Dead Man's Range

by Paul Durst

  ‘From the back, Anson?’ Carmody said.

  ‘Not this time, friend. I want to watch the look on your face when you see it comin’.’ He turned to the kid called Peabody. ‘We’ll be eatin’ early tonight. I want to hit the Merriweather place just at dark when they’ll be havin’ supper. I want to be back here before moonrise just in case somebody might be nosin’ around who might see us. Keep an eye on him. I got a hunch he ain’t as bad sick as he tries to make out, and he might try to slip out.’

  The pale eyes switched eagerly to Carmody. ‘I’ll watch him. And I hope he does try somethin’. That’s all the excuse I want.’

  ‘None of that!’ Anson said angrily. ‘I ain’t havin’ you steal my fun. Clout him if you have to, or shoot him in the leg or somethin’. But I want him alive, understand!’ He looked at Carmody. ‘I want him to hear the Merriweather gal scream when we pour coal oil over her and strike a match.’

  Carmody jerked upright in bed. ‘You dirty…!’

  Anson laughed silently. ‘Pretty frisky all of a sudden for a sick man, ain’t you, Buster?’ He turned away and went down the stairs laughing.

  CHAPTER 12

  A cool breeze moved through the uncurtained window and Carmody realized with a sinking feeling that it was the first cool of approaching evening. The sound of bustling preparation began to be heard down the corrals as mounts were caught and saddled and led to the hitchrack outside the bunkhouse. He heard Anson’s voice reminding somebody to make sure the corks were hammered tight into the jugs of coal oil they were taking along.

  Footsteps came cautiously up the stairs and Wash appeared in the doorway. The old man glanced uneasily at Peabody, then looked at Carmody. ‘They’s eatin’ early tonight, suh. Ah was wonderin’ effin’ you wanted to eat wif’em or maybe later.’ The question in Wash’s eyes was plainer than the question in his words. Did Carmody want to try to get away before the others left; or did he want to let them leave first so that he would have a better chance? Obviously Wash did not know how Anson planned to do it – this killing of Carmody.

  The kid spoke up before Carmody could answer. ‘Don’t worry about him. He won’t even need to eat. He won’t have time to digest it even. It’d be a waste of food.’

  Wash did not turn when the kid spoke. His eyes were on Carmody and they grew wide with fear.

  Carmody said, ‘I don’t want any more horsemeat anyway. If it’s dark and you can’t see what you’re eatin’, that’s one thing. But don’t you bother about any of that horsemeat for me, understand?’

  ‘Yassuh,’ Wash said, ‘Ah unnerstan’. But Ah just thought Ah’d come up an’ tell you hit’s all ready anyway, anytime you wants hit.’ He glanced through the window without raising his head for the kid to see. ‘Hit’s right out dere, dat hossmeat as you calls it – jus’ waitin’ fo’ you.’

  ‘All ready…?’ Carmody said, then stopped.

  ‘Yassuh,’ Wash said quietly, and as he turned away he smiled triumphantly at the look of surprise in Carmody’s eyes.

  When Wash had gone Carmody lay back and closed his eyes, but his heart was pounding furiously. Good old Wash! But he’d taken a big chance saddling that horse in broad daylight.

  Slowly, as though moving in his sleep, he moved his arms, raising them one at a time above his head to grasp the iron frame of the bedstead, testing the muscles in his chest. There was a little pain now, but only a barely perceptible weakness. He felt a surge of exhilaration.

  Relaxing, he opened one eye a slit and looked out of the window at the tops of the trees. About half an hour till sundown. They would all be eating then. That would be the time to do it. Half an hour. Could he lie here that long without moving around, without going crazy waiting?

  The sudden clanging of the triangle shattered the evening stillness and seemed to continue an interminable time before it finally stopped. That would be Wash making sure that Carmody heard.

  The kid got up and went out the stairway and peered down, glowering. He came back and said, more to himself than Carmody, ‘That black devil! He didn’t bring me nothin’ to eat.’ He kicked the chair savagely and sent it spinning, cursing Wash obscenely.

  ‘Maybe he figured you wasn’t hungry, son,’ Carmody said quietly.

