The Hell Bent Kid

by Charles O Locke

  I was not so sure.

  Jake said he was thinking of a plan and would tell me about it when he had had time to give it more brain power.

  Before noon of the next day we passed the Ladrone Mountain on the Grande’s west bank. Jake said the mountain was made entirely of colored rocks and crystal stuff. He said robbers had once hidden there and I might like to try it. I saw once again Jake was getting doubtful of the idea of getting me to Socorro.

  The two men up ahead of us were moseying right along. It had gotten so we paid little attention to them and it seemed they had forgotten us. Jake said the part he hated about this was the bold way they did it. But his mind was mostly on my father.

  After thinking awhile he said maybe it would be better for me to “collect” my father, as he put it, and get him further south for his health. He was not making a joke about this. He suggested Magdalena and offered to ride us over.

  We got to talking and he gave me more information about my father. “He is working for this T Cross T outfit owned by a Britisher. They have been under the eye of the law but most people down this way think this is silly. They may have fooled some with hair-branded calfs. As for your father, his past as a peace officer is known and no one would possibly suspect him of lifting cows. He would not steal the pried-up corn off a man’s small toe. But the trouble with T Cross T, they have a couple of former rustlers with them, Steven Martin and Bud Gallatin. The Britisher, Gerard, knows this and has been warned about it but seems plain stubborn about it. The last I heard the T Cross T was camped north of Socorro, having some work to do with cattle inspectors. It was said more or less that if Gerard did not clean up his bunch, some hotheads some night would naturally ride out there and shoot some folks.”

  In the morning of that day the off lead horse which Jake said was poor-shod picked up a sharp stone twice and the second time we had a bleeder. Jake tarred up the hoof and I called his attention to sharp rock on the trail. While we worked on the horse the two hired men ahead watched. I told Jake: “They are emptying a sackful of shale they got up on the slopes.” Jake said nothing but when towards noon the shale appeared again and the men lagged, Jake drew up the team suddenly, rose up and started yelling and began firing off his Colt in the air.

  Jake called them all the names he could think of. They just stopped, sat their horses and stared at him. So we started again.

  All that afternoon and the morning of this next day the air was full of fine dust blown up at us by a wind from the south. Jake said it was blowing up from some dry beds further south along the Grande.

  We had put handkerchiefs over our faces tied in the back, and the men up ahead of us had done the same thing. The dust kept blowing all late afternoon and was still in the air next morning. It was in the cans and frying pans and food.

  The face handkerchiefs gave Jake the idea.

  Along about noon of that day we came to a little dobe house neat-made, with sheds in the back, and a fine horse trough. The name of the people was Hoffman. Jake knew them well.

  The husband that Jake wanted to see was off in Santa Rosa. But Mrs. Hoffman, who was considerable crippled with rheumatism, was with her son, Edward.

  We had some coffee in their kitchen, Jake passing the time of day with Mrs. Hoffman. Ed, the son, was about 24, shaped like me, tall and about the same weight. He had wanted to go to Socorro on business but was waiting until his father got back from Santa Rosa, so as not to leave his mother alone.

  He would take my place on Blacky or sit in the seat with Jake and lead Blacky just as I had done, and I would stay at the place and follow on to Socorro in a day or so on Ed’s horse, which he said he had in his stable.

  Mrs. Hoffman was out of the room and asleep when Jake told us this idea. Ed thought it over carefully, as it was a good way for him to get to Socorro fast. But I would not make the change unless I felt it would be safe for Ed.

  Ed at this point seemed to think I was doubting his courage, which of course had nothing to do with it. He looked at me rather disgusted, went to the parlor and came back with a Colt and belt buckled on. “Come on,” was all he said.

  With a handkerchief over his face, Ed looked enough like me to make it good. It was agreed Ed and I should make the change-back of horses a few days later if possible at Reamer’s Livery Barn in Socorro. Still I did not like it for Ed’s sake, but did not like to press the matter as it began to look as if maybe Jake was getting nervous at having me with him.

