Ralph Compton The Convict Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Suddenly Sam was at his elbow. “Marshal,” he said, “one day soon you’re going to have to gun that man.”

  Kane stared at him. “Shoot a cripple?”

  “He’s poison,” Sam said. “Don’t ever take him lightly.”

  “I feel as mean as a mule with a toothache this morning,” Kane said. “I ain’t in the mood to take anything lightly.”

  “You’re feeling mean on account of how you haven’t had your coffee yet. Come an’ get it afore it biles away.”

  Kane glanced at the sky. “Fixin’ to rain again, I reckon.”

  “Rain, shine, it don’t matter, Logan. We got prisoners to collect.”

  Kane was silent for a moment, then stared at Sam. “How come I don’t feel good about that no more? Since I woke this morning, it’s like I’ve been expecting something real bad to happen. Maybe a thing I can’t handle.”

  “Marshal, you’re an ol’ curly wolf from way back, an’ you can handle anything throw’d at you. You jes’ need your coffee is all.”

  Sam was smiling, but his eyes were troubled.

  Chapter 5

  The Texas Rangers had arranged to meet Judge Parker’s deputies a few miles north of the boomtown of Clarksville. The location was an abandoned railroad station that had been built in anticipation of a Texas and Pacific Railway branch line. The rails had never arrived, and the station and the tent-and-tarpaper settlement that sprang up around it had been quickly abandoned.

  Logan Kane and the wagon came down through trees along one side of a pasture that showed signs of having once been earmarked for cattle pens. Five horses and four mules grazed on the thin grass and a convict wagon without a cage stood to one side, its tongue raised. The station itself was an ornate, gingerbread structure that had been painted red at one time. Now its timber had reverted to a silvery gray and the peaked roof sagged, most of its wood shingles long since taken away by winds. Two windows stared blankly out into the pasture, all of their glass panes gone but one. Some ranny had taken a potshot at the surviving pane, but had succeeded only in putting a hole in it. The fractured glass around the bullet hole spread out like a spiderweb.

  Beyond the station, all that was left of the town were a few grassy mounds and broken pieces of lumber. A waterwheel had rusted into immobility and at its base a rotting, fly-specked coyote lay tangled in death.

  Up on the wagon box, Sam looked around him but said nothing. He reined the mules to a halt as Kane rode closer to the station.

  A short, bearded man wearing a grubby collarless shirt and a suit coat three sizes too big for him stepped onto the platform. A .44-40 Yellow Boy hung from the crook of his left arm. Unlike its owner, the rifle was well cared for and its barrel gleamed with an oily sheen.

  Kane drew rein as the small man studied him with hard blue eyes, then said, “State your business.”

  “I’m Deputy Marshal Logan Kane, acting on behalf of Judge Isaac Parker’s court. I’m here to take delivery of six prisoners.”

  The small man looked surprised. “You and who else?”

  “Me an’ my teamster, feller by the name of Sam Shaver.”

  “Mister, there’s nigh on three hunnerd miles of rough country between here an’ Fort Smith.”

  “I know the trail. It’s the way I came south.”

  “They sent only you?”

  “And my teamster.”

  “Then God help you, Marshal. That’s all I can say. You’re either a damned fool or brave too much. Me, another four men an’ a driver escorted the prisoners up from Tyler, an’ I reckoned five rangers wasn’t near enough. In the event, we was lucky, that’s all.”

  The short man hesitated, looking at Kane. He said, “I’m Corporal Dan Hayes, D Company, Texas Rangers. Climb down, then come inside and inspect your prisoners. I expect a receipt, testifying that they were transferred to you in good condition.”

  Kane swung out of the saddle and followed Hayes into the station. The interior walls were gone or had never been built and there was only one cavernous room with a warped, green timber floor. The place was dusty and smelled of decaying wood, and an untidy packrat’s nest lay in one corner.

  Six men sat on the floor, their backs against a wall. All were dressed in nondescript range clothes and battered, shapeless hats, except for one who seemed to be the oldest. That man wore striped pants tucked into high boots, and a fancy embroidered shirt that once had been white but was now stained and dirty. He wore a brown derby hat with an eagle feather stuck in the band, and a large silver ring graced the little finger of his left hand.