  The kid whirled, hand whipping downwards to his gun, his face livid. ‘Damn you, I said don’t call me that!’

  He was standing, spraddle-legged, quivering with anger. Carmody took a deep breath to steady his own voice and said, ‘Remember what Anson said – he wouldn’t be exactly happy if you did what you’re thinkin’ of doin’.’

  ‘Then don’t call me that! He said I could clout you – and I will if you say that again.’

  ‘Why, it just come kind of natural. I always say that to anybody who ain’t dry behind the ears yet, son.’

  The kid whipped out his pistol, flipped it in that expert way, catching it by the barrel and standing over Carmody. ‘Once more!’ he hissed between clenched teeth. ‘Just call me that once more and I’ll pound your brains out!’

  ‘Now don’t get excited, son. You.…’

  That triggered it. Carmody saw the kid draw back and swing down, aiming at his head. He waited, measuring the swing, splitting the fraction of a second it took for the butt to begin its downward arc. Then he changed from a wounded man on a bed into a surprisingly dangerous adversary, and from the startled look in Peabody’s eyes he saw that the kid realized too late the mistake he had made.

  Carmody’s right hand closed over the down-swinging pistol butt and jerked it. The kid tried to hold on, but the smooth barrel gave no grip, the gun came easily into Carmody’s hand. In one uninterrupted motion he came off the bed, swinging his left fist as he drew the gun away in his right. The kid was caught off balance at the end of his down-swing, Carmody’s fist crashed against the unprotected face, sent the gunsharp flying awkwardly against the wall.

  The kid was staggering groggily, his mouth dribbling blood, his fear-laden eyes trying to locate Carmody. Carmody located him first – with the barrel of the .45 just behind the left ear. The kid collapsed like a wet gunnysack and lay in an unmoving heap. ‘Never swing a gun by the barrel, kid – I said I’d teach you the right way!’

  He moved quickly, bending swiftly and stripping off the kid’s outer clothing, boots first, and then gunbelt. The boots were tight and pinched his feet, but it was no time to be choosy. He lifted the inert form onto the bed and began ripping the blanket into strips.

  It took several precious minutes to spread-eagle the kid and tie him hand and foot to the bedstead and gag him firmly. But they were minutes well spent. Every second that his departure went unnoticed meant distance between him and Anvil. When he had finished he stepped to the window for a quick look.

  All was quiet in the gathering twilight. A dozen mounts stood saddled and waiting. He counted them carefully, filing the information away for future use. His eyes shifted to the clump of live oak beyond the buildings and for a second or two doubt assailed him heavily. He could see no horse from here, but he supposed Wash would have hidden it well.

  He fought off the notion. It had to be there. If it wasn’t.… His eyes moved back to the dozen waiting mounts and he shook his head. There was the faint glow of lamplight from the window where the eating crew now sat. It would be impossible to take a horse from under their noses and live to tell about it. He took a last look at the layout of the buildings, marking his course to the oaks. Then he turned and went swiftly but quietly down the stairs.

  In the hall below he thought of the map with the crosses and skulls in the japanned box. Damning evidence which, tied with what he knew now, would end Anson’s empire for ever. But time was ticking steadily away and soon the riders would begin to trickle out of the cookshack. Reluctantly he turned from the hall into the kitchen and crossed carefully onto the back porch.

  From back here he would be out of sight of anybody in or around the cookshack, shielded by the intervening buildings. With a hasty glance to assure himself that
the yard was clear, he opened the screen door and closed it quietly and began running across the yard. He gained the back of the barn and paused, listening. From around the corner came the low murmur of voices and sounds of eating. He hurried on, leaving the barn and ducking low behind the fence that joined the lesser outbuildings.

  There was scattered sagebrush here and he made good use of its cover, running low, dodging deeper and deeper into it, angling away from the buildings. At last he came to the place that had bothered him most – an open stretch of some fifty yards between the nearest sagebrush and the sheltering clump of oak. He slid the gun from its holster and checked the load. He did not reholster it, but held it ready, glancing toward the cookshack, gauging the run across the open. The horses still stood as they were, no sign of movement came yet from the building. But already the sun was gone from the rim of the valley to the west and he knew he had no time to waste.

