Raining Trouble

by Randall Sawka

  She had curled up tight as far around the curve as she could and had lain quietly. Every word spoken by Coulter and Forrest had reached her. Relief had filled her when she had heard Coulter announce that they were leaving.

  Donna's parents had taught her to be wary. She heard the horses’ whinny and the sound of squeaking leather as the riders mounted up. Even after she heard the horses gallop away and the rain began to fall she remained stationary. After ten minutes she slowly, quietly backed part way down the tunnel of branches and twisted her head around. She saw nothing but falling rain and trees in the distance. Her heart raced as she backed out the remaining distance still expecting rough hands to grab her. Only raindrops greeted her. She stood up quickly and ran behind the nearest tree aware that the gun she held only had one bullet remaining. Nothing moved except the bobbing heads of cows as they cropped grass in the nearby pasture.

  She slowed her pace as she neared the bodies of her dead parents on the porch. Donna wept, knowing she now stood alone in the world.

  An hour later, an hour filled with tears, she gathered herself. Her parents had taught her to be strong. She analyzed the situation and walked into the barn. She picked up a shovel and went to a spot not far from where she had escaped the Scrum hands. The shade of the tall elm at that spot provided cover many times when her folks decided to eat a meal outside during the warmth of summer. These meals were some of Donna's best memories.

  Here she dug two graves and buried her parents. She wiped tears away from her eyes as she knelt beside the fresh mounds of soil. “Don't worry, Ma and Pa, I'll make you proud, I promise.”

  Donna Kelly then saddle up her favourite horse and led it out of the barn. She mounted up and contemplated a direction. Her parents told her to go to the Cochran ranch should anything happen. She turned her horse in that direction and rode at a steady pace.

  Riding across the Scrum ranch would bring much risk. Instead, Donna pushed her horse into a gallop heading straight to the town of Barlow. The town was close and the terrain flat. She could watch for approaching riders. Donna, being petite, sat on a fast chestnut. She knew she could outrun most cowhands in the area. But she knew even her fast horse couldn't outrun a bullet.

  Coulter and the other two cowboys rode directly up to Barry Scrum as the fat man watched two cowhands try and break a horse. The three men dismounted and stood silently beside their boss. They knew he preferred to start conversations.

  Scrum glanced at the three men and read the bad news on their strained faces. He took another minute to collect his thoughts. He kept his eyes fixed on the men breaking the horses. “You three manage to chase Kelly off his land like I asked?” Scrum knew the small rancher did not have the money to pay his debt.

  Coulter shook his head. “We had a problem, Mr. Scrum.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Kelly drew on us. We had no choice but to fire back. His wife took a bullet as well.”

  “And?”

  “Both dead,” piped in Forrest. “Their daughter took off like a scared rabbit. Don't know where she is.”

  Scrum adjusted his hat. “And the stock?”

  Coulter replied, “Saw about a hundred head and maybe half a dozen horses. Want us to go get them?”

  “No, I want you to go.”

  “Go where?” The three men wore puzzled looks.

  Barry Scrum pulled out his thick wallet and handed each young rider a stack of bills. “That's double what I owe you. Most around here don't know you work for me. Leave this territory and don't come back. I can't have more local trouble leading back to me.”

  “But,” replied Forrest.

  “Get,” said Scrum

  The young riders cursed then rode west.

  Scrum watched the three men disappear over a hill. He walked to a small building where a tall, powerfully built man sat on a chair sharpening a large knife. This man, Paul Cook, had thick black hair and bushy eyebrows of the same colour. He studied the razor-sharp edge of the knife and nodded approvingly. Cook had a reputation as a tracker that was hard to match. Some said he could track a bird flying across a canyon.

  Scrum leaned against the corner of the building. “Paul, I need you to track down and deal with the Kelly girl. Those three killed her parents and she's the only one who may be able to prove that it was Scrum hands that did it.”

  Paul Cook stood up and slid the knife smoothly into the scabbard on his belt. “I'm on my way.”