  The convicts looked what they were, cold-eyed killers who had long since forgotten if they ever had a conscience and slept without dreams. They closely studied Kane as he walked into the room, measuring him from hat to heels, six dangerous, predatory animals hunting for any sign of weakness.

  Hayes introduced Kane to the four other rangers, hard-bitten, unfriendly men with worn Colts on their hips, their lips thin and tight under sweeping dragoon mustaches. The tough eyes of the lawmen were an even match for the tough eyes of the prisoners and just as measuring. Kane, a cold-eyed man himself, looked right at each one, lawman and outlaw, and did not take a step back from any of them. Over the years, along a hundred dangerous trails, he had written the book on toughness. And he knew it showed on him.

  “Come, meet your charges,” Hayes said, a bemused smile on his face, as though he knew Kane had just fought a successful skirmish in the battle to be acknowledged bull of the woods. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a folded sheet of paper.

  Hayes cleared his throat, then said, “From the left: Buff Stringfellow—convicted of murder, rape and robbery.”

  Stringfellow hawked and spat, narrowly missing Kane’s boots.

  “Kills with a Colt but will use any weapon to hand,” Hayes said.

  “Bennett Starr—murder, rape and robbery. Kills with the Colt.

  “Hick Dietz, murder, rape and robbery. Used a rifle in most of his killings.

  “Amos Albright—murder, rape and robbery.” Hayes’ eyes angled to Kane. “All of his seven victims have been whores. Uses his hands as weapons.

  “Reuben Largo—murder, rape and robbery. Calls himself a preacher and kills with a bowie knife.

  “Joe Foster—murder, rape and robbery.” Again Hayes turned to Kane. “Don’t let his baby face fool you. He’s worse than any of them. Fancies himself a fast man with the Colt and has killed at least six men trying to prove it.”

  “How old are you, boy?” Kane asked Foster.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Well, for one thing, if I end up killing you, Judge Parker will expect me to put your age on my report.”

  “I’m eighteen, and I’ve killed seven men. I like to shoot big men like you. They make a louder noise when they fall. Sometimes, if I’m in a grouchy mood, I plug them in the belly so I can hear them scream.”

  The other convicts laughed, and Stringfellow yelled, “That’s tellin’ him, kid!”

  Hayes ignored the men, as though he’d heard it all before. “Marshal, would you like to address the prisoners?” he asked.

  Kane nodded. “My speech will be short and sweet an’ this is it: Any man who tries to escape between here and Fort Smith, I’ll shoot off his right thumb. Any man who gives me back talk or sass, I’ll shoot off his right thumb. Any man who kicks out at, or in any way abuses or impedes my teamster as he applies or removes shackles, I’ll shoot off his right thumb. Any man who interferes with or in any way harms the civilian population we might encounter on the trail, I’ll shoot off his right thumb. That is all I got to say.”

  Hick Dietz, a tall, heavy-shouldered man with blazing black eyes, jumped to his feet. “Damn you, I’m all through with chains. Your man ain’t putting the shackles on me, an’ if he tries I’ll kick his face in.”

  A second ticked past, then another. Kane looked confused, as though he was thinking of something to say. Already a smirk had appeared on Stringfell
ow’s face.

  Then Kane summed it up. He drew and fired, and Dietz’s right thumb disappeared in a sudden fan of blood and splintered bone. Kane spoke into the stunned silence that followed the roar of his gun and the shriek of the wounded man.

  “I don’t usually repeat myself, but I’ll say it one more time: Any man who kicks out at, or in any way abuses or impedes my teamster as he applies shackles, I’ll shoot off his right thumb. I have just made good on that rule. Don’t let it happen again.”

  Dietz was sobbing. He looked down at Stringfellow and wailed, “Buff, he shot my thumb clean off. He took it away, Buff.”

  Stringfellow lifted his eyes to the man. “I know, Hick, I know. Just keep in mind that it’s a long way to Fort Smith.” Stringfellow’s eyes angled to Kane. He said nothing, but his burning stare spoke of hatred and death.

