by R. W. Stone
Another man from the posse spoke up: “Sheriff, I’m sure we’ll have him by day’s end, but not if we don’t get goin’ now.”
I shook my head. “Looks that way sure enough, but I think this galoot is riding toward a specific destination, and that’s north, not south,” I explained. “He may very well have ridden across here, but he just as easily could have backed his horse up over his own tracks into the water and then ridden downstream in order to cross over farther on down.”
“Hans,” the other man said, calling over to the sheriff, “I don’t know this young feller from Adam’s house cat, but you’ve known me for years. Lou and I already rode up and down this here stream, and we didn’t find no tracks coming out.”
“You didn’t ride far enough,” I argued. “Either that or he brushed his trail after coming out.”
The man, one of the locals called Whip for some reason or another, pulled his horse alongside of mine. “That’s so?” he said angrily. His intent was clear. Whip was trying to win his point by intimidating me.
“Like you said, you don’t know me,” I pointed out. “So don’t assume you can bully me into following a cold trail.” I dropped my hand to my sidearm.
The sheriff looked at the two of us. “No need for that. Remember, we’re all in this together.” He looked at me. “Sorry, son, but he’s right. I know Whip very well, but I don’t know you at all. Best we go with his advice and follow his lead. We’ll continue on following the man’s trail, like Whip says.”
I shook my head slowly and pushed up the brim of my hat. “Sorry, Sheriff, but I didn’t join this hunt for you or Whip. It’s all about a boy, lying cold back in town. I gotta go my own way from here on in.”
“Suit yourself, son,” the sheriff said after a moment’s consideration. “And good luck to you, boy.”
“Good luck to you, too. But for the future, Sheriff … I ain’t a boy, and I sure as hell ain’t your son.”
When they rode out across the stream, I heard one of the men mutter: “And good riddance, you young know-it-all whippersnapper.”
Once the posse disappeared across the stream, I patted my horse on the neck and spoke to him: “Either I’m right or I’m a complete fool, and likely as not we’ll end up dead. Well, I will at any rate.” As I tightened up the reins, I added: “We’re in for it now, but then we both know it won’t be the first time.” The Appaloosa snorted as if to agree with me, and I gently kicked him into a lope.
Chapter Three
To the north of my position, there was a small forest, and just beyond that was a rather mountainous area. Either one would provide equally good cover for a man escaping on horseback. By now I was sure that was where the outlaw was headed. Once he made it deep into that terrain, no posse on earth would ever find him.
It didn’t make sense for me to ride down the stream, desperately looking for signs of the outlaw’s exit. The odds were against my getting lucky enough to pick up his track on the riverbank. Even if I did, I would still end up merely following behind him at a distance.
If my thinking was correct, I could head him off quicker by cutting diagonally across country than I ever could by riding slowly up and down a running stream, looking for hoofprints or broken twigs. If I was obviously wrong, I wouldn’t find him, but maybe the rest of the posse would. I didn’t think I was wrong, though. Not this time.
I rode hard for two days, purposely taking the steeper climbs or the less traveled trails. At one point I stopped to give the horse a rest and to survey my surroundings. I couldn’t help thinking that under other circumstances, this would be fine country to explore or perhaps to hunt in.
Constantly dismounting to walk up steep rocky hills or getting soaked fording cold streams wasn’t my idea of fun. I was dead tired by the end of the third day, so at sunset I stopped to make camp.
If my reckoning was even fair to middling, I had only three more days to catch this man, whoever he was. After that, the country would swallow him up, and I’d never find him. As I said, all I had to go on was a quick glimpse of a bay horse, his general body size, and a fancy vest with conchos. All he’d have to do to disappear would be to change clothes and trade horses. If he did that, I’d never be able to find him.
I unsaddled my horse, replaced his bridle with his hackamore, and picketed him to the ground. While the Appaloosa was grazing, I lit a cigar, one of the many bad habits I’d picked up in the army, and surveyed the horizon. I watched the smoke drift upward and noticed how the wind blew it down and to the left. Down and to the left. That got me thinking. I had planned to continue riding straight ahead in the morning, but while studying the hills off in the distance, I made a snap decision.
By this point in time, I had followed enough of his trail to know approximately where he was going. I knew that at this rate, there was a good possibility I might not be able to catch him. Riding straight ahead would help me follow his sign better, but I asked myself, what good would that do if it meant he would still get away?
I considered following that curve I’d seen on the horizon by riding across and down, using a shortcut to the northeast, and then cutting back again. After all, the ultimate goal was the man, not the Canadian border. I finally went with my gut feeling and came to the same conclusion that gamblers are so fond of saying: “Sometimes you just have to let the dice fall as they may.”
Two days later found me at the top of a hill looking down into a small canyon. I always carried a good telescope with me, a habit I’d picked up when I first joined the cavalry. I bought this one from a sailor back in 1861. I suspect the Navy may not have actually authorized a “legitimate transfer” to the sailor, but then again, finder’s keepers has always worked for me, and the price was right.
