Walsh covered about fifteen tedious miles that day before coming upon recent wagon tracks that led to a gravel bottomed canyon between two steep-sided mountains. This created a route through more rugged mountains and low hills that formed a barrier between Henry Valley and Crawley’s range.
Walsh followed the wagon tracks for a few hundred feet up the wash and noticed how they overlayed a group of unshod horse tracks going the opposite direction.
From what Nellie said, this must be the war party that Jonas and the Crawleys tangled with at the top of the canyon. That means on the other side of these hills is Crawley range and I don’t think my horse can take a steep climb over the top so I’ll have to chance this canyon passage too, Walsh concluded as he headed his horse up the dry stream bed.
The canyon became steeper the higher Walsh climbed. Nearly vertical walls closed in and blocked out direct sunlight. In one spot, canyon walls narrowed to not much wider than a wagon. He marveled that Jonas could drive a wagon down this wash and keep it in one piece. I‘d hate to be in here if it rains, there would be no escape if a flash flood comes roaring down, he shudders trying to ignore a touch of phobia.
Walsh finally climbed out of the canyon as shadows lengthened and a sun low on the horizon prompted him to look for another secure campsite before it got dark. He found a shallow cave gouged out of the canyon wall that could conceal a small cooking fire unless someone got close enough to smell it.
Walsh set up his simple camp and shaved a handful of jerky into his cooking tin along with a sliced onion, carrot and a half-quart of water. Simmering the stew then adding a few pinches of flour created a warming and filling meal.
Hopefully, tomorrow I can get beyond anyone looking for me and make some fast tracks south out and kiss this gawddamned country goodbye forever, Walsh reflected as the fire burned down and sleep overtook him. His last thoughts merged into a dream of a warmer place in California he could be enjoying in a month or so.
About five miles south as the crow flies on the other side of the mountain from Walsh, Steed and his two companions also stopped to camp for the night. Well supplied with a couple of pack mules of food and gear, theirs would be a more comfortable night than the man they planned to hunt down on the morrow.
After a meal of bread, beans and salt pork, Steed dragged a log up to the fire for a camp stool, picked up a stick and pushed pieces of half-burnt wood back into the flames. “We’ve covered quite a bit of territory today and haven’t cut sign of anyone other than a bunch of unshod horses from a few days ago. If we split up tomorrow, we can cover more territory. I’ll go north as far as Squaw Canyon and work south along the foothills. You two search in about a three mile circle of camp and we’ll meet back here mid afternoon,” Steed said, his eyes glinting with anticipation in the firelight. Old memories of thrilling guerilla raids, man hunts and plundering towns from the war flooded back. Times then were much more exciting for him than his present occupation of punching cows or riding fence.
Morning dawned warmer than the day before due to a southern breeze that carried the pungent smell of sage intensified by warm air and higher humidity. A sunrise of bright pink, red and orange streamers along with scuttling dark clouds also promised a weather change for the worse.
Walsh, eager to put as many miles as possible between him and any pursuers before it rained, fixed a quick breakfast of black coffee and hardtack. He scanned the sky and noted dark clouds moving up from the southwest. Glad I’m out of that death trap. Getting caught in a narrow canyon with a wall of water coming down isn’t my idea of a fun time, he thought guiding his horse onto a flat area at the top of the saddle where the Crawley party had fought off Bannock renegades.
Empty brass littered the area where their wagon was parked and smashed rifles, arrows and bows attest to a ferocious fight. Walsh noticed that the Bannocks had returned and retrieved their dead and wounded. He stared at the battle site from his horse wondering what it would be like fighting for your life against charging renegades. He had run into Indians of several tribes on many occasions and traded with them, but had never encountered any hostiles or gotten into a fight.
A few raindrops interrupted his thoughts. Dark swirling storm clouds gathered overhead promising a heavy rain. Not wanting to linger and get caught in a downpour, Walsh started down the switch back wagon track toward the valley below. Fortunately after a brief sprinkle, the threatening storm veered northeast and dumped rain on higher peaks to the east sparing him a cold drenching.
