High Wild Desert

by Ralph Cotton

  “Good heavens,” said Adele Simpson, “what now?” She gave the Ranger a worried look.

  “My guess is that one of the braves managed to get away,” Sam replied. He nodded out toward the distant trail. “I’d say right now the army is in hot pursuit.” He looked out for a moment toward the shooting, then said, “Come on, let’s not get caught in their fire.” He gestured to Adele and Lang ahead of him, motioning toward a stand of rock twenty yards to their right.

  Sam slid Black Pot to a halt at the foot of a jagged steep rock and handed Adele his reins and his Winchester. Telescope in hand, he stepped out of his saddle onto the rock and climbed five feet up onto a narrow ledge. Standing tall against the high rock, he stretched his telescope out and leveled it in the direction of the oncoming gunfire.

  In the circle of the lens, he spotted a young Apache boy racing along the trail, riding the spindly-legged roan they had sacrificed, of all things.

  “It looks like their stolen horses were in such poor shape,” Sam said, “they kept the roan and slaughtered one of their others.”

  “No kidding?” Lang said from his saddle below.

  Sam noted a detached sound to the outlaw’s voice. He had already started to look down when he heard Adele cry out for his help. He saw Lang grab the rifle and try to wrench it free from her hands. She held on long enough for Sam to draw his big Colt and point it down toward Lang’s head.

  “Turn it loose, Cisco,” he said with finality, his finger on the trigger, ready to pull it.

  With his hands cuffed to the saddle horn, Lang had little leverage to get the rifle free from the woman and aim it up at the Ranger.

  Lang froze, but held on to the Winchester, weighing his chances.

  “I’ll kill her, Ranger,” Lang said, giving his best bluff.

  “No, you won’t,” Sam said. “It’s a fool’s play. I didn’t leave a bullet in the chamber. Think how many bullets I’ll put in the top of your head before you lever a round up and get a shot off.”

  In the distance, gunshots still rang out along the trail. Lang gave it another second of thought.

  “Damn it,” he growled, letting go of the Winchester. He stared with disgust at Adele. “You’d see me killed before you’d give me a gun and let me have a fighting chance?”

  Adele jerked the rifle farther away from him as he slumped in his saddle.

  “Anything you think I ever owed you, Cisco, you more than used up long ago,” she said. “I wish I had thought quick enough to put a bullet in you myself.” She heatedly swung the rifle around in her hands and and aimed it at Lang’s chest.

  Lang gave her a cool look.

  “Go on, pull the trigger, Adele,” he said. “You heard the Ranger. There’s no bullet in the chamber.”

  Her hand tightened around the rifle. Sam saw where her anger was taking her.

  “Adele, stop. Don’t pull that trigger,” he called down in a grave tone. “There is a bullet in the chamber. You don’t want his death on your hands.”

  There is a bullet in the chamber? Lang stared up at the Ranger with a puzzled, outraged expression.

  “You—you bluffed me, Ranger?” he said with an air of shocked disbelief.

  “Maybe,” Sam said, behind the pointed Colt.

  “You did, you bluffed me,” said Lang, as if stunned by the impossibility of it.

  “Imagine that,” Sam said. As he spoke, he stepped down the side of the rock, over into his saddle. Reaching over, he took the cocked rifle from Adele’s hands, let the hammer down and laid it over his lap. He knew Lang was watching, wondering now whether or not he had been bluffing. Yet Sam did nothing to reveal himself. Lang was good at playing games, he decided. Let him figure it out for himself.

  “Stick close to the rocks,” he said, offering no more on the matter. “This chase won’t last long.”

  As they advanced, the sound of gunfire in the near distance grew more intense, but only for less than two minutes. They rounded a turn in the trail, sticking close to the rocks flanking their right, and the shooting stopped all at once. A silent moment passed, followed by a single rifle shot as they moved into sight and saw two soldiers standing over the downed Apache youth lying lifeless on the ground.

  “Look at this,” said Lang, seeing the roan still racing along toward them.

