by Abe Dancer
‘I’ll admit it don’t sound too welcoming. But sometimes in my business, Mr Land, you get paid a sum of money that’s worth dying for. Maybe we can discuss the imprudence of that on my return.’
‘Sure. Me and my business will still be up and running,’ Orville sighed.
A clerk at the Land Office supplied Houston with a map section of the territory. The document indicated Tierra Sin Vida, and hill country to the north. Houston gave a spare smile at another inclusion . . . the Bullhead graveyard. He then visited the corral to discuss the hiring of a suitable pack mule, and his provender was purchased at Furr’s Mercantile. Houston wasn’t too exacting, told the merchant he could live off coffee and walnuts if he had to. When Houston rode from Bullhead, half a dozen canteens and a couple of skin bags were slung over the mule’s back. He set a medium pace with his grullo mare, the pack mule tagging close.
Within fifteen minutes of Houston leaving town, Deputy Levitch was finding out what he needed to know. A casual enquiry from Abraham Furr was gaining him vital information.
‘Sure, he was here,’ the storekeeper told him. ‘Took enough supplies for a whole convention o’ goddamn bounty hunters. Didn’t say where, but I’ll bet every dollar comes through here today, he’s ridin’ after Billy Carrick. Why’d he want so many canteens an’ them skin-bags? Hell, he’s totin’ enough water to set up home in that godforsaken place. Then again, maybe it’s just for half-way an’ back. What d’you reckon, Dod?’
‘I reckon he’s a sharp son-of-a-bitch,’ Levitch said, for Furr’s benefit. ‘Bullhead law needs no help from the likes o’ him. He was warned not to butt in.’
Dod Levitch considered riding out to talk with Fats Denvy or Jack Carboys, then, figuring it an assignment he should handle alone, decided against. Soon, he was leaving town on his own, not on Houston’s trail, but headed north-west and shielded by sagebrush that ringed half the town.
By mid-afternoon he had reached his vantage point. It was a flat-topped mesa, from where he commanded a sweeping view of the area to the south and west of the headwater creek. He had pushed his mount hard, and estimated he had made it with time to spare. It would be a long-range shot, but in the still air, Levitch had faith in the accuracy of his aim, the carrying power of the .44 Winchester.
Reaching the east bank, Houston reined in, dismounted to look more closely at the run of the creek. He was a mile upstream of where Levitch had found evidence of Carrick taking on water. The creek was narrower, running faster and occasionally deeper, and carried the general detritus of distant timberlands. It was all turning and drifting south in its flow towards Lake Mead and the mighty Colorado. Nevertheless, Houston thought the water looked clean enough for drinking.
He got to work filling the two canteens. He lashed the six extras and the two skin bags to his saddle, took comfort from the small sacks of coffee and corn dodgers tied to the mule’s back.
As he remounted he stared across to the far bank, beyond to where the infamous, desolate expanse of wasteland began. He nudged the mare on, seeking shallower water to make a crossing together with the pack mule.
In the lonely almost spooky stillness, and for some inexplicable reason, the warning words of Orville Land suddenly entered Houston’s consciousness. He looked for sign of Carrick, for anybody, even movement from Gila monsters or deadly, water snakes.
He was half-way across, peering into the shadows of boulder shelves on the opposite bank when, with the simultaneous crack of a rifle, he felt the heavy pulse of a bullet thumping past his neck. Almost as though he knew it was coming, he threw up a hand, pitched sideways from his saddle, down to the roil of water.
He took a gulping breath, then there was a deeper silence as the numbing shock of water closed above him, the stunning contrast to the high heat of the afternoon. He saw the dark, waving reach of a large branch above him, for a few seconds kicked out, then clawed with his arms. He surfaced slowly, his head pressing up through fronds still thick with young pine cones. He drifted, gasping for breath, but apparently unscathed, hoping the foliage was shielding him from the sight of his would-be assassin.
Levitch laid the rifle aside. Reaching for his spyglass he studied the stretch of water to the south. He was satisfied that, with one carefully aimed shot, his victim had fallen like he’d seen in his mind’s eye. For a full minute he peered down from the butte, but there was little movement, save the swirl of timbered snags. ‘He died. Even if I winged him, he’s drowned dead. Leave ’em no evidence, Doddy,’ he muttered to himself.