  Kane turned and stepped to the door. He called out, “Sam, you’ve got doctoring to do.”

  Sam was standing beside the mules. “Figgered that when I heard the shot. You plug somebody?”

  “Uh-huh. He done broke the rules.”

  Hayes stepped beside the marshal. “Mighty sudden with the iron, ain’t you, Mister?”

  “Dietz was notified.”

  “I’ll need that receipt. I’ll need it signed, saying that the prisoners were in good shape afore you started shootin’.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  A big ranger in a black shirt and hat slapped Kane on the shoulder. “Hell, Marshal, you did good in there.”

  Kane nodded. “Dietz knew how I felt about things, and if he didn’t, he should have.”

  He glanced at the gray sky. In the distance birds were singing and insects were making their small sounds in the grass. And it had started to rain again.

  Chapter 6

  Sam Shaver bound up Hick Dietz’s thumb, then applied leg irons to the prisoners. Kane tore a page from the tally book he always carried, laid it on his knee and wrote:

  I rode a sorrel hoss down to Texas and I taken charge of six convicts har at the old trane station. They was as fit as a fiddle and had no gripes comin.

  He signed the receipt and handed it to Hayes. The ranger looked the note over, folded it twice and shoved it into the pocket of his coat.

  His eyes were level, looking at Kane as a hard rain ticked on the station roof.

  “Marshal, I got to be pulling out. But here’s some advice: You and Shaver sleep in shifts an’ sleep light. When it comes feeding time, don’t take your eyes off them boys for one second. They’ll be looking for an edge and they’ll kill you if they can.”

  “I’ll surely give that some considerin’,” Kane said, though the ranger was telling him a thing he already knew.

  Drips from the roof plopped on Hayes’ hat. He ignored them as he studied the marshal’s face as though looking for the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. Now he asked it. “You heard tell of an hombre malo who goes by the name o’ Jack Henry? By nature, he’s a quarrelsome man, especially in drink.”

  Kane nodded. “Heard tell of a hired gun out of El Paso by that name. Last I heard he was ridin’ with the James boys an’ that tough bunch.”

  “Henry split from Jesse an’ them a year or two back. Now he’s in business for his ownself. Two months ago, sixty-one miles west of St. Louis, him and three others, identities unknown, robbed the Katy Flier, dynamited the safe an’ killed a Pinkerton guard. Ol’ Jack put a bullet into a passenger who sassed him, but I read in the newspaper that the man was expected to live. But, like I said, that was two months ago, so who knows if he did or not? I don’t.”

  The ranger was a talking man and Kane was irritated. “Hayes, when you’re done pumpin’, let go of the handle. Get to the point.”

  “Hold your horses, I’m getting there. Henry an’ Stringfellow are close kin, weaned on the teats of the same wet nurse you might say. Now, they belong to a mighty close-knit clan and word gets around. It could be that Henry already knows you’re taking his cousin on the trail to Fort Smith and he just might come a-gunning for you. I don’t know that for a fact either.”

  Kane was not alarmed, but he was concerned enough to ask, “This Jack Henry feller, is he as good with the iron as they say?”

  “Well, again that’s a thing I don’t know, but given the line of work he’s in, I’d reckon he’s as good as he needs to be.”

  “Well, thanks for the warning,” Kane said.

  “It’s something to keep in mind,” Hayes replied.

  “Yup, sure is,” Kane said.

  “We’re pulling out now, Marshal,” Hayes said. “I regard riding in the rain with considerable displeasure, but we’re due back in Tyler in a couple of days and I don’t have much option.” He stuck out his hand. “Well, good luck an’ a safe trip.”

  Kane took the little ranger’s hand and nodded his thanks. “Maybe one day our trails will cross again.”

  “Could be. Lawmen are a close-knit clan as well.”

  Sam Shaver was guarding the prisoners as Kane watched the rangers leave, an odd sense of loss in him. Now he and Sam were on their own and they had it to do.

  He stepped into the station and said, “Let’s load ’em up, Sam. We’ve a fur piece to go and we might as well get started.”

  Sam nodded and made a motion with his rifle. “You heard the marshal. On your feet.”

