Overland Stage

by Paul Lederer

  ‘How would I know!’ Bell shot back angrily. ‘Keep looking … no.’ He changed his mind suddenly. ‘Let’s get the hostages and the coach back to Ranchita. We don’t know if there might be an army patrol in the area, looking for the Apache renegades. Someone could have heard the shots. Back the team, Monty! You can turn them in that small clearing.’

  The man on the roan horse was still only a few feet from Cameron. If he looked down … but he did not. He was looking for a running man, and now the commands of Bell caused him to turn his horse’s head with an angry jerk and start back toward the body of horsemen with a muffled curse.

  Cameron heard a few more shouts, the crack of a whip and the squeal of an ungreased wheel hub as the team sloshed through the mud, drawing the stagecoach into the gray obscurity of the day.

  Then he heard nothing at all, only the steady falling of the rain, the rush of the rain-swollen creek behind him, and he rose stiffly to his feet, holstering his pistol. Clambering up onto flat ground he stood looking into the distances. There weren’t many options remaining to him. He could start walking toward the fort, miles away through the rain and mud where they would probably throw him into the brig before he was even allowed to tell his story. He could start hiking south toward Texas or Mexico beyond, but with no supplies to sustain him, no hope of traveling that far afoot.

  Or he could try to somehow rescue Eleanor from the comancheros. This offered the least promise of all his options, and seemed the surest path to death. He thought of her dark eyes and of the rough way she might be treated at the hands of the bandits. Then, sighing deeply, Cameron Black began slogging up the trail, following the deep ruts the stagecoach had left in the sodden earth.

  The rain had lessened, and now and then he saw a patch of blue overhead. Still the wind gusted, playing free in the surrounding trees, casting whimsical shadows. When the dark silhouette loomed up in front of him he drew his Colt and braced himself for the sudden thunder of outlaw guns.

  Blinking to clear the rain from his eyes, he smiled thinly as he recognized the dark figure for what it was, holstered his gun and started forward in stealthy strides toward the wary gray horse standing alone in the rain.

  Its master had been blown from its back when Eleanor triggered off her single shot, and the horse had run. None of the outlaws had caught it up and in the confusion it had not followed along. Glancing at the trailing reins, Cameron saw that the troubled horse had walked quite a way trampling its own leads, sending perplexing messages to its mind. Cameron spoke softly as he approached the shuddering animal.

  ‘That’s all right, big fellow. I’ll take care of you.’ He stretched out a hand and the big gray tossed its head defiantly. Cameron crept nearer, still holding out his hand and the horse blew sharply through its nostrils, and then, needing human companionship, bowed its neck and trembled only slightly as Cameron caught up its reins and began to stroke its muzzle, continuing to speak in low tones.

  For a few long minutes as the reluctant horse sidled, Cameron held the reins tightly and with one hand checked the double cinches of the Texas-rigged saddle. He noticed that the dead man had left his Henry repeater in the saddle scabbard and there was a bedroll tied up behind the Mexican saddle with its high cantle. It appeared the comanchero had once been a working vaquero – or had stolen horse and rig from such a man.

  The big gray with the splash of white across its chest had calmed and, as Cameron swung aboard, the animal seemed more at peace, returning to a familiar role. ‘Do you know the way home?’ Cameron asked, patting the gray’s heavily muscled neck. ‘Let’s see if we can find the way.’

  They started up the trail once more, not hurriedly, for the stage was not going to be travelling quickly, and he didn’t want to come up on the comancheros suddenly. The ruts cut by the wheels were still deep and clear in the red mud. He followed on.

  As the day passed, the storm broke; there were scattered clouds here and there, but the rain was much lighter. Still it was cool and Cameron sat with his shoulders tightly hunched in the black slicker he wore. To the west now the sun was slowly falling into the cradle of the mountains and the sky in that direction was a web of crimson and pure gold thrown against the jumbled clouds. To the east the sky was purpling rapidly. A single star was already visible above the horizon.

  The tracks were growing more difficult to distinguish in the gathering gloom. After nightfall his task would be impossible. And how long could he dare leave Eleanor in the outlaws’ hands?

