Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  As I rode I kept looking for my watchdogs. There was not hide nor hair of them. As angry as I was at myself for oversleeping, I was more curious at their actions in showing themselves, and in such a manner as to almost be flaunting their presence to me.

  But now they’d disappeared and I liked that even less. Another source of concern to me was that they’d had no packhorse in spite of the fact that they must have followed me mile for mile. That is, if that was the same three who’d waited outside the saloon while Whiskey Jack had come in to try his little sham on me. I didn’t see how they could carry enough supplies in their saddlebags for themselves and their horses. Especially now, with not enough water, in this blazing country. Either they’d been getting fresh horses somewhere along the line, or they’d had supplies cached along the route. But that didn’t make any sense because they’d have no way of knowing which way I was going to head. A thought occurred to me. They could have been being supplied at night or under concealment. If that was the case somebody was going to a hell of a lot of trouble. Whoever it was wasn’t just trying to kill me, he was trying to worry me to death and doing a damn good job of it.

  I shouldn’t have overslept. I had no idea now of how I’d get ahead of them and lay an ambush. But then it occurred to me that I didn’t have to get ahead of them. They were chasing me, I wasn’t chasing them. All I had to do was lay up somewheres and wait for them to realize I’d disappeared and go to backtracking me.

  The further off the caprock we came the easier the ground became. It wasn’t any less rough, but now my horses were walking on dried caliche clay rather than just out-and-out rock. It wasn’t much better, but it was an improvement.

  Along about noon I shaded up beside a sheer cliff face that rose a good fifty or sixty feet in the air. I fed and watered the horses and did what I could to make them more comfortable. The chestnut seemed to take it in stride, but the roan looked around as if to ask, “When are we going to get the hell out of this godforsaken country?”

  Hell, I didn’t have an answer for him. Looking far off toward the valley floor, I could catch little glimpses of green patches here and there. They would be the few hardscrabble farms way down below. It was important we reach one of them the next day because the grain for the horses was nearly gone and I didn’t know if we’d strike water anytime soon or not. I was all right on provisions, but the horses were going to need a good bit of either grain or corn because, once we left the valley, we’d have another climb through savage country before we reached Rocksprings.

  Standing there, drinking out of a canteen, I kept wondering what it was all about. A little dust devil swirled in front of me suddenly, kicking up caliche dust. I ducked my head and shut my eyes. It was a fine, white dust. I was covered with it, and both of my horses looked like ghosts from the amount of the dust they were carrying.

  I kept staring out into the distance and thinking. Maybe nobody was trying to kill me at all, maybe they just wanted to cause me trouble. Maybe I’d caused somebody considerable trouble and money and this was just their way of paying me back. Certainly it was costing us money, and I didn’t just mean my traveling expenses. Anytime I was away from the ranch an opportunity to make money was lost. Maybe that’s what the person behind this was after, to cost me time and trouble and money. To cost the ranch money and my presence. Maybe—and it suddenly frightened me—the whole intent had been to get me away so some sort of raid could be made on the Half-Moon. It sent a chill up my spine, but there was nothing I could do about it. If mischief had been intended, it either had already been done or would be done by the time I got back to the ranch.

  But such thoughts did me no good. There was no use adding to my worries. The best thing to do was drive on toward the valley and see to the horses. I figured I could be at a farm in twenty-four hours, though I did not look forward to dealing with one of those old nesters. Anyone who would choose such a place to farm was half moron and half crazy. Not that the soil in the valley was all that bad. It wasn’t. For centuries it had been washing off the hills and buttes of the caprock and building up a nice layer of topsoil. But soil was no good, no matter how good, without rain. And rain in that part of the country was about as plentiful as Christian charity.

