“I figured you saw that on your own,” Posey said.
“Then what’s the point of following these tracks to a place he no longer is?” Fey asked.
“See which direction he took afterward,” Posey said. “It might give us an idea where he’s headed next.”
“My jurisdiction ends at the county line,” Fey said.
“Correct me if I am wrong, Dale, but can’t you temporarily deputize a man a deputy marshal if need be?” Posey said.
“I can,” Dale said. “If need be.”
Fey sighed. “Swear me in when we reach the county line,” he said.
Posey, finished with supper, rolled a cigarette. “I’ll get an early start in the morning. Follow my tracks until noon. What kind of game they have in these parts?”
“Usual. Mule deer, wild turkey, rabbit,” Fey said.
“I’ll see if I can spot something worth shooting,” Posey said. “Beans and bacon gets pretty old after a while.”
“Grown particular the past week?” Dale said.
Grinning, Posey said, “The past two years. Night, gents.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
Posey watched the tiny black dots in the sky fly in a circular pattern. They were a good eight hours away, close to the entrance of the canyons or even in them. Every so often the dots would land and others would take their place in the sky.
The dots were buzzards feasting on the carcass of a dead animal. Dale had the good sense to pack binoculars in the saddlebags, and he dug out his pair and scanned the buzzards.
He counted eleven circling in the sky, with probably the like number on the ground.
The carcass was large. Large enough to feed an army of those filthy birds.
Posey went to the fire where he had two hares roasting on a spit, a fry pan of beans, and the coffee pot keeping warm. He turned the hares and then sat to wait for Dale and Fey.
They arrived as he removed the hares from the fire and set them on his tin plate to cool next to the beans.
“Could smell that a mile downwind,” Dale said as he dismounted.
“Buzzards,” Fey said, looking at the sky.
“We won’t make them tonight,” Posey said. “We’ll have to wait until morning to see what the filthy beasts are eating.”
“Maybe a deer or dead bear?” Fey said.
“Lame horse,” Posey said. “I’ve been tracking it since yesterday. He couldn’t keep up with Spooner and the rest.”
“Left him behind?” Fey asked.
“The horse, at least,” Posey said. “Won’t know about the rider until we reach the carcass.”
“Spooner won’t care about one man left behind,” Dale said.
“Probably not,” Posey said. “Let’s eat.”
Posey rode well ahead the rest of the afternoon and made camp two hours’ ride from the site of the carcass. The buzzards were still circling, which meant there was still plenty of meat left on the dead horse’s bones.
Buzzards ate anything so long as it was dead. They could eat week-old, rotting flesh, man or beast, and never get sick. They always seemed to go for the eyes first. Posey had witnessed that firsthand when he was scouting for Sherman and came across a band of dead Confederate soldiers rotting in the sun.
The buzzards were pecking out the eyes first and squabbling with each other over who got to eat first.
He was armed with an eighteen-sixty Navy Colt pistol and Henry rifle and used both to kill as many of the buzzards as possible. Since that time, Posey disliked even the sight of the scavenging birds.
Earlier he heard Dale’s Winchester fire one shot, and Posey knew that he would arrive with supper soon. He built a campfire, put on a pot of coffee, and gave the horse a good brushing.
Dale and Fey arrived right around sunset. Dale had a small wild turkey hanging off his saddle.
“I see you brought groceries,” Posey said as Dale dismounted, holding the bird.
“Tomorrow we ride to the canyons together,” Posey said. “Check out the dead horse and try to pick up Spooner’s trail.”
“And if we can’t find a trail?” Fey asked.
“Everybody leaves a trail,” Posey said. “Dead or alive.”
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
Posey dismounted a hundred or so feet from the dead horse the buzzards were feasting on. They had eaten several hundred pounds off its decomposing flesh. He placed the bandanna around his neck over his mouth and nose so he could go in for a closer look.
Behind him Fey said, “The stench.”
“I smelled worse,” Posey said as he closed to within fifty feet of the dead horse.
The buzzards reacted to him being so close. Some squawked at him, others hopped away and took flight.
The rider had taken his saddle and walked away northeast toward the canyons. Spooner and the others didn’t wait for him according to the tale of the tracks.
“Jack?” Dale said still atop his horse.
Posey turned and walked to his horse and mounted up. “Spooner left the man behind to walk.”
“Walk to where?” Fey asked.
“Let’s find out,” Posey said.
Posey followed the footprints of the man walking as he followed the tracks of Spooner and his men. At the pass leading into the canyons, Posey, Dale, and Fey paused on horseback and looked at the looming rocks, peaks, and canyon walls as they glowed a bright crimson color in the afternoon sun.
“A man could get lost in there,” Dale said.
“They probably took this path in and found another out at some point,” Posey said. “Keep your eyes open for tracks and signs.”
They rode for a while, and then Posey dismounted to check for signs.
Spooner made no effort at all to hide his tracks. He knew no one had followed him from Grayson and no one knew his destination, so why bother?
Posey returned to his horse and mounted up. “We can ride until dark and eat in the saddle for lunch,” he said. “I’d like to see where these tracks lead to.”