Five minutes later, still drifting but treading water, Houston raised his head above the needled fronds and looked around him. The mare and the mule had crossed the creek, were standing on the west bank with their heads hanging forlornly.
As his ears cleared and hearing returned, he listened intently, was certain he heard the far-off, indistinct clip of a horse’s hoof. You’ve tried your best, he thought. Riding away’s your big mistake. For a moment, he wondered if it could have been Carrick’s erstwhile friends, whether all, or just one of them had turned back . . . if he was now up against three or four guns.
‘If it’s a handful of you, fine. If you’re a lone shooter, hard goddamn luck,’ he muttered aloud. ‘I’ll find you, but you don’t know it. That’s my edge, you son-of-a-bitch.’ Meantime, Billy Carrick was a fugitive on the Tierra Sin Vida, and his time was running out, he reminded himself. Pushing away the pine debris he reached for the bank, moments later stepping from the shallows onto dry land.
He dragged his hat from his belt where he’d shoved it after hitting the water. He pushed and pulled it about until it resembled its shape; satisfied, adjusted it on his head.
By the time Houston reached his mare, his clothes were giving off a light mist. Some folk pay good money to John Woo’s bath house for this treatment, he couldn’t help thinking. A hot wind gusted towards him from the desert and the grullo nickered a greeting. He patted high on its shoulder and smiled relief, made a few reassuring sounds.
With his mind now sharpened, he swung into the saddle, squinting against the glare of the bleached sand, keeping the pace easy to conserve the stamina of his animals. The surprise ambush was a needed reminder. It warned of a quarry’s ability as well as their whereabouts. He wondered again who it might be, didn’t have enough background to make a list or reasoned assessment.
The low, curling currents of air lacked the strength to wipe out tracks left by the stolen horse, and for Houston, a few hours trailing was clear-cut.
That night he didn’t think twice about making a small, camp fire. Fifty feet from where he lit his kindling, a pillar of basalt rock rose high to overlook miles in every direction. The best vantage-point around here, he decided. There’s rattlers at the foot and I’m watching out for all of you. ‘So if you think you’ll be safe up there . . . go ahead feller, whoever you are,’ he warned quietly, then continued to wipe dry and clean his Colt.
The desert crossing promised to be a tiring business. But his attitude was improved, furthered by dragging a soogan around him and drinking hot coffee spiked from a small flask of Jamaica rum.
In the early morning, despite the already rising heat, Houston felt refreshed and equal to who and whatever lay ahead of him.
He resumed his pursuit, again without urgency but with heightened vigilance. His mare was faring well and the rimrock mule gave no trouble. At mid-day, under the shade of slanting bedrock, he ate four corn dodgers and drank tepid water. It was a ten-minute break, instead of a nooning with hot coffee. He felt sure Carrick would be slowed down by pushing a horse into a too-anxious run across the savage, debilitating terrain. Although he recalled Orville Land telling him the boy would be at home in any devil’s kitchen, it didn’t stretch to Levitch’s bay mare. By maintaining a steady pace, Houston calculated he could reach the fugitive while still alive.
At three o’ clock he found the horse at the foot of a long, rock-strewn bench. It was still saddled, and Houston’s arrival sent the turkey vultures
soaring skyward. He wanted to use his rifle, but knew he couldn’t. The mare’s left foreleg was obviously broken, probably in a tumble from weariness while descending the bench. It was too late for the animal. Carrick had put it out of its misery, and Houston now felt a twinge of consideration for him.
He wasn’t following the tracks of a horse any longer, just the heel and toe boot impressions from a weak, stumbling man. At the approach of first dark, Houston felt a tinge of frustration that he hadn’t yet caught sight of him. It wasn’t until full dark had shrouded the desert that he reined.