  The going was getting easier. I was riding down a long flat slope of caliche, catching sight of the little green patches every now and then. Off to my right some twenty-five or thirty yards was a cliff face about twenty feet high. I glanced at it as I did every bit of terrain where trouble might be lurking. As I looked to my right, toward the cliff, an object suddenly came flying out, arcing my way. For an instant I was puzzled. It looked like a slim piece of branch, about a foot long. Then I saw the twinkle at one end. In the same instant I put spurs to the roan and jerked on the chestnut’s lead rope. I was jerking the roan to the left, not looking back, hunched over the saddle, pulling the packhorse up as close as I could. The roan had been startled, but he’d responded instantly to the touch of my spurs. We were almost at a run, heading for the closest cover I could see, when the boom came behind me. Dust and pieces of caliche showered down on us but, at the run, we were soon out of it. I could feel the chestnut hesitating and I thought he must not have sure footing. I looked back, expecting to see riflemen atop the cliff, but there was no one there. I kept going, urging the roan up a small slope toward where some big rocks and jagged clumps of caliche made a kind of fence. As I crested it I saw there was a little depression right behind its summit. I rode the horses down in there, having to jerk on the chestnut’s lead rope to keep him up, skidded to a stop, and dismounted. I jerked my rifle out of the boot, ran up the little incline, and forted up behind a rock, cautiously peering around its base. There was no sign of man or movement. Fifteen yards or so out from the cliff face there was a little hole in the caliche where the stick of dynamite had exploded.

  Well, the mystery of who my adversary was was over. It was J.C. Flood, and the dynamite hadn’t been intended to kill me, it had been intended to let me know who was causing me the trouble.

  Three or four years past a dishonest man named J.C. Flood had managed to get five thousand head of Mexican cattle by the border inspectors without having them put in quarantine for Mexican tick fever, which will kill cattle faster than a rifle bullet. Mexican cattle, through years and years, had become immune to it but they could still be carriers. Flood had intended, with the help of about fifteen border gunslingers, to drive those five thousand head through our rangeland and the ranges of our neighbors, driving them to Galveston, where there was a waiting market for cheap cattle. If he could have gotten them there without having to pay the costs of feeding and holding them on the border in quarantine for three months, he would have tripled his money.

  But we had stopped him. It had taken my brothers and myself and a good many of our hired hands, and a few of our neighbors and Lew Vara, but we’d stopped him. We’d run his cattle off and we’d either killed or wounded all of his hired hands. Flood himself had been hurt. And the way we’d done it had been with dynamite. I’d routed his herd with dynamite and I’d scattered his men with dynamite. I’d even harmed Flood himself with dynamite.

  Flood was crippled and he’d made the whole drive riding in a little black buggy. That buggy had finally run afoul of one of my dynamite charges and had got upset. Flood had broken some ribs and suffered some bruises. But he’d lost considerably more than that in the pocketbook department. He’d laid claim to us for $25,000 for his lost herd, a not unreasonable figure. Only we weren’t going to pay it and he well knew he’d never get it through a court of law. To make sure he knew we were serious we had, through our bank, bought up the note on his ranch down on the border. It was a demand note and we made demand, knowing full well he couldn’t pay it because he’d sunk most of his assets in that Mexican herd. The upshot was he’d lost his ranch and had sworn everlasting vengeance on us.

  But it had been his own fault. On two occasions, as he’d approached with that herd, I’d ridden out to warn him not
to come through our range with those illegal cattle. I’d told him we’d have to stop him, that we couldn’t risk the danger to our own cattle.

  He hadn’t listened.

  And now he was out for vengeance. Well, judging from the operation he’d mounted, he’d made some kind of financial comeback because all the trouble and expense he’d gone to couldn’t have come cheap. Certainly four hired guns had cost him in the thousands, especially with the amount of time they were spending.

  And with the price of dynamite being what it was, or at least the price of having someone heave a stick in just the right way. He’d probably told them to throw it close but not too close. Let me know who it was but don’t kill me until the proper time.

  I wondered when that was going to be. And I wondered if he was enjoying playing with me. I also wondered where he was and if he’d been privy to any of the action. Maybe he’d seen me crown that drunk cowboy in Hondo and get taken in by the deputy sheriff. Wouldn’t the joke have been on him if they’d held me for some considerable time.

