by Ralph Cotton
Chapter 13
The gambler’s eyes swept back and forth among the faces of Shear’s men. He looked up at the guards posted in the rock ledges above and surrounding them. A warm evening wind blew up dust devils amid the stone fortress, Tinnis felt the breeze lick at his shirt, his coat and his tender swollen scalp.
“I’m prepared to prove myself,” he said to Brayton Shear. “What’s my test?”
Shear nodded. “First things first. You’re going to prove to me that you know how to lay that bottle down and leave it alone while we’re working. Can you do that?”
The gambler swallowed a knot in his throat and forced something inside himself to accept the challenge. “Consider it done, sir,” he said.
A silence set in, until Ted Lasko held up his nearly empty bottle and said, “Damn it! I wish to hell we’d’ve done this a few minutes sooner.”
Laughter rippled across the men, except for Fisk and Duckwald, who stood staring sullenly. “What’s the rest of his test?” Fisk blurted out through the laughter. “That can’t be all of it.”
Shear turned to him, this time with his hand on the big black-handled Dance Brothers pistol on his hip. “You do not want to keep questioning everything I say, Crazy Elmer,” he said, his tone low and menacing. “Now either explain what you’ve got against Lucas here, or keep you mouth shut.”
Fisk lowered his rifle in a show of peace. He stared in silence for a moment. Then he said, “All right, I’ll tell you what I’ve got against him. I believe this drunken bastard blames me and Rudy and Epson for him going off the edge of the cliff.”
“Well? Should he blame you?” said Shear.
“Hell no,” said Fisk. “He should blame being wall-eyed drunk—too damn drunk to sit a horse bareback.”
Turning to the gambler, Shear asked, “Well, do you, Lucas?”
“What? Blame him and Duckwald and Epson for me riding off that cliff?” said the gambler. “No.” He shook his head, keeping his eyes on Fisk. “I don’t blame the three of them for anything.”
“He’s lying,” shouted Fisk, gesturing toward the gambler’s cold, hard gaze. “Look at him! This bastard will stick me in the back the first chance he gets.”
Shear chuckled at Fisk, then said to the gambler, “Are you going to stick him in the back first chance you get?”
“No,” Tinnis said, coolly, still staring at Fisk.
“Make him give his word on it,” Fisk cut in. “If he wants to be a Black Valley Rider, we need to know his word is good.”
Shear took a patient breath and said to Tinnis, “Do you give me your word on it, Lucas?”
The gambler answered quietly, “I give you my word I will not stab Elmer Fisk in his back.”
“There, Elmer, satisfied?” said Shear, his hand on the butt of his Dance Brothers again.
Fisk settled down and looked at Epson and Duckwald for their approval. The two only stared at him. “Yeah, I’m good with it,” Fisk said, finally. “Maybe I got a little overwrought there for a minute.”
“Overwrought . . . ?” Shear chuckled again. “Yeah, I’m thinking you might have.”
Tinnis cut in, “Is not drinking and not stabbing Fisk in the back the only ways I have to prove myself, Big Aces?”
Shear spun toward him, the Dance Brothers pistol coming out of its holster, cocked and pointed at Tinnis’ chin. “Nobody calls me Big Aces unless they carry a moon and star! Do you understand?”
The men around them backed a step and fell dead silent. The gambler looked back and forth slowly, then back into Shear’s eyes, knowing he’d touched a raw nerve. “Yes, I understand.”
Only the whir of warm wind cut through the tense silence. After a moment, Shear eased down and lowered his big pistol, uncocked and holstered it. “This is no drunken game, Lucas,” he said. “This is serious business. A man who thinks otherwise is a dead man.”
Fisk watched closely as Shear gave a gesture with his head that told Sentanza to get the gambler out of his sight. When Sentanza had done so and he and Tinnis turned and walked away toward a lean-to livery barn in the far corner of the rock fortress, Fisk leaned over to Duckwald and said, “Well, Rudy. I say this drunken whiskey sop won’t last more than a week with the Black Valley Riders.”
“Yeah?” said Duckwald with a dubious look. “You said he was dead back on the high trail.”