  He ran across the open stretch, half expecting to hear a shout or the whine of a bullet, and pleasantly surprised when he raised nothing more than a startled jackrabbit. Then he found the horse.

  He came upon it slowly, talking in low tones to quiet it, running his eyes over the mount. And he blessed Wash. The animal was a black gelding, short-coupled and deep-barreled and built for speed. It looked sleek and well-cared for and was obviously not an ordinary working bronc out of anybody’s string. The Anvil brand was plainly etched on the glistening flank and Carmody grinned briefly and wondered how Anson would feel if he knew one of his own personal mounts was to snatch Carmody away from him.

  Untying the lead rope Carmody led the black to the edge of the oaks farthest from the buildings and mounted. He raised his head and marked his course through the covering brush as far as he could, then he picked a distant V in the hills to the north-west which he hoped would bring him out near the Merriweather ranch. He did this in one sweeping glance as he mounted, then reined the black when he heard a voice say, ‘That’ll do, Carmody. Hold it right there!’

  There was a movement in the brush directly ahead of him and Troxel’s head and shoulders rose out of the sage behind a levelled Winchester. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Carmody,’ Troxel went on, ‘but I figured that nigger was up to somethin’ when I saw him saddlin’ Booth’s black this afternoon. I just says to myself, “I’ll stroll out and watch what happens, and maybe Booth’ll be glad I did.” Well, sir, here I am.’

  ‘You should have told Anson right then, Troxel,’ Carmody said, ‘because you sure ain’t goin’ to tell him now.’ Troxel tried to jump aside but he had come too close and when Carmody dug spurs to the black the man went down, struggling frantically to escape the flashing hoofs. He failed, and the sodden snap of the man’s backbone as the horse went over him told Carmody he would have no need for the drawn Colt now in his hand.

  A sudden cry brought Carmody’s head around and he saw a rider emerging from the cookshack pointing in his direction and yelling something. Half a dozen others appeared, pouring from the door into the yard, looking for the cause of the excitement. They followed the first man’s pointing finger, then broke and ran for their horses.

  CHAPTER 13

  The course Carmody had chosen for himself lay at a tangent to the sprawling circle of Anvil outbuildings. Now that his escape had been discovered there was danger of his being cut off. Without slackening speed he took in the surrounding country with a quick sweep of his eyes. His only alternative he decided immediately would be to cut sharply away from the ranch, plunging deeper into Anvil territory in the hopes of eluding his pursuers in the approaching darkness. But this was their range and those riders would be familiar with every inch of it while he was not. There was little cover in the long barren slopes, and if he stuck to the shallow valleys a sudden turning into a blind canyon or an unexpected encounter with a stretch of drift fence would leave him trapped. He decided to ride it out.

  Half a dozen Anvil riders were now mounted and pounding in a close-packed bunch around the cookshack to intercept him before he reached the slope leading out of the valley. He dug his spurs and lashed the black with his rein-ends and felt the bunched muscles beneath him respond in a fresh burst of speed that left the wind singing in his ears. He broke out of the brush in time to see the riders pull up pell-mell in a cloud of dust, finding their way blocked by the slab fence connecting the outbuildings. Except for one man they wheeled in a body and cut back to round the house where there would be nothing between them and Carmody but the open hardpan.

  The remaining rider wheeled back, spurring his horse at the fence. Carmody drew his Colt, watching across his shoulder without breaking the black’s stride. The horse rose to clear the fence, his rider hunched low on his withers. He brought it up by the head, swaying crazily in the saddle as the horse stumbled sideways – then he was straightening out, heading to intercept Carmody, closing the gap between them on a collision course. There was a dull flash in the twilight as the man fired, but the distance was too great and the bullet kicked up the dust a dozen yards away.

