Six Gun Justice

by David Cross

  “Too long Ely,” Jake said, wringing the hand of the merchant. “How’ve you been? How are Kathy, and Sybil?”

  “They’re just fine! You have to come by for dinner soon. I know Sybil will want to see you. She’s grown some since you last saw her. She’s eleven now, and like most kids her age, knows everything,” he chuckled.

  “Does that invitation extend to Sarah?” he grinned.

  “Of course! It was just…you know…I heard she had moved off the ranch a few months back.”

  “She did, but she’s back now. Seems Harvey Murdock was bent on pushing her off, so he could take over the ranch. Guess he figured I wouldn’t be coming home.”

  “Yeah, he’s trying to swallow up the whole Rim. Not too many of the ranchers here about bucked him. They just sold out, or got run out, and Murdock moved in. a few stood tough enough to hang on, but most of them just pulled stakes and ran. Grat Osterman is still on his place though, and Bill Michaels, Seph Hatter, Joe Docker, and the Mexican Jose Catano. Catano would be the last of the old ranchers on the plateau to crack. They would have to kill the cantankerous old Mexican.

  He smiled crookedly, thinking back to the time he had first come to the Rim, remembering how crotchety the old Mexican had been. They had become fast friends over the intervening years, helping each other during the cold of the hard winters, and the dry spells that hit on rare occasions. He had stood godfather to his and Sarah’s only offspring, little Ephraim Killman, who had succumbed to the rigors of cholera at the tender age of one year.

  He paid for his purchases, and Ely put them in a burlap bag, and then walked with him to the front of the mercantile. He grinned up at the tall broad shouldered frame, realizing that Murdock had a battle on his hands that was not winnable, not to his liking, if he was any judge. He would hate to be in his shoes, having an enemy like Jake Killman.

  That evening, Jake put away his horse, and relaxed on the porch of his small ranch house, savoring the odors of the cooking that wafted through the open door of the log house. He was contented, though he was worried about what Murdock’s next move would be. He was sure the man would not give in so easily to his threat, even after the gunning of one of his hands. He would have to contend with the man again, he was sure. He had seen the fury and hate in the man’s eyes, had felt the vitriol that boiled within his guts at the confrontation.

  He knew he would wind upon killing the man, before this was over. But, he could not bring himself to gun him down in cold blood, especially there on his ranch, and with all his hired hands to bear witness against him. There might not be too much law on the Rim, but there would sure be hell to pay if he gunned the man in cold blood. Besides, it was not his style. He could never bring himself to do such a cowardly thing.

  III

  Close to death

  The next few days were spent fixing up the rail fence of the corral, checking the stock on his own place, running his brand back on its home range from the open land north of the fence line that had gathered among the pinons, generally fixing up the place, and gathering his cattle for a good count. He was working the lower brakes of the north canyon wall, keeping an eye out for rustlers, or anyone that might try to ambush him, when a shot rang out, the bullet finding flesh, and bone in his left shoulder, and knocking him from the saddle. As he left the saddle, he instinctively jerked his 44-40 from the scabbard.

  He rolled a few yards, to the lip of the canyon, then crawled along the edge, desperately looking for a place to hole up, but could find no way down over the steep drop. He leaned out a little over the edge, and could see a narrow ledge about ten feet below the rim. Shoving the rifle through his gun belt, he let his body slide over the steep precipice, hanging by his arms above the deep chasm below him. Saying a silent prayer, he let go, his left shoulder crying in pain from the stretching he was forcing on it, hanging there high above the valley floor. He would either land on the narrow ledge, or if he were unlucky, he would drop to his death among the rocks and boulders far below.

  He felt a solid impact, as his boots hit the ledge, then his shoulder sent a pain throughout his body, as it connected with the solid rock ledge, almost causing him to black out. He drug himself closer to the wall, seeing a slight overhang above him, there was a slight cave a little farther along the ledge, but he was sure the ambusher would come to check his work, and he was in no condition right now to fight off his attacker, should he try to finish the job. He may not be able to see him from the lip of the rim on this side, but he could ride around the mouth of the canyon and cross to the other side, where he would be visible and within rifle distance.

