Arizona (Shad Cain Book 4)

by Lou Bradshaw

  I watched which way was headed, and then I re-stoked my pipe and had another cup of coffee. He had been riding the same horse his uncle Marcum had ridden when he rode out with me as I went to get the ransom money. I knew those tracks well by now. Dog looked up at me as if to say, “Ain’t we goin’ after him?”

  “No need to rush, big boy…. We got him flushed.”

  Chapter 26

  I dawdled long enough to get him clear of the mines before I killed the coffee and put out the fire. The canteens were full, and the three of us had been watered and fed. It was time to go. Stepping into the saddle felt good, and Bud was ready to go. We hadn’t been doing anything but standing for the better part of a week. I was getting tired of having that many people around and I was sure Bud was pretty tired of hanging out with all those inferior horses crowding him…. That big buckskin was a snob; as well he had a right to be.

  There wasn’t much skill needed in picking up Fargo’s trail once we got clear of the mines. He was riding that critter for all it was worth, and he was digging deep in the thin sandy soil. He’d be wise to save a little of that horse. This country wasn’t well known for having much tolerance for stupidity, and even less inclined toward forgiveness of it. Luck can run a might thin when the sun beats down at over a hundred degrees in a dry country.

  I didn’t care much if he was out there thirsty as a piece of petrified wood, with a tongue swollen three times its size. But he needn’t ride that horse to the same fate. The way he was treating that animal just added to the list of sins he’d get a chance to answer for.

  By and by, his horse started to slow. I was surprised it lasted as long as it did. Once it slowed, it slowed fast, to the point of ending in a slow dragging walk. I could see by the scuff marks, the poor animal wasn’t lifting its hooves cleanly, and the trail it was leaving was anything but straight. It was roaming without much direction from the rider. Fargo was either asleep in the saddle or he had a bottle with him.

  The vegetation was thinning the farther east we went. There was goodly amount of fair grazing land back in the Tombstone area, but the soil seemed to be getting dryer and thinner. After several miles of aimless drifting, he took control and turned to the northeast.

  I knew little about what was up that way. Off in the far distance, I could see just a vague shadow of mountains. There was nothing between me and them but desert haze and some low growing vegetation, so the mountains were like dark clouds. I’d heard talk of the Chiricahua Mountains and figured that’s what I was seeing. Someone told me about an Overland stage relay station beyond the mountains. But with the railroad coming through, I reckoned the stage station was shut down.

  The thought came to me that he might be hoping to catch a train to outrun his ghosts. I think that was what educated folks call irony. I didn’t know about that, but using money you just stole from folks, so you can ride their train just ain’t right.

  Wherever he was heading, I would find him… I’d promised Señor Diaz. If things stayed the way they were, I’d have him sometime tomorrow. I was gaining steadily with each hoof fall. He’d taken so much out of his horse getting away from Tombstone that the animal was dragging. And that big buckskin of mine had some beautiful long legs that covered a lot of ground at a walk. He was some kind of horse.

  I’d have to check Dog’s pads when we stopped for the night. I might have to make some buckskin boots for him. I did that when we were crossing the Mohave. I’d cut some leather patches and laced them on his feet. He didn’t like it much but it sure saved his foot pads from cracking and splitting.

  But from what I’d been seeing back in the western sky may change everything. In country like this, a man can see the end of the earth. At least it seems like he can. The western horizon is unblocked by mountains or high hills, so most of what he can see is sky. And the sky I’d been seeing had an ugliness in it that I didn’t care one little bit for.

  In a country that only gets a few inches of rain a year, rain clouds are a most welcome sight. But that wasn’t what I’d been seeing. The sky was a hazy dirty yellow color way way back there. I’d heard about the sand storms and dust storms that can build and cover a hundred miles before they wear themselves out.