  But now, knowing it was him, I was even more concerned about the ranch. I determined, once I reached Rocksprings, to stay there long enough to get a return telegram from Norris. It would be risky but I had to know if I was his only target.

  I watched a little longer, but I knew it was useless. They had something else in mind for me, something Mister Flood would have thought up. Walking down to the horses I wondered if they had any more Fourth of July celebrations in store for me in case they figured I hadn’t got the idea the first time. I hoped not. I didn’t mind so much, but it had made the horses awful nervous. They were used to gunfire, but a stick of dynamite makes a sight more commotion than a rifle shot. Well, in a way I was relieved. At least now I knew what I was up against. I knew that Flood was a mighty slick fellow; it had taken every brain in my head to stop him once before. For some reason I had the sneaking feeling he didn’t necessarily want to kill me. I had no doubt he’d do it if it became of an advantage to him, but I halfway thought he was after something else: money, most likely.

  As I got near the horses I noticed that the chestnut was standing with his right hind leg drawn up. He didn’t have it drawn up like he was resting it but like it was hurt. Then a few steps later I could see the little trickle of blood. “Oh, shit!” I said. This was not the country to come up with a lame horse. And I needed a packhorse to make it through such country. There’d be no way the roan could carry me and enough provisions, water, and feed for him to get us anywhere and still have any speed in case of a tight spot.

  I hurried up to the side of the chestnut. There was a little cut right below his hip. It wasn’t a bad cut but I could see little grains of sand around its edges, caught in the hair of his coat. It appeared to me that a rock of some size had been blown out of the ground by the dynamite and, through the worst kind of luck, had hit the chestnut in a really bad place. He had a bruise, was what he had, and from the swelling that was already showing, a pretty bad bruise.

  I squatted down beside him and shook my head. Wasn’t a thing I could do for him. I could pour some whiskey on the cut to keep it from getting infected, but the bruise was the problem. There was only one thing for that and that was rest. I could rest him for a day, maybe even two if I wanted to risk using up all my water, but even two days’ rest wasn’t going to help him. All it would do was make him sorer. He needed at least a week, ten days, maybe longer, of doing nothing but standing around. And I couldn’t give him that, not in barren country with very little feed and water left.

  I sighed and stood up. I didn’t know how far it was to the first farm, but we were going to have to find out. The longer I let him stand the stiffer he was going to get. It was going to hurt him to walk, but there was no help for it.

  I went around and mounted the roan and put him in a slow walk. The chestnut came willingly, not realizing he was hurt, but within a few steps he was limping and falling back until he was being tugged along by his lead rope. It hurt me to see the horse having such a hard time, but there was no help for it. Once exercise and the sun loosened the muscle up some it would be easier on him, but right then it was painful at every step.

  Fortunately, the grade was falling toward the valley and we only occasionally had to climb up a little rise. We were mostly on a broad, dusty clay plain with buttes and cliffs suddenly rearing up as if somebody had forgotten to knock them down. There was a broad canyon to my right. The road had picked up again and ran down the middle of it. The going might have been easier on the road, but getting down to it would have been difficult and too hard for the chestnut.

  I looked at my watch. It was only three o’clock. If I were to hope to reach one of the farms by the afternoon of the next day I had to keep on going, no matter how slowly. I would camp when it got dark and not before, no matter how bad the chestnut was limping. Of course I knew that the next day would be worse. He’d stiffen up overnight, especially in the cool air, and it would be a rough start we’d be making the next morning.

  Finally, after another hour, I couldn’t stand it. I pulled both horses up and took the pack off the chestnut. I still had the two tow sacks I’d carried stuff out of the mercantile in, and I took them and loaded them up with the heavier items such as the canned goods and the cartridges and some other odds and ends, and then tied the ends of the sacks together and slung them over the roan’s neck just forward of the saddle. It startled the hell out of him, but he was just going to have to bear the burden. I reloaded the lightened pack on the chestnut and we set out, the chestnut seeming to go a little easier. I didn’t know if it was because he was getting warmed up or because he’d lost some load.