  Cook downed the last two bites of the biscuit sitting on the fence post as Scrum relayed the story told by the three riders. He threw a saddle on his horse and cinched it tight. His tall, muscular frame fit nicely into the saddle. He checked his weapon and spurred on the horse.

  The powerful horse had the rider at the Kelly ranch within thirty minutes. From the saddle he gathered important information. Even with the heavy rain he saw the elongated remains of the tracks of two horses in front of the house. He had seen the third set of tracks veer off around the trees a quarter of a mile back. He now believed that part of the story relayed by the Scrum hands.

  Cook’s horse drank deeply from the water trough. He walked onto the porch and examined the building. He saw no bullet holes in the wood. The trail of blood told of the two deaths, but from where had the shots come? His eyes glanced right and all he saw was open pasture. To the left, the direction the third rider had ridden, stood a grove of trees, a stump, and a pile of firewood.

  Cook walked to the woodpile and examined the ground behind it. It was undisturbed. He walked to the stump. Here he saw boot marks in the soil and a compression in the soil. On close examination he determined it was a knee mark. Three shell casings caught his eye. He picked them up and smelled them. Freshly fired.

  Cook returned to the porch. Two pools of blood dried outside the door. He saw the scraping of heels as the two bodies were dragged away. He shook his head in disgust as he followed the trail of the person wearing small boots that dragged the bodies away from the porch. “Those three cowards bushwhacked a man and his wife,” he said to himself.

  He found the two graves under the tree. The small boot prints then led to the corral. Prints in the soil under the eaves shows that the girl had mounted up and headed north. Scrum had told him that the Kellys lived here with their daughter. He wasn't completely sure, but felt it was the daughter that had survived as she would likely have the strength to drag the bodies.

  Cook climbed onto his horse and pointed it in the direction taken by the Kelly girl. His horse loved to run and he let it move at a good pace. The angle of the Kelly girl's horse and the lack of significant spattering of soil meant she rode at a much slower pace. He reigned in his mount when he came upon a creek. The rain eased over the twenty-minute ride. He now easily followed the tracks of the horse.

  While his horse drank Cook dismounted and looked the area over. He found the same small footprints pacing back and forth along the edge of the creek. At one point she leaned forward on her boots near the creek drinking.

  The rain lightly fell again. Cook examined the prints on the flat ground a short distance away from the creek where little water had accumulated. “She's not far ahead,” said Cook to his horse. “Let's finish this.”

  Again Cook pushed his horse. The Kelly girl had turned down a trail winding through the trees. The hoof prints were clear and fresh. He charged forward for twenty minutes then stopped and listened carefully. He heard nothing but smelled wood smoke. He hoped that the girl had made her own fire but he doubted it.

  Cook staked his horse just off the path. The tracker continued on foot. His footsteps made no sound. A bed of needles cushioned his steps.

  Around the second bend Cook spotted movement ahead. He drew his Colt and glanced around the corner. A startled deer gave Cook a cool look and vanished into the trees. Cook holstered his gun and continued on for several hundred yards. A clearing appeared ahead and he moved into the trees.

  The tracks from the Kelly girl's horse led to the front of the Coch
ran house. The horse was tied to a post near the front door. Smoke billowed from the rock chimney on the side of the house.

  Through a window he saw an older woman consoling a girl in her twenties. “The Kelly girl,” mumbled Cook. He lowered his field glasses. Behind some trees he considered whether to approach the cabin. He decided that Donna Kelly had almost certainly told the others in the cabin about the murder committed by the Scrum gunmen. He headed back to the Scrum ranch and to pass on more bad news to his boss.

  Cook walked back to his horse and mounted up. His horse still showed signs of fatigue so he kept to a slow pace. His mind was on a hot meal at the Scrum cookhouse. He had no idea that eyes were upon him.

  Ron Ward sat under a thick berry bush on the tallest hill overlooking the Cochran ranch. His eyes never left the stranger on the trail below. Ward had a firm grip on his rifle. The stranger showed excellent tracking skills. Ward had seen him enter the trail through the trees but lost sight of him several times. The man knew enough to ride under the overhanging trees and to walk in the shadows. But Ron Ward was no slouch. His instincts told him where the man would appear from the cover.