  Those clouds were piling up to maybe two or three thousand feet in the air or more. The only thing I could think to do was find shelter and ride it out. So I started looking for piles of rock or low bluffs, or just anywhere we could get on the eastern side and hunker down. A good broad up thrust of stone would do just as well. From what I’ve been told those winds can blow stronger than a locomotive and travel faster.

  I finally found a rock formation that could keep the wind off us, and I didn’t figure to find none better, so we’d gone as far as we were likely to go for the day. I hated to quit so early with a couple hours of daylight still sitting out there waiting to be used. Well, it just wasn’t going to be used, and there weren’t a thing I could do about it.

  Looking back at that wall of darkness, I could easily see how much it had gained on us. Those clouds were pushing hot wind ahead of them, the air was thick and getting thicker and hotter. Using my blankets, I was prepared to cover Dog and me and get Bud down where I could cover his head. If I could get the three of us up close to the lee side of that rock formation maybe we’d be all right.

  What a few minutes earlier, had been a late afternoon sky, was suddenly almost a night sky. It was a sky that roared louder than that big ocean out in California. When it hit us, I could almost swear that rock formation shuddered. That could have been my imagination, but that’s what I felt. Suddenly we were choking even with the blankets covering us. It seemed like all the air had been sucked out of where we were sheltered.

  Wham! Wham! Wham! The wind crashed in to those rocks and shot off into the air dumping sand and dirt down on us. Dog lay there quivering, but my horse just turned his covered head toward the rocks and lay still. Bud wasn’t born wild, but he came from a fine mustang line and pure Arab mix. Maybe the instincts were passed on. I didn’t know much about that sort of thing, but I knew he rode out that storm less anxious about it than I did.

  It seemed to go on for days, but it probably wasn’t even an hour. When it passed, there was just nothing. It didn’t slow down, ease up, or dwindle in any way… it was just gone leaving the air full of dust, and sand was piled on everything like snow drifts. I wondered if there was a word for a sand blizzard.

  Bud came up quick, shook himself, and blew out his nostrils. Dog was a little more hesitant. When I pulled the blanket off him, he just lay there for a short minute before he moved. Then it was only his head. But shortly afterwards he got up and saw that we were all still alive and unharmed. Between the three of us there was a good deal of coughing and snorting going on. I was sure I hadn’t opened my mouth during the blow, but there was sand in my teeth. It was a gritty world we had come out to.

  The sun was almost down when we uncovered, so I made a quick search for firewood. I was surprised at how many pieces of usable wood had piled up on the windward side of our rocks. I soon had a fire going and a jackrabbit I’d shot earlier skinned and roasting on a stick. I’d waited until after the storm to water my animals, as it stood to reason they’d be needing it after.

  The rabbit, I’d share with Dog, and due to the lack of forage, Bud got a hatful of grain. We settled back and enjoyed the coolness of a desert evening. The stars were out and it was hard to believe there had been such a storm if it wasn’t for the sand in my mouth and the grit in my eyes. Dog still wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was all over, so he stayed as close as my shadow at high noon. I just scratched his ear and let him know it was gonna be all right.

  I napped off and on for a while before I finally fell asleep. I was awakened around midnight by what I thought was a far off shot; the second one confirmed my first thought. I got up and kicked sand on what was left of the fire.

  Chapter 27

  The gray morning sky foretold of another rainless day, so I decided I coul
d live without coffee. Dog and me shared some jerky and Bud nibbled at a lifeless bush. I tend to think there was some amount of life there just waiting for some rain.

  I saddled up and we went on. There was a whole lot of desert out there, and there would be no tracks. I’d taken sightings from where I was, when I left the trail for shelter. There were three different rock features I’d used to put me back on the trail, and a far off mountain peak to put me back close to the line of travel.

  I had figured we were roughly five miles back when the storm hit, so somewhere about four to five miles I would have to start casting about for signs. This part of tracking got tedious and slow, but it usually paid off, if a fella has some patience. I’ve seen only a handful of white men, who could stack up to an Injun when it came to being patient. I don’t matter which tribe, Injuns are the patientist folks there are.