Night had fallen by the time the ranger and the bounty hunters stepped into the empty cabin, their guns drawn and poised. They had traveled slowly and silently the last few miles, staying in the shadowy cover of scrub juniper and cottonwood trees strewn along the base of a short hill line.
“They’re gone,” said Sandoval.
“Just like we figured,” the ranger said. He lowered the hammer on his big Colt and holstered it, his Winchester in his left hand.
Thorn walked across the floor and stood in a purple glow of moonlight through an open window frame. He looked out onto the yard surrounding the cabin and off across the land, along the jagged surrounding hills.
“Tinnis Mayes is with them by now,” he said. “We’ll need to keep a close lookout for any signs he leaves for us along the way.”
Sandoval and the ranger exchanged glances. They had followed tracks to the rock where Tinnis and Sentanza had met up earlier in the day. Their hoofprints showed they had ridden off together. Instead of following Tinnis and the lookout guard, the three had veered away toward the cabin in hopes of catching Shear and his men before they left there. But that had not been the case.
“Captain,” Sam said, “I don’t want to see you putting too much faith in this gambler. He might have once been a good man. But that was a long time ago. We’ve both seen our share of good men turn bad, the same as we’ve seen bad men turn good.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Thorn said thoughtfully. He turned and stared out from within the pale purple moonlight. “But how much faith is too much faith, when it comes to a man’s honor and worth?”
“I won’t try to address that question, Captain,” said the ranger. “I have never commanded men, the way you have. I’m known as a loner and I prefer it that way. But I don’t want you working with a blind spot for this man just because he once wore the same uniform—”
Thorn had heard something. He cut Sam off with a raised hand as he stepped quickly out of the moonlight and slipped his big horse pistol from its holster.
Sam and Sandoval had heard it too.
Boots running across the yard . . . ? Sam asked himself quickly.
Sandoval, standing nearest to the open door, spun around and slammed it shut in time to hear an arrow thump into it. War whoops resounded in the purple night amid pistol shots and arrows pelting the cabin both front and sides.
“That’s not Shear’s men, Captain,” Sandoval said.
“No, it’s the Comadrejas,” Sam said. “They’re after our horses. Cover me, Sandoval. I’m going up.” He hurried to the rear door, and stood to one side as he threw it open, his rifle up and ready. Seeing that the warriors had not yet circled the cabin, he scrambled atop a rain barrel, swung up onto the roof and ran to the center, taking cover beside a thick stone chimney.
He took aim on a ragged warrior who’d just jumped atop Black Pot with the reins to the other two horses in hand. He nailed his heels to the big stallion’s sides. The stallion neighed and bucked, but refused to go forward. He jerked the reins to the bounty hunter’s horses, but the two stood stubbornly in place.
Wrong move . . . , the ranger said to himself. He pulled the trigger and watched the warrior fly from Black Pot’s back and land facedown in the dirt.
As soon as the ranger had left the cabin, Sandoval threw the door shut and bolted it. At the front window Thorn had stooped onto one knee, and began firing steadily over the window ledge at the Comadrejas darting back and forth across the yard. On the other side of the cabin, Sandoval fired through a gun slot in a thick closed wooden window shutter.
Out front, two more dead Comadrejas had joined the one lying
near the horses’ hooves. The three horses whinnied and chuffed and reared slightly. But they only backed away a few feet, then held their ground, their reins dangling in the dirt. A hail of arrows and bullets nipped the chimney beside the ranger. Sam hunkered for a second, then came up firing.
A warrior ran toward the cabin with a lit torch in hand. A shot from Thorn’s open window nailed him; he fell rolling in the dirt. The torch flew onto the porch and flared in a firebox piled full of dry, seasoned hearth kindling.
But in another second it was over as quickly as it had started. Sam stood and took long aim at a ragged warrior running full speed across the rocky ground. He squeezed the trigger and watched the man fall forward and roll in a swirl of dust.
“Captain, they’re retreating,” said Sandoval, holding his fire.
“Yes, I see they are, Sandy,” said Thorn, standing and leaning back against the wall in the purple darkness. “Quick, put out the fire. . . .”
Sandoval hurried onto the porch, grabbed the blazing kindling box and hurled it off the porch into the dirt. He slapped fire from his arms as he stomped and kicked and extinguished the flames. When he’d finished he ran to the horses, gathered their reins and ran back inside the cabin with them.
