by Edson, J. T.
‘God damn the luck!’ the man growled, his accent that of one born and raised in the Lone Star State. ‘If ever a good ole boy from Texas was caught ’tween a rock and a hard place, I’m him. It’s just not my day!’
Chapter Two – Go Through His Pockets
After fleeing for about half a mile in panic along the trail, recovering from the fright which had caused it to bolt, and feeling the split-ended reins slapping against its forelegs, the Texan’s big claybank gelding had responded to the training it was given at the ranch where it was born and raised. However, it had waited until finding a steep slope which offered some shelter from the rain before coming to a halt. Nor, even after the storm passed, had it moved far. Conditioned to remain comparatively still when ground hitched, it continued to stand and graze, as much as was possible with the bit still in position, from the grass at the verge of the trail.
Already making their way to investigate the spiraling turkey vultures, as were more of the species Cathartes Aura converging from all sides, the taller of the two riders coming along the trail was first to notice the claybank. Anywhere west of the Mississippi River in general and on the vast open ranges of Texas in particular, the sight of a saddled and riderless horse was cause for speculation or even concern. Therefore, on seeing it, he brought the animal to the attention of his companion by raising the Winchester Model of 1873 rifle from across his lap and pointing with the barrel. Without waiting to look, the other also lifted a Winchester —albeit a Model of 1876 carbine—to a position of greater readiness and each eased the hammer, set at the half cock position which served in lieu of a safety catch, until ready to open fire should the need arise.
The motions and the fact that both riders were carrying shoulder arms in their hands and considered it advisable to set the hammers to the rear in the fully cocked position, while on what amounted to a major road leading to Bonham County’s seat, Flamingo, would have been significant to anybody with knowledge of the West. In the vicinity of such a frequently travelled trail, it was unlikely there would be any wild animals of a suitable size—either as predators with designs upon domestic stock, or to be used to supplement beef for food—to warrant the use of the Winchesters. With the possibility of hunting being the purpose of the riders precluded, the implication was that they had reason to believe there might be a need for the firearms as weapons and more quickly than would have been possible if these had been reposing in the boot attached to the left side of each saddle.
‘I see it, Halcón Gris,’ the second rider stated. ‘It’s not from our remuda and it isn’t what the turkey buzzards are after.’
‘Nope,’ grunted the taller, his deep and guttural voice far different from the tones of his companion. ‘Can’t see nobody anywheres close to it, so the buzzards could be after whoever it belongs to.’
At first glance, being clad in a round topped and wide brimmed black Stetson, loosely fitting brown leather jacket, white shirt with an open neck, Levi’s pants and cowhand-style boots, the smaller rider could easily have been mistaken for a boy. However, despite the short-cropped dark hair showing from beneath the hat and masculine attire, the voice and face were definitely feminine; with breeding and education at odds with such an unconventional mode of dress. Her slender figure, graceful in the saddle, was just beginning to show signs of maturing. Furthermore, there was nothing child-like about the dark-lashed green eyes. They gave an indication that, despite the suggestion of innocence implied by the rest of her beautiful olive brown Hispanic features, Ransome Cordoba had grown up in a mainly masculine society and had come to know the basic facts of life at an early age.
Several years older than the girl, there was nothing even remotely indicative of innocence about the appearance presented by Tom Grey. Plainly visible in the form of a savage slash that started from the hairline above his right eye and cut across the bridge of his nose, a scar ended just below his left ear. It showed up starkly white against skin that was Indian-dark and added to the leathery grimness of his aquiline face. His hair, which he kept cut to the length considered de rigueur in cattle country—where presenting an excessively hirsute appearance was considered an abomination—his hair was far more grey than might have been expected at his age. Amber in color with a darker outer rim, his eyes were much like those of the hawk which supplied the first part of his sobriquet, Halcón Gris.
Although clearly a product of two races, experience had taught Grey to avoid making this more obvious. Well worn, his clothing was that of a typical working cowhand and, despite being employed on a Chicano v spread—albeit one whose owner showed no preference for either race in the selection of men to work the range—more Texan than Mexican in style. In addition to the rifle, he had a gunbelt strapped about his waist, with a walnut handled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker in its holster on the right side; but it was not the rig of a fast man with a gun. Nor, despite his competence as a fighter in other ways, would he ever claim to be one. His skills were with the Winchester, or the long bladed J. Russell & Co. ‘Green River’ hunting knife hanging sheathed on the opposite side to the revolver.
Riding closer to the claybank, Ransome and Grey studied it with almost equally knowing eyes. Born and raised in Bonham County, the girl knew enough about such matters to decide it was not suitable for working cattle. Neither had its somewhat fancy rig suffered the rigors of hard use unavoidable on the range. Furthermore, while sufficiently impressive to catch the eye—as was generally the prime consideration when making a choice for such a purpose—she felt the animal was more than just some cowhand’s ‘go-to-town’ mount selected for looks rather than utility.
