Red Trail

by John Shirley

  The driver handed down her bag, and they started toward the livery where Katie’s mare and Jim’s cow pony, Sam Houston, were waiting.

  But seeing Tomas at the door of his store, Katie hurried over to him. He had his keys in his hand, seemed ready to lock up as Mrs. Tilliver came out. The widow Tilliver was a stout woman in a long black dress; she had iron gray hair and far too much white makeup. Katie thought she looked like a flour bag had exploded on her. “Tomas!” Katie called out. “Before you close!”

  He turned and appeared oddly dismayed to see her. That certainly wasn’t like him.

  Mrs. Tilliver snorted and shook her head, seeing Kate hurry up to them. “You’re a brazen one, Katherine Durst!”

  “Brazen?” Katie asked, not sure she’d heard right.

  “Everyone knows what you done—what you tried to do. Poor Mrs. Harning!” The widow shook her head and stumped off down the wooden sidewalk.

  Katie stared after her. “Tomas—what is she talking about?”

  “I— It is not something I believe, Senora Durst.”

  “What isn’t?”

  He looked at Jim. “I wonder if your son would like to choose a piece of candy. Make it two pieces. My gift!”

  “Thank you, Tomas!” Jim said, hurrying into the store.

  Tomas cleared his throat and said, “Senora—Tom Harning, he is telling people you are the seductress.”

  “The seductress? Of who?”

  “Why—of him! Or—you try. This is what he says.”

  She felt her cheeks go hot, and an equally hot outrage rose up in her. “That lying son of a . . . goat!”

  “Yes, ma’am. But . . .” Tomas said. “But”—he shrugged—“there are some who believe.”

  “Then they’ve learned nothing about that man! You know what he’s doing? He’s been trying to scare me out with threats. Now he’s trying to shame me out of town with lies, Tomas!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sighed. “I am to say—that the padre wishes to talk to you.”

  “Does he, now? I’ll give him an earful, too!”

  Tomas winced. “Was there something you need in the store?”

  “I was just wondering—have there been any letters for me?”

  “No, senora. I am sorry.”

  “Never mind. . . . There are a few things I’ll get if you’ve got time. And if you’re not ashamed to sell to me!”

  He smiled ruefully. “It would be my honor, senora.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The drovers were just setting up camp in the faded scarlet light of sunset when East Wind spotted the rider coming from the south.

  The camp was about two hundred yards short of the water, partly to give the cattle room and partly because Mase was nervous about camping close under the hook-shaped outcropping of granite rocks. The curving rock formation Crane had named the Shepherd’s Crook was a little over two hundred feet high. Mase had scouted it a second time, looking up at the rocks, seeing no one there. A thick brake of pine trees and underbrush grew along the farther side, and he couldn’t see past it. But now, as he sat on his horse near the chuck wagon and watched the cattle trotting eagerly up to the water hole, he found the woods troubling his mind.

  Too much trouble on this trip has made you jump at shadows, he told himself. Maybe, though, he’d take a few men and do a wider search on the other side of the rocks. . . .

  That’s when East Wind shouted, “Rider coming!” He pointed south.

  Mase turned to look and saw a man slumped over a cantering horse about two hundred yards off. The rider seemed to be holding on to the horse’s neck to keep from falling off.

  He had a shivery feeling inside him, seeing that slumped figure. It couldn’t be. . . .

  Mase galloped toward the rider and soon saw that it was indeed his brother, Hiram, holding desperately on to his horse. His hat was missing. Mase could see a bandage on his brother’s head.

  East Wind got there first, taking hold of the horse’s reins to slow it down.

  “Hiram!” Mase called as he rode up.

  Hiram lifted his head, blinking muzzily. “Mase?” came the croaking reply.

  “We got you, Hiram! Hold hard now!”

  They soon had him laid out on a bedroll beside the chuck wagon. Mase gave him a cup of water. Grimacing, Hiram got up on an elbow and drank it. Denver, Duff, Dollager, and Ray were looking on with concern.

  “How bad were you hit, Hiram?” Mase asked.

