by Len Levinson
Around midnight he came to a river with grass on both sides. He loosened the cinch strap of the saddle and watered his horse, then let it graze while he opened a can of beans and ate them cold with a spoon.
He was getting tired. Coffee would help, but he didn’t have time to brew*it. He threw the empty can of beans over his shoulder and drank water out of his canteen. Then he filled the canteen at the riverbank and tied it to the pommel on the saddle. He tightened the cinch strap and climbed onto the horse.
The horse splashed across the river. Stone held his rifle in the air so it wouldn’t get wet. The horse climbed up the far side, and Stone urged him onward.
They crossed the high grass and plunged into a forest, gloomy and dark. Stone peered through the murky stillness, looking for unusual movement. His right hand drew one of his pistols, just in case.
He emerged from the forest, and a shooting star streaked across the heavens. The horse trudged onward, jerking its head up and down. Stone drooped in the saddle, and his eyes closed. A few times he awoke with a start after drifting off to sleep for a few moments.
He smoked a cigarette to keep him awake and rode through the night, a lone figure on an endless prairie. It reminded him that during the war he’d stay awake for two or three days, fighting and riding hard. If he could do it then, he could do it now.
The horse trudged across endless vistas of prairie, while the sky pulsated with myriad stars. Stone thought of all the people snug in their beds, safe for the night, while he was chasing thieves. He wondered where Marie was sleeping and hoped she was sleeping alone.
He saw the glimmer of dawn on the horizon. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks with him, but then the glimmer grew, and he realized the sun was rising and a new day beginning. He was hungry and bone tired, and his horse needed to rest. He decided to stop for breakfast.
It still was dark when he climbed down from his saddle and set the horse to graze. Dew was heavy on the grass, so the horse would get water, too. Stone ate his last two biscuits plus another can of cold beans. He wished he had time to fry bacon, but he had to beat the thieves to Rendale.
He finished his meal and rolled a cigarette. He thought he should let the horse graze a bit longer, because once he started riding, he didn’t intend to stop again until he hit Rendale.
The day became brighter. A few large puffy clouds floated past. He hoped it wouldn’t rain. Climbing into the saddle, he prodded the horse toward Rendale.
Then he saw it: a column of smoke rising up from the plains into the sky. Somebody was cooking breakfast. They’d most likely be cowboys, but there weren’t any cattle around. It wasn’t a heavily-traveled area. Could it be the miners having breakfast? It was a longshot, but it was possible. He thought he’d ride closer, dismount, and sneak up on the people at the fire to see who they were. If they were strangers, he’d back off and continue on his way to Rendale. If they were the miners, he’d have a showdown.
He checked his rifle and pistols. They could be Indians or an outlaw gang. He’d have to approach carefully and not take any chances.
He came to a thicket and dismounted, picketing his horse in a hollow where it couldn’t be seen unless someone rode directly inside. He patted the horse on the mane and pulled his rifle out of its boot. Bending low, he moved toward the fire.
It was several hundred yards away through bushes and high grass. Stone kept a low silhouette as he edged forward, pausing occasionally to look and listen. He held his rifle in both hands, ready to aim and fire quickly. He didn’t think they were Indians, because Indians wouldn’t build a fire in the middle of the plains where the cavalry could attack easily. They were probably white men.
The time had come to get down on his belly and crawl. He dropped to the dirt and crept forward, cradling his rifle in his arms. Inch by inch he advanced toward the campfire, then he heard a peal of laughter that stopped him cold.
It was laughter that had a familiar ring, and Stone recognized it as the voice of Wayne Collins, the miner whose ear he’d shot off. The thieves were heading toward Rendale as he’d thought, and he’d caught up with them. They shouldn’t have lit that fire, but evidently thought they were safe.
He crawled closer and heard the voices of the miners more distinctly. They sounded happy, free and clear with six thousand stolen dollars, but they hadn’t counted on John Stone.
Stone inched forward and peered through the grass. He could see them gathered around their fire, eating bacon and biscuits and drinking coffee. Stone smelled the aroma and it made his mouth water. Their horses were picketed nearby.