  The horse now tossed its head and resisted the reins assertively. Cameron drew up and swung down to study the dark trail. The wheel ruts seemed to have vanished into the night. The ground here was rockier, the iron wheels of the coach not cutting so deeply. Cameron returned to an earlier thought.

  ‘You do know the way home, don’t you?’ he asked softly, remounting. Well, maybe the big gray did not, but it probably had a much better idea than Cameron did. His only alternative now was to camp for the night and wait until dawn which might again mean more rain and a trail which was utterly lost, erased by a fresh downpour. Eleanor could not wait long for him.

  He gave the gray horse its head.

  It walked on through the darkness, scrambling up the slope to the north, a long incline littered with small round stones, offering treacherous footing. Cameron wondered if the stage could possibly have even made it up this rise. But he had decided to trust to the horse’s instincts and let it continue on its way.

  As they crested out the rise the horse seemed to move more eagerly, apparently confident in its chosen course. Cameron held it up briefly as they crested out the trail, letting the horse blow as he studied the land ahead by the feeble light of the drifting silver half-moon and the veiled stars.

  The land was rugged, broken and folded, ominous in the pervading darkness with only here and there hints of moonlight reflected on rain-glossed sheets of basalt. Studying the land intently he thought he saw – only once – the tiniest pinprick of light, a flicker of flame far distant, and then that, too, vanished into the depths of the night’s folds. Already, he knew, he could be miles in the opposite direction from the one the bandits had taken. Yet he had chosen this course, trusting to the horse’s instincts. It made no sense to stop and camp, wait for dawn’s light. It made no sense to reverse course when he had no idea if that was also the wrong direction. He had trusted the animal this far, and so – knowing that he could be riding farther and farther away from a desperate Eleanor – he nudged the big gray with his knees and let it continue on its way, into the midnight depths of the desert night.

  The trail the gray horse followed was churned mud and littered stone. The hills rose in blurred shoulders. The damp scent was mostly of sage. He saw a clump or two of sour oak, and once a stand of sycamore trees in the creekbed below where a silver rill flashed though a moonlit channel, but for the most part the land was dark and empty. Cresting another rise he slowed the horse again and stared out across the undulating blackness. Still there were no structures, not a single light visible. The clouds had broken and they hung like silver sheets across the sky, but the moonlight was still only intermittent, the stars seemingly smothered by a haze at a higher level.

  Had he been mistaken when he believed he had glimpsed a light earlier? The horse seemed to believe that it was heading home, yet Cameron did not completely trust its instincts. The gray could have been heading for a farm remembered from long ago where it had been raised and possibly stolen. Cameron rubbed his bleared eyes with his rough hand and let the horse make its way ahead down the rocky slope where nopal cactus grew in thick, menacing clumps.

  The outlaws had mentioned the name ‘Ranchita’ several times as their destination, but Cameron had never heard of such a place. It could be a small isolated town, or, as the name suggested, only a small rancho tucked away in the far hills. He had no way of knowing.

  For a time Cameron dozed in the saddle, jerking awake as the horse mis-stepped crossing a narrow wash. That would not do! Wear
y as he was he had to stay alert. The gray wound its way up a trail no wider than a rabbit run, and Cameron thought: How could a stagecoach possibly have been driven this way? Of course it could be that the outlaws knew another, easier route and the horse was taking a shortcut it was familiar with, but as the hours passed and the moon wheeled slowly toward the east, Cameron’s heart began to be weighted with desperation.

  They rounded the bend in the trail and Cameron slowed the big horse again, wanting to survey the land ahead. A voice spoke quietly from behind the screen of manzanita beside the trail.

  ‘Just swing down easy, partner,’ the man said, and he emerged with his rifle in hand, moonlight glinting on the barrel of his weapon. Cameron did not move. The man paused, momentarily puzzled, it seemed. Then Cameron knew why that was – the outlaw had recognized the big gray with the splash of white on its chest and taken the rider for a friend. Peering out of the darkness the bandit said, ‘Ramon? What the hell are you doing out here all alone? I thought you went with—’

  Cameron had let the man come a few steps nearer. He eased his boots from the stirrup irons as he waited, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. The outlaw took two more hesitant steps toward him and Cameron launched himself from the gray’s back.

