by BJ Holmes
‘I think she’ll hold, old man.’ he said walking back to his patient steed. ‘But take it easy.’
He negotiated the horse onto the bridge giving it the leeway to find its foothold in its own time.
The sound of staggered hoof against wood was amplified into resounding echoes around the canyon’s vertical surfaces. The bridge was noticeably sagging under their combined weight and, as they reached the middle, there was a long, heart-stopping creak. The man froze and the horse followed suit, with complete faith in its master. The creaking subsided and, after a minute’s silence, the man whispered, ‘Don’t worry, old pal,’ as much to placate himself as his horse and resumed the crossing. They took the final incline even more slowly.
Within feet of the end there was a rending sound, louder and longer than the first. Man and beast made a last scramble for safety. As the horse’s rear hooves reached firm ground the whole bridge lurched several feet from the vertical. Something basic in the structure had given. Sand and rocks from the bases of the main supports cascaded down. The man turned and shuddered at the thought of what might have been.
He made the final ascent up the narrow winding path on foot. At the summit he mounted up and viewed the terrain ahead. Beyond the gentle downward slope was an open plain and an uneven horizon blurred by heat haze. ‘There must be a settlement out there someplace,’ he whispered as he imperceptibly gigged the horse. ‘And a settlement means water and work.’
Three hours later horse and rider entered the main street of Raban’s End leisurely, tiredly, as slow as the tumbleweed blowing in from the desert. They stopped at a trough partway along the street. The man slipped quietly from the saddle as the horse took some water. He doused his blond, sand-dulled hair but refrained from drinking the murky liquid himself. He pulled on the reins so the appaloosa wouldn’t overfill itself after a morning under the burning sun and he guided it further along the street. He stopped outside the saloon but avoided the hitching rail. Instead he went to the side of the building where there was shade for his animal. He unstrapped the saddle and eased it to the ground, slip-knotting the reins to the pommel. He returned to the front, looked up and down the deserted street once and then stepped up onto the raised boardwalk. Inside the saloon he pushed back his hat and smoothed down his still-damp hair with his hand.
The saloon’s only occupant was roused from his dozing behind the bar by the chink of spurs. `Howdy, mister,’ he said in welcome, standing up and drawing his hand across his rubbery face in an attempt to stimulate his features into some kind of awareness.
The stranger nodded and hesitated with batwings still flapping behind him, After a few seconds of exploring the depths of his breast pockets with thumbs and forefingers, he pulled out a dime. He placed it on the cottonwood bar. ‘As much beer as that will buy.’
Still showing a sleepy indolence, the barkeeper put a glass under the tap. ‘First order of the day for beer,’ he smiled in an attempt to explain his gaping yawn. ‘In fact, the first customer of the day for anything. Glad to see you, stranger. The name’s Cope.’
The stranger said nothing but rubbed his dry lips impatiently. Eventually the barkeeper pushed the tankard across the rough surface of the counter. The beer was flat and its few bubbles dissipated almost immediately. ‘Thing’s bad, are they? Cope prompted, picking up the dime and scrutinizing it momentarily before he dropped it into the till. The stranger sipped the drink slowly. In outward appearance the liquor was not unlike the contents of the horse trough, but neither that or its flatness was any deterrent to his thirst. ‘I’m short of cash if that’s what you’re hinting,’ the visitor said. He took another sip, savoring the precious liquid. ‘Yeah, thing’s are bad,’ he conceded. ‘Where does a guy go around here to get on a payroll?’
‘What kind of work you looking for?’
‘Put my back to anything.’ The stranger held up his hands, palms foremost. It was clear they were hands that had been put to much hard work in their owner’s twenty odd years.
‘What’s your name and where do you hail from?’ Cope asked.
‘The name’s Hazard and you should detect Texas in my way of talk.’
‘Well. you rode into the wrong town for work. Mr. Hazard. There ain’t much for the asking these days Things are in a state of flux as you might say. There’s more folk leaving than coming in.’ Then the man came from behind the bar. Hazard noticed he slung one leg stiffly as he walked across the boards to look through the dusty window to the side street. ‘You could sell your horse and rig, if you’re stuck.’