  We all looked out the window and saw the two men down the road keeping watch of the house, grassing their horses in an open field of the Hoffmans, which made Ed mad. So we said goodbyes.

  I found out from Ed later the following week that the men did not find out about the switch until the next morning several miles this side of Socorro, after all had ridden all night pushing fast. Ed rode right past them deliberately and laughed in their faces. They stopped, had a powwow and started back galloping toward the Hoffmans, now many miles, about 35 to 40, behind.

  After Ed and Jake had left, Mrs. Hoffman slept but woke about sundown.

  I explained in a kindly way. It was plain she did not like it at all. I tried to make it up to her by making several cups of tea for her at her request. Then I washed the dishes and brought in stove wood. Having once said her say, she would not speak again and retired early.

  15

  The Tool-Shed Door

  At first I had decided to wait for Mr. Hoffman to get home. We had agreed on that plan so his wife would not be alone on the place. Hoffman was expected to arrive the next morning early.

  I found a lantern after while, went to the shed, found Ed’s bay there, about the same size as Blacky but older. Tied him on the far side of the house to a mailbox post near some box elder. Then I went back to the house and sat in the rocking chair near the window all night and was there when dawn came up.

  I could see the yard plain. There was a wooden windmill Hoffman had started to build to pump water. In this he had been unsuccessful and the windmill was unfinished. Just beyond this windmill I could see the hand-fed horse trough and two sheds, one for tools, one for horses.

  The tool-shed door, when morning came, was half open and blowing easy in the wind. It would blow wide open, then come back slow, but never quite enough to close all the way. I begun to think someone was inside the shed. Could not see this, but could feel it.

  I was sure the two men following us had gone on ahead with Ed and Jake, but one of them could have doubled back. But this was not likely as Jake and Ed would of warned me. So it was someone else.

  As I watched the door swing my eyes got tired, strained and watery. I looked away to ease them, then back. Door still swinging in the wind.

  I looked away again, and then back and the door was still swinging, first big swings and then smaller and smaller.

  Tried watching the door from sideways to ease my eyes.

  At that point the door swung to further than ever before. Someone inside had been waiting for that. A hand and arm came out and pulled the door full shut, possibly hooking it on the inside. It was fast shut from then on. It blew in the wind no more.

  My stomach felt small and cold. I wondered where this man had come from. I had seen no horse, heard nothing. But one thing was sure—Mrs. Hoffman and I were not alone on the place.

  I had Ed’s bay tied on the offside of the house from the sheds. It was near a cleared place for wagons and a box-elder strip.

  I eased out of the rocking chair and crossed the room to the other window in the direction of this locality. I eased up the window and got out. It took me two jumps to get to that bay of Ed’s and get to hell out of there.

  I ran the bay to northwards where I had come from. Then saw a near hill and walked him up to scan the Hoffman place from that point. All was peaceful. Not a soul in sight. The shed door was still closed.

  Somehow I could not understand this. If a man had been in the shed, and I was sure he was, he would of heard me ride off and followed.

/>   The light got better as the sun rose up. I sat my horse there a long time on the hill among the trees. I moved back, tied the bay and ate some bread and meat that Ed had fixed for me along with other food in the bags. Ate very little, knowing now that the time might be long for me through unknown country.

  As I was finishing the stuff, I heard horses on the north-south road and got up quick to scan the Hoffman place. Two men on horses rode into the Hoffman yard. They were men I had never seen before, but must have been part of the hunt.

  The door to the shed opened and out came Mrs. Hoffman and I almost fell over. Here I thought she was in bed and it had been her in the shed all the time. She must have been afraid of me, I figured. Had locked herself in the shed all night, probably dozed some, then the wind suction had unhooked the door. So she tried to close it without being seen.

