by Bill Dugan
Angling to the north, he made a broad circle. It took him more than an hour, and when he finally had the sun at his back, he dismounted at a grove of cottonwoods. Tugging his pony deep into the trees, he hobbled it securely and jerked his Winchester carbine from the saddle boot. Filling his shirt pocket with extra shells, he started back toward the columns of smoke on foot. After a half hour, he was sweating and winded. The land wasn’t as flat as it looked, instead being an unbroken succession of gentle hills and shallow valleys. It wasn’t as bad as the rocky waste of the Llano Estacado, the barren high desert of the western panhandle, but the going was tough enough.
Mounting the last ridge but one between him and the smoke, Ted lay flat when he got within a few yards of the top. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see the camp itself, but Conlee was almost certain to have sentries posted on high ground. He wished he’d brought his father’s old mariner’s telescope, but the naked eye would have to do.
Wriggling like a worm up the last few yards to the hilltop, he took off his hat and pressed himself as flat as possible. Just his brow and a thatch of sandy hair poked above the ridge. With the sun at his back, he had a little extra advantage. The sentries would have to squint to see him at all, and to be certain, they’d need binoculars or a telescope.
For several minutes, the ridge across the last valley looked deserted. He found it hard to believe that Conlee could have been that cocky. There had to be lookouts somewhere on the next ridge. Starting at the left, Ted scanned the ridge line yard by yard without any luck. It was too good to be true. He was tempted to cross the valley and see if he could get a look at the camp from the next ridge. Giving it another minute, he held his breath, trying to avoid the least movement that might disrupt his scrutiny.
Just as he was about to stand up, a distant drumbeat, hooves on sod, echoed across the valley. Almost instinctively, he flattened himself deeper into the shallow grass, until he felt like a ribbon with eyes. A moment later, three horsemen broke the ridge line. They reined in, and one dismounted. Ted watched as the three men discussed something, then the two still on horseback turned and disappeared back behind the ridge. The third man dropped to his haunches and balanced a carbine across bony knees.
Ted let his breath out slowly, as if afraid the sentry might be able to hear normal breathing. He was looking so hard at the guard, it seemed as if the man was just an arm’s length away. But he was almost faceless in the glare. The bright sun reflected off his skin, washing out shadow and contour. The only thing Ted was sure of was the thick, black mustache drooping on either side of a scraggly beard clinging desperately to a craggy jaw.
The man wore a blue jacket that looked like it had been repaired more than once. Remnants of yellow ribbon still clung to the shoulders, and epaulettes, blackened almost as dark as the blue of the coat’s cloth, jiggled when the sentry moved. Knee-high boots were the only other detail Ted could discern. If this man wasn’t one of Conlee’s raiders, he should have been.
There was nothing he could do now until nightfall.
Ted retreated back down the slope until it was safe to stand. He trudged back to the cottonwoods and took some dried beef from a saddlebag. Washing it down with water, he sat down with his back against a tree to wait for dark. Overhead, birds, getting used to his presence, began to chirp. Out of the sun, a slight breeze wafting through the trees, it seemed almost idyllic. Only the weight of the shells in his pocket wouldn’t let him forget why he was sitting there.
The sun took forever to run out of steam. Ted shifted restlessly, watching the pattern of shade twist and turn in the breeze. Gradually, the shadows thickened, and the sky darkened like an aging bruise. The shadows began to lose their definition, and finally it was dark.
Ted took a long, deep breath, then hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed the Winchester leaning against the tree and climbed into the saddle. This time, he would ride to the foot of the last hill. If they got wind of him, he would be dead without the pony. He took the approach at an easy pace, not wanting the hooves to give him away. Even the creak of saddle leather made him nervous.
The man on the hill, or whoever had replaced him, would have a keen ear for anything out of the ordinary. It was how he stayed alive. There was no moon, and the sky was a blue so deep it was almost black. Still, flickering along with the stars, thin strands of whitish gray smoke, thin as ropes, coiled up into the night.