‘I make the brand C On F,’ Grey remarked, having drawn similar conclusions to those of his companion and taken them further. Motioning with his rifle to where there was a clearly discernible scar caused by the sign of ownership—the first capital letter superposed on the second—being burned into the animal’s left hip, he went on, ‘Which same’s the hoss spread owned by that Scotch jasper’s runs ’round in a skirt out Cowtown way.’ vi
‘It’s called a “kilt”,’ Ransome corrected, but without any suggestion of wishing to impress her companion by possessing superior knowledge. ‘And he’s Scottish, not Scotch. Scotch is a drinking whiskey, although I don’t suppose I need to tell you that.’
‘I’m a tequila man myself and I don’t care what his skirt’s called by fancy, know-all folks like some’s I could name,’ the man declared, showing no trace of resentment. Rather his demeanor was that of an old and well trusted family retainer, granted privileges by virtue of this long association. ‘That Scotch jasper’s still a man to step aside from when he’s riled and hosses he sells’s’re this good don’t come cheap.’
‘Neither does a Winchester ’76,’ the girl supported, having ridden close enough to discern exactly which kind of rifle was in the saddleboot. ‘Whoever’s lost him isn’t a saddle-bum.’
‘There’s worse’n saddle-bums hereabouts these days,’ Grey asserted, subjecting the surrounding terrain to a careful and keen scrutiny. Satisfied there was nothing to cause alarm in the immediate vicinity and reaching to scoop up the dangling reins, he went on, ‘Anyways, talking’s not getting us closer to finding out who-all’s lost him. Could be the buzzards know the answer.’
Setting their mounts into motion once more, the pair continued along the road. Arriving where it bent along the top of the arroyo, they heard the muted yet growing roar of rushing water and could guess the cause.
‘Madre de dios!’ Ransome gasped, having the habit of reverting to Spanish when startled despite speaking English with no trace of a Hispanic accent just as much during her everyday life. ‘Look!’
‘I see!’ Grey replied, returning the hammer of the rifle to half cock and thrusting it swiftly into the saddleboot. Waiting until the girl had just as speedily duplicated his actions with her carbine, he held out the claybank’s reins. Waiting only until they were taken from him, he set his big grulla gelding moving with a jab from his hee
ls and snapping, ‘Yeeah!’
Reacting with an equal speed, the girl gave a commanding tug at the claybank’s reins and induced the smaller—yet equally well bred—bayos cebrunos pony vii between her legs to follow her companion!
~*~
The Texan wondered whether wishful thinking was causing his eyes to play tricks as he saw the figure of a man bounding down the slope towards him. On realizing the vision was a fact, uncaring of his own desperate predicament, he tried to yell a warning about the second and less obvious peril. All he could manage was an incoherent croaking rasp.
The warning was not required!
Regardless of the urgency and the rapidity of the descent he was making, a man like Tom Grey always remained on the alert to his surroundings in case some peril might await the unwary. With his attention drawn by the slight movements it was making, he detected the diamondback rattlesnake. Giving a grunt, he lashed out with his left foot. Striking like lightning, with the mouth opened to its full gape, the poison-dripping fangs passed through the cloth of his Levi’s to be halted harmlessly by the leather leg of his boot.
Caught by the kick, the snake hung on to the material for a moment. Then it was flung clear and the rescuer was able to reach down and grasp the Texan’s outstretched left wrist in both his hands. Having done so, he realized that the task upon which he was engaged could not be considered anything even close to completed. For one thing, although remaining sentient for long enough to extend the arm and now trying to help in the struggle the man he was grasping was clearly already too weakened to be of great assistance. Secondly, and far more dangerous, already the forward end of the flash flood was upon them.
At that moment, as he had on more than one occasion since he had obtained them during a visit to El Paso, Halcón Gris had reason to be grateful for parting with the not inconsiderable sum he had paid to purchase his boots. They had served him well in the past and, despite the nature of the terrain underfoot, continued to do so. Bracing his wirily powerful body against what amounted to a dead weight and digging the high heels into the scanty soil of the slope, he found they were giving him just sufficient of a purchase to hold on to the motionless body below him.
However, Grey was uncertain of how long he would be able to continue against the pressure of the water!
What Halcón Gris did not doubt was that assistance was in the vicinity!
Nor was the scar faced man wrong in his assumption!
Up on the road, Ransome had not even waited to find out what developed. Instead, the moment she had brought her bayo cebrunos and the claybank to a halt, she had started to make preparations to render the help she felt certain was going to be needed. Dropping the reins of the big horse, but retaining those of her own mount in her left hand, she swiftly freed the coiled lariat strapped to the apple-sized horn of her single girthed Mexican style saddle.
Long experience in handling the sixty foot length of best Manila rope, its three-strand construction laid extra hard for strength and smoothness, allowed the girl to move swiftly and yet without becoming flurried despite the extreme urgency. Deftly shaking out a loop of the size she knew would be needed for the hooley-ann throw which her instincts suggested was best suited to her needs, she gave it one quick whirl around in front of her to the right until it was over her head. On being released in the direction of the target, it turned to flatten out as it was descending.