  She must have seen me leave the place through a crack or some place, because the men did not search the premises. Or maybe she did not tell on me, though fearing me. The men rode on south towards Socorro.

  Yet I knew they would do this, if they figured I was near and somewhere high up watching them. So I was not fooled by this, knowing they were planning to cut back fast, or might have been.

  I hardly moved that day, which was beautiful, no more blowing dust as before, the sun not too hot, and pleasant, gentle wind. I stayed close, being able to see the Socorro road north and south for quite a ways. In all that day nothing moved on the road north or south.

  When it came dark, I decided to chance it, got the bay untied and led him down to the road, mounted and five shots popped near me. One tore off my old hat and sent her sailing away in the dark for good.

  Ed’s horse was not broke for gunfire, and he ran off to the right at top speed and carried me across the flat down to the Grande before I could stop him. Stopped him near the river, but this was flat, tilted, mesa country without a lick of cover.

  I regretted the loss of my old hat, and wondered if this hunt might go on till I was a naked man riding a horse. My pants and shirt were near rags and my shoes had no soles. The old ideas came back about how these Boyds grudged me everything. Once I had seen a man, a fugitive like me, brought out from the plains by my father. I recollected how he looked—nearly naked, half crazy and looking like an animal. I saw that coming for me.

  But I forced these ideas away.

  Finally I got on the hill side of the road, away from the river, by slow-walking. I stopped to muffle the horse’s feet with long grass and old calftag twine. Thus had a shock. Both saddlebags containing the food Ed got for me and some Jake had thrown in were off in the bay’s bolt across the flat. Ed had slighted the pack straps. Right off I began to feel hungry.…

  The next seven days I don’t recollect so well, except I kept plugging on to reach Socorro. I stayed always in the hills, taking trail wherever I could find it, which was not often. When there was no trail I kept slogging south on anything Ed’s horse could hold onto with his feet. The bay had green food and there was plenty water, but it was hard for me to find anything to eat.

  My father often had told me how hard it seems to find game when a man is in deep need for it. A deer would of helped but I saw no deer. I ate a dead fish one night I found by the river shore and one day trailed a sheep, not wild but stray, private-owned. Followed that sheep all day but could not get near enough for a shot which I would of chanced being pretty weak.

  Even watched for beaver and rats in the river but saw none. Found a cache with food all eaten by animals, except some bread which was unfit to eat but I got it down. Also shot and tried to eat some small animals I would rather not mention.

  Once at about last light of day I saw a small duck in the river, when I had crawled that way through dense cover. I knocked him out with a stone. Had trouble with the feathers but finally skun him and cooked him as well as I could late at night. He was the poorest eating duck I ever saw, one of these small, skittering ducks.

  I got thin and thinner, hogging water aplenty to keep the cramps down. It sure was a poor, sorry country for man and beast, sure was.…

  I came to Socorro early Saturday morning when the town was asleep and not a soul in sight. I circled the town once. But now I was mean and desperate enough to hate myself for having skulked all these days. I looked over my rifle and decided I would shoot the first man I saw who looked as if he might be looking for me. Now I was through skulking and was mean and anxious to meet this man whoever he might be. (This changed attitude in me came out stronger later.)

  Jake had described the main saloon to me and it was easy for me to pick her out. I rode down there. There was a big door in front six men could have rode abreast through. There was two back doors, one open, one cross-boarded and nailed shut. It was a well-built place, half dobe half frame. Jake had said there was a redhead bartender in the place. I heard whistling as I tied up to the hitch rail. I walked in. The redhead bartender was there all right, washing glasses, whistling, all alone.

  I had never before seen a bartender wearing a white vest. He looked at me and my gun and asked me if I had seen any deer. I told him I had not but had looked for some. He said deer were getting scarce, something I could of told him. He asked me if I would not sit down. I took a chair and told him I was the son of a man he might have heard of—Mr. Charles Lohman.