  He took his bandana from around his neck, and stuffed it in his shirt to staunch the flow of blood, then lay on his stomach, listening for the approach of his attacker. He didn’t have very long to wait. A few minutes had passed since he had dropped from the mesa above him, when he heard the click of horse’s hooves on the hard ground above. Then came the voices of two men in whispered conversation, drifting down to him in his place of concealment. He gritted his teeth against another twinge of pain, literally holding his breath to keep from groaning.

  “Drago, there’s some blood here. You think he might have fell into the canyon?”

  “If’n he did, he shore as hell’s dead now, Marvin. You see anything below? He could of crawled off sommers, but they ain’t no place around for him to hide among these pinons.”

  “You keep your eyes pealed Drago,” came Marvin’s reply. “You saw how fast he is with that hogleg, when he shot Carp at the ranch. I’d hate to be in his sights, when he let the hammer down on that Colt. He put those shots close enough to cover with a dollar, and at better’n fifty feet.”

  “Lean out, look over the edge. See if you can see anything close to the wall down on that canyon floor,” Drago said with a growl. “We gotta make sure he’s dead, or Murdock will have our hides.”

  There was silence, except for the scuffing of boots from above, and the cry of an eagle some place nearby. Jake pulled himself into the overhang as tight as he could, thinking that the man above was probably looking over the edge. When he heard him call Drago over for a look, they started discussing whether he could have fallen on the narrow ledge where he lay, instead of the canyon. His heart skipped a beat, wondering if they would ride across the canyon and finish him off.

  “Don’t rightly see how he could’ve, ‘sides they’s a couple of buzzards up there that think they’ve found a meal. I say he smashed up on the rocks below,” Drago said. “I usually don’t miss what I aim at, not at the distance we was from him. I put that slug right through his heart.”

  “Maybe we should ride down in the canyon, and see if we can find his body,” Marvin suggested. “I’d feel a whole lot better if’n I knowed for sure he was a goner.”

  “You can ride down if you’ve a mind to, but I say I hit him in the heart, and if I didn’t, he died from the fall. Besides, by the time you get down there, it’ll be dark,” Drago argued. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is, stalking that galoot. Let’s just hightail it back to the ranch and tell Murdock his problems are over.”

  Marvin mumbled something in return, and then came the creak of saddle leather, and the clicking of hooves as the two men rode away. He lay there trying to regain his strength, wondering how he was going to get off this canyon wall, without a rope. There had to be a way down. He would have to search along the ledge, and try to find a way up or down. Short of that, he really had no other thoughts at the moment, but the burning pain in his shoulder, and a terrible thirst. The pain, and the thirst would have to wait, until he could make his way back to his horse. He rolled out from under the overhang, peering down into the deep canyon, but could see no way to get down the four hundred or so foot drop.

  He was in a tight spot, and he was weak from his wound, and tired from a day of rounding up strays. He gritted his teethe and forced himself to think in a more positive way. He had been in tight scrapes before, and had come out alive. He got to his knees, and
then carefully dragged himself to his feet. The ledge was no more than three feet wide, in his standing position, and slightly less than four if one counted the overhang. One slip and he would wind up in the canyon below. He looked down and for a brief second his chest filled with panic, a touch of vertigo wafting over him, then he put his mind on the problem of finding a way down.

  He inched his way to the left about a hundred feet, rounding a cornice in the wall, and found it to come to a dead end. Cursing, he made his way back to his original position, then started inching along to his right. He went no more than a hundred fifty yards before he came to an open crevice, with a jumble of loose rock slanting up to the rim. Checking the rock, he found them to be loose to the touch, sliding away, to fall to the canyon floor, giving him a panic-stricken touch of vertigo again.

