Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  "Interesting," Chandler said.

  Then a gust of air through Spur's held-open door made Chandler look that way. He brought up his own six-gun and pushed it against the back of the pilot's head.

  "Nothing to worry about, Captain, just keep doing your job. McCoy, you at the door. Lay down your six-gun easy on the deck or this sailor gets a slug through his brain."

  "You wouldn't do that, Chandler. Because then I'd shoot your body full of five holes. Give it up. The chase is over."

  "Not even started. Put your gun down now, or I'll kill this man."

  "You've killed enough before, you just might. But I don't know how well you swim and the boat would undoubtedly smash into the shore somewhere. Can you swim?"

  Chandler seemed confused for a moment, then he looked at the far side of the pilot house, saw another door and darted for it, snapping a shot at Spur as he went. Spur had eased around the side of the door and the round missed but it was too late for him to get a shot at the killer.

  Instead of going through the pilot house, Spur dropped down the ladder and ran around the passenger cabin expecting to find Chandler on the far side of the ship. It was the side nearest the shoreline. They had pulled close to the shore here, not over 60 or 70-feet where the current had dug out the channel in a gentle curve.

  Spur didn't see Chandler anywhere.

  A woman ran up who had been standing at the rail.

  "A man just fell overboard," she shouted. "See, there he is swimming for shore."

  Spur swore, took off his hat and climbed over the rail, then dove the four-feet into the murky waters of the Arkansas River. He came up blowing out water and felt the current sucking at him, dragging him downstream. He stretched out in a strong crawl stroke and splashed water as he worked his way against the current toward the green grass and tree covered shoreline.

  After 20 strokes he felt the current easing and his progress increased. He saw Chandler come out of the water 100-yards back upstream. Another two minutes of strong stroking and he felt his feet hit the bottom. He surged upwards and ran through the foot of water to the shoreline and wiped the water out of his eyes and smoothed back his hair.

  Now, to find the little bastard.

  He reached down to adjust his six-gun but came up empty. The weapon had fallen out of leather sometime during his dive or swim. He'd have to make do without it. He still had on his boots. He sat down and took them off and poured Arkansas River water out of them, wrung out his socks and put them back on. He squeezed water out of his pants and took off his shirt and wrung it out, then donned it again.

  Dressed once more, he moved into the brush 20feet to get out of sight and stopped, listening. He was too far away from Chandler. The man could be moving through the damp riverside country and making almost no noise. He had to get closer to him.

  Spur went away from the river figuring there should be a road along this side of the water. He found one and looked both ways but didn't see Chandler. He eased back into the brush and ran forward upstream, hoping to find the man. After 30-yards he stopped and listened but heard no movement.

  He ran another 30-yards with the same result. Only his soggy pants made noise slapping side to side. Spur gave a little shiver as the evaporating water on his clothes cooled his skin to the point of a chill. Where was Chandler going? Would he head downstream? Probably. Then why hadn't Spur seen him? They were no more than a mile from the small town they had just left on the boat.

  Spur sniffed. Yes, wood smoke from ahead. Smoke could mean campers, rawhiders or a farm house. He moved quickly toward the smoke, tracking it like a beacon. It led him out of the brush and to the road. He paused before crossing. Ahead a quarter-of-a-mile he saw a log cabin and a barn. Smoke came from a smoke house just behind the well.

  Spur watched but could see no one around the buildings. Chandler had been a lot closer to the smoke than Spur. Had the man smelled it or seen the cabin and rushed over there? Or had he seen Spur leave the ship, charged across the road into the woods on the far side and rushed downstream?

  A moment later he heard a scream from the house, then a gunshot. Spur ran through the light brush upstream until he was directly across from the buildings. He paused, watching the place. He still had seen no one. There had been no more gunshots. The front of the house had two windows. He could see the side. It had only one window, up high.

  Spur ran upstream another 30-yards, then came out of the brush and sprinted for the blind side of the cabin. He arrived with no challenge. Either Chandler had not seen him or he didn't have a clean shot.

  Spur edged around the side of the building and looked at the front. He could see no one. He hunkered down and crawled to the first window in the front and slid upwards so he could see inside the cabin.

  His view showed him part of the kitchen. A woman sat in a chair. A man sat near her. The man had been tied to the chair with rope. Doug Chandler stood there watching them, holding a six-gun. Was it his own or one he took in the cabin? A six-gun worked just as well after a water dousing as it did dry. Nothing much mechanical to go wrong. The rounds fired just as well. He'd even fired his Colt once under water.

  Spur eased down from the window considering the situation. Chandler was armed and had two hostages. He had no weapon. He could check around the place for an axe or a hatchet. The Indians used their hatchetlike tomahawks to good advantage. How much daylight was there left?

  A look at the sun told him it was about three o'clock, maybe four. His watch had stopped due to its swim. His pants were still soggy but his shirt was drying. He should dry out before the chill of the evening. His pants would take the longest to dry.

  He moved back around the cabin and ran to the barn. Inside he found a three tined pitchfork, an ideal weapon for close-in fighting, but not against a six-gun.

  He found a hatchet sticking in a chopping block in the near side of the barn. He hefted it. Yes, sharp and well balanced. He could do a lot of damage with that close-in.

  Spur carried the hatchet and looked out the barn door at the cabin. Smoke came out of the chimney now. Maybe the woman was getting supper. He ran back the way he had come and slid up to look through the front window.

  The movement at the glass must have caught Chandler's attention. Spur found himself looking directly into the eyes of Doug Chandler. The fugitive swore, lifted the six-gun and sent a shot through the foot-square pane of glass just after Spur jolted his head downward for the protection of the thick log construction. Two more shots came through the window, then Spur heard a wail of pain.

