by Van Holt
“They stole my pinto,” Curly said.
Pike and some of the others laughed, and Pike said, “ That glass-eyed pinto you give Uncle Willy five dollars for, so he wouldn’t see you ridin’ a horse you stole from him. You admitted as much yourself.”
“It was still my horse.”
“Well, they must not figger it was a fair swap, Curly, that fine Appaloosa for your glass-eyed pinto. It don’t look like Big Nose aims to quit till he gets his horse back and your scalp along with it.”
Chapter 5
Curly rode cautiously on along the dusty trail, softly singing a fragment of song he had made up about himself.
When I get to hell, I know what they’ll say
Here comes old Curly, get out of his way
He rode with Ringo and Billy the Kid
And now he’s got to pay for what he did
His fear-haunted gray eyes searched the rocks and brush on either side of the road. He had entered a spur of the rocky hill country and was approaching a section of the trail where the Apaches had tried to ambush him twice already. He had not seen them either time, but they had seen him and had poured a shower of bullets and arrows in his direction. Their fear of hitting the horse was probably all that had saved him.
There were not many white men that Curly was afraid of, and even fewer Mexicans, but he dreaded Apaches. Unseen enemies were always more frightening and Apaches were like ghosts. They did not regard it as cowardly to hide behind a rock and plug a man without warning, nor did they regard it as cowardly to flee from danger. To them it was the only sensible way to fight. To them the only weakness was to show an enemy mercy, especially if the enemy was helpless.
When Curly had stolen the Appaloosa from the Apaches several months back, he had not realized what he was letting himself in for. Who would have thought they would try so hard to get the horse back? It was all but certain that they had stolen the gelding from someone. They had stolen almost all of their better animals, as well as some that were not so good. Like Curly’s glass-eyed pinto.
The trouble was, Curly wasn’t sure which Apache had stolen his pinto. But it was apparent that Big Nose considered himself the rightful owner of the Appaloosa. The fact that he had stolen the horse himself was to him just proof that the horse was his. Curly had a similar claim. Besides, he had become attached to the animal, and even more attached to his reputation as a great horse thief. His personal honor was at stake.
So far he had managed to keep both the horse and his scalp. But Big Nose had vowed to have them both and had already made several attempts to get them. Sneaking off the reservation with several other wild young bucks, usually on foot in order to lessen the risk of discovery and also in the hope of returning mounted on stolen horses. They had watched for a chance to collect Curly’s scalp and the coveted Appaloosa with little or no risk to themselves, for that was the way Apaches were taught from childhood.
Curly didn’t know Big Nose’s Apache name. Apparently he hadn’t been any great shakes as a warrior until he had set out to recover his prized war horse. But Curly, through his efforts to enlarge himself, had made Big Nose famous also, and the stories had drifted back to his people and now they were making up stories and songs of their own about him and had even started calling him Big Nose or the Apache equivalent.
That was one of the reasons why Big Nose and his little band kept coming back for another try at Curly and the Appaloosa. They liked the way they were cheered by their people on their return and, even if empty-handed, backed up one another’s lies about their adventures. Curly knew the routine.
Ahead there was a jumble of rocks on one side of the road backed by a rough slope covered with brush and cactus, and more rocks and brush on the other side. It was an ideal spot for an ambush. Of course, Apaches were apt to be where you didn’t expect them. But they didn’t know Curly had been warned of their presence in the area, and such a perfect ambush would be almost too good for them to pass up.
He reined in just out of rifle range and lit a cigar, his slitted eyes studying the rocks and brush from under the wide brim of his hat. When he shook the match out he was careful not to make the movement too sudden, and to keep his hands well away from his guns. At various times in his checkered career he had been called a good-natured rogue, a reckless adventurer, a swaggering bully, a harmless clown, a shameless liar and fourflusher, and at various times he had been all of those things, his choice dictated as much by passing fancy as by the requirements of the situation. At the moment he would have liked to assume a new role, that of rank coward. But he had his reputation to consider, and he knew the stories the Apaches told their people would get around sooner or later.
At the same time he had no wish to kill any of the Apaches or to let them kill him. So he decided to detour around the probable ambush ahead, but in a way that would not seem too obvious. Still being careful to make no sudden movements, he began patting his pockets and feeling in them as if he couldn’t find something. Uncle Willy had given him the idea back in town. He looked down at the ground, then turned his head and looked back the way he had come. After a moment he turned the Appaloosa and walked him back along the road, his eyes searching the ground. If he did not miss his guess the Apaches would remain concealed where they were and wait for him to find whatever he was looking for and return. They would have a long wait.
Curly rode back a half mile, then swung off the trail and circled around the likely ambush, picking his way carefully through the rocky eroded hills. Several times he paused to study his back trail but saw no sign that he was being followed, and he felt fairly safe once he was in the canyon where the Hatchers had their ranch. The Apaches had never followed him all the way to the ranch house, which was a thick-walled adobe guarded by a pack of the noisiest, meanest curs he had ever seen.