Walsh decided to take a more direct route rather than stay with the switch-backs and urged his horse straight down the slope. In places, his horse slid on its haunches sending small avalanches of rocks and dirt ahead of them.
They made it safely down the slope in a cloud of dust to a flat open spot in the junipers and scrub oak. Walsh had a clear view of a large circular valley that spread out before him. Barely visible towards the center, he spotted what must be the Crawley ranch buildings. A hot flash of anger burned through him. This is as close as I want to get to that damn bitch who probably wants my hide tacked over her fireplace, he thought and spurred his horse on a southerly course along the foothills trying to blend in with terrain and cover as much as possible.
From early daylight to well after sunup, Steed rode back and forth through foothills and small canyons looking for the tracks of a shod horse. Ahead, mountains and hills of Circle C’s northern boundary loomed large and he saw the saddle where he reasoned Walsh would likely traverse if he was indeed working his way south.
Steed stopped next to a rock outcropping about halfway up a small hill and dismounted. He removed a pair of field glasses and some jerky from his saddlebag and started glassing the slopes ahead while chewing on the dried beef. A couple of scrub jays hopped from branch to branch in a nearby juniper, their high-pitched cry the only sound. Nothing moved, not even a breeze. He rested elbows on his knees, pressed the eyepieces of his field glasses tightly against his face to block out light and studied the foothills looking for out-of-place shadows, movement or anything unusual.
Glassing south, Steed suddenly caught a fleeting movement between two Junipers. He held his breath and slowly rescanned the area. The movement turned out to be several magpies flitting among the branches. He slowly exhaled, wiped his eyes with a bandana and resumed glassing the foothills pausing at clearings and dark areas looking for movement.
An hour passed. Dark rain clouds that had threatened the area earlier moved out and the sun broke through. It started to get uncomfortably hot on the south facing side hill. Sweat ran down Steed’s forehead and back. His eyeballs throbbed. He had a hard time keeping his vision from blurring. He was about to call it quits when a slight movement at the edge of a clearing caught his attention.
Steed held on the clearing and suddenly caught more movement. Was that the tail end of a horse fading into some scrub oak about 600 yards away? He speculated excitedly. He was not sure and held his breath trying to stabilize the image. That’s it...more movement. He picked out the image of a rider cautiously picking his way through the trees like a mule deer trying to stealthily slip away from hunters.
Got him, damn it...I got him for sure. Steed exulted excitedly as he grabbed the reins of his horse. He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard, jacked a round into the chamber and catapulted into the saddle.
Steed’s plan of action was a simple one learned from his days with Quantrill’s Raiders: charge directly toward your quarry with guns blazing. Count on shock and intimidation with no finesse or feinting maneuvers. This usually scattered any resistance and made the job of mopping up the few who didn’t immediately turn tail and run much easier.
Chapter 8
An exhausted sheriff Williams and his deputy, Jonas rode down Henryville’s dusty main street leading two mounts. One carried a man slumped in the saddle handcuffed; the other – a mule – was burdened with a canvas covered body draped over a saddle.
Williams turned to his deputy and nodded at the mu
le, “Take the body over to Nathan...tell him to bury him and the town will pick up the usual cost.” He tossed Jonas the horse’s lead rope.
Jonas angled off toward the jail with the mule and unlucky rustler who made the mistake of trying to shoot it out with the two lawmen.
“What’s going to happen to me?” the surviving rustler said in a broken voice as Williams pushed him into a cell, slammed the iron barred door shut and dropped the locking bar.
“Don’t know. It ain’t up to me. The territorial judge will ride in sometime this week and he’ll decide. Until then you’re here to stay. It could be worse; you could be the one pushing up daises in the cemetery instead of that stupid brother of yours,” Williams said with a touch of wry humor.
Jonas entered the office area his spurs dragging on the plank floor and slumped into a chair as Williams pulled the door to the cell block area shut and turned the large brass key until the lock clicked. “Ya know, Nate, not long ago we’d have shot or hung the other rustler rather than bring him in for the judge to sentence...if we could’ve found one. It’d save the cost of trial and keeping him locked up. But, times’ a changing. I wonder if getting civilized so we can be part of the union is worth it.”
