by Abe Dancer
Up until then Jack had been chasing the sounds of a lone horse. But now he had something visible to track at that distance, even making out the corn-coloured hair that brushed the killer’s shoulders. He spurred his mount on through the conifers, rode higher to a world of rock plants and grey stone. He paused to stare at the mountains that towered high above him, a narrow track that wound upwards, in and out of hard ridges.
There was a trace of blood here and there, and he recalled Kettle saying he’d put a bullet in him. Jack assumed any hit from a Sharps big-fifty would be devastating.
He cleared a ridge, reined in to glance at his backtrail. You’re not getting behind me, you son of a bitch, he thought. From there on he’d climb on foot. OK, because he was chasing a man half-roasted and carrying an ounce of lead inside him. ‘How difficult can that be,’ he muttered icily.
He ground-hitched his horse and started up a stony slope. He lost his footing on the small loose boulders, slipping a few feet until he dug his heels in. Lying on his side, squinting against the light, he saw Cayne’s riderless horse off to the right of the grade.
The sun rose in the sky, but suddenly the wind died and the silence was eerie. Sweat was running down the side of his face, trickling between his shoulder blades. The glitter from the crystalline rock around him almost stung his eyes as he worked his way up and across the slope. At last he reached the ledge and saw fresher, dark bloodstains. Then he saw that the ledge led only to another, steeper slope. He cursed, took a breath and moved slowly, carefully, up towards the lip.
Dawson Cayne was standing between two wedges of upward-slanting rock. Outlined against the sky, and no more than thirty feet away, he was unmoving but taller and more terrifying a figure than Jack had witnessed at any time before.
Jack got to his feet and stood motionless. He calmed his breathing, controlled the tremble of his right hand. So, am I going to remain steady? he thought.
‘The hell I am,’ he said, levelling his Colt and firing.
He saw every detail of the man’s face, as harsh and as hard as the rock itself. The burned hands and fingers seemed like talons as they clutched the big bore rifle.
‘I haven’t got the words, Cayne,’ he called out, firing again. ‘There’s a big bird been following me around. He can have you.’ He actioned his Colt and fired a third and final time.
Jack sat down and drew out the old picture from the Tucson Messenger; the group of children waving flags at a summer street party. He tore it twice, then tossed the pieces up into the cold, twisting wind.
One week later, Jack sat at a corner table in a Whitewater tavern. He was drinking cheap barleycorn and coffee, thinking about his future.
He pulled out and checked his stemwinder, looked towards the front door. In fifteen minutes he was scheduled to catch a stage out to the border. After that, it was on to Bowie and a 100-mile ride west to Tucson. Returning to the farm was a gloomy prospect, but hopefully it would bring some sort of finale to his chase. He glanced at his watch again, got to his feet and moved towards the door. Ralph Kettle and his daughter were walking towards him from the direction of the sanatorium.
‘Shouldn’t be long now,’ he said, as they approached.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kettle said. ‘We’ve a few more people than you to say goodbye to. No offence.’
Jack looked quizzical. ‘None taken. But goodbye? I don’t understand.’
‘We’re going home,’ Connie answered.
‘Flagstaff?’
Kettle grinned, tugged at his arm sling.
‘It’s where we came from. Always was the best grazing in the state.’
‘When?’ Jack asked, looking for something in Connie’s face.
‘Couple of weeks or so. Soon as I get shot of the RK. You’ll be welcome any time, Jack. As long as you don’t bring any one with you. No more offence, of course.’
Jack nodded in acceptance. Briefly, he thought of saying his enemies were all dead.
‘No more taken,’ he offered.
‘Hmm.’ The man’s rheumy blue eyes were fixed on Jack. ‘Well, you’ve got your mare back, and we’re keeping a fine pair of breed buckskins to take with us,’ he said. ‘Likely be the start of a fine new herd. What more could anyone want, eh?’
‘Family and friend’s are always a good idea,’ Jack suggested. He glanced down the street, saw the stage rolling slowly around the corner and decided it was a suitable time to move.
‘The ranch will be called TK. That’s Two Kettles, and the nearest town’s Lemmon,’ Connie called out.
Heading for the depot, Jack turned and waved. He had his saddle-bags in his left hand and Connie’s lucky charm in his right.
‘I’ll remember,’ he shouted back.