  Through his field glasses Ward noticed the tense look on his face. A man driven to succeed had failed to find the Kelly girl in time. The stranger also knew enough to stay clear of the house. Had he attempted to move across the open area Ward would have opened fire, a signal to Cochran in the house and Dunn in the loft of the barn to do the same. He never would have got close enough to kill the last living member of the Kelly family.

  Only the occasional tall tree obscured Ward's view of Cook as he rode over the rangeland.

  Cook maintained a straight route, turning only when a grove of trees or rocks blocked his course. A small stream provided a welcome drink to both Cook and his horse. He filled his canteen and draped the leather strap over the pommel of his saddle. One gloved hand remained on the top of the pommel as he looked around him. He smoothly scanned the surrounding hills and flatlands.

  Ward kept his field glasses trained on Cook's face. The expression never changed. Cook climbed on his horse and continued slowly towards the Scrum spread. Ward knew he needed to move. Without a better vantage point he would lose sight of the tracker. The hill to his right looked perfect and a trail in the trees dipped briefly into the small valley between his current spot and the hill. Ward climbed up on his horse and took one more look at the stranger. The rider continued slowly on in a straight line.

  Ward pushed forward through the tree-lined path. The man he watched disappeared from his view as Ward approached the base of the valley. He picked up his pace to get to the top of the next high hill. Five minutes later Ron Ward slid off his horse and edged up to the apex of the hill. A gradual cliff dropped down the other side of the hill. The stream flowed along the base of the cliff to his left, the spot where the tracker had crossed was near the bottom of the hill on which Ward sat. The route to the Scrum ranch consisted of undulating but fairly flat terrain.

  Ward gave the area a quick look. He didn't spot the rider at first glance. Several dips in the rolling land may have obscured the tracker’s position. Ward waited for thirty seconds, then concern filled his mind.

  He twisted around and reached for his Colt. Too late. The stranger stood over him with his gun drawn.

  “You best reach for your belt buckle rather than that six-shooter,” said Cook, “unless you're looking for a hole in your head.”

  “Easy, mister. I'm just out hunting deer.”

  “With a six-shooter? What do you take me for?”

  “My Winchester is on my saddle.” Ward smiled and pointed to his horse twenty feet away.

  Cook never took his eyes off Ward. He wore his own smile. “Afraid I don't buy it. Now take off that gun belt and toss it over the edge of that cliff.”

  “All right, all right. Easy with that trigger finger.” Ward got on his knees near the edge of the hill and unfastened his gun belt. He gathered it in his hand.

  Ron Ward reached back with the hand holding the gun belt and gun in preparation for throwing it over the edge. He swung the hand towards the edge, stepping in the direction at the same time. He heaved himself over the edge, still holding the gun belt.

  Cook fired two quick shots. The first sailed wide, the second grazing Ward in the side as he became airborne.

  Ward tumbled down the hill, his gun belt falling from his hand and rolling ahead of him. He rolled over several large rocks that dug into his side. He winced in pain but continued rolling. He grabbed his pistol as he rolled over the belt and managed to tuck it into his waist. He spun over and over and spied a foot-wide tree jutting out of the hillside.

  He flattened himself out to stop his rolling and reached out with both hands as he neared the tree. Wood dug into his arms as he hugged the tree, his feet dangling below him. A thirty foot drop to jagged rocks waited for him below. Leaves rained down on him from the thick branches above.

  Cook stood calmly at the lip of the cliff, staring down at Ward. “You're choice. Let go and hope to survive falling into the rocks or a bullet from me.”

  Even hanging from a tree that provided some protection from the pistol pointing down at him Ron Ward didn't lose his sense of humour. “I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to throw down your weapon and surrender?”

  Cook fired two shots, both grazing off the tree near Ward's head.

  “I'm getting hungry. It's time to finish this,” drawled Cook. He took careful aim and fired. The bullet grazed off the side of Ron Ward's head.

