Hanging in Wild Wind

by Ralph Cotton

  Sam only stared, expressionless.

  She paused, shook her head and continued, spreading her hands in a plea for understanding. “Maybe a judge wouldn’t see it this way, but that makes it self-defense in the world I live in. Don’t you see?”

  “I see,” said Sam flatly.

  “Then . . . ?” She looked bewildered.

  “Get washed; get dressed,” he repeated. “I’m taking you back to Wild Wind.”

  “What if I refuse to go?” she said.

  “It won’t matter. You’re going anyway.”

  “But if you keep me with you, Ranger, it could draw Silva in,” she said, trying any angle. “You do want Silva, don’t you?”

  Sam didn’t answer, even though she might be right. She would no doubt draw Silva out for him, once they were seen together in any of the settlements along the high trails. But he didn’t want to have to keep watch on her while they traveled through some of the toughest, most dangerous terrain in the badlands. Besides, there was only one reason she would want to be out here with him, and that was to try to make an escape. Self-defense or not, being in Wild Wind would put a crimp in her plans to meet up with Silva “the Snake.” That in itself was good enough reason for Sam to take her to town.

  He reached down and picked up the duster and went through it, inspecting pockets and seams for hidden weapons. Feeling her eyes on him, he folded the duster over his forearm and held it for her. She saw the unyielding look on his face, and stopped and dipped water onto her bloodstained forearms and naked breasts.

  “I hope you’re getting your eyeful, Ranger,” she said angrily, “because looking is all you’re ever going to do with me.”

  Again without answering her, the ranger offered quietly, “We’ll see what shirts and trousers I might have in my saddlebags when you’re finished here. You can’t ride to Wild Wind with nothing but skin between you and the saddle.”

  “Yeah?” she said in defiance. “I’ve ridden worse.”

  Sam just looked at her. I bet you have . . . , he said to her silently. Then he turned to his saddlebags, keeping her in his peripheral vision.

  When he turned back to her, she had stepped out of the water and stood with her forearms closed over her bare breasts. “Here,” he said, “give these a try. They’re both clean.”

  She took a folded pair of denim trousers and a rolled-up wool shirt that he held out to her. “Thank you,” she said, grateful for the clothes after even a short ride with her bare skin chafing against the saddle leather.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. He stepped back and half turned and looked down across the rocky valley, as she dressed and rolled up the long trouser legs and the long, dangling shirt sleeves.

  She looked over to where Weeks’ boots stood on the dirt a foot from the blanket edge. “Do you have any spare socks, Ranger Burrack?” she asked, her eyes downcast, as if using up all of her pride.

  Sam saw her cut a glance toward Weeks’ boots. “I’ll see what I’ve got,” he said.

  When the woman had put on Weeks’ boots, she walked back to the horses, scuffling her feet to keep her oversized foot wear from falling off. Sam held the reins to her horse as she clumsily raised a loose boot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. She pushed Weeks’ large hat up on her forehead and glanced up at the buzzards, which descended steadily with each wide, slow circle.

  “We’re keeping someone from their dinner,” she remarked.

  Sam didn’t reply; he backed his stallion a step and gestured her onto the downward trail leading around the water hole.

  “But this isn’t the way to Wild Wind,” she said, a hopeful look coming to her eyes. “You’re going on after Delbert.”

  “I’m following his trail as far as I can,” Sam said grudgingly. “Right up until I have to cut south toward Wild Wind.”

  “Oh,” said Kitty, “for a moment there I thought you might have had a change of heart and—”

  “You thought wrong,” Sam said quietly, cutting her off.

  They rode on in silence down the narrow, winding path for the next half hour, until the ranger spotted a line of riders crossing the flatlands below. “Hold it,” he said suddenly. “Pull your horse out of sight.”

  “What is it?” Kitty asked, even as the urgency in his voice caused her to jerk her horse sidelong away from the trail’s edge.

  “Down there,” Sam said, quickly nudging his horse over beside hers and pulling the third horse by its reins. “Step down.”

  “Why? They can’t see me,” she said.

