Together they had escaped the law and the bounty hunters in the Cimarron Strip. Side by side they had fought off the Kiowas. Men didn’t share what they had shared without something concrete growing between them. It was strange the regard that had grown between them, two such different men. One an ex-slave, a wild man; the other an educated man who only talked the rough speech of the frontier when he was with men who used that speech, a sensitive and intelligent man who had somehow gotten on the wrong side of the law. The two of them shared only one thing—their deadliness when cornered. Ben owed Spur his friendship; therefore, in his book, he owed him his life.
He rode night and day, knowing that his tough body could take the hardship of the trail, the long hours in the saddle. At night, he stopped no more than a couple of hours for brief sleep while the horses fed and rested. He knew that it was not enough for them, but it was urgent that he come out of the hills above Arkhold long before Carmody.
Man and beasts were gaunted down to muscle and bone when he came over a rise and saw the city beneath him. He was a little pleased with himself, for he had lined up with it in his mind in the dark. He came out of the hills and viewed its spreading huddle of buildings from the height.
He wondered what he did next. A Negro with two such horses as he had with him was pretty conspicuous. He couldn’t ride down into town. But wait a minute … why couldn’t he? What about a darky with a mule? He chuckled to himself. He could go in humbly on the mule, no saddle, no gun showing. He could do that if what he planned didn’t come off. It all rested with whether Carmody came in on the main trail or not. That was a gamble he would have to take. He sat in the saddle, inspecting the trail and the town beyond. He decided that he had seen better spots for a hold-up further back. So, withdrawing into the hills, he made his way by the back-trails several miles north-west of that spot. He came out above the main trail, decided that it would do for what he had in mind, then put the horses on grass and lay down to wait. He ate a little as he waited. After that he put a plug of tobacco in his cheek and chewed contentedly.
He might have to wait an hour or a day or more, but he would be waiting here when and if Carmody passed.
He scrambled to his feet for a better view when he heard the sound of a horse travelling fast from the north-west. He darted back into cover as a little later horse and rider came into view. The man was mounted on a run-of-the-mill cowpony and he was riding it to its limit. Ben wondered who the hell the man was, wondered if he was one of Carmody’s men. There was no way of telling, for he hadn’t had a good look at one of them. He watched the man pass him and worried. Maybe, Carmody was sending word of his coming into town. This could mean trouble.
Ben climbed higher into the rocks and looked back along the trail, but he could see no telltale wisp of trail-dust, nothing.
He smashed a fist into a hand palm. The fellow could have been anybody, a cowhand racing to town to see his girl, down a beer. He might have no connection with the sheriff.
Maybe Carmody was sending to the town for help? That would really queer things. If that happened Ben would have to break Spur out from town. Jailers got careless with prisoners in the safety of jails. But would anybody get careless with the prisoners that Carmody had? Things didn’t look good. If help came out of town and he managed to get Spur away from Carmody before they arrived, there would be a chase. And Spur was wounded; he was in no condition for hard riding.
Ben started to despair a little.
But he made his decision. He had to do something. He would try and get Spur away from the sheriff on the trail. He would have to risk a chase. Maybe if he freed the other prisoners that would scatter the pursuit a little. There was a chance. Only a faint one, but still a chance. Maybe Carmody would be off his guard now he was getting onto home territory.
He would move a little further from town and find another spot for the bushwhacking. He walked back through the rocks and caught up his horses.
Chapter Thirteen
When nothing happened, Carmody grew nervous. That damned nigger had got clean away and he was out there somewhere. And somewhere there was the Kid. Together they would make a tough combination. One that Carmody wouldn’t like to buck. He didn’t admit that to himself, he was too vain for that. But he knew it just the same.
Fifty miles from home the pressure in him built up so that he couldn’t stand it any longer. He was showing inward signs of being scared. And he didn’t like that one little bit. So he sent one of the men on ahead to fetch reinforcements from town.
“Kill your horse if you have to,” he ordered. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
The man had raced away, heading for Arkhold as fast as his little cowpony would carry him. Carmody rode slowly on, trying to force the pace, fretting because he thought the faster pace would kill Spur and he wanted Spur alive in jail. He wanted a trial that would be reported in all the Eastern newspapers. He wanted to see his name emblazoned across the country from coast to coast. And as he rode, the tension grew. He knew that he should reach town before sunset. He wouldn’t rest easy till he had these four people behind bars. Then he’d sit back and take the longest drink he’d had in his life. Virtue would have won through.
“Hurry it up,” he shouted.
He shouted that every mile. The file of riders obeyed him for twenty or thirty yards and then fell back to the same slogging pace. Everybody, including the guards, was tired through to the bone. The horses were as tired as their riders. Spur looked almost as if he had given up the ghost. Hour after hour went by. They nooned briefly when they came to water where the thirsty animals, men and women drank avidly. They ate a few mouthfuls of hard tack and pushed on. Faster, demanded Carmody’s mind, faster, faster.
