Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  The chestnut had finished drinking and had now began to crop at the sweet grass along the creek bank. I finally got up and half opened the pack without taking it off the chestnut’s back. I’d had it packed and arranged in such a fashion that I could do that. I got out a pot, the beans, a loaf of bread, and the coffee and the coffeepot. Then I hunted up some downed wood and built a fire. When it had worked its way down to embers I took the coffeepot down to the little fresh-running creek and filled it about half full. I set it on the embers to come to the boil. Next I opened the crook of beans, spilled out some in the cast-iron pot, and set it on the fire to warm. I used my Bowie to cut off two or three slices of bread, thick slices because I liked to sop them in the bean juice.

  When the water boiled I pitched in some coffee, going as much by guess and by golly as anything else. While that was going on I dug back into the pack and found a spoon to eat the beans with and a tin cup to drink the coffee out of.

  Finally it was all ready, and I sat cross-legged on the ground and made a fine meal, drinking two cups of coffee, the last one sugared with whiskey. After I’d eaten I lit another cigarillo, and was fixing to settle back and enjoy a little rest before going on when a strange sound made me suddenly sit up. It wasn’t a sound I could immediately identify, but it was a sound that didn’t go with the other sounds. To my ear it had seemed like the creak of saddle leather, but I couldn’t be sure. I rose, flicked my cigarillo away, and drew my revolver. The sound had come from the far side of the creek. As quiet as I could I splashed the few yards across the shallow little stream, and then flung myself down on the far bank behind a tree and peered out. I didn’t see him at first. Then I heard him more than saw him. It was a man riding upstream about twenty yards off the line of trees. Even as I watched him I heard the sound of leather creaking again. He must be riding a new saddle, I thought. Which would hardly be the sort of thing my man would be guilty of. I lay, my gun drawn and ready for use, and watched him come on. At fifty yards I could tell he was a big man; at thirty I could see that he was older, perhaps in his late fifties, early sixties.

  But that didn’t make any difference. There was no rule said a man had to be young to bushwhack you. As quiet as I could I cocked my pistol.

  I lay quiet and watched him coming on, noting that he was gradually veering his horse toward the creek. When he was about twenty yards away he reined slowly to a stop and said, “You there, behind the tree! If you’re a mind to rob me you’ll find the pickin’s will be mighty slim. I ain’t got a nickel in my pocket and this horse and saddle wouldn’t fetch you enough for one good drunk.”

  By now I could see that he wasn’t wearing a handgun, at least not where I could see it. There was a rifle in the saddle boot but he just didn’t look like a killer. I stood up slowly. I said, “I ain’t a robber. I’m just off my range and unduly cautious.”

  “I smelled your coffee,” he said.

  Well, of course that didn’t leave me any choice. “Come have a cup.”

  He rode toward me. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  At the tree line he dismounted and tied his horse to a sapling. He had on jeans, a blue denim work shirt, and a dirty old felt hat with a high crown. Unless he had a derringer in his boot he wasn’t armed.

  He put out his hand. “Name’s Sims, Sam Sims. I’m out hunting strays. They generally make for this creek even though they got plenty of water closer to home.”

  “This your place?”

  “State land,” he said. “I graze here, but so do half a dozen others.”

  We splashed back over the creek and I poured him out the last cup of coffee, using my cup. He hesitated as he took it. “Hell, I don’t want to take yore last drop.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve had plenty. If you don’t drink it I’d of just poured it on the ground.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged.” He blew on the top of the coffee and then sipped at it. “Mighty good. Man gets to wanting a cup of coffee this time of an afternoon. Whar’d you say you was from?”

  I half smiled. “Down along the coast. The Half-Moon ranch.”

  He looked up. “Hell, I know an old boy on the Half-Moon. Ed Harley by name.”

  I nodded. “He’s the foreman.”

  “Me ’n ol’ Ed used to work cattle together. My Lord, that was twenty year ago! Up near Fort Worth. We both come south together. I finally got my own place. So you work for ol’ Ed Harley.”