  Cameron slammed into the outlaw hard and the two men rolled to the muddy earth, the bandit’s rifle flying from his hand, sliding away. Cameron tried clubbing the outlaw down, but he was a big man and quick. He blocked Cameron’s right-hand blow and rolled aside, coming to his feet in a fighting stance. Cameron was up just as quickly. The outlaw kicked at Cameron’s crotch but he was able to block the attempt by crossing a knee. The maneuver left him off-balance and as the comanchero’s boot glanced off his thigh, he was sent sprawling again.

  Cameron landed face down in the mud and he felt the sudden rush of hot blood high on his cheek. Rolling, he was able to counter the outlaw as he came in by doubling up his legs and kicking out hard. With a grunt the comanchero was sent staggering backward, and Cameron drew himself to his feet again.

  His opponent waded in, swinging with both fists. Cameron ducked the first blow, took a second thudding punch to his lower body just above his beltline. Cameron staggered back three steps and then stuck a straight left into the bandit’s face, holding him off. A second stiff jab caught the badman flush on the jaw and sent him reeling to the side, his guard lowered.

  With a warrior’s instinct, Cameron waded in swiftly, doubling the comanchero up with a right to his wind and a following right hook which whistled past the outlaw’s guard to tag him solidly on the temple. The outlaw looked up with wide eyes, seeing nothing. Cameron drove another right hand in over the top and that finished the comanchero. He went to his knees, hands waving feebly, and then collapsed into the muddy earth, motionless.

  Cameron stepped away, panting heavily, rubbing his split knuckles.

  ‘That wasn’t bad,’ a cool voice said from behind him. ‘Dockery there isn’t a bad fighter. Now I’d appreciate if you’d hoist those hands high, mister. I’m not alone,’ he said with faint amusement. ‘I’ve got a big old Spencer repeater in my hands and you know where the muzzle’s trained.’

  Cameron felt the gun barrel stab roughly against his spine and a swift hand slipped the Colt from his holster. The man on the ground, the one called Dockery, sat up, holding his head. As his eyes cleared, his lips split into a cruel smile. He rose unsteadily but deliberately, drawing a heavy bowie knife from his belt sheath.

  ‘I want his gizzard,’ Dockery said.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ the man with the rifle responded. ‘Bell wants to talk to him.’

  After a long pause during which Cameron could hear the man’s heavy breathing, he agreed.

  ‘All right,’ Dockery said, reluctantly sheathing his knife. He swept back his long stringy hair with muddy hands, took two strides to where Cameron stood, hands above his head and slammed a powerful right fist into Cam’s face. Cameron went to his knees, warm blood streaming from his nose.

  ‘That’ll have to satisfy me,’ Dockery panted, hovering over his victim. ‘For now.’

  Cameron was yanked roughly to his feet and taken to the gray horse where he was thrown onto the saddle. The rifle had been slipped from its scabbard and one of the two men had produced a pair of piggin strings. The man looped the rawhide strips around Cameron’s wrists, fastening them to the saddlehorn with the skilled swiftness of a practiced cowman, and Cameron found himself trussed as quickly and surely as a thrown calf at branding time.

  Dockery stepped nearer in the darkness. Cameron could see the rivulets of blood, appearing black in the night, on the comanchero’s split cheek. Staring up, Dockery’s rough voice promised, ‘After you’ve done your business with Bell, you’re all mine. You’ll never ride out of these hills alive.’

  They rode on then into the crooked hills, their shadows cast long by the fading eastern moon. The miles seemed interminable. The two men flanking Cameron did not speak as the horses plodded on. The broken clouds were drifting away on the wind and the stars grew in numbers and brilliance. The moon was only a hazy memory on the eastern horizon and judging by the angle of the Dipper’s handle it was somewhere near two in the morning when Cameron saw the lights of an encampment ahead.

  His head ached now and his shoulders were stiff from being immobilized. His breathing came raggedly after Dockery’s last shot to his face; blood stood caked in his nostrils. The gray horse had lifted its head and pricked its ears, smelling others of its kind and it moved on with eager weariness.