  We’d gone about four miles and I was getting ready to start casting from side to side trying to pick up some kind of sign. Up ahead, I could see the old familiar gathering in the sky. Buzzards… and quite a bunch of them. They hadn’t started circling yet, so the find was fairly new, but it was attracting a lot of attention. That wasn’t some jackrabbit or snake they were looking at; it was likely a horse, steer… or man.

  It was only a few degrees off to the right, so I changed course. A steer would at least give us some fresh meat. If it was a man, I could only hope it wasn’t some poor soul caught out in that storm… unless it was Fargo. If that was the case, I’d just figure God beat me to him, and then I’d salute Him.

  As we got closer I could see by the size, it wasn’t a man. It would be a horse or a steer. It was a horse, and a pretty good one. It had belonged to Marcum Fisher and it had been ridden almost to death. Fargo had pulled the horse down and had used it to hide behind. That poor horse was pulled down facing the wind. At first I figured the shots I heard the night before was Fargo finishing off the beast. But a faint wheezing sound told me the poor fella was still alive but barely. I ended its troubles.

  Boot tracks were everywhere. After the wind quit Fargo must have tried to get the horse up, and failing that, he stomped around for a bit trying to figure his next move. Finally, he just took off walking toward the mountains. It was a rather drastic change in direction, instead of northeast, he was walking due east.

  In less than a half mile, I saw where he was going. Up ahead was one of the many piles of boulders you’ll find haphazardly strewn around on the landscape. This particular pile was once part of an ancient and half buried ridge that ran off to the south and became part of a low mesa.

  Where I was coming from, I could see only the remnants of a fire. The footprints led directly to it. My first thought was, He’s holed up and waiting for whoever’s following him. But he didn’t know anyone was following, except maybe a ghost. There had been too much distance between us, and I wasn’t raising much dust.

  There was only one way to find out, so I dismounted and left Bud stand ground hitched. I moved ahead to the edge of the pile and took a look. The burnt out fire was in front of me with a blackened coffee pot sitting in the half burned coals. It didn’t make sense.

  With my Colt in hand and ready, I swung around the last boulder. Taking the immediate area in at once, my eye took in a man in blankets on the ground between the coals and the boulder. He wasn’t a threat. The rest of the scene was void of anything human or animal.

  The man in the blankets was deader than Hogan’s goat with two bullet holes in the chest. The rest of the story was told by the boot and horse prints. The prints weren’t well defined in the blown soft sand, but I could see where the horse had lain during the dust storm. I could even see where the saddle had been.

  The story was all there. This gent must have taken refuge among the rocks just as I had. Him and his horse waited it out, and then he decided against traveling any farther and built a fire. That fire was all Fargo needed to see.... He needed a horse and there was probably one at the fire. Just as I figure that fella couldn’t get any worse… he reaches a new low.

  I built up the dead man’s fire, finished his coffee, and buried him as best I could. At least I could keep the buzzards and coyotes off him. His saddle bags and anything that might have been in them went with Fargo. His pockets carried only the things any puncher might carry around at any given time…. Too bad, he was a nice looking young fella. The folks back home will never know what happened to him.

  The west was kinda famous for that. Some men… and women come out here and disappear for a purpose. But there’s many a man who just has the bad luck to die out here in the middle of nowhere, without anybody knowing it. Buzzards can strip a man’s bones in a day’s time and the ant can finish off any soft parts that are left. In a week’s time his bones can be scattered over many acres or covered with sand.

  So I brooded over that for a few seconds figuring I’d read my own epitaph. I’ll probably end somewhere backed up to a canyon wall, with a hungry cougar or bear closing in. Or maybe I’d wind up under a million tons of snow and ice from an avalanche. Well, that’s the life I’ve lived, and I don’t see myself clerking in an apothecary store.

  I finished drinking the last of his coffee. Then set the pot back against the rocks, in case someone using this place for a camp might be in need of a pot. That done I pulled myself back into the saddle and moved out.