  The ledge had narrowed to no more than two feet, and from his precarious perch, he could see that it narrowed even more, until it played out completely about two hundred feet further on. He stood to one side of the rock filled crevice, thinking that this was his only hope. He knew it would slide if he tried to climb over the loose, jumbled mess. His only hope was to clear away the rock and try to wedge his body in the three-foot crevice and inch his way up to the top.

  Standing to one side, he gingery loosened the rock fall, letting the rocks fall to the floor below, ignoring the sick feeling that he would go tumbling into space any second. It was a lot of work and dark was beginning to settle over the land by the time he had cleared away enough of the rock to wedge himself in the opening. His left shoulder was aching with a vengeance, and the weakness, and the soaked bandana told him that he had lost more blood.

  There was little light left, and he told himself it was now or never, he had to make the climb quickly, before it became too dark to see. He could not spend the night here. He would only grow weaker, and possibly bleed to death, waiting for someone to find him, or fall to his death trying to make it to the top in a weakened state. That was a possibility even now.

  He began climbing, placing his back against one wall, he knees against the other, painfully inching his body higher, feeling the quivering in his legs from the strain. When he could finally see the edge of the mesa was level enough with his shoulders, he twisted his body enough to get a firm purchase with his arms on the top of the cliff, and dragged himself the rest of the way to safe ground. He lay exhausted, gasping for breath, weak from his exertions, and loss of blood, trying to regain enough strength to search for his horse.

  He was in no condition to walk back to his ranch, so he must find a mode of transportation, or die. He raised his head enough to see his mare a few hundred feet away, reins dragging, as she contentedly munched on sparse grass close by. He thanked the powers that be for the good training the hose had received. She had been trained as a cow horse, so when the reins were dropped to the ground, she would not wonder off. He pushed himself upright, then he laboriously staggered to his feet, standing for a few minutes, weaving like a giant oak in the breeze.

  When the dizziness passed, he took a short step, then another, forcing himself to take one more step each time, staggering like a drunken man with his weakness threatening to overcome him. His horse seemed a long way off, but he finally reached his objective, leaning heavily against the mare for support, his hands fumbling for the canteen tied to his saddle. He took long draughts of the cool water, letting it wash down his parched throat, quenching his raging thirst.

  It took him three tries, straining his remaining strength to the limit to pull himself into the saddle. He held the reins tightly against the saddle horn, giving the mare her head. She walked at a leisurely pace, seeming to know her master was hurt and could not stand to be jostled too much.

  Jake wasn’t sure which direction she was headed, but he hoped it was toward home. To his calculations, she would head for the only place that spelled food and water. He leaned forward against the saddle horn, staying alert by sheer will, knowing he would never be able to get back in the saddle again, should he pass out and fall off. He would only be able to lie there on the mesa and die, unless someone came along to help, and that wasn’t too likely. His thoughts went briefly to his attackers, thinking they might even come back in the morning to check on his body, and make sure he was dead.

  He gritted his teeth against the pain that threatened to overcome him, willing himself to stay alert. The ride home would be the longest he had ever taken, being in the condition he was in. He gingerly touched the blood soaked shirt, feeling the bandana beneath it, and he could tell the blood he had lost was tremendous. He had heard some place that a man could only lose a couple of pints of blood, before he passed out, and died. He wondered distantly how much of his blood and drained through the open hole in his shoulder.

  He knew little about where the main arteries were in the body, but he was sure that one must be somewhere close to his own wound. He pressed tightly against the hole, pressing his shoulder and hand against the saddle horn, trying to staunch the blood, as much as using the pain to keep him awake. He was sure Sarah would be worried by now, but he doubted she would come looking for him in the dark. He almost gave up a couple of times, but forced himself to keep going, being a persistent man with a will of iron.