“We got cornbread and corn dodgers, enough for several days,” Dale said.
“Pass ’em around,” Posey said.
Several miles deep into the canyons, Posey suddenly stopped his horse.
“What?” Fey said behind Posey. “What is it?”
Posey ignored the question and looked up at the canyon walls. The passing sun had changed their color to a dull red. He remembered a story he read in a newspaper a few years ago about the planet Mars. Scientists with powerful telescopes claimed the surface of the planet was red, and they were speculating as to the reasons why.
Maybe it was something as simple as the shifting sunlight.
“Jack?” Dale said softly from behind Posey.
Posey held his right hand up as a sign for Dale and Fey to keep quiet. Posey kept his eyes glued to the canyon walls near the top. Some time passed. Seconds, minutes, he wasn’t sure.
Then a pebble slid down the canyon wall to the right.
“Ambush!” Posey yelled as the first shot rang out and hit Fey in the chest.
As Fey toppled from his horse, a second shot hit Dale in the upper right leg. The horse reared up in fear and Dale fell from the saddle.
Posey jumped from the saddle and ran to Dale.
“Jack, I . . .” Dale said.
“Quiet,” Posey said and grabbed Dale and dragged him close to the right canyon wall.
Once against the wall, Posey looked at Dale’s leg.
“How bad?” Dale asked.
“Bad,” Posey said.
“Jack, how did . . . ?” Dale said.
“Quiet,” Posey said. “We got to stop the bleeding.”
Posey removed Dale’s holster and set it aside, then opened and removed Dale’s belt and bandanna from around his neck. He tied the bandanna around Dale’s right leg, then used the belt as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
“Now just hold still,” Posey said.
“Fey?” Dale
asked.
Posey looked at Fey and shook his head.
“Aw, Jesus,” Dale said.
“You down there,” a man on the top of the canyon wall shouted. “I want no more killing. I just want your horse. That’s all. Ride out and leave one horse and there’ll be no more shooting.”
“The second we move to a horse he’ll kill us both,” Dale whispered.
“Stay against the wall,” Posey whispered. “He can’t see us against the wall.”
“We can’t just sit here, Jack,” Dale said.
“I know. When you see me start to climb, start talking to him,” Posey said.
“Climb the . . . ?” Dale said.
Hugging the wall, Posey turned and ran about a hundred feet behind where the man stood on the canyon cliff, then looked back and nodded.
“Hey, you in the cliff,” Dale shouted.
Posey started to climb the sixty or so feet to the top of the cliff.
“I’m listening,” the man shouted.
“You killed my partner and the other is unconscious,” Dale yelled. “I can’t ride out and leave him to die.”
“Put him on a horse then,” the man shouted. “I only need one horse and some supplies.”
“Too thin,” Dale shouted. “I need some assurances.”
He looked at Posey, and he was halfway up the cliff.
“Assurances like what?” the man shouted.
“Like you won’t kill us,” Dale shouted.
“I told you, I only need one horse,” the man shouted.
“What about our supplies and money?” Dale shouted.
“Mister, I’m running out of patience with you,” the man shouted. “Do as I say or I’ll topple half this cliff down on you and take what I want over your dead body.”
Dale looked up at Posey. He was at the top and cautiously making his way onto the cliff.
“Well, which horse do you want?” Dale shouted.
“Leave me the dead man’s,” the man shouted. “He ain’t needing it no more.”
“All right, I’ll leave you the dead man’s horse,” Dale shouted. “You aren’t going to shoot.”
“I said I won’t shoot,” the man shouted.
Posey was on his feet and walking to the man, who was on his hands and knees, looking down. He had a rifle by his side.
“You won’t shoot?” Dale shouted.
“Are you deef? I said I won’t shoot,” the man said. “Get on with it already ’fore I change my mind.”
Posey was fifty feet from the man when the man looked to his left and saw Posey and jumped to his knees. He made a grab for his rifle and Posey drew his black Colt, cocked, fired, and shot the man in the chest.
The man fell over backward and sprawled out, but held onto the rifle. Posey rushed to the man’s side as the man tried to cock the lever and Posey stepped on the man’s arm.
“Ya kilt me,” the man said.
Posey kicked the rifle away.
“You ride with Tom Spooner,” Posey said.
“Ya kilt me for sure,” the man said.
“You’re not killed, not yet,” Posey said. “Tell me where Spooner hides out and I’ll let you live.”
“I’m kilt, damn you,” the man said.
“Where did Spooner go?” Posey said. “Where are you supposed to meet him?”
“Why should I tell anything to a man what kilt me?” the man said.
“Because I’ll let you live if you do.”
“Give me a hand up and stop the bleeding and I’ll tell ya,” the man said.
Posey holstered his Colt and extended his right hand to the man. The man took Posey’s hand and as Posey lifted him, the man aimed the derringer hidden in his left hand at Posey.
Posey released the man’s hand and he fell backward just as the shot fired into the air above Posey’s head.
“That wasn’t very smart,” Posey said.
“You go to hell,” the man said.
“Where is Tom Spooner?” Posey asked.
“I’m kilt,” the man said and closed his eyes.
“Damn,” Posey said.