He made cold-harbour camp and slept soundly, rising and stretching at sun-up for a simple breakfast. He continued to trail west, and the next time he checked his pocket-watch, it was mid-morning and there was movement ahead of him on the western horizon. Just left of the brilliant orb of the rising sun, he could see the big, lazily-circling birds were staying high. It probably meant Carrick was still on his feet, maybe even on the move. If the vultures swooped, he would heel the mare from an easy trot to something faster.
One hour later he reined in the mare, listened to the sounds that seemed to emanate from the bed of a dried-up scrape ahead of him.
‘That’s as far as you come, mister . . . if you’re yearnin’ to stay alive.’ The warning voice was weak with exhaustion, just about audible.
Houston rose in the stirrups and squinted ahead to where his quarry waited. There was little cover, and Houston was guessing he’d probably collapsed, and being too weak to go on, decided to attempt a last stand.
‘Stay put, kid, and don’t do anything stupid,’ Houston called out. ‘If you feel anything like me, you’re almost finished,’ he lied. ‘I’m walking in now, so if you’re holding any kind of gun . . . any weapon, those vultures are having you as fine fixings. Besides, I got enough fresh water to re-float the Merrimack,’ he added, riding forward another thirty yards.
When he swung down from the mare, he took handcuffs and a pigging string from his saddle pouch of trade requisites. He drew his Colt, walked slowly, cautiously to the crusty lip of the scrape.
Against a boulder in the centre of the hollow, Billy Carrick was on his knees, trying for his feet. Dod Levitch’s Colt and a stub knife lay in front of him. He was gasping, and his once-tanned face was streaked white from the alkali sticking to his sweat.
‘You were saying, kid?’ Houston started dryly. ‘You just stay as you are. I’ll give you something soon as you’re wearing these cuffs.’
‘Then what’ll you do to me?’ Carrick gasped wearily.
Houston didn’t answer. He snapped the handcuffs around the man’s wrists, knotted one end of the rawhide to the steel centre link and stepped back.
Carrick’s legs buckled as he tried to get to his feet. ‘I can’t stand. I already killed a goddamn horse for the same thing,’ he mumbled miserably.
Houston went to fetch his mare and the pack mule, used his soogan to fend off the high sun. Carrick lay beneath it, trembling, muttering incoherently until Houston let him have one of the canteens. ‘When you’re full, go to sleep,’ he advised. ‘It won’t seem quite as bad.’
‘Will I wake up from the sound o’ you shootin’ me? Who the hell are you anyway?’ Carrick asked, his voice almost disappearing.
‘I’ll tell you when food’s ready.’ Houston started a fire, contemplated a meal of pozole and beans and strong, scalding coffee.
A few hours later, Houston handed Carrick another canteen of water, then poured a mug of coffee fortified by a slug of his rum.
‘Now you can tell me who you are,’ Carrick said, once his hunger and thirst were sated. ‘You don’t seem to be carryin’ any sort o’ badge.’
‘My name’s George Houston. Some call me a regulator, others a law adjuster. I guess most would call me a bounty hunter.’ Houston then gave a brief explanation of his arrival, subsequent activity in Bullhead. ‘So, I’m here because Chester Jarrow’s widow thinks maybe you’re not so guilty. She offered me a real big reward to bring you back.’
‘Jarrow’s widow? Yeah, I seem to recall her. She didn’t seem the kind o’ lady who’d post bounty on anyone.’ Carrick shrugged. ‘Huh, I guess she’s like all the others though,’ he said dejectedly.
‘It’s possible. But the others ain’t paying big money to find out,’ Houston replied sharply. He took out his map and unfolded it. ‘According to this, we’re past half way. I figure we can make our rations and water last, but only by heading towards Lake Mead.’
‘That’ll be the Black Mountains. I know ’em,’ Carrick sighed. ‘Timberland an’ lots o’ good water. Seems a long ways off right now.’
‘There’s a trail leads from the foothills to Bullhead,’ Houston observed.
‘Yeah, the haulage road. I know it,’ Carrick muttered. ‘Travelled it every time I rode to an’ from town.’
‘But not this time,’ Houston suggested.
‘Goddamn right. Figured no man would have the grit to follow me in here. Territory folk reckon it’s possessed. But you’re a stranger . . . wouldn’t make any difference. ’Course you were goin’ to catch up with me.’