  “Hell, it’s raining,” Stringfellow said. “You can’t drag a man out in that.”

  “Don’t give me sass, Stringfellow,” Kane said, drawing his Colt. “You won’t melt. You ain’t that sweet.”

  The six men shuffled out of the door, their iron chains chiming. Bent over, Hick Dietz held his wounded hand close to his belly and looked at Kane. “A helluva thing to do to a man, shoot off his thumb.”

  “Think yourself lucky,” Kane said. “I could’ve just as easily shot off something else.”

  The mule team stood heads down in the lashing rain as Sam stepped out quickly and opened the cage door. He beckoned the prisoners forward.

  Stringfellow, awkward in his shackles, scrambled into the wagon first, followed by the others. Sam clanked the door shut and turned the key in the lock. The convicts had no protection from the downpour and they were quickly soaked. They sat in the bed of the wagon, hunched and miserable, though Stringfellow’s cold, calculating eyes never left Kane.

  The marshal shrugged into his slicker and Sam did the same. Kane swung into the saddle, waited until Sam climbed up on the box, then waved him forward.

  “Only a couple of hundred miles to go, Sam.” He grinned.

  “Logan, that’s all I been thinking about fer days, an’ now I’ve come to it, having them boys back there is making me real nervous.”

  “Me too, Sam. Me too.”

  The afternoon was raked with rain, gloomy and dark, as though the night was impatient for the day to end. Kane rode point for the wagon, dropping back now and then to check on the prisoners. The going was easy, across flat, grassy country broken up by swampy playa lakes and stands of timber where shadows gathered. Heavy clouds had dropped so low, they settled on the high plains like an iron gray mist and the land seemed empty, shrouded in silence.

  After Kane estimated they’d covered six miles, he cantered ahead to hunt up a place to stop for the night. The flat country offered little and he briefly considered returning to the spot where he and Sam had made camp the night before. But there had been no shelter from the rain in the clearing and his searching eyes reached into the darkening distance, hoping for something better, out of the rain.

  Kane swung his sorrel into the pines and rode parallel to the trail, the big horse picking its way through the trees. He found what he was looking for a few minutes later and stared at it in disbelief, surprised as the widow woman who prayed for a man, then discovered one sitting at the foot of her bed come morning.

  It was a roofless sod cabin but, incredibly, the door was intact, banging open and shut on its rawhide hinges at the whim of the wind. Around the cabin the to
ps of the pines were strung with mist, and rain filtered through their branches, falling to the ground with the sound of a ticking clock. Kane rode closer, then swung out of the saddle.

  The cabin had never been roofed, he could see that. He scouted around and saw no source of water. Kane decided that someone had started to build the cabin and had then abandoned it, perhaps intimidated by the need to dig a deep well.

  But Kane did a rethink when he found a rusted, strap-iron arrowhead embedded in the door. He also saw that the rough timbers were perforated by a dozen bullet holes. A settler had made a last stand here, most likely against marauding Apaches or Kiowas riding north from Texas.

  A few minutes later, he found the settler’s body, or what was left of it, lying at the bottom of a shallow depression at the rear of the cabin. Some of the yellowed bones had been scattered by animals, but the skull, rib cage and arms still remained. There was enough to tell the man’s story. He had been dragged out of the cabin, spread-eagled on the ground and then tortured to death. The ivory jaws of his skull were wide-open and the memory of his last, agonized shriek remained, echoing in dreadful silence among the pines.

  The settler, whoever he was, had died a death Kane would wish on no man, and he felt sadly depressed as he rode out of the trees and waited for Sam on the trail.

  Kane stretched his slicker over a corner of the cabin and held it down with small rocks he found lying around. “See if you can build a fire under that, Sam,” he said. “The wood I picked up is damp, but it will burn. Eventually.”

  “Smoke some too, Logan.” The old man stood inside the cabin doorway and nodded to the prison wagon. “You bringing them in?”

  “Long enough to feed them. Then they go back.”

  “Mighty wet.”

  “That’s their problem. It’s going to be wet in here.”

  “We cross the Red tomorrow. Going to feel good to get out of Texas, seem like we’re finally headed somewhere.”