  Hiram put the cup aside. His face was pale and drawn. “A graze and a pretty bad wound just under the rib cage there. They tried to make sure I wouldn’t warn you, Mase. Fletcher and his men—they’re up here after you. Right before I rode out, Queenie asked around for me. They rode out a couple days ago. He’s hired more men. . . .”

  “Which one shot you?”

  “I’m not sure. It was dark. Might’ve been Greer.”

  “Say now!” said Dollager, coming over with a tin cup of soup. “You must lie down there, cowboy!”

  “Mick, this is my brother, Hiram.”

  “Mick Dollager, Hiram,” said the cook. “You must lie down—you’re running a fever, sure!”

  “Can’t lie down,” Hiram said. “We can’t stay here, Mase. Most likely they’re waiting for you right close. Shepherd’s Crook’s the best spot for an ambush. They’ll try to wait till you’re bunched up. . . .” He took the soup and drank some off and made a face. “Thought you said this man could cook!”

  Dollager grinned. “I’ve put willow bark in it for the fever. It won’t taste right, but it’ll help.”

  Hiram grunted and drank a little more. “Get your men under cover or move ’em back, Mase.”

  “There were those riders in the night,” East Wind reminded them.

  “Must’ve been Fletcher’s men,” Mase muttered, nodding. He was furious at himself. He’d been careless.

  He went to the back of the chuck wagon, keeping part of it between him and the rocks, and stared up at Shepherd’s Crook. “East Wind!” he called.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Ride out and tell Pug what’s happened. Tell him not to bring anyone in closer till he hears from me.”

  East Wind ran to his horse, vaulted on, and galloped to the south.

  * * *

  * * *

  Was that Hiram Durst?” asked Fletcher, looking down at the chuck wagon. It was blocking his view of the man they’d brought in.

  “Couldn’t have been,” said Mike Greer. “He’s dead.”

  “Too far away to tell,” said Rod Kelso.

  Fletcher, Kelso, Greer, and Donkey were standing on the deer path at the top of the ridge. A jagged line of boulders stood ranged atop the rocky granite slope overlooking the spring and the flat ground beyond. They could see through a gap in the stones that most of the drovers in the camp were on the other side of the chuck wagon. The wagon was farther away than Fletcher had supposed. Four of the drovers were amongst the herd, far back from the ridge.

  “They didn’t camp as close as you figured, Joe,” growled Rod Kelso.

  “Won’t matter,” Fletcher insisted. But he wasn’t sure. His ideal ambush hadn’t panned out yet. The Indian drover had ridden out of range, and the others were too far off to be good targets. “We’ll get the other men to move off east where they have a shootin’ angle on those cowboys. They’ll have to get down in the rocks and open fire from there.” The other men—three of them, including Cox—were down the deer trail, waiting for the signal to jump up and open fire between the boulders.

  “They’d be seen climbing down there,” Kelso said.

  “There’s another way,” Greer said. “Norton and Jimenez and me . . .” It was Greer who’d brought those two into the gang. They were partners in a robbery, but he’d let them go, pretending he didn’t have the eviden
ce to hold them, when they agreed to give him the stolen money—which hadn’t amounted to more than a hundred dollars. They expected to get paid two hundred dollars each for this job. “Now, suppose I was to take them with me to the camp. I ride in showing my badge. Those boys with me will have their shotguns. I’ll say I’m there to arrest Mason Durst. Saying he actually stole those cattle. Now, maybe those cowboys will surrender. If they do, we’ll disarm them—and then shoot them. But if they don’t, I’ll tell Norton and Jimenez to open fire. They’re mean as snakes and they like killin’. That’ll cut down some of the cowboys and draw out the others.”

  “Pretty nervy of you,” said Rod admiringly.

  “I’m no fool. I’ll keep back some and ride to cover the instant the shooting starts. You boys’ll be off to the east. You can move out while I’ve got those cowboys busy, and get into position—start shooting soon’s you’ve got your targets in sight.”

  “What about the others with the herd?” Fletcher asked.

  “If they come running into range, we’ll shoot ’em. If they try to ride off, why, we’ll hunt them down.”

  “Liable to lose Norton and Jimenez before it’s done,” said Fletcher

  “Ain’t no loss. Won’t have to pay ’em then.”