Inside, he turned the horses loose, closed the door and bolted it, his shirtsleeves smoking and burned through in spots. Thorn had walked over to the back door, unbolted it and let the ranger in. He leaned back against a wall and gripped his upper shoulder where an arrow had lodged solidly beneath his collarbone.
Sam bolted the back door and looked at Thorn, as did Sandoval.
“I suppose there had to be one among them who could shoot straight,” Thorn said. He offered a weak smile. “My only comfort is that he might be one of those lying dead in the dirt.” He stepped over and slumped down into a chair with a sigh. “Sandy, you know what to do.”
Sandoval walked to his horse and took down a canteen of water and walked to the hearth with it. Sam watched him reach stiffly for an empty pot to pour water into.
“Why don’t you let me do that?” said Sam. “You tend to your forearms.” As he spoke he pulled a long knife from his boot well.
Sandoval allowed the ranger to take the canteen from his hands and take over the task of boiling some water in order to clean his knife blade.
“Obliged, Ranger,” the young bounty hunter said. He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it down off his scorched, reddened arms.
Sam saw peeled and blackened skin.
“I’ll see if there’s a tin of burn salve in my saddlebags,” he said, pouring the water and hanging the pot inside the hearth.
“No,” said Sandoval. “Start the fire and boil the water. Take care of the captain first. I can wait.”
The ranger wasn’t going to argue. He quickly built a small fire beneath the pot of water. Capping the canteen, he carried it to Sandoval’s horse and looped it around the saddle horn. He stepped over to his stallion and rummaged through his saddlebags and came out with a small tin jar of salve. Before taking a close look at Sandoval’s burnt arms, he walked to the edge of the open window and gazed out and around in the purple darkness until he was satisfied the Comadrejas were gone for the night.
Behind him, Thorn said, “I hope you do your cutting quick, Ranger. We don’t want to let these men get too far ahead of us.”
“We’re going to get both of you tended to,” Sam said, turning away from the open window. “Then we’ll get out of here. But we’re only going far enough to lose Clato Charo and his warriors. Then we’re going to have to sit down for the night and get some rest for us and our horses.”
The captain started to protest, wanting to ride on through the night. But he saw Sandoval’s pained face in the flicker of fire in the hearth and stopped himself.
“Yes, I believe you’re right, Ranger. Some rest is in order for all of us. We’ll get back on Shear’s trail first thing come morning.”
Chapter 14
At dawn, a boot toe reached out and nudged the gambler until he sat up beneath a ragged blanket on a pile of livery straw and looked all around in the silver-gray light. His first thought was of whiskey, feeling his dry mouth, the pain in his scalp, his aching body. But he put the thought of a drink aside, remembering his talk with Shear the night before. He had not taken a drink since then; he was determined not to.
“Wake up, Lucas, you whiskey-swilling dog,” said Ted Lasko, still unhappy about Tinnis guzzling most of his booze the night before. He drew back his boot to kick the sleepy gambler again.
“Do not try that again, Ted Lasko, or I will ruin your day,” Tinnis said flatly, raising a finger for emphasis. “I did not give my word that I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Ha!” Lasko scoffed under his breath, but he backed away. “I didn’t kick you that hard, just enough to get you up. Big Aces said he wants you up on the cliffs atop the trail, mas pronto.”
“Really?” Tinnis stood quickly to his feet, drawing the blanket across his shoulders against the morning chill. “There,” he said, “see how easy that was, even without the toe of your boot?”
“You can’t blame me for still being mad, Lucas,” said Lasko.
“Nor can you blame me for killing you,” Tinnis said with a faint smile. “What does Shear want at this hour of the night?”
“It’s not night,” Lasko chuckled. “It’s almost dawn out.”
“Almost only counts in pitching horseshoes,” Tinnis said, touching his healing stitched scalp.
“If it’s dawn, it’s almost daylight,” said Lasko, belaboring the point.