Being developed as a ‘head catch’ which allowed several men to be able to collect horses from a confined remuda at the same time, without disturbing the rest unduly, the loop for the hooley-ann was smaller than would have been needed for some other kinds of throw and, due to the honda sliding along the stem of the rope and taking up the slack, its size decreased as it was in flight. viii Nevertheless, such was the skill with which Ransome performed the throw, there was still a sufficiently large spread to achieve its purpose.
Watching the loop descend to pass over Grey’s head, the girl gave a twitch on the stem which caused it to tighten about his shoulders. Trained by ‘tie men’ who followed the dictates of Texas in such matters, before the tension came at the other end, she quickly fastened a knot around the saddlehorn instead of seeking the safety for herself which could have been attained by applying the half-hitch of the ‘dally’ —allowing it to be released hurriedly in an emergency— employed by cowhands in other States. While she was doing so, she saw that she had not acted a moment too soon. What was more, even having completed her part by bringing off the hooley-ann throw, the rescue was still far from being concluded with an equal success. Everything now depended upon her companion and the comparatively small pony between her legs.
With the swirling turbulence of the flood seeming to be making a deliberately thought out bid at snatching away his burden, in spite of feeling the rope biting into the flesh of his chest, back and straining biceps, Grey was thankful for its support. As the thrust of the current threatened to sweep them both away, while it was little enough, the help he was receiving from the other’ s feeble efforts was playing its part in fending off the attempt by the churning water to carry them off along with the other debris it had collected in its rush along the arroyo. Nevertheless, ever a realist, he knew they would not be able to avoid that fate by their own unaided endeavours.*
Above the endangered men, being trained for roping, the little cowpony had anticipated what was coming when feeling its rider begin to manipulate the lariat. In fact, it did not even need the signal given by a nudge from her spurs to start bracing its forelegs against the weight and pulling which it experienced as the loop tightened and the stem snapped taut. Fortunately, the rains responsible for the flood had lasted long enough in the vicinity to have softened the surface of the trial and the sun had not yet caused it to harden to its more usual rock-like consistency. Therefore, as the rescuer on the slope had already done, the bayo cebrunos was able to dig in its steel shod hooves sufficiently to hold firm against the strain which was thrown upon it.
Regardless of the assistance from above, for close to three minutes the result of the rescue bid hung in a very delicate balance!
Nor, towards the end, was the situation improved by the latest strain to which his already abused and suffering body was subjected causing the Texan to lapse again into unconsciousness. Feeling the weak movements which had played a small—yet not inconsiderable—part in averting disaster come to an end, Halcón Gris had gritted his teeth and hung on with all the concentrated determination not to be defeated, which was a major factor in his nature. Gazing down in anxiety, Ransome applied all her skill and knowledge to helping the bayos cebrunos play its vitally necessary part.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the first mass of the Hash flood was gone. The level of the water subsided and the force of the current slackened. Seeing this, the girl signaled for her mount to start slowly edging backwards. Having the pull exerted, sucking in air as best he could against the constriction of the rope, Grey was able to haul the unresisting man a step at a time higher up the slope. Once they were clear of the flow, the girl halted the pony and allowed him to remove the loop. Flexing his sore and aching limbs, then waiting for a few seconds until he had regained his breath, he transferred his grip to beneath the Texan’s armpits and resumed the climb without aid. Once at the top, stretching his burden out on the trail, he sank down to recover further from what had been a tremendous physical ordeal.
‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Ransome commented, after having ascertained there was nothing she could do for her companion, studying the bruised and battered features of the man they had saved. Gesturing towards the blood oozing from the ugly scalp wound, the water having soaked away that which had coagulated, she went on, ‘Whoever he is, he’s going to have a bad headache, if nothing worse, when he wakes up.’
‘I don’t know who he is, neither,’ Grey replied, first tapping the gunbelt worn by the Texan with his right forefinger and then drawing the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker from the holster to look it over. Notic
ing that an attempt had been made to wipe away the mud which had been gathered during the descent into the arroyo, he emptied the bullets from the cylinder and tested the mechanism by operating the hammer and depressing the trigger. Having done so, he returned the weapon to the rig and continued, ‘But I sure as sin’s for sale in Cowtown know what he is.’
‘It certainly looks as if he might be,’ the girl admitted, having watched what was being done and being aware of what was portended by the cryptic comment.
The significance of the rig worn by the unconscious Texan had not escaped either of his rescuers. Even the girl was aware that it was the product of a master craftsman well versed in such matters and not merely a highly skilled worker in leather for general purposes.
Battered and bedraggled though he undoubtedly was at that moment, the rescuers felt sure that the man they had snatched from the flash flood was not a cowhand wearing such a rig merely as an affectation. Like his horse’s saddle and bridle, his clothing was of good quality and his boots too had never been subjected to the rigors of working cattle on the open range. What was more, the examination of the revolver had satisfied Grey that its mechanism had been worked on to ensure an even smoother and faster action than when it left ‘Colonel Sam’s’ factory in Hartford, Connecticut. That was a sign of one who knew he must be able to depend upon the complete reliability of his weapon on those occasions when his existence might hang upon a matter of a split second.