  As the frightened horse drew closer and swung around them off the trail, the Ranger raced in beside it, grabbed its bridle and slowed it to a halt.

  “Whoa, boy,” he said, sensing the roan give in, circle to a halt alongside him and the stallion. Feeling the firm hand checking it down and the safety of another of its kind beside it, the roan blew and snorted and shook itself out. “You come out of this better than I ever expected,” Sam said. He turned with the roan and led it over to Lang and the woman.

  “Well, look at you,” Adele said to the winded roan. She reached over and patted its sweat-streaked head. Lang just sat watching, knowing that each mile they drew nearer to New Delmar, the lower his chances were of getting away.

  Now the army, Sam thought.

  A hundred yards ahead through a drift of trail dust, Sam saw the two soldiers standing over the downed Apache watch closely as he followed Lang and the woman forward at an easy gait, leading the roan beside him. As the three approached, Sam watched a buckboard roll forward from among the rest of the detail, who sat back twenty yards watching from their saddles. The buckboard slid to a stop a few feet from the Apache lying dead on the ground. The driver jumped down wearing a long tan riding duster and a black bowler hat.

  By the time the Ranger and his companions halted a few feet from the two soldiers, the driver had set up a tripod and attached a large camera atop it, pointed toward the two soldiers and the dead Indian.

  “Hold your people back there for a moment, Ranger,” one of the soldiers called out to Sam in an air of importance. “We need to let this dust die down.”

  Sam, Adele and Lang looked at each other.

  “A photo grafter,” said Lang, “making tinplates of the Western Frontier—something they’re doing for posterity.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Sam said, watching intently.

  “Posterity, my ass,” said Lang. He spit with contempt. “Who the hell cares about any of this?”

  They sat watching the man in the duster and bowler hat run back and forth, fussing over the way the soldiers stood, adjusting their positions with a discriminating eye. At length the man ran, picked up a rock and placed it under the dead Apache’s head to elevate it a little. A moment later, after returning behind his camera, a flash of powder rose from a flash pan in his hand and the soldiers relaxed.

  Sam nudged Black Pot forward when one of the soldiers waved him in.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” said a young captain with dust-mantled shoulders and a dust-streaked beard. Beside him, a stout sergeant who had posed with his boot on the dead Apache’s shoulder stepped over and reached out for the roan’s bridle. But Sam pulled the roan away.

  “The roan is ours,” Sam said. “We gave it up to the renegades earlier.”

  “Then I suppose it wasn’t yours after all, eh, Ranger?” said the sergeant.

  Sam just looked at him, holding the roan back closer beside him.

  “As you were, Sergeant Durbin,” said the captain, reading the Ranger’s face differently than his sergeant. “The Ranger says it’s his, he’s welcome to it.” He looked up at Sam. “It’s certainly not one of our army horses from San Carlos.”

  The sergeant stepped back with a nod to higher authority.

  The photographer backed away from his camera and looked the roan up and down.

  “It would be good to have a photo of the horse this warrior was riding,” he said.

  “What say you, Ranger?” the captain asked, being diplomatic.

  “Certainly, Captain,” said Sam. “It is the hor
se he was riding when you caught him.” As he spoke and gave the roan over to the photographer, he looked down at the face of the dead Apache, a bullet hole through his forehead from close range. “I wouldn’t call this young fellow a warrior, though,” he offered.

  “Indeed?” said the captain. “What, then, would you call him, Ranger? He and his bloody band have massacred four white settlers in as many days.”

  Sam looked down from his saddle into the back of the buckboard at the blank faces of the other dead Apaches piled in side by side. A shirt stuffed with bloody horse meat still hung around one man’s neck, tied by its sleeves.

  “I understand, Captain,” he said, realizing there was no use commenting any further on the issue.

  “Good, then,” said the captain. “As you can see, our job is nearly finished here, Ranger. As soon as my scouts report in, we’ll be riding back to San Carlos. You and your party are welcome to ride with us as far as New Delmar.”

  “I had planned on being in New Delmar tonight,” Sam said, pausing to consider the captain’s offer.