Curly had long since given up on trying to make friends with those dogs, but at times he still hoped they might come to some sort of understanding and live in peace, tolerating if not liking each other. But the only kind of “piece” those dogs wanted was a fresh piece of his carcass every time he came around. He sometimes thought that the old bitch must have mated with a rabid wolf to produce such a vicious litter, and in fact they all looked a little like overgrown but half-starved wolves. They never got enough to eat and perhaps that was one reason why they tried to devour him every time he got near the place.
Parson Hatcher was sitting on the little front porch in his time-varnished black suit and stovepipe hat, reading his Bible, his eyes and nose dripping. But that didn’t necessarily mean he had been crying. For at this time of the year and on into the summer Parson’s nose and eyes always dripped. He always watched with alarm for the first signs of spring, when his hay fever would commence to drive him crazy. But in the winter he always had a bad cold, so there were times when he couldn’t decide which season he dreaded the most. Though he was a big strong fellow with a healthy black beard, there was always something wrong with him. If it wasn’t a bad cold or hay fever it was gout or a toothache. Most of the time he suffered all these afflictions in silence, believing that he was being punished for past sins. But at times he trembled with anger and raised his bitter black eyes to the heavens and said in a voice that shook like thunder, “I’ve been punished enough!”
Parson had two voices. A weak one and a strong one. He used the weak one most of the time, especially when he was feeling poorly. But sometimes when he forgot his troubles, or remembered them with too much anger, his voice came out like the roar of a lion.
Now he raised his sad dark eyes without much interest to watch Curly ride into the yard. He was so used to the dogs trying to tear every living thing to bits that he didn’t even seem to notice them roaring to the attack and trying to pull the big rustler out of the saddle before he could dismount.
Curly raised his feet up out of the stirrups and his face became swollen and almost bl
ack with anger as he looked down at the dogs swarming around the frightened horse and leaping up at him. He had come to hate those dogs almost as much as they seemed to hate him, and evidently he feared them a great deal more than they feared him. Maybe that was why he hated them.
He looked at Parson with the storm darkening his face. He felt like a fool sitting there in the saddle holding his booted feet up like that. But he managed with some effort to keep his voice soft and polite. “Morning, Parson. Mind calling off these curs?”
Parson did not shake off his lethargy or use his strong angry voice on the dogs in Curly’s behalf. He remained seated in his old rocker and said in his weak, lackluster voice, “You know they don’t pay no attention to me, Curly. They don’t pay no attention to anyone except Cash. But Cash ain’t never here.”
It was true. Cash had a way with dogs, just as Comanche Joe did with horses. Curly did all right with most horses and most dogs, but he had no use for a really vicious animal of any kind, and these curs seemed to smell his dislike and fear like a bad odor that drove them into a wild frenzy of hate.
His legs were getting tired from holding his feet up above their snapping teeth. He suddenly spun the horse in a tight circle that made the dogs leap back out of the way, and jumped off on the other side of the horse with the grub sack in his hand. But they swarmed under and around the horse and renewed their attack on Curly. For a moment he was almost numbed by the sight of all those wolflike dogs barking and snapping at him. Then one of them sank his teeth through the leather of his boot and into the flesh of his leg, and something exploded inside him. “Sons of bitches!” he roared, and suddenly dogs were flying in every direction as he attacked them with his boots and the sack of grub, which he swung at their heads with all his strength.
Then old Parson got into the act. He hadn’t shown any particular concern for Curly’s health, but he became downright alarmed when the big rustler started swinging the grub sack. No doubt he was afraid the sack would burst open or that the grub would be damaged. Anyway, he let out a roar and the next moment he was beside Curly swinging his heavy Bible at the old bitch, the meanest one of the pack. Then Ma Hatcher ran out with her broom and the dogs scattered whining with their tails between their legs. They had felt the painful effects of her broom before.
“Thanks, Ma,” Curly said, handing her the sack and dusting himself off, “I was getting worried there for a minute.”
Curly didn’t look at Ma Hatcher much, because she wasn’t much to look at. Time had done its work on her face and figure, and it seemed unlikely that she had ever been a raving beauty to begin with, judging by what was left. But it was her sharp tongue that Curly dreaded. He always hated to come around there because he was afraid she’d say something he wouldn’t like, and since she was a woman he couldn’t bust her jaw or even cuss her out, at least not to her face.
Her greedy fingers were working at the knot he had tied in the flour sack, and he watched with one eye closed, not much wanting to see the condition the grub was in. Parson suddenly started coughing and headed for the outhouse, taking his Bible along to read. That made Curly even more uneasy, for when Parson took refuge in the outhouse, there was cause for concern.
Ma got the sack open and looked inside. “Good Lord!” she cried. “Everything’s all busted open and mixed together!”
Curly winced. “Sorry, Ma. I was fighting for my life. I don’t know why them dogs don’t like me.”