  I half smiled again. “No, he works for me.” I saw no point in not leaving as clear a trail as I could.

  He looked startled. “Then who would you be?”

  “Justa Williams,” I said. “My family owns the Half-Moon.”

  He said slowly, “So you’re Justa Williams. And here I sit drinkin’ yore coffee. Hell, I’ve heard plenty about you.”

  I didn’t go off my guard. Mister Sims might well be an honest rancher, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I said, “Headed for El Campo. How far?”

  He looked off in a northwest direction. “Ten miles. You could make it, but wouldn’t nothing but a few saloons be open time you got there.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “If you’re looking for a bed you’re welcome to put up at my place. My ol’ missus wouldn’t mind. She likes company. You know how women are to talk.”

  “Much obliged, but I reckon I’ll just push on.”

  We talked a minute or two more, and then he went down to the creek and rinsed the grounds out of his cup. When he handed it back to me he said, “Wa’l, that’ll be a story to tell. ’Magine me bein’ throwed down on by Justa Williams and livin’ to tell about it. Ain’t many kin tell that story.”

  “Them kind of stories tend to get out of hand. Most of ’em have been made up.”

  “Yeah, I bet. Wa’l, when you git back home be shore an’ tell ol’ Harley that Sam Sims said hello and to ride over and see me sometime. Shore you won’t take that bed?”

  “There’ll be a hotel in El Campo. I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  “Much obliged for the coffee. I’d like to see yore spread sometime, especially them little Shorthorn cattle I hear you breed.”

  “Come anytime,” I said. “Harley will take you around.”

  He crossed the creek, untied his horse, mounted, and rode off to the north. I crossed the creek and watched him until he was out of sight. If he was hunting strays he appeared to have given it up mighty quick. But then, maybe he’d already made a circuit of his range and was now looking for the cattle closer to home. The fact that he’d offered me a bed and so must have a ranch home somewhere near didn’t cut any ice. My adversary could just as easily be a small rancher as anyone.

  I gave him time to clear the country, and then slowly packed up my gear and got ready to leave. It was growing late, near on to four o’clock, and I needed to make a few more miles toward El Campo before I camped so as to have an easy trip of it the next day. Before buttoning up the pack I picked up a few pieces of dry wood and packed them so I could have a fire that night.

  I put the bit back in the roan’s mouth, snugged up his girth, and mounted. Leaning over I grabbed the lead rope of the chestnut, tied it to the saddle horn, and splashed across the creek and into the open.

  CHAPTER 4

  I rode for a good four hours, only pulling up when I came to a little sandy stretch of flat prairie that looked to make a good campground. I went through the same business of the night before; only this time I gave the two horses a bait of oats before putting them on a picket rope to graze. I didn’t bother tying the roan’s tether to my saddle; he’d already proved he didn’t know what it meant. Instead I tied his tether and the chestnut’s picket rope together. The chestnut wasn’t going far, and the roan damn sure wasn’t going to pull the older and stronger horse along.

  I built a small fire and got out a skillet and the slab of bacon. I sliced off a few thick slices, set them to frying, and got the coffee going while I sliced some bread. When the bacon was nearly done I shook out some beans in on top of it.
Bacon and beans made a mighty tasty dish, especially out on the open range.

  While my supper cooked I poured myself out a drink in my tin coffee cup and enjoyed that along with a cigarillo. Looking to the northwest I half imagined I could see the lights of El Campo. Probably, as flat as the prairie was, I could. I figured it to be no more than two miles away.

  Then I turned and studied my back trail. The clouds were gone and, even though the moon was on the wane, it was still a fairly bright night. I looked hard but couldn’t see the first sign of any movement or anything unusual. Which didn’t surprise me all that much. Even if the man was on my trail I doubted he’d take me on out in the open as I was. He’d want an edge and the flat prairie wasn’t going to give it to him.