  Ron Ward winced and pushed his head close to the cliff. He looked quickly to his right and left. Another tree, thinner and a few feet lower on the cliff grew five feet away. On his right a rocky cliff dropped sharply to the valley.

  Ward needed to move and get a shot off. As it sat, even if he grabbed his Colt a bullet would hit him between the eyes if he glanced around the side of the tree. The toes of his boots felt around the cliff. They found smooth rock and slippery soil until his left toe touched a piece of rock jutting out an inch or so. He jabbed at the soil above the rock with his boot. Small pieces of soil fell.

  Another bullet, this one aimed at his arms, missed by less than an inch.

  Time grew short. Ward didn't expect the tracker to miss again. Even with great pain shooting in his side and a massive headache he drove the toe of the boot into the cliff. A few larger chunks of dirt fell away creating enough room to support some of his weight. It wasn't enough. The toe pounded again and again, creating a hole deep enough to support a foot comfortably.

  Ward had instinctively counted the shots taken by the tracker and knew he had fired five times. Had the tracker reloaded? Was he over-confident? Ron Ward was about to find out.

  Ward angled his body to the left and slid his right foot on to the rock. He pushed off the rock, sailing across to the lower tree.

  A shot rang out, the bullet slamming into the cliff in front of him and spraying dirt onto his face. His big right hand grabbed the smaller tree and his left foot landed on a root protruding below the tree. At the same time his right hand gripped the worn handle of his Colt. He raised the weapon.

  He adjusted his grip on the tree and confirmed that root would hold him. He aimed and fired twice. The first bullet nipped the tracker in the left shoulder, sending him reeling backwards. The second bullet flew wide. Ward returned the pistol to his waist and pulled himself up beside the tree. His weight drew cracking sounds from the dry tree. Within seconds he stretched and grabbed a flat rock with one hand and a low bush with the other. He climbed as fast as he could knowing that his adversary was only grazed.

  He reached the top of the cliff quickly. With gun in hand he glanced over the edge. The man had vanished. Only a couple drops of blood and a few footprints leading into the nearby trees remained.

  Ward stayed close to the ground and crawled to the crest of the hill. With his gun at the ready he looked down the northern slope of the hill. Nothing moved just as he expected. The
other man knew how to track and how to stay out of sight.

  Ward patiently watched the grassland dotted with groves of trees. Ten minutes passed and a horse carrying the gunman rode slowly into the open half a mile away. Even with his Winchester he couldn't hit the target at that range. He got to his feet and wiped off the dust. He mounted his horse and rode slowly to the Cochran ranch.

  Chapter Nine

  Jed Cochran held his rifle close as he leaned against the door jam. He recognized Ron Ward from a good distance and walked out to greet him. The dried bloodstain stood out on Ward’s shirt. “Looks like you had some trouble.”

  Ward climbed off his mount and removed the saddle. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  A tall, slim man followed the Kelly girl here and headed back towards the Scrum ranch. I trailed him for a bit but he doubled back on me and we had a disagreement. He’s winged too and is probably telling Scrum what happened as we speak.”

  Cochran nodded. “Once Dunn is keeping an eye on the Kelly place. Donna Kelly's resting in our house.”

  “I think we should have a word with her right away,” said Ward before he splashed water on his face from the trough.

  Donna Kelly sat at the table across from Lynn Cochran. Ron and Jed sat in the two empty chairs.

  Ron Ward leaned forward. “Donna, are you up to answering a few questions?”

  “Yes.” Fatigue showed in Donna’s voice but her resolve was beyond question. “But, first, let me look after those wounds.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Donna washed and dressed the wounds. “Done. Now I think I’m ready to talk.”

  “Good,” continued Ward. “Did your father lose many cattle over to rustlers over the last few years?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. At first he thought they had just wandered off or into the trees. But the losses added up to ten percent of the herd.”

  “Did any of them disappear during heavy rain storms?”

  Donna Kelly’s eye grew wide. “Pa mentioned that a few times over the last few years. How did you know?”