  “It’s not a bad plan,” said Kelso. “But there’s gonna be one change. I’m going with you and those other two because I want to be the one who kills Mase Durst.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Maybe,” Mase said, turning to Denver, Ray, and Duff, “we can send some men around the Shepherd’s Crook. They can keep out of gunshot range and see what’s on the other side. Could be they’re not up there on the Crook at all.”

  “Say the word, and I’ll ride, boss,” said Denver.

  “Me, too, Mase,” Ray said.

  Duff nodded. “Let’s go!”

  “Okay, mount up. . . .”

  But Dorge rode into camp then, calling out, “Boss—men coming to the camp from the north!”

  Mase stood up and said, “Denver, Duff, you get on the other side of the wagon, pull your guns and keep ’em on these men. Karl”—he glanced at Dorge, saw he was carrying a rifle—“lie down flat and have that rifle ready. Mick—get under cover but arm yourself.”

  Mase walked over to the front of the chuck wagon and saw four men riding up. Two he knew, Sheriff Greer and Rod Kelso. The other two looked little better than saddle bums.

  Remembering that Greer might be the man who shot Hiram, Mase drew his gun and pointed it at the sheriff as the men reined in. He aimed it right at the tin star pinned to Greer’s vest.

  “What do you mean by drawing your gun on me?” Greer asked. He backed his horse up some, a little behind the others.

  “You shoot my brother in Leadton, Greer?” Mase asked, his gun unwavering.

  Greer looked past him, saw Hiram on the ground, and his eyes widened in surprise. Mase figured that most likely meant Greer had expected Hiram to be dead, which answered his question.

  “Hell no, I didn’t shoot him,” Greer said. “But there’s been a crime all right. It’s been reported to me that you stole these cattle!”

  “Stole them?” Mase laughed. “Every single one of those beeves has the Durst Ranch brand.”

  “Easy enough to steal a steer before it’s branded and put yours on it.”

  “Which particular liar reported my cattle were stolen?” Mase asked.

  “None of your concern—till you’re ready for court! You men will surrender your weapons to me, and then we’ll decide what to do with the herd.”

  Mase shook his head. “Not a whisper of a chance because I know you’re lying to me, Greer. And I know that Kelso there rode with Joe Fletcher. And Joe Fletcher’s a cattle rustler. I figure Fletcher and his men are up there in those rocks.”

  Again Greer registered surprise. Then he snorted dismissively and said, “I’ll give you half a minute to think on it. Then we’ll have to throw down on you.”

  Mase snorted. “Just remember who my gun’s pointed at, Sheriff. Now—I know Kelso there. Who are these other two jumped-up deputies trailing along with you?”

  “That’s Deputy Norton on my left, with the ten gauge he’s likely to use on you if you don’t stop pointing that Colt at me,” Greer said. Norton was a hatchet-faced man with sunken dark eyes and a goatee. He was wearing a dusty low-crowned gray hat, a raggedy frock coat, striped trousers, and silver spurs. “Fella on my right with the twelve gauge, just as likely to cut loose on you, is Deputy Jimenez.” A shorter, darker, thick-bodied man with up-curling mustaches on his jowly face, Jimenez wore a tall-crowned diez galones sombrero and a black Mexican jacket with silvery braids. Both men had shotguns in their hands. Kelso, Mase noticed, had his hand taut on his gun butt, like a man itching to pull it.

  “Which jail you pull those two out of, Greer?” Mase asked.

  Greer’s eyebrows bobbed up at them and again Mase felt he’d hit the mark. “Rod, get a bead on Hiram over there—and if his brother don’t lower his pistol, take your shot.”

  Rod Kelso started to pull his gun—and Mase made up his mind in a split second. He couldn’t risk Kelso shooting Hiram.

  He swung his Colt to center on Kelso and fired.

  Kelso screamed as the bullet caught him in the breastbone, and he dropped his pistol, flailing as his horse reared, while Mase was swinging the gun over toward Norton, who was leveling the shotgun. Mase had a bad feeling he was going to be too slow.