“Ah, they don’t like anyone except Cash,” Ma said. “If he don’t start staying around here more I’m going to tell him to move them into town with him. They’re eating us out of house and home and they keep me awake every night barking. I never know whether it’s them Apaches sneaking around or just a jackrabbit they’re too lazy to chase.”
“That reminds me, Ma. Pike Lefferts said he saw Injun sign. It’s prob’ly just Big Nose and the ones who came with him before, back for another try at my horse. But you and Parson better keep a eye peeled, just in case. There’s talk the Apaches are restless.”
“They come sneaking around here, I’ll give them a good dusting with my broom, then plaster their hindsides with buckshot when they try to get away.”
“That I’d like to see,” Curly said. But he knew Big Nose wasn’t crazy enough to tangle with Ma Hatcher. Besides the lethal broom and a double barrel shotgun, she had a trusty Sharps and an old horse pistol almost as long as her arm. Not even to mention the noisy dogs that would give the alarm and the loopholes in the thick adobe walls that made the house a virtual fortress. As far as he knew the Apaches always gave the place a wide berth, even though it was situated in a canyon they had once used as a road to Mexico. If they still used it they slipped by in the night and left no trace of their passage.
From the direction of the outhouse he heard a violent little fit of sneezing.
“Old Parson’s hay fever acting up on him again?”
“Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do with him,” Ma said. “It’s been like this ever since he got kicked out of the pulpit for trying to preach when he was drunk. Before that I never knew there was anything wrong with him. But to hear him tell it he ain’t been well a day since he lost his church.”
Curly figured she would set in on him next about something, and he shifted his feet toward the Appaloosa. It was Ma Hatcher who did most of the preaching around there.
“When do you boys aim to go back to work?” she asked.
He looked uncertainly at her hard wrinkled face. “You mean back to stealing Uncle Willy’s cows?”
She nodded. “What else do you ever do?”
He went toward the ground-tied Appaloosa, saying over his shoulder, “I thought we’d give them poor cows a few days off. They’ve been rustled so much they’re plumb wore down.”
“Parson can’t round up no cows by hisself,” Ma said. “And he gets funny notions when he’s idle too long. He’s started talking again about preaching a Sunday service in one of the saloons in town, if they’ll let him.”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea,” Curly said. “Everybody in Boot Hill has considered both sides of the question and decided they’d rather be miserable in the next life instead of this one, and they want to do their drinking and fighting in peace. They wouldn’t take kindly to Parson coming in there and trying to spoil their fun. Besides, if he got near all that booze, the old thirst might come back on him. He’d be the one who got converted, like as not.”
“That’s what I told him,” Ma said, going into the house to sort out the groceries.
That was just what the dogs had been waiting for. The moment she was in the house, they came slinking and snarling at Curly from five different directions. He cursed them softly and viciously, then quickly swung astride the Appaloosa and outran them. He heard Parson yelling something and looked back to see him standing in front of the outhouse in his old black coat and stovepipe hat, holding his Bible in his hand and watching Curly ride off. Curly didn’t know whether he was yelling at the dogs or at him and he wasn’t going back to find out.
The trail climbed the steep slope out of the canyon and then followed the rim north toward the main road. But he suddenly remembered Big Nose and his scalp-hungry pals and decided to take a shortcut back to town.
Chapter 6
The man known as Johnny Ringo cleaned up in his room and hung his spare clothes in the closet. His favorite colors were dark, and he liked his clothes tailored to fit.
He also liked women who were dark or at least dark-haired, and tall and slender, but rounded in the right places. Like the one he had seen downstairs. He thought about her as he put everything back in his saddlebags and blanket roll except for the extra clothes that could be left behind in an emergency. He liked to be ready to grab his essential gear and go at any moment if necessary.
That was one result of never being able to see eye t
o eye with the law. Somewhat to his surprise, he had discovered that the law was not necessarily his worst enemy, but he had never run from anyone not representing the law, and even then it was not the representative but the law itself that he ran from.
He had come west because he had little patience with the conventions of the East and the rules other men had made for him to live by. But there were rules everywhere and very few of them to his liking. Yet he was gradually coming around to the realization that men could not live without some sort of rules. When they made their own rules or disregarded all rules, somebody always got hurt. Yet here he was, past thirty and still trying to live by his own rules as if the rest of the world didn’t matter. Bad habits, he had found, were a lot harder to break than good ones.
He stepped to the window and parted the curtain when he heard the riders thundering into town. His pale blue eyes turned to ice when he saw who they were and his hard jaw knotted in anger. They wheeled in before the hotel and he could hear Pike cussing someone on the veranda. He heard Pike say his own name in a loud threatening voice.
Stepping away from the window, he drew his gun, checked it and slipped it back into the holster. He glanced at his blanket roll and saddlebags on the floor, then left the room and went quietly down the carpeted stairs.
As he was on his way out through the lobby, the dark-haired young woman suddenly appeared at the dining room door and looked at him with wide frightened eyes. She looked pale and breathless. He merely glanced at her and went on out to the veranda, stopping near the sour-faced old rancher with the long yellow teeth and the whine in his voice.