A faint glow from a half-dozen fires smeared the air with a hint of orange. Against the dim light, the smoke looked thicker and darker. Ted dismounted and started up the hill, quietly levering a shell into the Winchester’s chamber. He muffled the click as best he could with his free palm. As the lever clicked back into place, it felt like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle slipping home, locking the whole fragile construction into some stable figure. It wouldn’t stand up to much, but at least it was complete.
Drifting to the left as he neared the crest, he tried to pick out the sentry on the far hill, but it was impossible to see any details at all. He curved to the left, coming at the hill end on as he dropped into the valley. If he couldn’t see someone he knew was there, he at least had a slim chance that the sentry couldn’t see him, either.
He climbed toward the orange glow, angling for a shallow notch. Dropping to his belly, he crawled up the very center of the vee until he could look down into the next valley. Somewhere above and to his right, the sentry sat oblivious. And below him, he saw the camp. Six fires and, at first blush, at least thirty bedrolls, possibly more. Conlee had a small army.
And Ted Cotton was alone.
19
TED CREPT CLOSER, listening to the scattered noise from the camp below. From the sound of it, several of the men were drinking heavily. At one point, he froze when a gunshot cracked. He thought he had been spotted, but instead of a headlong charge up the hillside, the men rushed toward one of the fires.
Two men squared off close to the flames, the others gathered around as the center men circled each other. The fight erupted all of a sudden when one of the men charged the other. Both fell to the ground, and the others closed in for a few seconds, egging the combatants on.
The circle expanded again as both men struggled to their feet. Even at this distance, Ted could hear the grunts of the men as they swung and missed. Now and then a punch would connect, and the thud of fist on flesh sounded like a poleax felling a steer for slaughter.
All of the men, audience and fighters, were etched like charcoal smears. Their shadows twisted like panic-stricken snakes as the circle opened and closed. The two men at the center occasionally passed close to the flames. Three men threw a few more logs on the fire. As the blaze grew brighter, smearing the men with red light, faces appeared in the darkness whenever the men would fall and the ring would tighten. Then, when they’d regained their feet and the audience backed away, it looked like a circle of headless men.
The fight was heating up now. One of the boxers, a small, wiry man with a beard, tripped his opponent. The other man fell heavily, and the little guy was on him in a flash. Straddling the bigger man’s chest, he locked his hands around the man’s throat. Rocking forward to increase the pressure, he threw his whole body into the stranglehold.
The man on the bottom flailed helplessly, his fists waving in the air as he tried to slug his strangles As the pressure increased, he grabbed hold of both wrists and tried to rip away the hands. He was starting to lose consciousness when a huge man in a Federal blue jacket suddenly stepped into the center of the ring.
The bearded giant grabbed the wiry man by both shoulders and lifted him to his feet. “That’s enough,” the giant shouted. “Let him up, Billy.”
But Billy wouldn’t let go. As the giant lifted him, he clung to his opponent’s throat, hauling the larger man with him as the giant tugged. With a vicious kick, the big man broke the stranglehold, snapping his boot across both wrists, then kicking the other man in the chest, the way a lumberjack might kick a log free of his ax.
To
ssing the wiry guy aside, he reached down and hauled the nearly unconscious man to his feet. He shook the man by his shirtfront. “Dumb bastards, all of you. What the hell is going on here?”
The giant looked around the circle, which grew larger as he turned to stare at the men, one by one. Soon, the ranks broke, and the men started to skulk away.
But the little guy wasn’t finished. He brushed past the giant and barreled into his groggy opponent, knocking him to the ground again. Again, he locked his hands around the man’s throat. This time, the giant didn’t try to pull him off. He stood there, watching, while the strangled man’s feet started to kick, his heels drumming on the ground. Even from the hilltop, Ted could hear the thuds. Then the feet were still. The wiry guy gave one more squeeze for good measure, then started to get to his feet.