  I thought about the man that called himself Sam Sims. Under any other circumstances I wouldn’t have given him a second thought. But I’d become so jumpy I saw a threat in everything and everybody. If I didn’t rein myself in I’d end up shooting an innocent stranger.

  By the time I finished my supper and scoured out the skillet and pot with some fresh grass, it was going on for ten o’clock. I built the fire up a little with cow patties, and then took my saddle and bedroll and moved off some fifty yards to where the grass was about knee high. I tromped a good-sized square of it down and then made my bed. In the high grass I’d be nearly invisible, and an intruder would look for me around the fire first. I sat down on my bedroll and took off my boots, loosened my belt, and had a look around for the horses. They were still grazing near the fire, not yet having discovered they were tied together. So long as the rope trailed on the ground the chestnut wouldn’t go far.

  I put my revolver ready to hand, laid my head back on the saddle, gave a few thoughts to Nora and matters back at the ranch, and then shut my eyes. I was asleep almost before I knew it. I came awake just after dawn. I yawned and stretched and then went over to my saddlebags and got out my toothbrush and some salt. I put the salt in my palm, got my toothbrush wet out of one of the canteens, rubbed it in the salt, and cleaned my teeth. After I’d washed my mouth out I had a long pull of water and set about making breakfast. The wood was gone, but enough embers remained that a couple of dried cow patties took fire pretty readily. I poured water into the coffeepot and got out some bread and cheese. I knew I was close enough to El Campo to get a proper breakfast there, but I didn’t want to hang around the town any longer than I had to. Besides, I was in no hurry. The bank wouldn’t be open until eight or eight-thirty, maybe even nine. I got out my watch. It was only six-thirty and it wouldn’t take me more than half an hour to ride into town.

  So I dawdled, eating my breakfast and then taking my time over a third cup of coffee, having sweetened it with a little whiskey. I lit a cigarillo and considered my situation. I was better than twenty five miles from home, out on the bald prairie, and nothing had happened outside of seeing an aging rancher who might or might not have been my adversary. I had grave doubts that he could have been, but I had no intention of taking anything at face value.

  The prairie remained empty except for an occasional group of trees and, here and there, a cow or so. If my killer was stalking me, he was waiting for better ground.

  After a time I bestirred myself, rolling the pack back up and getting the horses in. I loaded up the chestnut and then saddled the roan and swung aboard. He wanted to play morning-friskiness, but I wasn’t in the mood for it, so I slapped him between the ears with the knot in the end of the reins and he got the message and settled down right quick.

  I took it easy. There was more than enough time and, as I rode, I thought of my route out of El Campo. I knew most of the country for a least a hundred miles in any direction. I decided that, after El Campo, I’d turn southwest heading for Cuero, north of Victoria, then swing west toward Pleasanton, keeping well south of San Antonio, and head toward the border somewhere near Piedras Negras. Once past Pleasanton the country got rough and broken, with draws and canyons and hills and rocky ridges. It got rough suddenly. One minute you were on the open prairie and the next you were in the hill country. It would give me a chance to fort up and watch my back trail from cover. If anyone were following me I’d be able to see them from a long ways off.

  But Pleasanton itself was a long ways away, especially by the route I would take. It would be at least a three-or four-day ride to the broken hill country, and a great deal could take place in such a time.

  By the time I’d finished running all that through my mind I’d come to the edge of El Campo. It was a sleepy little village not as big as Blessing. It had been a mission town, started by the Jesuit Fathers, which accounted for its large Mexican populace. By my watch it was only eight-fifteen, so I rode slowly toward the depot, intending to send a telegram to Norris. I didn’t ride through town, but instead circled it to the east, heading toward the railroad station, which was south of town. I knew people in the town and didn’t want to run into them and have to explain what I was doing wandering around with a packhorse and looking like a hide-hunter.