Houston pushed Dod Levitch’s Colt back in its holster, coiled the belt and stowed it in a saddle pouch. ‘I’ll shift some of the load off the mule,’ he told Carrick. ‘That’s for you. It’s extra weight for both, but now you’re improved we can walk some.’
‘We?’ Carrick repeated. ‘You forgettin’ I’m Billy Carrick the killer who beat ol’ Jarrow to death with his gun? That I helped three desperados rob the town of its money, then spent my share on Delano’s goddamn cocktails? What chance have I got back there?’
‘I’ve never brought anyone back dead,’ Houston retorted. ‘Not unless they wanted it that way. Then I’d oblige.’
‘You’d be obligin’ me. Hell, you must’ve seen ’em in the streets . . . like a pack o’ wild dogs treein’ a coon. Why not put a bullet in me right now and be done with it? Cut me like I did the bay, why don’t you?’
‘Because I’m being paid to take you back alive. Now rest your mouth while I get these animals ready to move us out.’
Houston rearranged the remaining loads until there was room for Carrick to sit astride the mule. He helped Carrick to mount; taking one end of the reins, he secured it to the grullo’s saddle-horn and swung into the saddle.
‘Knowing this territory the way you do, maybe you can say how long it’ll take us to get out of it,’ he said as they walked the animals from the shallow scrape.
Carrick made a simple calculation. ‘If we make camp when the sun goes down . . . start off again when it comes up, we could be into the hills by noon,’ he muttered. ‘We could make it sooner, but not if we’re sparin’ these mounts.’
‘If we ride them non-stop we might never get any place,’ Houston rasped. ‘Are there homesteaders in those hills?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yeah, some. Why?’
‘If I can make a deal for a couple of saddle-brokes, we can ride to Bullhead easier,’ Houston said.
‘Reckon I know a place,’ Carrick replied, but not clear enough for Houston to hear.
From then on, Carrick had little to say. He was generally uncommunicative, clearly of troubled mind. ‘You ain’t the law, not judge nor jury either,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re just someone who hunts men for the price on their heads. What do you care if they’re innocent or guilty? You get paid either way.’
‘Well, Mrs Jarrow thinks you might be innocent,’ Houston pointed out. ‘Unless you got some other story, why not try and convince me?’
‘Waste o’ breath. Sides, I’m too tired,’ Carrick replied. He remained morose and preoccupied through their supper and into the start of the night.
With Carrick so fatigued, as well as being expertly tied, Houston managed to get some sleep, albeit fitful. At dawn he revived their fire and prepared a substantial breakfast.
‘Eat it. You’ll get so lean the noose’ll slip straight to your boots.’
Carrick cursed Houston, b
ut ate. It was more mechanical than appreciative, as though he was getting resigned to the inevitable, sick with a sense of the waiting gallows.
CHAPTER 8
That morning the temperature rose high. Their clothes hugged tight and clammy. Their thirst was huge, but Houston was managing the situation. They drank in moderation, attentively watched the skin bags. Houston wasn’t unduly concerned. He knew that even if the water ran out, they could make it for a further day and night before real trouble set in.
The last of the canteens was still half-full when they emerged from the parched plateau. A few hundred yards ahead Houston could see the green, leafy swathes of juniper and aspen of the Black Mountain foothills.
‘Looks like we made it,’ he commented calmly. ‘I guess it could’ve been a lot worse.’
‘How’d you figure that?’ Carrick said. ‘Right now, worse is me gettin’ my neck stretched.’
‘I meant you got the timing right for here,’ Houston acknowledged. ‘Without looking at my watch, I’d say it was just about noon.’
‘So, what happens now?’ Carrick asked.
‘Like I said . . . find the nearest saddlers to hire . . . buy if I have to. My mare’s got real bad feet.’
Further into the hills, Houston called a halt to examine the hoofs of the mounts. He cleared gravel from the hoof pads of the grullo, but knew it was only temporary relief.
‘Get down,’ he told Carrick. ‘We’ll lead them from here on.’ He took the mare’s reins and the mule’s tie rope, and indicated that Carrick walk ahead of him.