The giant moved in. It happened so fast, Ted didn’t realize what he was doing until the big man backed away. In his hand, a skinning knife caught the flames for a few seconds, flashing like some sort of magic sword. In the firelight, the blade was almost black along one edge, and it took Ted a moment to realize it was blood.
The wiry man grabbed his own throat, turning toward the giant and grappling at his neck. It looked as if he were trying to strangle himself, now that his opponent was dead.
The giant had cut his throat.
The little man staggered a few steps, then lost his balance and toppled into the flames. The clothing caught fire and the giant laughed.
“Throw a few more logs on the barbecue,” he shouted.
The little man thrashed in the flames sending a column of sparks up into the night, then he, too, lay still. Ted could smell the burning flesh as the wind carried past the fire and up the hillside. He wanted to gag, but couldn’t.
The big, bearded man, who could only be Ralph Conlee, drew a gun and fired it into the air. “Get back here, all of you,” he shouted.
Ted lay there gasping for air. It was as if someone had kicked him in the stomach and emptied his lungs. Every breath hurt, and he was sure he would never breathe normally again.
A few of the men reappeared within reach of the firelight. One of them bent to grab a boot to haul the dead man from the fire, but the big man kicked at him. “Let the bastard burn. I told him to stop. He didn’t. You all know what that means, don’t you?”
When no one answered him, he said, “You all make me sick. Lazy cowards. Dumb bastards, all of you. I ought to cut all your throats. Who’s next?”
There were no takers.
“Like I keep tellin’ you,” he shouted, tilting his head back and bellowing up into the night sky, “there’s room for only one chief. Everybody else is an Indian. Discipline, discipline, discipline. That’s what command is all about. And I’m in command. Unless anybody has any other ideas.”
He scanned the ring of men, most of whom were keeping well back out of his reach. There was a silence so perfect it was broken only by the crackle of flames and the explosion of a single knot, which sent a shower of sparks up through the column of smoke.
Conlee laughed again, wiped the blade on his pants, and tucked it out of sight. He stepped away from the fire and disappeared. Then his voice drifted through the darkness, “I’m goin’ for a ride. Anybody wants to come, saddle up.”
Ted, still struggling to breathe, watched as several shadows flitted past the campfires. Ten minutes later, he saw the first of the horsemen drift past the largest fire, wheel his horse and sit there, looking back at the camp. A moment later, another joined him, then a third. Ted couldn’t wait. There was nothing he could do with the whole camp, but Conlee was going to expose himself a little. Ted backed down the hill until he found his horse.
He tugged the pony back up the hillside, this time forced to ignore the possibility of the sentry. He hoped the lookout had been drawn down to the camp by the fight, or at least would have relaxed his vigilance a bit. But if he stayed down below, Ted might not be able to fall in behind Conlee and his men.
Several gunshots cracked as the horsemen, now nearly a dozen, galloped back and forth, jumping over the fires and sending their mates scattering for cover. Conlee appeared at last. Brandishing a sword, he charged across the camp and off into the darkness. The raiders followed, firing their weapons until they were empty.
Ted jumped into the saddle and swung off to the left, trying to keep within earshot without exposing himself to the campsite. Once the darkness closed over him, he kicked the pony hard and narrowed the gap a bit. The horsemen cut for the road, and Ted fell in behind them. Even over the sound of his own pony, he could hear the thundering hooves of the men ahead of him.
For the time being, he felt safe in charging headlong. Most of the men were drunk, and probably so full of themselves as well that they would pay no attention to security. If he was going to get close, now was the time. He wished for moonlight, but there was nothing to be done about it.
The firing resumed, briefly, then stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. Conlee must have put a stop to it, which meant that he, at least, was still thinking.
They seemed to be riding with a purpose, as if Conlee had a specific destination in mind. He was close enough now that he could see occasional shadows on the road ahead of him, the horsemen outlined against the lighter color of the late summer grass.