“The first thing I’m gonna do,” Georgie Saulnier said, “is find the fattest whore in town. I’m a-gonna strip her down and have me a real good time.”
“I’m a-gonna git me a meal in the best restaurant,” Collins said. “This damn trail grub is makin’ me sick.”
“Whiskey,” said Joe Doakes, scratching his armpit. “I’m a-gonna drink me a whole bottle then go to sleep in a real feather bed.”
Stone stood and walked toward them, aiming his rifle at them. “Morning.”
They stared at him, eyes bulging out of their heads and then went for their guns. Stone pulled the trigger of his rifle, and Joe Doakes’ hand froze in midair, an expression of shock on his face. A red splash appeared on the front of his shirt, and he keeled over. Wayne Collins and Georgie Saulnier dropped their guns and raised their hands slowly into the air.
“Keep ’em high!” Stone said, walking toward them. “Stand up!”
They got to their feet, reaching for the sky. Stone walked behind them, pulled their pistols out of their holsters and stuffed them into his belt. Georgie Saulnier turned around suddenly and lunged for Stone’s rifle, but Stone bashed him in the mouth with his rifle butt. Saulnier’s derby hat was knocked off his head, and he dropped to the ground.
Stone moved in front of Wayne Collins, who broke into a nervous smile. “Well, howdy, Cap’n. What’re you doin’ out here?”
“Where’s the money?”
“What money?”
Stone aimed his rifle at Wayne Collins’ head.
“I said, where’s the money!”
“Let’s make a deal.”
“No deals.”
Collins forced a grin. “Yer a little greedy, ain’t’cha?”
“Get the money.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
Stone nudged the barrel of his rifle under Wayne Collins’ chin. “You’d better remember real fast.”
Wayne Collins looked like he’d faint. Georgie Saulnier moaned and opened his eyes. He shook his head and tried to figure out what had happened. Then he saw Stone in front of Collins, the rifle in his hands, and it all came back.
“Get up,” Stone said to him.
Georgie dragged himself to his feet and spat blood onto the ground. “What do you want?” he asked, adjusting the derby on his head.
“Keep your hands up.”
“Let’s make a deal.”
Wayne Collins said, “I already tried. He didn’t go for it.”
Georgie smiled at Stone, showing teeth rinsed with blood. “I always figured you was a crook. You want it all fer yerself, eh? Waal, I guess there ain’t nothin’ much we can do. Take it.”
“Go get it—the both of you—and if you try anything, I’ll fill you with lead.”
Georgie Saulnier shot a meaningful glance at Wayne Collins, then they walked around the campfire to the other side, where saddles and equipment were piled up on the ground.
“Go real slow,” Stone said, “and don’t try anything.”
“It’s in them saddlebags right there,” Georgie said.
“Show me, and keep your hands out where I can see them.”
Georgie moved toward the pile of equipment. He pulled a worn leather set of saddlebags out of the pile and laid them on the ground. Unfastening the flap, he thrust his hand inside.
“Easy now,” Stone said, moving his rifle back and forth between Wayne
Collins and Georgie Saulnier.
Georgie pulled his hand out of the saddlebag, and he had a gun in it. The sound of gunshots echoed across the prairie. Georgie’s bullet whistled past Stone’s right shoulder, but Stone’s bullet struck Georgie in the chest. Georgie screamed horribly, clutching his hands to the wound, and Wayne Collins leapt over the fire, wrapping his arms around Stone’s waist, trying to throw him to the ground.
Stone didn’t throw easily. Wayne Collins grunted and tugged, but Stone was solid as a statue with its foundation buried in the ground. Stone raised his fist in the air and brought it down hard on top of Wayne Collins’ head, and the miner loosened his grip, collapsing at Stone’s feet.
Stone patted Wayne Collins down to make sure he had no weapons on him and found a knife in his boot. He pulled it out and threw it into the fire. Then he walked toward Georgie Saulnier, who lay on his back, his hands over his chest, blood oozing between his fingers.
“You got me,” Georgie whispered hoarsely.
Stone reached into the saddlebags and came out with a handful of money. He opened the other side of the saddlebag, and there was money in there, too. Georgie Saulnier coughed, and blood trickled out the corner of his mouth.