  Cameron could now see the camp clearly by starlight. There were half-a-dozen small adobe buildings and one larger structure, also of adobe and pole construction. He saw a corral set at a distance, far enough to keep the horse-scent from the houses, but near enough to be rushed to in an emergency. By the number of buildings, their size, Cameron guessed that there could not be more than thirty men stationed here. There were twice that many horses in the corral, it being usual for outlaws on the run to lead an extra, fresh mount, when trying to outrun the law or the army.

  Bell’s force was relatively small, the army having estimated the year before that there were hundreds of comancheros, perhaps a thousand in all, roaming the South-western desert. Perhaps it was their habit to disperse themselves, like raiding Indian bands; perhaps Bell had broken with the leadership of the larger contingent.

  It made no difference. A thousand men, or thirty, or ten, they were too many for Cameron to have a chance against even had he been free and armed. He was neither at the moment, and could only curse his luck silently as the riders approached the largest of the buildings where a lantern glowed faintly behind an oiled-paper window.

  Bell would be waiting there, an angry Bell. And Eleanor? Was she all right? If not, Cameron swore that he would use main strength to tear free of his bonds and if it cost him his last breath, he would tear the throat from the comanchero leader.

  He forced himself to quiet his emotions for the moment. At the crooked hitchrail before the adobe, the two outlaws who had been guarding him looped their reins to secure their horses and came back for him. Untying Cameron’s hands, they dragged him roughly from the saddle.

  Struggling would have been useless and so he stood submissively beside the gray horse, staring at the front door which suddenly opened to reveal the silhouetted form of Bell, twin pistols holstered at his side, his mouth carved into a brutal grin.

  ‘Bring him in, hombres,’ Bell said softly. There was menace and anger behind the softness of his voice and the slash of a smile he wore. ‘Mr Black and I have a lot to talk about.’

  SIX

  The heavily armed men escorted Cameron Black up onto the low porch before the adobe structure. Entering the house, Cameron now saw that Frank Bell was attired in black jeans and a pressed white shirt open at the collar. He was an inch or so shorter than Cameron, a little slimmer in the shoulders, but in the ragged state Cameron was now in, he felt that he was like a mongrel dog in the presence of a lean wolf.<
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  Bell continued to survey Cameron, his fists clenching and unclenching. There was a heavy bruise on the side of Bell’s jaw where Cameron had slammed the butt of his rifle into the comanchero’s face. Unbound, still Cameron knew there was no sense in striking back as Frank Bell stepped suddenly toward him and back-handed him violently, causing blood to begin leaking again from Cam’s battered nose.

  ‘You’ve always been trouble to me,’ Bell said, his voice a low rumble. Then to Dockery he said, ‘Why’d you bring him in here with that slicker on? He’s getting water on my carpet.’

  Dockery’s eyes flashed but he said nothing. Using one hand only he stripped the slicker from Cameron’s back.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ Frank Bell said.

  ‘I know you do,’ Cameron answered calmly, using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the blood from his nose.

  Bell tensed as if he would strike his captive again, but then he seemed to change his mind. ‘Come along with us,’ he said, inclining his head toward a short unlighted corridor. Cameron followed Bell to a low, dimly lighted room, prodded ahead by Dockery and the nameless comanchero he had met on the trail.

  Bell seated himself in a leather-backed chair behind a rough desk which was bare except for a disassembled pistol. On the wall two lanterns burned low. There were no windows, no other furnishings.

  ‘Let’s have it!’ Bell demanded, as he leaned back in his chair, his right hand on a holstered Colt.

  ‘I want to talk to you alone, Frank,’ Cameron answered.

  ‘I don’t care what you want!’ Bell replied, his wolfish eyes flashing.

  ‘Alone,’ Cameron said stubbornly. ‘Better let me have it my way. You know you can’t beat what you want out of me.’

  Bell considered long and hard; finally he agreed. ‘All right, then. You two can leave us alone.’

  ‘Are you sure you can handle him, Frank?’ Dockery asked.

  ‘I’m armed. He isn’t,’ Bell said, as if the question were a challenge. ‘I told you two to leave us alone.’