Carmody was in the lead with Spur and the woman directly behind him when the trail narrowed and rocks reared up on either hand. This was just the kind of spot that Carmody dreaded. He rode with his carbine across his thighs, ready for instant action. He turned in the saddle, eyeing the rocks. Slowly the little cavalcade passed between them and Carmody started to breath easily again.
It was at that precise moment that he heard a voice sing out—
“Pull up.”
Dread swooped into his belly briefly.
But only briefly—he was a man of action.
He whirled in the saddle, carbine ready. He could see nothing. The men behind him halted. Everybody was staring at the rocks, nobody knew where the voice came from.
“Drop the carbine, Carmody.”
It was the nigger, the sheriff knew. He triggered off a shot senselessly, knowing nothing except that he wasn’t going to have his prisoners taken from him.
The rifle in the rocks went off. The bullet smacked into the ground between the legs of Carmody’s horse. The animal started pitching and Carmody was suddenly occupied in staying in the saddle.
The man in the rocks called out: “Anybody else want to try it?”
Nobody apparently did. The men sat their horses and craned their necks, trying to see the man threatening them.
Spur lifted his head. His drawn face lit up and he said: “Ben.”
“Sam,” Ben told him, “get down off’n that horse.”
Carmody shouted: “Don’t do it, Spur. You can’t get away with this an’ you know it. You won’t get a mile.”
Spur just looked at him. Slowly he threw one leg over the saddle horn
and jumped to the ground. His legs caved under him and he sank for a moment to his knees. Then he got to his feet, walked shakily to the rocks and started to climb them.
The woman Annie cried out: “What about me?”
Ben appeared from cover. He held his carbine on the men below with one hand and cut the ropes around Spur’s wrists with the knife in his left.
Carmody got his horse settled and Ben told him to drop the carbine. The sheriff strained with an effort to lift the gun and fire. But his better sense won and he dropped it into the dust with a sigh of disgust.
Ben said: “Set the others free.”
Spur took the knife from him and slowly went back to the woman. She leaned down from the horse’s back and held out her hands. Spur cut through the rawhide that held them. She gave an almost hysterical laugh. He cut her feet free. She slid forward into the saddle, chafing her wrists with her hands. Her face contorted with the pain of the returning circulation.
Tom Ball yelled: “Hurry it up for Crisssake, man.”
Then they heard the horses.
“Hurry, Sam,” Ben called.
Spur reached Ball and cut him free.
Ben looked down the trail from his height and saw the oncoming riders. He cursed himself for not hearing them before. He found that he was sweating profusely. Hurry, Sam, hurry.
Ball leaned from his saddle, his face savage. He tore a rifle from the hands of the nearest deputy, murder in his eyes.
“Kill the bastards,” he yelled.
The woman whirled her horse, screaming: “Run for it, you damn fool.”
Mig Rawlins was yelling to be set free. The woman leaned from her saddle, grabbed his lines from a deputy and spurred off down the trail. The sudden movement panicked Ball a little. He glared this way and that, his horse dancing. Spur managed to dodge out of its way. Ben was yelling for him to hurry. He started toward the rocks.
The riders were close now. Any second the first would appear.
Spur reached the rocks and started to drag himself up them.
Ben started firing from the height at the approaching horsemen. One of the deputies who had had his carbine taken from him, drew his belt-gun and opened up on Ben. From then on there was utter confusion. Carmody likewise drew his pistol. He fired at Spur and missed. Everybody seemed to be shouting.
Spur yelled: “Run, Ben, run.”
The men from town were scattering, piling from the saddle and seeking what cover they could find.
Ben fired back at the men below him, not knowing whether he had made a hit or not. He knew that the whole attempt had turned out a fiasco. Fear swamped him coldly. He wanted to go down and help Spur up, but lead was pouring in his direction and he found that he could not move. Something smashed into his temple and he fell to his knees. Blood ran into his eyes. He floundered around on the ground, blinded.
He knew then that it was hopeless. Spur was finished, so was he.
He wiped the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to fight his way to his feet.
Men were coming through the rocks. He looked below. Spur was lying full length in the rocks. Was he dead? Utter despair seized the Negro. He groped for his rifle and couldn’t find it. Lead seemed to be flying all around him. His right hand found his revolver and dragged it from leather. He saw figures moving dimly below him; he fired and fired again.
Somebody near him was shouting: “Run, Ben.”
It sounded like the Kid, but that was impossible.
The sheriff was bellowing for men to take off after the fugitives. He charged his horse into the rocks, firing. Somebody was standing almost over Ben, shooting.
Ben found himself on his feet, running, stumbling blindly away from the trail, finding his way by instinct to the horses.
He lost all sense of time. There was somebody beside him, holding him by the arm, running with him, urging him to go faster. Then suddenly, there was a horse in front of him. Somebody seized him by the leg and he was being heaved into the saddle. He grasped the horn, swayed there for a moment; the horse was walking. He thought he would fall to the ground. Somebody was lashing his horse with a quirt. It broke into a run. He held on for grim life. Something in him told him that he was on the red stud. There was another horse pounding along behind him. After a while that rider wasn’t there. Above the sound of the horse’s hoofs, Ben heard shooting. Then, once again, the rider was beside.