“I hear ya. But right now with a bath and some of Nellie’s cooking, I’d enjoy feeling right civilized again,” Williams said as he unbuckled his spurs and tossed them with a thud into a corner behind the desk.
“I’ll second that. By-the-way, that was some shooting plugging that rustler dead center when he jumped from behind a rock and spooked your horse.”
“Well, it was reflex and a lot of luck, besides it’s pretty chancy trying to hit a man from a bucking horse with a six gun, especially one that’s a shootin’ back at ya’,” Williams replied reaching down and pulling a nearly empty bottle of brandy from his desk drawer. He divided the remaining liquor between two shot glasses. “Now we’ve recovered most of the Box S cows these rustlers rounded up, we need to think about finding this Walsh fellow. The judge wasn’t too happy that he skedaddled out on the inquest day before yesterday. Although he didn’t issue a bench warrant, he did ask me to look for him and tell him to get his butt in here to tell his side of the story.”
“It’s kinda of damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation, if he hadn’t made tracks there’s not much you could’ve done if a bunch of Circle C hands had decided to string him up,” Jonas countered.
“You’re probably right, but we still have to bring him in so the judge can hear his story and officially clear him. And find him before Silvia’s hired hands do. She’s got ‘em so worked up that they’ll shoot first to make sure they get the bounty and he doesn’t get away again. I think we’re running out time.”
Both men sat silently sipping brandy and savoring its relaxing warmth trying to recover from an exhausting ride. After a few minutes, Jonas slumped in a chair with his eyes closed said quietly. “I’ve been thinking about this Crawley fracas while we was bringing those two scoundrels in. Can’t get it out of my craw. Something keeps bothering me and I can’t throw a rope around it.”
“Yeh, I have the same feeling. Crawley rode in here eight years ago with a lot of money and quickly bought out the best spread in this part of the territory then brought in some good horse and cow bloodlines. He sure started at the top,” Williams said standing up and reaching for his hat. “Let’s get some real grub before we starve...although it’s a waste of food, I suppose we should feed our prisoner too.”
Supper rush hour at the Green Parrot was winding down when the two lawmen walked in. Nellie flashed them a smile that lingered a little longer on Williams. An observant Jonas gave his boss a wink as he led the way to table near the window. “You realize that filly is just waiting for you to throw a lasso around her.”
“Ya think so? But what kind of a life can a lawman offer someone like Nellie?” Williams replied wistfully. “I doubt she’ll be happy with me running all over the territory shootin’ it out with rustlers and trackin’ down varmints. Or face becoming a widow every time I ride out to serve a warrant or bring in a prisoner. ”
Jonas got a big ear-to-ear grin on his face. “Well, you could put on an apron and learn to cook...or wait tables.”
Angela, a new waitress interrupted Williams’ profanity laced reply with elk steaks and a basket of fresh sourdough biscuits. Both men’s ravenous appetites transcended further bantering.
They had just about finished their second round of biscuits, when a couple of dusty Circle C riders sauntered in, nodded a hello and sat down at a nearby table.
Williams turned towards them, “Looks like you two have been putting in some serious saddle time the past couple of days.”
“Not what we’d like,” said the older rider.
“Mrs. Crawley is letting the ranch go to pot. We should be out rounding up spring calves and getting the branding done, but she promoted Steed to ramrod. He took two riders and headed for the north range to look for that Walsh fellow. Most of the other riders she’s got spread all over hell a lookin’. She’s certain he’ll try to ride south through the foothills near Circle C land. She offered a big reward to any hand that brings him in dead or alive,” added the other rider.
“We’re supposed to check out the ranch’s northwest boundary and look for tracks, but decided to make a quick trip to town to get some decent grub. Jose, our regular cookie quit last night and Ruddy took over. And his cooking ain’t fit for a starving buzzard,” the older rider grumbled with a look of disgust. “Flapjacks so thick and hard you could use ’em for wagon wheels and biscuits a crow broke his beak on trying to eat.”