Down below, Dale yelled, “Jack, are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m coming down,” Posey said.
Posey used Fey’s canteen to wash the blood away from the bullet hole in Dale’s right leg and then poured whiskey from the bottle Sarah gave them onto the wound.
“I can’t get that bullet out,” Posey said. “It’s a .44 Winchester slug. Where is the nearest town?”
“Go back out of the canyon and ride northeast,” Dale said. “Maybe twenty miles is a tiny town called Cannonville. I stopped there once before about a year ago. They don’t have a doctor, but they have a barber who studied medicine a few years back east.”
“Okay,” Posey said.
Posey used his bandanna to wrap Dale’s leg, then Dale’s belt to tie it tight to slow the bleeding.
“I’m going to tie your hands to the saddle horn and your legs to the stirrups, so if you feel like passing out, go ahead,” Posey said.
Posey, with Dale’s horse in tow, raced across the flats of Utah toward Cannonville. There were about ninety minutes of daylight left, and he needed to reach the town before dark. If he didn’t and they got lost, there was the risk of rot to Dale’s leg, and he could lose it.
Fortunately, Dale had the good sense to keep large and powerful horses on hand, and they had little trouble keeping the pace Posey demanded.
He glanced back once or twice, and Dale had passed out in the saddle.
Posey glanced at the sun. Thirty minutes of light left and at least three more miles.
He dug in and yanked the reins hard. “Come on, you beast, work for your supper,” he said.
Sweat formed on the horses’ legs and chest and as they flared their nostrils and ran harder, sheets of sweat flew off their bodies.
A few minutes before sundown, the tiny town of Cannonville appeared a few hundred yards ahead, and Posey slowed the horses to a fast gait and then a quickstep so they could cool off slowly.
“Let’s walk in with some dignity,” he told his horse.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
The barber’s name was Jed Melville, and if he cut hair with half the skill he removed the bullet from Dale’s leg, a man would look like a back east dandy for sure.
Posey and Melville’s wife assisted him with removing the bullet, although all Posey did was hold Dale still while Melville cut and stitched. Melville’s wife held a candle for light and wiped away blood with a wet cloth.
Afterward, Melville’s wife, a short woman named Sally, served tea in the parlor of their home next door to the barbershop where Dale rested in a bed.
“It isn’t every day a US marshal shows up on my doorstep with a bullet in him,” Melville said. “What happened?”
Posey tasted the tea. It was god-awful stuff, but he didn’t want to be impolite, so he drank it while he told Melville what happened.
“He’s a vile, evil man,” Sally said.
“You know him?” Posey asked.
“He and his bunch rode through here about six months ago looking for supplies,” Melville said. “We have no law except a county sheriff, and he’s a day’s ride from here. He paid for what they needed and went on his way, which surprised the hell out of me.”
“This town is so small, how does it exist out here by itself?” Posey asked.
“Surrounding this town in a circle is about thirty ranches and farms, and they get most of what they need from us,” Melville said. “If this dot on the map weren’t here, most of them ranchers and farmers would have a day’s ride there and back for supplies.”
“So Spooner knew this town had a good supply store?” Posey asked.
“I guess. I don’t know. Is that important?” Melville asked.
“Not really,” Posey said. “Is the marshal going to recover?”
“Be about a week before he’s fit to travel,” Melville said. “He lost a lot of blood,
but he’s a fit, strong man.”
“I meant return to his duties.”
“A month, six weeks,” Melville said. “He goes bouncing around before that, and he’s liable to open that wound, and it’s a deep one. It’s lucky you got here when you did. That leg could have gone rotten on him.”
“How long before he wakes up?” Posey asked.
“I wouldn’t bother him until morning,” Melville said.
“We have an extra room for you to sleep in,” Sally said. “You must be hungry. Finish your tea, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Posey said.
“Nonsense. Jed, go check on the marshal while I fix some food,” Sally said.
Posey lowered his knife and fork and looked at Sally. “That was the best steak I’ve had in a decade, ma’am,” he said.
“Thank you, young man,” Sally said. “Would you care for another glass of buttermilk?”
“I couldn’t put one more thing in my stomach,” Posey said.
The back door to the kitchen opened and, holding a lantern, Melville returned.
“Well, he’ll sleep until morning,” Melville said. “Then I’ll check the wound. He might have a fever set in overnight.”
“A fever. Why?” Posey asked.
“Body’s natural reaction to infection.”
“What was that stuff you used to put him to sleep?” Posey asked.
“It’s called chloroform,” Melville said.
“I’ll go sit with him for a while,” Sally said. “If he takes on a fever, I’ll come get you.”
After Sally left the kitchen, Melville asked, “Would you care to join me for a sip of bourbon whiskey on the porch?”
“There’s still a bit of a chill to the night air in these parts,” Melville said.
Posey took a sip of bourbon whiskey, and then rolled a cigarette.
“The marshal will be wanting to pay you for your services,” Posey said.
“Two kinds of people I never charge,” Melville said. “Lawmen and Indians in need.”
“I can’t speak for Indians, but Dale Posey can be one right stubborn man,” Posey said. “He’ll insist on paying his way.”
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