  “And so we will, Ranger,” the captain said. “We’ll have our evening meal first, then ride on tonight by the light of the moon. We’ll arrive there in the morning, rested and fed.”

  Sam noticed the look of disappointment in Lang’s eyes. Riding with the army gave him little hope to make a getaway.

  “Obliged, Captain,” Sam said. “I’d like to take you up on your offer. First, I need to ride back into the canyon and collect the lady’s belongings we had to leave beside the trail.”

  “Nonsense, Ranger,” said the captain. “I’ll send some men to fetch the lady’s belongings.”

  “We’re most grateful, Captain,” Sam said. “It would be good to relax some, have more than one set of eyes on my prisoner here.”

  “I’ll post two guards around him, Ranger,” the captain said. “You may doze in your saddle all the way to New Delmar—travel by compliments of the U.S. Army.”

  The Ranger gave Lang a thin smile, then turned back to the captain.

  “Much obliged, Captain,” he said.

  “All ready here, Captain,” the photographer called out, having the roan stand over the dead Apache, the sergeant holding its reins.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Ranger,” the captain said with a smile. “History calls on us to declare ourselves.”

  Sam only nodded and backed his stallion out of their way.

  • • •

  Inside the Number Five Saloon, a gambler named Ace Myers shoved his chair back from the table and stood up into an angle of morning sunlight breaking through a dusty window. He looked down at Oldham Coyle, who was lying facedown on the battered tabletop, a few chips scattered around him. A half-empty bottle of rye stood at Coyle’s elbow.

  “None of my business, mister,” the gambler said to Dave Coyle, who stood beside his sleeping brother, “but you ought to get him out of here while he’s still wearing a shirt and britches. He hasn’t won a hand since yesterday.”

  “You’re right,” Dave said. “It’s none of your damned business.” He took Oldham by his shoulder and shook him roughly. “Wake up, Oldham,” he said in a loud voice close to his brother’s ear. “It’s all over.”

  Oldham stirred and lifted his head. A poker chip stuck to his cheek and followed him up. It fell as he swung his head back and forth and tried to focus his eyes, though an indentation of the chip showed on his face.

  “What’s over?” he asked in a groggy voice.

  Myers stifled a laugh, already seeing that the least remark could set off trouble. He shrugged and folded a stack of dollars the dealer had given him for cashing in his chips. Handing the dealer a gold coin large enough to bring a smile to his tired face, he turned to leave.

  “Wait!” said Oldham, seeing him go. “I’m still in.” He raked his hands around desperately on the tabletop gathering his few remaining chips.

  Ace Myers slowed a little and looked back over his shoulder, but noting the expression on Dave Coyle’s face, he decided it best to keep walking. The dealer rose and stood back a step, watching.

  “You’re not in, Oldham, you’re out,” Dave said to his brother, shaking him harder. “Look at you. You’ve burned yourself up, all this rye, this damned Mexican powder.” He swung a hand and slapped a small leather bag of cocaine off the table onto the floor. Powder billowed. “You’ve lost all your money.”

  “No! No, I haven’t,” Oldham said. “You’re wrong! I’ve got more money upstairs.” He rose and walked unsteadily across the floor.

  The dealer looked at Dave and let out a breath.

  “Go on, get out of here,” Dave said, shoving the few remaining chips to him. Following his brother, he stopped halfway across the floor and watched Oldham stagger up the stairs, finally heading toward Anna Rose’s room. Dave saw Little Deak, Blind Simon and Karl Sieg standing at the empty bar. They looked away from Dave as his eyes met theirs.

  Next Dave noticed the stoic faces of Henry Teague and Sonny Rudabough. The two sat at the same table they’d occupied over the past three days, every time they’d come into the saloon to check on Oldham at the poker table.

  “The hell are you two looking at?” Dave said in an angry voice.

  Sonny Rudabough stared coldly at him; Henry Teague shook his head slowly.

  “Nothing. We’re here to see your brother, when he gets some free time for us, that is,” Teague said smugly.

  Before Dave could respond, Oldham came staggering back down the stairs, wild-eyed, his gun waving loose in his hands. He hung against the hand rails and looked back and forth.