  The tracks, if you can call loose depressions in the sand tracks, were heading due east. Fargo must have changed his mind and decided to take to the mountains instead of the railroad. Well it was his mind, as poor as it was, and he could change it if that was what he wanted. He was probably running short of water and figured the mountains were a surer bet that this wide open sand pile. I’d have to agree with that kind of thinking.

  As best I could recall, this range was called, the Chiricahuas. Of course the mountains were named for a mighty tough bunch of Apaches on a reservation up north of here. Now we all know, those Apaches are supposed to stay on their little bit of paradise up there. And they wouldn’t come sky hootin’ down in their name sake mountains. I felt a whole bunch better after having that little conversation with myself.

  The foothills weren’t but a half a day’s ride from where I found that unfortunate lone traveler. So by mid afternoon we were in the pines. The shade was a blessing for all three of us. Fargo’s trail was much more defined in the solid ground, although the rocks made it more difficult.

  At first, I thought Bud was spooked by something around the next bend because he was pulling to the right. I learned a long time ago to respect, if not understand animal instincts. So I gave him his head and he turned in the opposite direction from what I’d planned. But I’d let him play it out and not be too critical if it didn’t amount to anything.

  We didn’t go more than a couple hundred yards, till we come to a nice little secluded drip spring. There weren’t any horse tracks, but there were plenty of deer and big horn sheep tracks along with all sorts of smaller critter tracks. It was dripping from about ten or twelve feet up small bluff. The water had been landing on a flat section of limestone, and had hollowed out a nice large bowl. The overflow just ran over and onto the ground, where it vanished into the sandy soil.

  Only when all members of the party were completely sated, did we return to the trail and continue on. We worked our way through the foot hills and into the mountains. One tall peak to the north stood out head and shoulders above all the rest. From the look of it and the amount of snow above the timber line, I pegged it as real close to ten thousand feet. If these were the mountains I thought they were that would be Mount Chiricahua…. Again, the name sent a chill up my spine.

  I had no choice but to follow on. He had gained some time on me by stealing that horse and riding through the night. He’d have to take some care traveling through these mountains, or he’ll find himself at the bottom of a two hundred foot drop somewhere.

  That evening, I had my camp set in a nice sheltered little cove, with plenty of cover to keep my f
ire invisible to anyone other than me. The fire was never large enough to be seen only in line of sight. After supper I let it burn down to almost nothing. When I’d eaten and taken care of housekeeping duties, I stepped out of the cove and immediately spotted the flicker of a fire.

  It was well above me but not more than a mile away. I’d studied that area before darkness took over, and placed that fire just below the pass that led to what should be a large valley and then on to that big snowcapped mountain. I thought for a moment about saddling up and making a predawn capture. But the lack of a moon and the condition of the trail made me think better of it.

  The early gray light of morning was all I needed to get moving up the trail. I led my horse until the most of the sky was lit, and even at that pace, we had covered nearly half the distance to the pass.

  I found his still warm campfire, but he had already gone. There was a clean view of the pass, and there was nothing to be seen that wasn’t made of rock or wood. I watched for a while to make sure he wasn’t off to the sides among the timber, but there was no movement anywhere.

  We moved out for the pass. Coming through the pass was something to remember. It was like the whole world had just opened up on the first day for the first man. Looking through the pass from below, showed only the top quarter of that big snowcapped pile of rock. But looking down from the pass, I could see that big deep valley I was expecting. What I hadn’t been expecting, were all the other smaller mountains surrounding the big one.

  The valley wound its way in and out of the smaller mountains and around the big one. The smartest thing for a white man to do was to follow the valley. It was normal for whites to take to the low ground, and red men to follow the high ground. They had been using those high trails hundreds of years before they ever had a horse to ride.

  But you could count on Fargo to do the exact opposite of what was wise. Instead of hugging the edges of the valley, he cut right through it and started up and over the shoulder of the first mountain he came to.