Hazard shook his head.
‘No, I suppose not,’ the barkeeper concluded from the glance he got from his customer and he walked back to the bar. ‘You wouldn’t get much of a price anyways, not in Raban’s End.’ He noticed Hazard drain his glass. ‘Like another on the house? You don’t seem to have the wherewithal and I appreciate the company.’
‘It’d sure pleasure me.’ the young man replied, putting the tankard down on the bar and resting his boot on the foot-rail. They talked for a while but the barkeeper did the jawing and the flies did the buzzing.
‘Well, I got one silver dollar to my name,’ Hazard said later. ‘If I can’t get a job, is there a place where I can at least get a bite to eat’?’
‘My missus’ll be happy to lay on a steak and fries,’ said Cope.
‘Can’t think of anything better.’ Hazard grinned in anticipation. As he spoke there came the sound of hooves outside. He moved to the window and saw a mounted horse passing at speed. The rider was bent forward over his steed’s neck. Hazard could make out long black hair and a checked shirt.
Cope hobbled to join his customer but was too late to see more than a fast-receding image. ‘Sure wants to get someplace in a hurry, don’t he?’
‘Can’t see the attraction of the desert in the noonday heat,’ added Hazard, thankful to be out of it. ‘I been out there. I know. Seems to me he’s more keen on leaving than arriving someplace.’
Later Hazard was seated at the back of the saloon, complete with table napkin, wiping clean his platter with a hunk of rye bread when there was another commotion outside.
‘Sure is busy in town today,’ said Cope as three men walked in. "What can I get you, Sheriff?’
‘Ain’t no time for drinking, Cope. I’m looking for riders.’ The lawman was tall with a droop moustache and had the look of an Earp daguerreotype about him.
‘You know I ain’t suited to no riding with this game leg o’ mine,’ said Cope, patting his stiff limb.
‘What about you, son?’ the sheriff asked, looking at Hazard. He pointed to the Joslyn .44 strapped to the young man’ s leg. Its trigger guard was thonged to a flapless Army holster.
The lawman noted how the holster had been knife-trimmed for ease of withdrawal. ‘Judging by the tailoring of your rig there, I assume you can you use that thing?’
‘That’s as maybe,’ the young man replied, wiping grease from his stubble-framed mouth. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘There’s been a killing. The telegraph operator’s been shot. Mr. Oldfield here witnessed it.’ He nodded at the man by his side. `The desperado rode out of town.’
‘How long since?’ asked Hazard,
‘About half an hour.’
‘I think we seed him,’ said Hazard. ‘Young guy, black hair and check shirt?’
‘Yeah, Lester Adams.’
‘Young Lester Adams?’ Cope queried. ‘You sure, Sheriff? Lester’s allus been a peaceable kind of kid.’
‘Sure I’m sure,’ snapped the sheriff. ‘We got a witness, a distinguished member of the community. Mr. Oldfield here witnessed the whole thing. Anyways, the jasper can’t have got far and we’re taking out after him. There’s been too much lawbreaking and killing lately. We gotta stamp down hard.’
Cope nodded. ‘That’s right. Mr. Hazard. There’s been a lotta trouble.’
‘What’s more,’ the sheriff continued, ‘Mr. Oldfield’s been public spirited enough to offer t
en dollars to any man willing to ride.’ Hazard looked at the man the sheriff had indicated as Oldfield. He was not so tall as the lawman. The pale skin of his face emphasized the red mouth that split his face like a bowie knife wound. Piercing grey eyes added to the menace of his face––but you can’t tell the character of a man by his features, Hazard reminded himself.
‘I’m interested,’ said Hazard He’d already been told that jobs were hard to come by and ten dollars was a start. ‘If I can get a horse. Mine’s plumb tuckered out.’
‘Cope’s got a horse he don’t use much,’ the man with the badge ventured. ‘Ain’t you, Cope?’
The bartender seemed reluctant to loan his horse. ‘Sure, I don’t use her much ’cos of my leg. But that also means she ain’t a regular riding horse.’ The sheriff looked at Oldfield who took out a large billfold and peeled off a couple which he dropped on the counter. But Cope was still unsure. ‘A stranger could have trouble with her,’ he maintained..