“It burns,” he whispered.
A few feet away, Wayne Collins got to his hands and knees. Stone walked over to him and pointed the rifle at his head. “Get up.”
“I’m a-gittin’.”
Wayne Collins pushed himself to his feet. He staggered to one side and then to the other, his jaw hanging open, blinking his eyes. He looked at Georgie Saulnier, and Georgie wasn’t breathing anymore. Georgie’s eyes were wide open and staring, and the skin on his hands and arms was waxen.
“I do believe he’s daid,” Wayne Collins said.
“You’re going to be dead, too, if you try another of your tricks.”
“What you gonna do with me?”
“Take you back to the law.”
“Why don’t you keep the money and let me go?”
“Stand over there.”
Wayne Collins moved sullenly toward where Stone indicated with the barrel of his rifle. Stone dropped to one knee and looked into the saddlebags. Wayne Collins saw his chance and dived.
Stone brought his rifle around, but wasn’t fast enough. Wayne Collins smashed him in the mouth with his fist, then tried to yank the rifle out of Stone’s hands. Stone held on tightly, and the two men rolled around on the ground as they struggled for possession of the rifle.
Wayne Collins wasn’t able to pull the rifle from Stone’s iron grip, so he reached desperately down to Stone’s gun-belt, but Stone slammed him in the mouth with the butt of the rifle. The force of the blow threw Wayne Collins onto his back.
Stone stood over him. “Get up.”
Wayne Collins held his hand over his busted lips and rose to his feet. “I learned my lesson,” he said. “I won’t try nothin’ again.”
“Stand in front of me and turn around.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I’ll put a bullet in your head unless you do as I say.”
Wayne Collins turned his back to Stone, who picked a length of rope out of the pile of equipment. He tied Collins’ hands behind his back, then forced him to his knees and tied his hands to his ankles so he couldn’t move.
“You ain’t gonna leave me like this, are you, pard?”
“Your pards are dead.”
Stone upended the saddlebags on the ground and counted the money, while Wayne Collins writhed on the ground, trying to work his way out of the ropes, but they were too tight. The money amounted to six thousand dollars as Fenwick had said. Stone stuffed it into the saddlebags and slung the saddlebags over his shoulder. Then he strode toward the miners’ horses.
Collins’ eyes widened like saucers. “Now hold on! You cain’t leave me like this!”
Stone lifted one of the miners’ saddles and a blanket, carrying them to the best-looking horse of the bunch. He threw the blanket over the horse’s back and then put the saddle in place.
“Please!” pleaded Wayne Collins. “You cain’t do this to me! I’ll die out here! It ain’t Christian, what yer doin’ to me! I’ll give you anythin’ I got!”
Stone placed the saddlebags full of money behind the saddle, then filled another saddlebag with canned food and bacon. He threw that saddlebag over the back of another horse.
Wayne Collins screamed hysterically: “You gotta tell me why you’re doin’ this! I ain’t never done nothin’ to you! Don’t leave me here! The coyotes’ll get me! How’d you like to get eaten alive by a damn coyote!”
“You can’t be trusted,” Stone said.
“That was before!” Wayne Collins hollered, his eyes bulging out of his head. “This is now! Take all the damn money—I never wanted it in the first place! It was all Georgie’s idea! I just went along with him! Gimme another chance!”
Stone tied the horses together. He dropped the miners’ weapons into a gunny sack and lashed it to the saddle of the third horse. Then he mounted the horse he’d saddled. Wayne Collins looked at him from ground level, his hands and feet tied together behind his back.
“Please don’t do this to me! Shoot me—do anything you want to me—but don’t leave me here!”
Stone touched his spurs to the horse’s flanks, and the horse stepped forward, the other two horses following. “No!” Collins screamed as Stone rode away. “Please!” Collins blubbered and cried, tears rolling down his cheeks. The horror of his predicament hit him with full force. “Don’t leave me here! I’ll do anything you say!”
Stone didn’t look back. He continued to ride toward the horse he’d picketed in the hollow.