  Carmody swept his head around. To his right lay a steep slope climbing up from the valley floor. It would be a labouring climb, bringing the man quickly within gun range from behind. He could not turn back into Anvil territory, he had already decided that. The only course was to plunge ahead as he was now, with the gap between them steadily diminishing. The whip of a bullet past his head brought him around in the saddle. He could see the shadowy outline of the Anvil rider less clearly now in the deepening twilight. The man fired again, orange flame flickering and disappearing. Carmody wrapped the reins around the horn and lifted his Colt, cradling it in the crook of his left elbow to steady it. Man and horse were blurred into one indistinct shadow. He took aim as well as he could and fired.

  The shadow broke in two as the horse somersaulted, catapulting the rider into the air. Carmody saw him for a brief instant, legs and arms flying – then he disappeared.

  The black’s pace slackened a little now and Carmody knew he was off the flat and climbing gently out the valley toward the V in the low hills to the north-west. He glanced ahead. The V was indistinct now and he took a quick bearing on the few scattered evening stars to mark his way, then turned to look back while he reloaded.

  Then he thought of something that brought his head around with a curse. The fence!

  Somewhere up there ahead in the darkness those three tough thin strands of wire stretched along the border of Anvil range, blocking his way as effectively as a band of armed horsemen. And, at the speed he would be travelling if he hit it, just as deadly.

  The question was – how far?

  He racked his brain, trying to remember how far he had ridden from the gap-gate to Anvil headquarters after his gunfight with Hacker and Hallstead. Four or five miles, but he couldn’t be sure. And his course now was at an unknown angle lengthening the distance, perhaps by a mile, perhaps more. The point that bothered him was that he couldn’t afford to poke along cautiously in the starlight, feeling for the fence when it might yet be a mile or two away. The men behind would know its position to a yard and would not slacken pace until they came to it or caught up with him. His present lead was, then, only a temporary thing.

  With luck, as the starlight brightened and his eyes adjusted to it, he might see the fence sufficiently in advance to slow down. Crossing it would be only a matter of minutes to kick out the staples and tramp the wire down while he led the black across. But first he had to find the fence. And if he should come upon it against the shadow of a hill or in broken country or brush – then he would cut the black to ribbons and probably break his own neck before he could notice the fence was there.

  He covered another mile or two without slackening speed, the feeling of apprehension growing within him. He was well out of the valley now and riding through the shallow V in the gently rolling hills. The country here was flatter, and that was to his advantage – except that he remembered that where it bordered Anne’s place the ridge was generally broken and cut by gullies alo
ng the slope. But that gave him something to go by.

  He crossed a ridge and the black veered sharply almost unseating him. A black opening yawned beside him in the starlight, widening as it dropped down the slope. For the first time Carmody reined and let the horse blow while his eyes followed the shallow gully the black had swerved to avoid. Then he saw it, standing faint in the starlight not a dozen yards ahead. A fencepost. He shifted his gaze and found another, and a feeling of elation surged through him. Then he thought of what would have happened if the black had not swerved and the feeling gave way to a small shiver that chased down his spine. He eased the black forward and dismounted.

  The staples, he found, were inside, facing Anvil range. He braced his boot against the post and took the top wire in his hands and gave a mighty heave. The wire creaked, then the staple suddenly gave and hit him sharply in the chest. He repeated the process twice more then held the wires down with his foot and coaxed the horse across. In the clear silence of the night he caught the unmistakable sound of running horses. Still distant, maybe a mile or more, but moving fast. And he still had four, maybe five miles to go. With a quick glance at the stars he mounted and headed the black in a more westerly direction.

  The light, when he saw it, seemed too far to his left and for a moment it confused him. Then he remembered that he had worked well northward during his ride and had come out well down the valley from the Merriweather ranch. He turned the black and plunged down the long slope toward the line of cottonwoods along the creek. Just before he reached them a shadow crossed the lamplight for an instant, and then the light went out. They had heard him coming.

  He hit the creek in a cascade of flying spray and wheeled across the flat when the full meaning of the darkened house struck him and he reined to a skidding halt. He opened his mouth to yell when the hardpan beside him geysered a shower of earth and sand and he ducked involuntarily. The boom of a heavy Sharp’s followed on the whine of the riccochet and he found his lungs and bellowed, ‘Carmody here! Hey, Caleb, hold it!’