‘I can handle her,’ said Hazard, ‘if you’ll be so kind to let me have loan of her?’
Cope acquiesced with a shrug. ‘She’s out back in the stable.’ Hazard got to his feet and took the leather patchwork jacket from the back of the chair on which it had been draped. ‘I’d better refill my canteen. I’ve already learned how hot and dry it is out there in the desert today. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
Then Oldfield spoke for the first time. His Eastern voice had a rasping firmness. ‘Make sure it’s no more than ten, kid. We gotta move fast––and you’re on my time now.’
Cope stabled the appaloosa while Hazard put his own rig on Cope’s black mare––a stocky Morgan. In the meantime the sheriff had asked after more riders and had managed to pull in some more volunteers. At the prescribed time the posse of seven left town. With the riders not knowing the eventual duration of the hunt, the pace began at a restrained trot.
Within twenty minutes they were clear of the rock formations that skirted the approach to town. Reaching the sandy plain they broke single file and rode more or less abreast.
‘Anyone see the critter? shouted Oldfield after a while. The muscles of fourteen eyeballs strained to focus on the horizon.
‘No, but I can see another bastard I don’t like,’ said the sheriff. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the left where a rounded mass could be seen in the distance. ‘Christ! What’s that?’ one of the men shouted. It seemed alive and the longer you looked at it the more organic it seemed to be. It was growing––and coming nearer.
‘Dust storm,’ explained the sheriff.
‘Let’s move,’ ordered Oldfield. ‘Or it’ll cut us off from our quarry.’
‘More important,’ shouted one of the other riders,’ it’s likely to cut us off from our windpipes.’
‘Pay it no mind,’ snarled Oldfield, gigging his own horse. Instinctively the others increased speed to keep up; except the one who had vocalized last.
‘Pay it no mind?’ he shouted. ‘Last time there was a dust storm like that when old Joe Evans was caught in the desert. I found his body months later under two feet of sand.’
‘Shut up,’ shouted Oldfield, hard-spurring his steed even more.
‘Joe’s mouth and every other hole in his body was packed solid with sand,’ the dissenting one continued at the top of his voice. ‘And that’s one hell of a way to die.’
‘Stay with it, Sam,’ shouted the sheriff in an attempt at encouragement. But the distance between the main body of the posse and the last rider widened.
‘Ten dollars or no ten dollars,’ Sam shouted, ‘I’m getting back to town before it’s too late. There ain’t no protection for a soul out here.’
‘Twenty dollars a man!’ Oldfield shouted. Either Sam never heard the increased offer or he ignored it––as he wheeled around and began returning at speed. Hazard kept pace on the sturdy Morgan. Although smaller than the others, the horse had stamina. While Hazard had a healthy respect for dust storms––he knew they were far more lethal than they appeared––he felt there was still a good chance it would move behind them. And he liked the increase in Oldfield’s ante.
But a minute later, the scale and direction of the approaching cloud could be appreciated.
‘Sam’s right,’ shouted another. ‘We’re gonna find ourselves in the thick of it.’
‘Thirty bucks!’ screamed Oldfield. ‘And a hundred for the one who gets the killer.’
‘We got wives and kids, Mr. Oldfield,’ some shouted. And two riders peeled off together, circled arid made back.
Shortly, the remaining four riders knew they were hard into the periphery of the turbulence. The wind was picking up and men felt the increasing stings of bullet-fast pieces of sand. The horses had slowed of their own accord and were becoming difficult to handle.
`I gotta admit––this is suicide,’ shouted the sheriff. ‘Best turn tail and try to keep ahead of it.’
Those that had them had pulled up their bandanas. Without such protection the Eastern-dressed Oldfield was spluttering. ‘Two hundred bucks for the one who stays with it and catches him,’ he said as loudly as his coughing would permit. Hazard couldn’t see what happened after that, so oppressive were the wind and dust. He realized later all the men had finally retreated at that point. With the words ‘two hundred bucks’ echoing in his ears he pulled in the Morgan by a barely discernible cluster of rocks. They mere small but better than nothing. Before the startled animal could object he’d hobbled the back legs with rope from the rig. With the horse now close to panic, it was more difficult to rope up the forelegs, but he managed it. It was then easy to overbalance the animal but he took care to keep out of the way of the descending mass of horseflesh. Once it was prone he tightened the loops.