“Don’t blame you. I’ve heard about Ruddy’s cooking skills or lack thereof,” said Williams as he stood up with a grin and tossed a half dollar on the table.
Nellie came over, “Got a fresh apple pie. You two got time for a slice?”
“Sure smells good, but gotta take a rain check, Nellie. Got some unfinished business to take care of. Oh, we got a prisoner over at the jail. Would you send Angela over with some beans and sourdough?” Williams gave her a warm smile as he and Jonas donned their dusty, well-worn Stetsons.
Back at the jail, Williams paced back and forth thinking while Jonas took the food Angela had just delivered back to the prisoner. “Be grateful ya get beans and Nellie’s sourdough, Wilson. I think it’s wasted grub on a low-life rustler like you. Should have brought you back like your brother,” Jonas said his voice heavy with disgust as he passed the food through a slot in the bars.
“Ya all killed my brother, and I shouldn’t even talk to ya. But if I give ya all some information about some planned rustlin’ you lawmen would really like to know about, think the judge will go easier on me?”
Jonas stuck his head out of the cell block, “Nate, ya got a prisoner here who wants to sing like a meadow lark.”
“He does, huh,” Williams walked over to the rustler’s cell. “What ya got, Wilson? Better be good for your sake.”
Wilson moved to the front of the cell and grabbed the bars. “Was over at the Black Widow right after the funeral. Heard two punchers talking about moving cows west to Sugar Loaf butte. They talked like they was Circle C hands. Said with things in such a turmoil at the ranch, this was a good time to round up a bunch of cows and make some fast money.”
“Got some names for me?”
“Don’t know ‘em. First time I’ve seen ‘em around is when we was in town. But one has red hair. They was talkin’ about stashing cows in holdin’ pens along the foothills. When they get a decent number they’ll move ‘em out west and then make a drive south to Silver City.
“Interesting, Wilson. I’ll pass that along to the judge. Can’t promise he’ll be more lenient it’s up to him, but I’ll put in a good word.”
Williams returned to the front office and settled into a comfortable rocker near the window. “It appears that Silvia has sent most of the Circle C riders out to track down Walsh and letting the ranch work go. Too bad that some of her c
ow punchers are trying to take advantage of the situation by rustling a few cows. Said one of ‘em has red hair, know who that fits.”
“Ya, I do. Never did like that sneaky little bastard. Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Well, if you see him, don’t do anything. We need to catch him red-handed before we try to arrest him. I want to make sure any charges we make against him stick.”
Jonas looked out the dirty window with a faint smile. “I promise...but maybe he’ll try to resist.”
“You hope he will. Our first priority here is to find Walsh, The rustling we can take care of later.”
“I agree, Nate. Just hate to see such a fine spread go downhill. But nothing’s going to stop this till we find Walsh. Really don’t want to see him gunned down by a bunch of cowhands out to collect on a bounty. Yeh, we do need to get on this fast.”
Williams leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “So, what’s your thinking?”
“Well, it appears I’m the one who should go track him. I know the country and although Silvia isn’t too happy with me quitting on her, I’m still on good terms with the hands...”
“Makes sense. I admit you can track a fly over slick rock, and I should babysit the prisoner till the judge gets here. Besides, if I wasn’t around to keep an eye on ya, you’d stake Wilson over an anthill considering the bad blood between you two,” Williams said only half joking.
“Son-of-a-bitch of a deserter...well, don’t get me going down that trail, I’m liable to carve him up for the coyotes. Don’t understand why the army didn’t hang him years ago when he deserted at Beecher’s Island.”
Jonas rode his favorite horse, a large bay Morgan, and led a smaller mustang packed with supplies down Main Street. The faint glow of predawn barely silhouetted the eastern peaks and the crisp morning air made the horses frisky. They pranced and kicked up dust as fine as talcum powder that swirled around them and hung in the still air.
Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch Page 8