  “Get out of the saddle,” he said, reaching back and pulling his telescope from under his bedroll.

  She saw his intense stare and realized that he wanted her out of her saddle so she couldn’t try to make a run for it while he checked out the riders. “All right,” she said, swinging out of the saddle a second before he did. “There. Satisfied?”

  “Stay beside me.” He grasped her by the sleeve of her duster and pulled her along with him to a large rock at the edge of the trail. He dropped behind the rock and pulled her down beside him.

  “I wasn’t going to try anything,” she said.

  Sam didn’t answer. Instead he stretched out the battered field lens and raised it to his eye.

  “Who is it?” she asked, noting his expression had turned somber as he scanned each of seven riders.

  “Renegades,” he said, without taking his eye off the desert-hardened mustangs and their riders. The dusty procession galloped along at an even pace.

  “Indians?” Kitty asked. Even as she spoke, she leaned back enough to look around his back toward the big Colt holstered on his right hip.

  “Five of them are,” he said. “Two of them are Comancheros. They belonged to a trade gang I helped break up last summer.”

  “So I take it those two have a grudge against you?” she asked.

  “Yep,” Sam said, still staring at the riders, their faces appearing as close to him as the woman at his side.

  “This is great,” she said, leaning back even farther, weighing the odds of her being able to reach around and draw the Colt without him knowing it. “Now we’ve got Apache to worry about.”

  “Not Apache,” Sam corrected her. “Renegades.”

  “What’s the difference? They used to be Apache, didn’t they?” she said.

  “No,” he corrected her again. “They used to be Comanche.” He watched the leader of the riders bob in the circle of the field lens as he spoke.

  “How do you know they used to be Comanche?” she asked, straining to see the riders with her naked eyes.

  “The one in front is wearing a buffalo headdress,” said Sam. “Comanche are the only Indians who wear them. He’s not supposed to, being a cast-out.”

  “A cast-out?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Sam. “This bunch was cast out by Quanah Parker himself when they refused to stop fighting a couple of years back.”

  “You—you know these men?” Kitty asked.

  “I know of them,” the ranger replied. “The leader’s name is Quintos.” He stared through the lens at the young, grim-faced rider. Atop the man’s head sat a bristly buffalo scalp, horns spiking from either side. “He goes by the plains name of Bloody Wolf.”

  “Charming . . . ,” Kitty said, scooting back and slightly around the ranger, preparing to make a grab for his Colt. “And does Mr. Bloody Wolf also have a grudge against you?” She wanted to keep him talking, distracted. So far, so good . . .

  “No more than he does against any white man,” Sam said.

  “Will this keep us from crossing back toward Wild Wind?” she asked, her fingertips inching forward.

  “No,” Sam said. “We’ll be all right as long as we know where they are.” Almost without stopping, he continued by saying in the same calm voice, “I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

  She stopped suddenly, straightened up and dropped her hand onto her lap. “I wasn’t trying anything , Ranger. Honest.”

  “Yeah?�
� Without lowering the lens he replied, “Then why’d you stop?”

  Kitty didn’t answer; she turned her head and spit dryly. “I’ve got to have some water,” she said. She started to stand and walk toward the horses.

  “Stay right where you are,” the ranger ordered. He did not reach up and grab her arm, but his stern tone of voice caused her to drop back down instantly, almost as if he had.

  “Damn it, Ranger Burrack,” she said as she plopped back onto the dirt. “I’m not going to try anything. I’d be a fool to. The least sound I make, those renegades would be on me before I could get halfway across the flatlands.”

  Sam lowered the lens enough to turn a cold stare toward her. “That wasn’t going to stop you from shooting me in the back.”

  “I wasn’t thinking when I did that,” said Kitty, recovering quickly. “I’m glad you stopped me. I’ve had time to think about it. Besides, I wasn’t going to shoot you in the back. I’m not that cold-blooded.”

  “Andy Weeks would have been glad to hear that,” Sam replied, collapsing the telescope between his palms. He stood up and reached a hand down to help her rise to her feet.