As they rode on by the ruined house where Ted had rescued the girl, it dawned on him that they were heading toward the O’Hara farm. It could just be coincidence, but he felt his gut tighten. Conlee couldn’t have known he’d taken the girl there. Or could he?
The road, little more than a pair of ruts carved by wagon wheels through the dry grass, veered to the right and broke up over a hill. Ted knew the road forked in the next valley. He slowed as he neared the top.
The raiders were out of sight, already having crested the ridge, and Ted crossed his fingers. He felt guilty about it, as if wishing them away from the O’Hara place was condemning someone else just as innocent. He sat just below the ridge to give the horsemen time enough to reach the fork.
When he could stand the tension no longer, he urged his pony up and over the top. The riders were bearing down on the fork. Conlee was in the lead, and Ted knew that whichever way he went, the others would follow. There was no way in hell any of them would cross the big man after the demonstration they had all witnessed.
Ted sighed audibly when Conlee took the right branch, carrying him away from the O’Hara place.
The hoofbeats were distant now, and Ted had to push his horse to regain lost ground. His breathing was shallow and his throat was dry. He licked his lips with a pasty tongue. In the back of his mind was the nagging accusation that, now that he had found Conlee, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to believe it, but it was true, and he knew it.
The riders were no longer in sight when he reached another fork in the road. He slowed to listen, but could no longer hear them. He dropped from the saddle and checked the road. The soil was dry, but recent use would have kicked up some clots of earth that should still be damp.
The left branch of the fork was bone dry. Its soil had been undisturbed for several hours, at least. He let go of the reins and walked a few yards over to the right branch. There he saw the clots of dirt kicked loose by four dozen hooves. Even in the dry ground, there was no mistaking recent traffic.
Ted sprinted back to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. Jerking the reins, he spurred the pony along the right branch. He broke into a full gallop desperate to make up lost time. At the back of his mind was the possibility that this might be his one and only chance to get at Conlee without the full complement of guerrillas around him.
And if he did find them, he still didn’t know what he would do.
20
THE MOUNTED MEN pulled up in front of the dark house. Ted crept as close as he dared on horseback. There was practically no cover between him and the house, and he dismounted, tugging his horse into the trees and looping the reins around a low-hanging branch. Ted wormed his way
even closer, crawling through knee-high grass. It whispered as it scraped against his clothing, but there was no way to avoid the sound.
The drunken mob a hundred yards away was unlikely to be listening for the sound of one man slipping through grass like a snake on its belly. A light went on in the farmhouse window, and someone shouted from inside.
The window was closed, and Ted was too far away to hear what was said. Most of the raiders were still mounted, but two had dropped to the ground, handing the reins of their mounts to companions. Because he was so much larger than the others, Conlee could still be seen on his horse. One of the men on foot stomped onto the porch and rapped a heavy fist against the door.
“Come on out, we need some help with our winter wheat,” someone shouted, and the men laughed.
The man on the porch pounded harder on the front door, and the light inside went out. “Come on out here, you bastard,” he shouted. He rapped the door even harder, until its hinges rattled. Another of the men dismounted and moved around the side of the house, where he found a window. Rapping on the window frame, he called to whoever was inside to open up.
When he got no answer, he stepped back a little and kicked at the window frame. He missed, and the glass shattered as the misplaced foot crashed through it. The man lost his balance and fell backward, one leg still sticking through the broken window. He screamed and his companions laughed.
“What’s the matter, Roy? You drunk or somethin’.”
Roy jerked his leg back, but it wouldn’t move. He screamed again and tried to get up, then lost his balance and lay there moaning.
“Gimme a hand, you sonsabitches. I’m caught.” His voice sounded strangely thin. There was a whimper at its edge, all the bravado gone now.
Ted squirmed a few yards closer, trying to get an angle on the side of the house. He could see Roy, one leg still elevated, until two men dismounted and walked over to see what was wrong with him.