  But then Denver Jimson’s Smith & Wesson cracked out a shot, and Norton twisted in his saddle, grinding his teeth in pain as his horse sunfished, while a shot from Ray Jost hit Jimenez, the bullet catching him in the teeth. His horse galloped in panic through the camp, Jimenez slumping in the saddle. Hiram was sitting up, firing at Greer. But Greer was bent low in the saddle as he galloped north like the devil was biting his tail, bullets from Denver and Duff whining over his head.

  Norton was still alive, yelling incoherently with pain and fury as he swung his shotgun back to Mase. He fired—a hair after Mase had thrown himself flat. The blast went over Mase, and then Denver and Hiram both fired again, their two shots knocking Norton out of his saddle. One of the outlaw’s feet was caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged away by the panicky mount.

  Gunshots cracked from up above now, coming from betwixt the upper boulders along the ridge of the Shepherd’s Crook. Mase got up and ran to his horse, pulled it to the shelter of the chuck wagon, and fished his spyglass from a saddlebag. A shot cracked into a water barrel on the ground by the wagon, and water spurted from the bullet hole. Two more bullets cut holes through the canvas cover of the chuck wagon. Gun in his right hand and spyglass in his left, Mase ran to the back of the wagon, crouched, half hidden by a wheel, and fixed the little telescope on the Shepherd’s Crook. He slowly tracked the lens across the ridgetop, but couldn’t see anyone. Then as a bullet cracked by, a puff of rifle smoke drifted up between two boulders. In a dark place under another boulder, a muzzle flash showed as another bullet thudded into the dirt to his right. Mase fired up at the gunmen but didn’t have much hope of hitting them.

  Heads ducked low, Denver and the others came to Mase’s side and commenced firing at the rocks. Bullets smacked into boulders and ricocheted, and the already nervous herd began turning away from the water hole, beginning to run south.

  “You can see the muzzle flash sometimes!” Mase called as the men joined him. “And their gun smoke!”

  “The herd!” Ray said. “Mase—they’ll stampede!”

  “Pug’ll know what to do,” Mase said. As he spoke, he swung the spyglass to the south. After a few moments, he found Pug in the glass, waving at the other drovers on the herd, mouth open in a shout, calling the cowboys out of the way of the stampede.

  The cattle were running full out now, bawling. And left behind was a dead steer hit by a stray round. “
There’s our meat for the next week,” said Dollager, coming to crouch near Mase. He had a rifle in his hand.

  Mase fired several shots at the gun smoke in the rocks, then drew back, seeing, from the corner of his eye, Hiram getting to his feet. “Hiram, stay down, damn you!”

  But Hiram had a gun in his hand and a determined look on his face. “I can pull a trigger, by God!” He stepped over to the other end of the wagon and fired up at the rocks, then ducked back.

  A bullet cut through the canvas top, right near Hiram’s head. He ducked down, cursing to himself. Another bullet cut through, and the men huddled back, shifting closer to the wooden frame of the wagon.

  Harry Duff suddenly called out, “Mr. Durst! There’s two of them coming from the north over on the western side! They’re on the ground! They’re firing toward the oxen!”

  The drovers hadn’t completed making camp, and the big oxen were still harnessed to the chuck wagon. They stirred, thumping their heavy hooves, lifting their heads and bawling as the bullets cracked into the ground near them.

  “They’re trying to spook them into moving the wagon!” Hiram said. If the oxen ran off with the wagon, Mase and the others would be exposed to rifle fire from the Shepherd’s Crook.

  Hiram crept closer to the front of the wagon and fired toward the men on foot. But this spooked the oxen even more. Dollager ran up to the oxen—alarming Mase, fearful the cook would be shot down. Dollager, half crouched, took hold of the nearest ox’s harness with one hand and with the other stroked the beast, talking to it, trying to gentle it down. The oxen were between him and the gunmen.

  “We’ll have to unhook the team!” Mase called as he ran to the tongue of the wagon, kneeling to tug at the bolts holding the harnesses to it.

  But more bullets cracked, and the oxen began moving forward, pulling the creaking wagon. Mase had to jump back to keep from getting crushed by a wheel. Dollager set himself and tried to drag them back by the harness. Mase tried to move into a position that would give him a shooting angle on the men firing toward the oxen—but a hail of bullets drove him back under cover.