“It is either dark out or light,” Tinnis snapped, walking on ahead of him. “There is no ‘almost’ daylight any more than there’s an—”
“You need a drink, gambler, I can see that,” said Lasko, cutting him off with a dark chuckle. He reached inside his coat and jerked out a fresh bottle of rye. “Here you go. Help yourself.”
Holy Mother of God!
Tinnis squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. His stitched scalp pounded with pain, but he summoned all the strength he could and said, “Obliged, but no, thanks, Lasko. I gave my word, remember?”
Lasko laughed and shook the bottle in his gloved hand, letting the gambler hear the sound of it sloshing around. “I say, what good is a man’s word if he can’t break it, then get right back to it?”
“Go to hell, Ted Lasko,” said Tinnis. He walked on briskly.
In the same spot, in the same chair as the night before, Shear stood up with a fresh cigar in his mouth and said to Tinnis, “Good morning, Lucas. Have you had breakfast?”
“No,” said the gambler.
“Good, take a ride with me,” said Shear as if he hadn’t heard his reply.
Tinnis gave an exasperated look at Lasko, who gestured for him to follow Shear to four horses that had been saddled and led out—among them the horse Tinnis had ridden in on. Behind Tinnis, Lasko and Tobias walked to the horses, their rifles in hand. The four climbed into their saddles and rode up a steep path to a high rim and stopped for a moment, staring out across the trails below.
“How’d you sleep, Lucas?” Shear asked.
“Good enough,” the gambler replied.
“Have you drank any whiskey?” Shear followed up.
“Not a drop, sir,” Tinnis replied.
Shear looked at Lasko for confirmation.
“He turned me down flat, Big Aces,” Lasko answered with a half grin. “Said he gave his word.”
“Hell, that’s admirable,” said Shear, looking the gambler up and down with pride. “I always thought you’d make a good moon-and-star Black Valley Rider, if you ever got your beak out of the barrel long enough to know the time of day.” He laughed aloud.
Tinnis only managed a thin smile, his scalp still pounding, his hand starting to tremble, his nerves crying out for a long drink of rye.
“All right, then,” said Shear. “I’m going to make this short and to the point. Ordinarily it would take you four or five good jobs to
get your moon and star. But I’ve too much going on to wait. Are you ready to prove yourself to me, Tinnis Lucas, and take your place as a Black Valley Rider?”
“I am,” said Tinnis in a serious tone.
“Then follow me to Hatchet Pass,” said Shear.
The gambler turned his horse and rode behind Shear, toward the high lookout positions he and Sentanza had passed the evening before. Tinnis looked back over his shoulder at the two riflemen following close behind him.
They reined up twenty minutes later and stepped down on one of the high ridges overlooking the trail at the mouth of the narrow canyon. “How’s your shooting eye, Lucas?” Shear asked. He drew a Winchester rifle with a long brass-trimmed scope mounted on it from his saddle boot and began jacking its bullets out onto the ground.
“I can usually hit whatever sticks its head up,” the gambler said, still feeling the pain pound in his scalp without any whiskey to soothe it. “What do you have in mind?”
“The ranger and these so-called sailors, or bounty hunters, or whatever they are—”
“They’re marines, Shear,” the gambler said, correcting him.
“Yes, marines, then,” said Shear. He grinned slyly as he stuck one bullet in the empty Winchester and levered it into the chamber. “Who is the leader?”
“I’d have to say Thorn is the man who carries the big stick,” said the gambler.
“Oh, not the ranger?” said Shear.
“Not in this case,” said Tinnis. “My money is on Thorn. He looks like he’d be in charge of anything he’s got a hand in.”
“All right, then,” said Shear. He handed Tinnis the rifle and pushed the barrel toward the ground when the gambler let it drift up toward his chest.
“Sorry,” said Tinnis.
Shear let it pass. “Anyway, they’ll be riding up most any minute, the way I calculate. I want you to sink this bullet right into this man Thorn’s heart for us.”
“One shot?” Tinnis looked down at the rifle in his unsteady hands. “Don’t you trust me with a loaded gun, Shear?”
“I trust you as far as one shot,” Shear said, again with the same sly grin. “I’ll trust a whole lot further once I know this sailor is lying dead in the dirt.” He stared at Tinnis with narrowed suspicious eyes. “Is that a problem, killing him for me?”