  “Oh,” she said, dusting off the seat of her trousers, “so we were getting up to leave; you just wanted to make sure I asked your permission first.”

  “Yes, something like that,” Sam admitted without hesitation. With his naked eyes he caught a glimpse of the riders as they moved out of sight, headed in the same direction he would take to Wild Wind. “From now until we get to town, you do what I say, when I say it.”

  “I don’t follow orders well, Ranger. I do better with polite requests,” she said.

  “No more games, ma’am,” Sam said. He gestured in the direction of the renegades. “Now that these boys are in the mix, we might have our hands full trying to stay alive.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t forced me to come with you,” she said with disdain.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Sam said. “We’re here, like it or not.” He motioned for her to step up into her saddle while he held her horse’s reins. “You know what’s out there. From now on, if you try to run, I might not even try to stop you.” He swung up into his saddle and handed her horse’s reins to her. “Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, we do,” she said grudgingly, turning her horse beside his onto the narrow trail.

  Chapter 5

  At the sight of the seven riders, Silva “the Snake” Ceran eased his horse into a dense stand of scrub cedar and sat midtrail, his hand resting on the Winchester lying across his lap. Seeing him, Quintos raised a hand as he reined his own horse to a halt. Behind him the other six did the same, spreading out on either side.

  “Six abreast,” Silva said under his breath to the three dismounted gunmen he had positioned out of sight among the cedars. “It looks like Mr. Bloody Wolf knows what he’s doing.”

  A half-Mexican gunman named Paco Stazo stood leaning against a large pile of downed cedar and dry bracken, out of sight, his rifle poised and ready. He nodded and continued watching Quintos warily. Two bandoleers of ammunition crisscrossed his broad chest. Across the trail, two other gunmen lay in wait, one of them a former Methodist minister named Alvin “the Reverend” Prew; the other a wanted killer named Charlie Jenkins.

  From one end of the riders spread abreast across the trail, a ragged Comanchero named Mason “Dad” Lafrey rode to the center and stopped at Quintos’ side. Lafrey wore a full black beard that covered most of his face, beneath a battered top hat and dirty, fringed deerskin coat.

  “It’s him, Bloody Wolf,” Dad Lafrey said.

  “You said he would meet us in Wild Wind,” Quintos said, without taking his stare off Silva Ceran, who sat fifteen yards away staring back at him.

  “He’s a cautious man, Bloody,” Lafrey replied. “He must not have wanted anybody knowing his exact whereabouts. You got to respect him for that.”

  Quintos paused and considered it for a moment. “Yes, it is good that he is cautious. I too am cautious when caution is needed.” He tapped the heels of his calf-high moccasins to his mustang’s sides and nudged the horse forward slowly.

  “I appreciate that. Yes, sir, I do,” said Lafrey, trying to placate the solemn renegade.

  Watching the renegade ride forward in his buffalo-horn headdress, Charlie Jenkins grinned and whispered to Alvin Prew beside him, “This one is going to be a real huckleberry, Reverend. I’ll bet on it.”

  “Silence, Charlie,” the ex-minister demanded. He turned a cold stare to Jenkins, then looked back at Quintos. “I want to observe what kind of man will be riding with us.”

  A few feet from Silva Ceran, the young renegade stopped his horse and made a quarter turn in Ceran’s direction. He looked Ceran up and down with a flat expression.

  “All right, now. Here we all are together!” Lafrey said, grinning, trying to sidestep a tense silence before it set in. “All us rough ol’ boys gathering up to see what we can—”

  “Shut up, Dad, and get on with it,” Ceran said, his eyes locked on Quintos as he spoke.

  Dad Lafrey fell silent, then backed his horse a step and said in meek tone, “Anyway, Silva . . . this here is Quintos, or Bloody Wolf, if you prefer.”

  Ceran gave a nod.

  “Quintos,” said Lafrey, “this is—”

  “I know who this is,” barked Quintos. To Silva Ceran he said, “I was told you would meet me in Wild Wind.”