  “She’s gone! So’s my money!” he said.

  “She’s a whore, brother,” Dave shouted up at him. “Of course she’s gone. What did you expect?”

  “She said she’d wait,” Oldham called out, his voice week, shaky.

  “Maybe she did wait for a while,” said Dave. “But you’ve been gambling for three days and nights! You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept.”

  Three days and nights?

  Oldham rubbed his beard-stubbled jaw in confusion.

  “No whore waits that long for anybody,” Dave said, “unless she’s simpleminded. What’d you think, that you married her?”

  At their table, Sonny Rudabough gave Teague a sly look.

  Above them on the landing, Oldham slumped down onto his knees, gripping the handrail. He sobbed against his chest.

  Dave gave a nod toward the bar. “Deak, you and Sieg give my brother a hand. Get him down from there.”

  As the two walked past Dave toward the stairs, Sieg spoke to him quietly under his breath.

  “Where are we taking him?” he asked.

  “Outside of town,” said Dave. “We’ll make camp and get ourselves shook out and sobered up some.”

  Deak and Sieg just looked at each other. The only one needing to sober up and shake himself out was their leader. But they kept quiet, crossed the floor and climbed the stairs.

  While they gathered Oldham and pulled him to his feet, Dave Coyle walked over to the table where the two gunmen sat.

  “I’ve seen you both snooping around here every time I come to check on my brother,” he said.

  “Snooping around?” Sonny Rudabough half rose from his chair, shooting an icy stare at Dave. Teague stopped him with a raised hand.

  “The man’s concerned about his brother, Sonny,” he said. “Sit down and have some whiskey for breakfast.” As Sonny relented and sank back down on his chair, Teague said to Dave, “I presented a business proposition to your brother the other day. I’m still waiting around for an answer.”

  “What kind of proposition?” Dave asked, hearing Deak and Sieg helping Oldham down the stairs.

  “No offense,” said Teague, “but it’s between him and us. If he wants to tell you, that’s his call.”

  “
I’m getting him out of here and getting him some rest,” Dave said.

  “Good idea,” Teague said. “I’m Henry Teague. This friendly young man is Sonny Rudabough. We’ll be waiting. Tell him for me.”

  Dave nodded. As he and the others left the saloon with Oldham hanging between Sieg and himself, he saw a group of soldiers riding into sight at the far end of the busy street. A wagon loaded with loud, laughing, cheering miners rolled in at the other side of town. Behind the wagon, he saw other miners arriving, on mules, on horseback and on foot.

  “Damn it, Oldham,” he grumbled under his breath. “It’s already payday for these square heads. We’ve missed our shot.”

  Chapter 8

  Inside the New Delmar sheriff’s office still under construction, the Ranger and Captain Leonard Stroud stood watching as the town sheriff chained a thick hundred-fifty-pound ball of solid iron to Cisco Lang’s ankle. Cisco dragged the ball by its chain to the far side of the room. A chalk line on the floor showed where iron bars would soon stand.

  “Stay behind the chalk line and we’ll get along just fine, Cisco Lang,” said the sheriff, Ed Rattler. Lang stopped beside a chair and sat down facing them. He gave the sheriff a cold stare.

  “I always say it takes more than bars to make a good jail,” said the sheriff. He smiled behind a thick coppery gray mustache. “It takes good attitude.”

  “I won’t be forgetting this, Rattling Ed,” Cisco called out in a threatening tone.

  “It’s Sheriff Rattler henceforth, Cisco,” said the sheriff. “I wouldn’t be threatening me if I were you. Dankett here would love to goose you with double loads of gravel rock and metal shavings.” He turned to a grim-looking young man with a pale red-blotched face and eyes as sharp and cold as a viper. “Wouldn’t you, Deputy Dankett?”

  The grim young man, Clow Dankett, sat in a thick corduroy trail coat and a tall Montana-style high-crowned drover’s hat, one knee crossed over the other, supporting a long-barreled shotgun. A leather shoulder strap drooped from the shotgun stock.