I took the telescope from my saddlebag and searched the valley. To say I was anxious would be an understatement. I remembered that young mother’s plaintiff wails and her plea to me in town once I ran over and helped revive her: “Please help me.” Of course, I realized she was referring to her child, but there was nothing anyone could do to help him. I felt the only way I could help this poor woman was to bring the boy’s killer to justice. I rode out of town before I learned of the woman’s religious convictions or if she even cared whether the man lived or died. All I felt at the time was a burning desire to do something for her and the memory of her boy. Catching this bastard was the only thing I knew to do.
After about two or three minutes, I spotted something moving at the far entrance to the valley. It was a horse and rider. I noticed something causing reflections apparently from his belly.
“Silver conchos,” I thought. I must have actually said it out loud, because after I’d been quiet for so long, my horse suddenly tossed his head up.
I’d been right; it was the robber. Technically, since that boy back in town had been killed during the bank robbery, he was now also a murderer. While I’ll admit to feeling a sense of accomplishment, it was quickly replaced with a sense of dread. I knew that once the outlaw made it out of that valley, I’d lose him for good. The problem now was that I was on horseback at the top of a very steep hill, while the robber was riding below on level ground. Once he spotted me, he’d take off in a rush for the far and yonder.
I looked down and remembered reading about that Greek horse, Pegasus, that supposedly had wings and could fly. Damn, I thought, I sure wish he were here now. If I tried going down that hill, my horse and I would probably end up flying, too. In all likelihood, however, we’d be flying head over heels.
Chapter Four
My troop in the war had a motto: “We’d ride to hell and back.” It seemed as though now was the time to put that to the test. Time to put up or shut up, as they say. While I watched the rider entering that valley, I calculated my odds. They were slim to none. I replaced the telescope in my saddlebags and glanced down. Actually it was more like looking straight down. I couldn’t dismount and climb down, that
would take far too much time. Trying to take that hill on horseback was suicide, and I didn’t have a rifle that could hit a rider galloping at that distance. Too bad, I thought. I ought to have a sniper rifle with a damned telescopic sight on it. Since that wasn’t the kind of rifle I owned, it all seemed hopeless. I thought of the broken body of that boy back in town and shook my head. No way you get away. Not while I’m still breathing.
I dismounted and pulled the saddle from my horse and dropped it on the ground. “Sorry about this, but I’ve got no choice,” I said to the horse. “Don’t let me down on this.” I don’t really know if I said it more to him or to myself. Years ago I had seen a Cheyenne Indian take a hill like this one, and I remembered how he had managed the feat. At the time I thought he was crazy. Now it was my turn to try, and I can assure you, I must have been equally as crazy.
I quickly pulled my rifle from the saddle scabbard and lengthened its sling. At the time I was carrying a Spencer cavalry carbine. I hoisted it up over my neck and across my back. I next tied the reins together up over the horse’s neck, went to his rear, and grabbed hold of his tail, tightly. I wrapped the tail around my left wrist and slapped him on the rump with my other hand.
Now anyone who knows anything about horses will tell you it was highly probable that gelding would have kicked the crap out of me and run away instead of going down that incline. That didn’t happen. Not with this horse.
I have always favored the Appaloosa breed, and this one was bred true by one of the smartest Indian tribes around when it comes to horses. As far as I can tell, the Nez Percé Indians of the Northwest were the only tribe to breed their livestock selectively. They valued disposition and intelligence first in their horses. My experience has been that Appaloosas are quiet and sensible, with a willingness to learn I’ve not seen in other kinds of horses.
As a breed, the Appaloosa is known for its distinctive coat color. Some call them squaw spots, but basically the horses have a solid or roan color up front and a large blanket of white and spots over the rump. Others of the breed are white with spots all over the body. The one I was riding was a blue roan with white and black spots.
Regardless of the horse’s color pattern, the breed seems to be very adaptable, and their endurance and speed are legendary. The Nez Percé supposedly bred them specifically to have durable hoofs and strong legs. The one I was riding was a large gelding with broad knees and strong, large tendons. He had never failed me in all the time I’d owned him, and he didn’t hesitate now. We went down that hill with me running as fast as I could just to keep up.
I remember trying to lean back as I ran so as not to fall forward head over heels. I also attempted to pull back on the tail in order to give the horse more balance. I don’t know if that made any sense or whether or not it helped, but I do know it was better to dwell on that than it would have been to scream in terror all the way down.
I didn’t die, but only the Lord knows why not. It certainly wasn’t good living that did it. At any rate, when that Appaloosa hit the valley floor on the run, he thankfully just stopped. It took me a full minute or two just to catch my breath. When I finally recovered and looked up, I could see that rider heading at full gallop straight toward the valley’s exit.
I swung up onto the horse’s back, unslung the Spencer carbine from around my neck, grabbed the reins in my left hand, and put a spur to him. The Appaloosa started running as if he were born to it.
At that point we were heading at an angle north and west toward the end of the valley. It was obviously going to be a race to the finish, and the stakes were life itself. By now the other man had seen me but was making no effort to stop or surrender. Quite the contrary; even as he rode, I could see him pulling a rifle from its scabbard. I leaned forward to encourage the big gelding onward. I heard a shot and swear I felt something fly by my face, so I put my head down alongside the horse’s neck.