The horses seemed to run for an eternity. Then suddenly they were halted. Ben felt himself falling … falling…
He hit ground hard and he heard himself groan.
He heard himself groan again.
There was a cool breeze blowing in his face and it was mighty refreshing. It was night and the stars were bright overhead.
The Kid was saying: “Quit fussin’, man. There ain’t hardly nothin’ wrong with you. A bullet clipped your head is all.”
Ben felt a little ashamed. He put his hand up to his head and found that some cloth had been tied around it. He sat up with a groan. His head ached like nobody’s business. He stared at the dim shape that was the Kid.
“What changed your mind?” he asked.
“This an’ that,” the boy told him.
“Spur,” said Ben, “what happened to him?”
“He was lyin’ there when we lit out,” the Kid told him. “Maybe he’s dead.”
Ben thought about that for a while, his aching head in his hands. After a while he withdrew them.
“We have to know,” he said.
“Sure,” the Kid said. “Nothin’ easier. We’ll go into town an’ find out.”
Ben lifted his head and stared hard at the boy. There was no sarcasm in his voice. He meant what he said. Maybe he had judged him wrong.
“Where we at?” Ben asked.
“Day’s ride from town. We can’t hang around here,” the Kid told him. “We have to keep on the move. They’ll pick our trail up come daylight.”
Ben got to his feet. The world turned over a couple of times, then he got his balance. His legs were a little like water, but he reckoned he’d get by. Maybe the clip on the head had knocked some sense into him.
“We’ll lose ’em,” he said. “We’ll tie ’em up in knots.”
He thought a little. It looked like he’d got himself another partner. Maybe the Kid would stick with him till they got Spur free. If Spur was still alive.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They went to the horses and mounted.
They were all there—the stud, the little mare, the bay and the ugly great Kentucky mule. They were still well-mounted. They were all there—their favor. They now had to go down into Carmody’s own town and break Spur out of jail. If Spur was still alive.
As he mounted there was a mixture of dread and grief in the Negro’s mind.
Chapter Fourteen
Carmody dismounted stiffly in front of his office. Burt Rome, one of his regular deputies, dismounted beside him. There was blood down the side of one cheek from a bullet scratch. Both men looked like they had come through a hard ordeal.
Carmody said: “Carry him inside.” He turned to another man and said: “Get the doc, we don’t want him to die on us at this stage.”
The man hurried away into the night.
Carmody went into the office, viewed its familiar untidiness in the lamplight. It was good to be home. He found his whisky bottle in a drawer and inspected it against the light. Burt had been at it while he had been away.
He turned at a sound from the door. Two men came in carrying Spur’s still form shoulders and feet. Carmody stared into the limp pale face as it passed him. At least he had Spur. The others had got away, but he still had the great Sam Spur and he would have to make the most of him. He sighed, poured himself a whisky and drank deep. By God, he needed that. He sat behind his desk and put his feet up. Maybe that damned nigger had won this round, but he wouldn’t win the last. He’d have him and he’d string him high. They could want him all they liked down in Texas—Carmody
was going to catch and hang him here in Colorado.
Meanwhile he would have to inform the federal authorities he now held Spur. He was guilty of killing a guard on a mail stage and that was a federal offence. Pity they couldn’t try and hang him here, but there it was.
He reached for a pen and dipped it in the ink. On a slip of paper, he wrote: “Captured Sam Spur personally. Request strong guard for conveyance to federal prison. Michael Carmody, sheriff, Arkhold County, Colorado.”
He threw the pen down. That should do it. Although he had lost the other prisoners, there was still a glow in him for having captured Spur.
He wanted sleep badly. He would sleep here in his office from which he could see the door leading to the cells. He would sleep with a loaded gun by his hand. Nobody was going to take Spur away from him now. He would have the place guarded by every man he could raise.
The door opened and the young doctor walked in. He was newly come to the town and was a good-looking, straight-backed man, fresh out of medical college. He had clashed already with the sheriff on several occasions and they didn’t like each other. His name was Alton Brough and he didn’t like the way Carmody handled his prisoners.
He nodded briefly to the sheriff and headed for the cells. Carmody took another drink. The kinks in his mind were starting to ease out. The doctor was in the cells a long time. When he came out he was frowning. He put his bag on Carmody’s desk and said: “He’s in a bad way, Carmody. But then you probably knew that already. He is unconscious no longer and he says that you failed to feed him on the trail.”
The sheriff looked the medico in the eye and said: “That’s a damn lie.”
“Lie or not, the fact remains,” Brough told him, “that he is patently undernourished and that his wound has been untended. You’re lucky he’s still alive. I have extracted lead from the shoulder and dressed it. I shall return each day to redress it.”
The Cimarron Kid (A Sam Spur Western Book 5) Page 11