  He had no measure of the time it took to reach a haven, only the glimmer of a lighted window ahead of him. He could not make out if it was his place, or someone else’s. For all he knew, the mare could be taking him straight into the lion’s den, straight to Murdock’s ranch. He had to get help someplace, even if it was his old enemy. He had no predilection at this point. He would be dead in a short time if he could not get help. Murdock and his men would just hurry it along some.

  He barely sensed the horse coming to a halt, and felt himself sliding from the saddle. Then darkness took over, and he knew nothing. There was only the soft easing of the pain, and a weightlessness that suffused his aching body. He thought he must have died.

  The light streaming through the window hurt his eyes, and his shoulder was on fire when he opened his eyes. He looked around, noting that he was in a room, lying on a bed, the slowly realized it was his own bed. He tried to speak, to call out to Sarah, to ask her to help him get up, but the only thing he could manage was a hoarse croak. She must have heard him though, because the next thing he knew, she was there, sitting on the bed beside him, rubbing his fevered head with a cool damp cloth. He opened his eyes again, to gaze up into her strained face, and could see the concern for him written there.

  He tried to speak again, and managed a few words that came from his parched throat in a gravelly sound.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “It’s been two days now. Lie still, you have a lot of mending yet.”

  “I can’t,” he croaked anxiously. Murdock’s men may come at any time. I…I have to get up!”

  “Shush! You just lie still; before you start that wound bleeding again! Murdock’s men were here yesterday. I took care of them.”

  “They were here?” he asked in panic. “What happened?”

  “I met them at the door with a rifle. I told them you were gone and I didn’t know when you would be back, and ordered him, and his men off the ranch. They said they would be back to take care of you when you did return. One of his riders, the one Murdock called Drago, started to dismount, and I shot him in the side. They all cleared out in a hurry then.”

  He lay there staring at her in awe, realizing she had a lot more sand in her craw than he had ever imagined. He was concerned for her safety. Most men would never dare to kill a woman, but some of the guns Murdock had surrounded himself with were not the kind to worry about the gender of their victims. He was sure proud of her though for standing up to Murdock and his crew.

  “Could you give me some water, please,” he croaked.

  “Of course, but you lie still,” she said, pressing his head lightly against the pillow.

  She reached for a glass sitting nearby on a table, next to a porcelain pitcher of water, a
nd poured the water for him. She held his head up for him to drink, and he tasted the cool water as it slaked his thirst, and cooled his parched throat. It revived him somewhat; seeming to give him some strength, at the same time he realized how hungry he was.

  “I think I could eat my horse right now,” he said weakly.

  “I’ll get you something to eat right away,” she said, a loving smile on her face. “What would you like?”

  “I could use a steak, and make it blood rare. I feel like I haven’t eaten for a week.”

  “Coming right up,” she said, touching his forehead. “I think your fever has broken. You should mend nicely now.”

  She left the room to prepare his food, leaving him to lie there thinking how hard it must have been for her to get him in the house. She was as strong as any woman that he knew, but he was a pretty big man for her to handle alone. He wondered about his mare, where his Colt was, and how long he had before Murdock, and his men returned to try and run his Sarah off the ranch again. They probably thought he was dead, so they wouldn’t be too long about trying to run her off the ranch again. He had to get better quick. He had a date with the two men who had tried to dry gulch him, not to mention Murdock, but this time he would not ride into his ranch for him, he would wait until he could catch them on the range. Then he would exact the vengeance he had promised his antagonist.

  Shortly, Sarah brought him a small serving tray with a plate, on which was a thick, juicy steak, some soup, and a big slice of cornbread. His mouth watered as she sat it on the table next to the bed, fluffed the pillows behind his back. She set the small serving tray across his legs, and he dug into the delicious food with a relish. He was famished, so he did little talking while he ate.

  When he had eaten his fill, she took the tray away, setting it on the table beside him once more. His strength had returned considerably from the meal. He felt more like he was alive, though the wound in his shoulder ached, he could feel the healing itch that went with its mending. He sat drinking the strong coffee she had brought with his meal, its warmth radiating through his body, invigorating him further.