  “This is Wild Wind, far as I’m concerned,” said Ceran. “What do you think we meant? We’d meet at a town social, have some cider and pie?” A faint smile stirred on his lips. “Are we going to argue starting right off?”

  Quintos let out a breath and looked all around, noting the gunmen on either side of the trail. “No, I join you in order to make money for guns, in order to fight the white eyes. When we have enough money to do this, I will take my men and we will leave. Do we understand each other’s words?”

  “Yep.” Ceran nodded. “I don’t care what you and your men do after you leave. While you’re riding with me, I only want to know that your men are ready to die for you at the drop of a hat.”

  Without taking his eyes off of Ceran, Quintos raised a hand in the air and gave a sign with his fingers. “Are my warriors ready to die with me this day?” he called out over his shoulder.

  Across the trail behind him four rifles came up and cocked toward Silva Ceran. On either side of the trail, Ceran’s men aimed their rifles in return. Ceran didn’t so much as flinch; he sat staring at Quintos, calm and steady.

  But not Lafrey. “Jesus!” he bellowed, hurling himself from his saddle and scurrying across the rocky trail before he realized no one was firing. His hat flew off when he hit the ground.

  Both Ceran and Quintos turned a look of disgust toward the fleeing Comanchero, who stopped crawling and looked back, red-faced, over his shoulder. “Get up, Dad,” Ceran said with contempt.

  Lafrey rose to his feet with a sheepish look and dusted off his trouser knees and his palms. “I can see right now, both you fellows like strong play. Next time I’ll know more what to expect.”

  All the men on the trail stared at Lafrey until he’d gathered his battered hat and climbed back into his saddle. “Do you need to step into the brush and attend to yourself, Dad?” Ceran asked.

  “It is no wonder Comancheros vanish the same way as the buffalo,” said Quintos.

  Without answering, Lafrey stared away from the two and grumbled under his breath. Back on the trail with the other renegades, Huey Buckles shook his head and breathed in relief. He had come very near to doing the same as Lafrey. Lucky for me, I was too slow, he thought, still feeling embarrassed by it.

  “Are you ready to ride?” Ceran asked Quintos, the two more at ease with each other.

  “Yes, but I will warn you of this,” said Quintos. “There is someone on our trail.”

  “Oh? How many?” Ceran gave a calm look along the trail.

  “I do not know,” said Quintos. “But
I know they are there. I have felt their eyes on my back throughout the day.” He gestured toward the ridges and paths above and behind him.

  “Yeah? Why didn’t you and your men stop and kill them?” Ceran asked.

  Quintos only stared at him.

  “Paco,” Ceran said toward the gunman standing off the trail to his right, “ride back and bring us the head of whoever’s following our friend here.”

  “Sí,” said Paco, stepping up quickly onto the trail, leading his horse behind him.

  Ceran stared past Quintos and called out to one of the mounted renegades on the trail behind him, “You, with the bad nose. Go with him. Both of you take care of this business. Meet us farther along the trail.”

  An Indian with a flat, pinched nose looked to Quintos for direction.

  “You heard him, Two Horses,” Quintos said to the renegade. “Obey this man’s order. He is in charge of us now.”

  The renegade didn’t question Quintos. Instead he rode forward and looked at Paco as the Mexican stepped into his saddle and nudged his horse forward.

  As the pair rode away off the trail and through a hillside of brush and rock, the Snake took on a look of satisfaction, liking the way Quintos had handed the authority right over to him.

  Reading Ceran’s expression, Quintos said, “This is how it must be. There is only one leader. While my warriors and I ride with you, you are that leader.”

  “Keep that in mind, and you and I are going to get along just fine, Bloody Wolf,” said Ceran, nudging his horse closer and slipping his rifle back into his boot.

  Paco and Two Horses rode in silence until they reached a covered ridgeline only a short distance above a flatland trail. When they’d dismounted and hidden their horses, the young renegade took a position behind the low bough of a scrub cedar and sat watching the path, almost unblinking, for nearly a half hour. Five yards away, Paco sat watching just as intently, until finally both men watched a single figure round a turn into sight, afoot on the rocky trail.