  I figured we made another slow six miles before I called it a halt. I made a camp down in a little depression and, since I now had decided they didn’t intend to kill me, not at least until J.C. Flood had had his say to me, I broke some limbs off a dead mesquite tree and made a fire. It was just dark and a cool breeze had sprung up. The breeze was welcome after the heat of the day, but the fine caliche dust it carried wasn’t. On a whim I got out the three varmint traps I’d bought and set them in the caliche dust toward where I had last seen the riders. It was a bigger chore than I’d imagined. The jaws had to be prized apart and then locked into the triggering mechanism, and the spring that snapped them shut was a good deal stronger than I’d thought. But I got them in place and partly covered with caliche, and then went on back down to my camp fire and made a supper. I brewed up some coffee and fried some ham slices in the skillet. I had damn little bread left, but I laid what I had on top of the ham hoping it would pick up some ham grease and not taste so stale.

  Well, I was at a loss. Knowing who was seeking vengeance against me was no help at all. I didn’t even know why I was keeping on, except I figured I would sooner or later meet up with Flood. Besides, the closest railroad where I could get a way back to Blessing, without spending another ten days going across prairie, was in Del Rio and that was still a fair ride.

  I fed the horses the last of their oats and gave them nearly all the water. Next day I should hit the Nueces River and, if it wasn’t plumb dried up, they could have a good drink.

  After supper I made my bed right up next to the dying embers of the coals. I was tired, but I wasn’t worried. Mister Flood seemed to be directing my inclinations so I figured I ought to get a good night’s sleep and let him do the worrying. I couldn’t see any reason my three watchdogs should take it into their heads to come at me that night of all the nights they’d had. I’d staked the horses close and I could hear them shuffling around as I closed my eyes. My plan was to make it to Del Rio, which I figured was about eighty miles on further, and then take a train home. That is unless Flood interfered in the meantime.

  I also had that packhorse to worry about. The only thing I could think was to try and buy or trade a farmer out of a plow horse of some kind. Though only God Himself knew what kind of livestock I’d be able to obtain.

  I didn’t know how long I’d
been asleep or what time it was when I heard one of the traps snap shut and a sudden howl of pain. I came awake and grabbed my revolver all in the same instant. The memory of the sound and where it had come from was still in my head. I fired three times in that direction. There was a little sound of something scuffling around. I fired twice more, firing blind into the darkness. Then I reloaded and fired twice more. The scuffling sound stopped. All was still; only the night sounds of the caprock broke the silence. I sat there on my sleeping bag, my revolver at the ready, wondering what to do. The fire was stone cold. I put a hand to the ashes; it had been out for some time. I could have struck a match and looked at my watch, but I didn’t think that was wise. The moon was down so I knew it was after four. But I had no intention of going to see what was in my trap until it had come good daylight.

  I did not go back to sleep that night. I had no idea who was waiting for me in the darkness or what their plans were. I would have liked to have built the fire back up, but there was no extra wood and I didn’t want to be walking around in the dark. Besides, the fire would not have given enough illumination for me to have seen anything. I, of course, would have moved outside its circle of light.

  So I sat, pistol in hand, and waited. Finally I made an early breakfast out of cheese, ham, saltines, whiskey, and water. I would make a start as soon as it was light enough to see. The country was too rough to guide horses over it in the dark, especially an injured horse.

  It finally came light. In the early dawn, revolver in hand, I crept up to where I had set the traps. I’d caught a coyote in the middle one. It appeared that two of my blind shots had hit him, at least putting the varmint out of his misery. I looked around on the ground for any sign of boot tracks. There were none in the loose caliche dust. I stood there a moment looking out toward the east. There was nothing to see except rough country. I imagined my companions had enjoyed my wild firing in the middle of the night. I guessed they’d figured I was getting mighty jumpy. Well, maybe the day would come when I could slip up on their camp and see how jumpy I could make them. Of course they were three and they could afford to stand watch turn and turn about.