  At the depot I dismounted, tied my animals, and then went into the telegraph office. I wired Norris where I was and where I was headed. I ended by saying I’d telegraph him again from Pleasanton, where I expected the hunt to begin in earnest. The wire cost me a dollar and ninety-five cents, which seemed like a power of money to be sending a wire only about twenty-five miles. But the depot in Blessing and the one in El Campo were run by different railroad companies, and I reckoned they charged you extra for having to do business with their competitor. By rights I should have been wiring Ben because it would be him who would come to my aid if I needed any. But Norris was the next oldest brother and it was only appropriate that I should direct the message to him.

  By the time I’d finished, the bank was open. The telegrapher said it was only two blocks down the street, so I left my mounts tied where they were and walked the short distance down to the bank, glancing over my shoulder every now and then to make sure no one was fooling around with my livestock.

  They were just opening the doors when I got to the bank. I went inside and asked for one of the officers. He flattered me by saying they were very pleased to be doing business with the famous Half-Moon ranch and they hoped it wouldn’t be the last time they’d be allowed to serve us. Perhaps we had some loose cash we’d like to put in high-interest municipal bonds?

  I mumbled something about my brother Norris handling all that and that they ought to write him. I had to give them his name and address, but they finally gave me my money and allowed me to escape. Sometimes, being rich ain’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

  I had taken most of the money in greenbacks, but about a hundred was in gold double eagles. I might dip into Mexico and they were mighty partial to gold. I put about five hundred dollars in my saddlebags, shoved some into my boot, and put the rest in my pocket. I became aware, as I was doing this, that there were several Mexican ruffians standing across the street watching me. I acted like I hadn’t noticed them and climbed aboard the roan, took the chestunt on lead, and headed south out of town, intending to swing west after about a mile.

  Riding, I knew I’d been unwise to show that money so openly, especially in a town like El Campo that had a reputation for placing small value on other men’s property. Remembering the way I’d seen the layabouts eyeing my roll, I figured that, sooner or later, I was going to have trouble. About two miles out of town I topped a little rise and looked back. Sure enough, I could see three mounted men break out of the buildings of the town and head my way at an easy trot. They would take their time coming up to me, making sure we were well away from the town. But after the one look back I paid them no further mind, just kept plodding west, intent on my own journey. It would be at least half an hour, maybe more, before they came up to me. The only regret I had about it was that it might delay my pursuer.

  Sure enough, after a couple of more miles had passed I heard the rattle of their horses’ bits and the creak of saddle leather. I looked back. They were on
ly about a hundred yards behind me, still coming at that slow trot. I estimated it to be a good five miles back to town. At that distance no one would hear a pistol shot, and even if they did, faintly, they wouldn’t pay any attention. I kept my eyes straight ahead. These small-time banditos wern’t interested in shooting me, especially in the back. They knew better than to shoot a gringo in such country. To do so would bring every lawman between here and the border down on them, and the border was just too far away. No, they meant to scare me into giving them some money. To their minds it wouldn’t even be robbery. I doubted they’d even threaten me, just make a few remarks about how poor they were and how dangerous these prairies were for a man such as me, a wealthy man, to be traveling alone. And perhaps didn’t I want to give them some small present to go along with me and see me safe for a distance?

  And then they were up to me. Two came up to my right, riding close on to the chestnut. The third came up to my left, forcing his horse tight into mine. They appeared to be in their early twenties. They were wearing traditional Western hats and boots and jeans, dressed like any one of a thousand cowhands. Except I doubted they were charros. I figured they spent more of their time in the cantina than they did working cattle.

  The one to my left, a pretty good-sized man with a drooping mustache, said, “Que pasa?”

  “Nada,” I said. Nothing.

  We rode a few yards further and then one of the ones to my right said, in English, “Say, what chou doin’ out here on theese mesa?”

  I said, “Hunting cattle.”

  “You go to buy theese cattles?”

  “Yes.”

  They nodded knowingly. The one to my left said, “Buying theese cattles takes the great deal of dinero. No, señor?”