By now I was considering changing his name to Pegasus, since for all intents and purposes we practically were flying. The Appaloosa beat the other horse to the far end of the valley with time to spare. I dismounted and grabbed the horse’s leg from underneath and brought him down to the ground. I lay down behind him with my body holding down the neck reins. I lay my carbine across the horse’s side and sighted it in.
I have to hand it to that fellow. Outlaw or not, he sure could ride. He was actually standing in the stirrups and firing what appeared to be a long lever-action rifle at me. It was probably a Winchester. I hoped our low profile on the ground would keep my horse safer while giving me a better platform to shoot from.
I didn’t want my Appaloosa injured, but my right hand has always been weak, and it trembles some from time to time. As if that isn’t bad enough, my long-distance eyesight stinks. I needed that carbine as steady as I could make it and didn’t have much time to do anything else. I cocked the Spencer and set my sights on the outlaw, charging at me.
Another shot took off my hat. Damn that bastard! I thought. He could certainly shoot as well as he could ride. I fired back, and although the outlaw seemed to bend forward for a moment, it didn’t stop him. The man rose back up again while I chambered another round.
The Spencer carbine I was using was a magazine-fed, lever-
operated rifle chambered for a .56-56 cartridge that was a rimfire. The Spencer had a tube that held seven rounds, but the hammer had to be cocked for each shot. I found it to be a very reliable firearm, but carbines aren’t very good for long-distance shooting, especially in the arms of someone who can’t see well.
I fired twice more without effect, and all I received for my efforts was a bullet graze across my left shoulder. I had to wait for him to get closer into my carbine’s most effective range.
I took a long deep breath, let half of it out, and squeezed off a round. The outlaw rolled backward and fell off his horse. I put my head down for a moment and then stood up. The man was no longer moving.
After my horse got up, I stopped to check him over. I found a spot of blood on his side, but closer examination revealed it had come from my wound. He was uninjured and, trust me, no one could have been more pleased than I was. I remounted and rode over to the robber. When I examined him, he was dead with a bullet clear through his chest, right over his heart. If he ever had one, that is.
I remounted and rode after the outlaw’s horse. When we finally caught up with it, I noticed it was a fairly decent stallion that seemed to have some Morgan blood in it. I grabbed its reins and rode back to the body. After some effort, I hoisted the corpse sideways over the Morgan’s saddle and tied it down with some rope that I wrapped around his legs, through the stirrups, and back up over his neck. By that point I didn’t have to worry about his comfort, a fact that didn’t bother me in the least.
Eventually I rode around and back up the high ridge and recovered my saddle. After washing down my wound with some water from the canteen and pouring a little whiskey over it from a small bottle I carried for medicinal purposes, I resaddled my Appaloosa. I looked back one more time into the valley and then headed back to town.
The trip took almost a full week, and, believe me, being on the trail all that time with two horses and a dead body began to vex me. After the second day, I gave serious thought to dumping the body and returning with just his saddlebags and the money from the bank. Something inside of me, however, told me to bring him all the way back. To this day I don’t know why.
It’s not that I would have felt particularly guilty about leaving his body out there alone instead of burying him in Boot Hill. Of that much I’m sure. The man had robbed a bank, trampled an innocent kid, and had at shot me. As far as I was concerned, he could rot in hell. No, it wasn’t guilt. I think the main reason I brought him back was to give the woman and the town the satisfaction of seeing his lifeless corpse.
At the end of my journey, I was greeted by an empty town. I didn’t actually expect a crowd waving flags or someone
waiting to pat me on the back and overflowing with congratulations, but here it was just the opposite. There was nothing. I realized it was still early in the morning, so I assumed everyone was either sleeping or in the kitchen having their first cup of coffee of the day. I looked down the main street and decided to tie the horses up in front of the sheriff’s office. There was no joy in what I had done, but maybe I’d get some satisfaction in seeing that condescending lawman and his arrogant posse members shamed.
When I dismounted and had tied the two horses to the hitching post, I looked around for some place to eat. I was hungry and thirsty. There hadn’t been enough supplies in the pair of saddlebags I carried for all that time on the trail, so I had to get along on quarter rations and the occasional prairie chicken I had managed to shoot. Right then and there, I gave serious thought to finding a good pack mule for future use.
I walked across the street to the hotel and ordered breakfast. While sipping the best cup of hot java I’d had in as long as I could remember, I was approached by two men. One was wearing a black suit, and the other had on a white shirt with a smooth black vest and a string tie. The one in the vest stared at me for a moment as if considering something.
“Can I help you with something, mister?” I asked abruptly. I’ve never been particularly sociable this early in the morning. I was tired, dirty, and was just beginning to relax. I was in no mood for anything other than breakfast.
“My name is Hobbs. I’m the mayor here,” he explained. “Might I ask your name?”
“Just call me Badger. It’s quicker,” I answered.
“Did you just ride into town?” the man with the suit asked.
“And if I did?” I snapped back.
“Well, to be frank, we noticed the body on the horse tied up outside the sheriff’s office and wondered if you had anything to do with that,” he replied.
“Well, you’re obviously not the sheriff, so are you just asking out of curiosity?”