He unstrapped the large blanket from the back of his rig and enveloped the animal’s head. Nearly blinded with whirling sand, he pulled the top half of his body under the blanket and endeavored to make it as airtight as possible. With persistent soothing of the muzzle, the animal became less agitated and the two of them lay there, sharing each other’s breath. The stench was almost insufferable. At the cost of allowing the entrance of a considerable amount of dust, Hazard occasionally opened up part of the blanket for fresh air and to ensure the maintenance of a vent through the sand that was rapidly piling up on them.
He may have been there for half an hour, maybe more, he couldn’t tell. He only pushed out the blanket when he reckoned it was very safe to do so. The storm had subsided but there were still fine particles hanging in the air. Enough to cut visibility by diffusing the sunlight. And still enough to tickle the back of one’s throat.
‘We’ve been lucky, old gal.’ he said as he patted the mare’s rump. He pulled up his bandana again. Not only had he, like Sam, known of folks being buried alive, he had also heard of other poor souls who’d been sucked upwards by the central draught and thrown hundreds of yards to their deaths.
He hadn’t been unthinkingly impetuous in braving the caprices of nature. He had the advantage of his fellow hunters. Firstly, he knew about the state of the bridge whence their quarry was headed. The way it was when he’d left it, he reckoned there was a good chance it wouldn’t take another horse and rider. Secondly, if the winds had travelled up that way and stormed up the gorge anywhere near the bridge then it would be at the bottom of the canyon by now anyway. So there was a good chance the man was trapped. If that was the case the villain had no course other than to retrace his steps and eventually come back down. Hazard would wait. With two hundred dollars at stake, it was worth taking a chance.
He took the hobbles from the horse and it lurched to its feet with the ungainliness of a new-born foal. He looped up the rope and tied it to the saddle. He shook what sand he could from the breath-soaked blanket, rolled it up and tied that in place, too.
He took a sip from his canteen, partly to clear his throat of sand, and then gave the horse some licks from a cupped palm. ‘Come on, gal. We’ve still our two hundred bills to earn,’ he said, grabbing t
he pommel and hauling himself up.
By the time he reached the slopes beyond the desert-plain hours later, he knew he was alone. The air was as clear as it could be in the afternoon heat and he could see there were no other hunters behind him. But neither, to the fore, could he see the object of his pursuit. He dismounted and led the mare up the steep rocky trail. Reaching the plateau, again he could see no one. He passed the spot where at the beginning of the day he’d looked down at the plain. It wasn’t far to the bridge now. Minutes later he could see the spectacular crevice of Chandler Canyon, His hunch had been right––the bridge had gone, He dismounted and walked down the winding foot-trail.
He got to a point where he could look down to the canyon floor. Yes, there were pieces of wood the size of matchsticks far below. He could make out some dark shape protruding from part of the wreckage. Looked like a horse. But from this height there was no certainty. Moreover, he could see no rider’s body. He drew his Joslyn in readiness and scanned his surroundings. He’d been on the lookout for a horse and rider since he’d crested the rim but had seen nothing. He was just deciding to return to the vantage point of the summit when he heard a noise. It was a noise he’d heard earlier in the day––the sound of pebbles failing down the precipice. He turned his head to listen. There it was again, but this time he heard something else. It sounded like a foot scrambling against a rocky wall. More pebbles fell.
It was difficult to locate the origin of the noise with the echoes bouncing between the rocky surfaces but peering over the edge he could detect some movement almost directly below him. One of the bridge stanchions was still partway embedded in the canyon side at all angle, There was a man hanging from it!
Hazard shouted reassurance: ‘Hold on!’ a ridiculous thing, to say when judged outside the event but it was the only exhortation in such circumstances. ‘There’s a rope coming down.’ He fixed the rope to the pommel and lowered down the end. He heard a faint voice shout. ‘Got it!’