  When he heard this he stopped his work behind the bar and wiped his hands. He then shifted his specks and folded his arms on the bar and looked at me.

  I asked him if he knew my father and he said he knew him very well. He said my father had been in his place just the day before and was now to the best of his knowledge at a T Cross T camp in a cottonwood grove about four miles above town on the Santa Fé road.

  He saw then something was wrong with me. When I asked him for food and showed him money to buy it, he told me to wait and he would go out back. He seemed to have living quarters back there, but when he came back with the food, I was sure he had also sent some message. I felt this.

  On a plate he had three hard-boiled eggs, and some bread. Also he had a piece of cheese on the plate and a half a dozen tortillas.

  He said he was sorry he did not have hot food but had not started a fire in his stove yet. I stuffed the tortillas in my shirt, ate the rest of the food as slow as I was able, and asked for a glass of water after paying.

  It took me a long time to get the food down, as I was careful. I sat there facing the bartender at a card-table chair, with my rifle in my left arm crook, eating with my right hand from the plate. The bartender tried to go on with his work, but I could see he was so interested he could not keep his mind on it. He had a very good personality.

  I asked him if my father and the T Cross T had been up north of the town a long time.

  He said: “Three weeks. They were camped further north before that. They are having some difficulty with the cattle inspectors. They say they will begin the drive-out next week, but I wouldn’t know. When your father was here yesterday someone brought him a letter from up north saying you were coming here. So you are the boy, are you?”

  I said yes.

  I was surprised some when he said: “There is another son here.”

  I asked the name and he said he thought the name of the other son was Harley, but could not be sure, and this surprised me even more. We had not heard from Harley for long.

  He said Harley had come up from Mexico. Knowing how my father had grieved at Harley’s absence, I was glad to know they had gotten in touch again. I asked was my father still cooking for the outfit. The bartender said yes. I said I had been away from my father a long time and had worried about his health.

  He kept quiet then but finally said: “Probably other things.”

  I said something about cattle.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s these protective clubs they form that contain the hotheads and the big mouths. The Springers and Maxwells are interested, and so are the Leffermans and other ranchers south and east of here. But the real tough guys with the sh
ooting itch are these Boyds who are spreading down this way, or would like to.”

  I thanked him kindly.

  A short, heavy-built man about fifty with a toothpick in his mouth came in and looked at me. I just sat there. He walked back and forth looking at me and I saw the badge on him.

  “Expecting somebody?”

  I said: “I have got kind of used to expecting somebody.”

  “But not me.”

  The bartender said, “This is the son of Charles Edward Lohman.”

  “Oh,” said the man, looking at me and moving his toothpick around in his mouth.

  After a little he said: “Okay, Son, get on your way. Keep the shooting out of the city limits.”

  I said nothing, but went out, after cocking my rifle. I then got on my horse and rode northwards without seeing anyone. It appeared to me whoever was watching wanted to make it easy for me to reach my destination.

  16

  Lohman Finds His Father

  The cottonwoods were thick here, not strung out along the river. They had the same musty smell as the river ones. There was a dead sheep that made me recollect Bawbeen when I got off my borrowed horse. It was lying half in the light brush at the edge of the grove, and plenty coyotes had been at it. Knowing the ways of my father and the men with him, I wondered why they had left something like that so near camp.

  It made me believe they had possibly been in the habit of coming on the camp from upriver, instead of where I rode in, and had not noted the sheep. I examined the head, which was whole and near fresh, backing up the idea.

  There was a path into the place. The next I noted was a tent stake and a torn-up canvas fly, like the kind of a cook’s fly that is attached to a chuck wagon. Then there was a cleared space and the ashes of two fires, and it looked as if camp had been broken sudden.

  Trying to see everything in front of me, as I went ahead, this made me careless of what was above. Something parted my hair. I looked up and was surprised to see it was a hanging man. His boot had parted my hair. It rose up when I saw another man hanging, then one more, which was my father.