“Come back!” screamed Wayne Collins, his face streaked with tears. “Don’t leave me like this!”
Stone rocked back and forth in his saddle as his horse made its way toward the hollow. Wayne Collins’ voice grew fainter behind him. Then it merged with the wind, and Stone wasn’t sure which was which anymore.
Chapter Eleven
Taggart sat erectly in his saddle, scanning the terrain ahead, and saw bald knobs with hogbacks and scattered bushes. Good dry gulch country, and he’d been attacked by Comanches in this area in the past. He peered from bush to hill, looking for Indian sign, but his eyes weren’t as good as they used to be, and sometimes things got blurred. Especially on a hot day in the bright sun.
He took off his hat, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, reached for his canteen. The Comanches had swarmed out from behind those hills once and attacked a wagon train he’d been on before it could circle. It had been touch and go during the first five minutes, but Indian arrows and lances were no match for Henry and Sharps rifles.
He drank from the canteen, and the water was warm with a metallic taste. His lower intestines ached from beans. Something hurt in his back. He was too old to ride a horse all day, but Stone was gone, and when would he come back?
He’d been gone two days, and there was no sight of him. Taggart thought maybe he shouldn’t’ve let him go, but he’d been feeling sorry for Fenwick, and Stone had been determined to get the money back.
Stone was always sticking his neck out, couldn’t stay out of trouble. Taggart had been the same way when he was young. He’d loved kicking the shit out of people, chasing women, and raising hell. Now he wanted to sit on the porch with the wife and watch the cattle grazing in the fields.
He turned around and saw the wagon train meandering through the hills. Wagon trains were for young men full of piss and vinegar, like John Stone. Stone didn’t know how to back down and was too confident of his skill with guns. Taggart wondered about the picture of the girl. She’d probably run off with somebody else and didn’t have the guts to tell him.
Taggart saw an odd shape in the hills and squinted at it. Was it an Indian on a horse, an ocotillo bush, or an antelope? Twenty years ago, he’d have known, but now his vision was fuzzy,
He wished John Stone would get back, so he could travel on
the wagon. His back didn’t hurt so much when he was sitting on the front seat of the wagon, and all he’d have to do was hold the ribbons. Stone would know what was out there. Taggart stared at the shape, and it was gone. Taggart felt irritated with himself.
Where the hell is John Stone?
It was night, the sky was cloudy, and Stone couldn’t see a damn thing. According to his map, the town of Fairhope was supposed to be dead ahead, but there was only blackness.
He was on an enormous plain, and had been traversing it most of the day, thinking about reaching Fairhope that night and checking into the best hotel in town.
Either the map was wrong or his dead reckoning was off. It was possible he was lost. The North Star was obscured by clouds, and maybe his compass was broken. For all he knew, he was going around in circles.
Might as well camp here. No sense going in the wrong direction. Tomorrow he could start fresh and see where he was headed. He raised his leg and prepared to dismount when something in the distance caught his eye.
It was a dot of light flickering faintly, maybe Fairhope.
Stone decided to keep going. He settled into his saddle and turned to look at the three horses following him. Maybe he could sell them for a good price in Fairhope.
The horses quickened their pace, because they saw the light, too. It was straight ahead, and Stone was directly on course. At West Point, compass reading had been one of his best subjects, and he’d never got old Troop C lost once during the war.
He thought of the saloon in Fairhope and wondered if it had a good chop counter. He hoped the whiskey would be smooth instead of the usual rotgut. Maybe they even had dancing girls. Stone loved to watch dancing girls.
He thought of sleeping in a clean bed after taking a hot bath. Maybe he could buy new clothes. He ought to buy a new hat but somehow couldn’t bring himself to throw away his old cavalry hat. It’d been with him through the entire war, his constant companion, shielding him from sun and rain, and it still performed the same duties satisfactorily. Maybe it looked a little beat up, but lots of men wore hats in much worse shape.
The light was closer now, and it struck him as curious that there was only one light. If Fairhope was an entire town, why did it only have one light? Stone leaned forward in his saddle to take a better look. Maybe it was a very small town, but surely there’d be at least one decent hotel and saloon.