  He lifted up and looked again. The woman had just drawn back a butcher knife that showed red with blood. Chandler's gun hand hung empty at his side, a long bloody gash on his forearm.

  Spur ran for the doorway. He pulled it open just as Chandler dropped to his knees to retrieve the six-gun. His right hand reached for the weapon. Spur was ten-feet away. He threw the hatchet with almost no backswing. The weapon turned once and the flat back of the hatchet head hit Chandler in the forearm driving his hand away from the gun. The woman dove to the floor and skidded the hand gun farther across the floor.

  Chandler looked at Spur and must have realized he had no firearm. He held his forearm to slow the bleeding and turned and ran for the front door, sidestepping Spur's frantic grab at him. A second later he was out the front door and running.

  Spur rolled over and ran for the front door. He paused. "Sorry about this, ma'am. He's a wanted killer, and I'm a lawman chasing him." He saw the six-gun, grabbed it off the floor and ran out the door.

  Chandler had vanished.

  Spur heard sounds in the barn. He ran that way, cocked the six-gun and stepped inside the door. A thrown pitchfork bounded harmlessly beside his feet but missed him.

  In the dimness of the barn he could see a horse. Chandler would be trying to saddle it.

  "Enough, Chandler. I've got the gun now. Come out slow and easy and you'll live to stand trial."

  "Why, and let Judge Parker have the pleasu
re of hanging me? Not a chance."

  Spur saw it coming out of the gloom almost too late. The horse screamed in pain and bolted straight ahead. Spur had to dive to the side to get out of the way of the thundering hooves. When Spur rolled and came to his feet, he heard the horse pounding away to the front and saw light where a door flapped at the rear of the small barn. Spur ran that way.

  He spotted Chandler running hard toward the trees 100-yards away. Spur followed at a jog. Chandler would wear himself out at that pace and soon have to walk. Spur could jog at five miles an hour all day.

  As Spur jogged toward the trees, he opened the hand gun and took out the four fired shots. He checked the brass and grinned. They were .45 caliber. The rounds in his belt loops would fit. He loaded the weapon with six cartridges and slid it into his holster. He snapped the safety strap and ran on.

  Twenty-feet into the woods, Spur jogged past a big tree and suddenly Chandler jumped out from behind it and swung a two-inch branch at Spur. The weapon came so quickly that Spur had no time to draw, and could only drop to the ground. He surged forward, hoping to pin Chandler before he got away.

  When Chandler saw he had missed with the club, he darted away into the brush and trees. Spur came to his feet and gave chase.

  For the next half hour the two men charged through the trees, with Chandler hiding once hoping to elude Spur, but the old tracker instinct saved the Secret Service man. He dug Chandler out but couldn't get a clean shot at him. The chase was on again.

  They came to an upgrade and soon were on the top of a small cliff that looked out over the river. Chandler was almost across the bare spot when Spur came into the open.

  He put one shot past Chandler and called out. "Not another move. I've got five more rounds and one of them will kill you, Chandler. Give it up and come back with me."

  Chandler looked around for some way to escape. He could always jump off the 100-foot cliff to the rocks below. He shrugged.

  "Guess it's all over. Damn knee hurts." He slumped down near a barren spot and rubbed his knee. Spur came up slowly, watchfully, wondering what the killer would try this time.

  "Put your hands behind you, Chandler. I'll tie them and then we can get back to that last boat dock." Chandler growled but put both hands behind him. Spur moved toward him, paused threefeet away and shook his head.

  "You had me going for a while, Chandler. I guess I didn't expect somebody as young and as lazy as you could set up the whole robbery and kidnapping."

  Chandler shrugged, then both his hands came from behind him and he threw dirt and ants into Spur's face. The dirt clogged his eyes, the ants bit him on the face and went down his neck and bit him again and again. He clawed at his eyes to get them clear.

  Chandler made a dive for his gun hand, but Spur held onto the six-gun. He pulled it away, then shot at the sound, but heard no cry of pain. He listened, then fired once more at the retreating sound of running footsteps.

  Spur used his neckerchief and wiped the grime and dirt out of one eye, then the other. He took off his shirt and dusted the last of the pesky ants off him, then put it back on and reloaded the two spent rounds as he moved forward on Chandler's trail. The little bastard was more resourceful than Spur gave him credit for. He slumped down right beside the ant hill so he could use it.

  So, Chandler was on foot, he was 100-yards or so ahead. Where could he go? Downstream? How good a woodsman was he? That might be the final telling factor. Spur settled down to tracking the fugitive through the woods. It was simple, like he had left a trail of brightly colored beads.

  Spur moved slowly, cautiously, so he wouldn't get caught in another ambush. It was close to dark now. He couldn't track after dark, but neither could Chandler move fast. He might just give up until morning. Twice the trail had crossed the road that ran near the river. It didn't get much use now except by locals. Spur hoped that Chandler wouldn't waylay a farmer and steal a horse to try a getaway.

  His clothes were nearly dry now. Spur edged forward another 20-feet, following the tracks in the soft mulch of the woodsy floor and then gave up. It was getting too dark. He had a decision to make. He could stop here and track in the morning. Or he could get back to the road and walk down two miles and wait there hoping that Chandler might be on a night walk himself.

  Spur chose the walk in the moonlight. He ventured what he figured were three miles down the river road, then sat down in a dry spot near the road in a clump of willows to wait out his quarry. He just hoped that Chandler wasn't ahead of him.

  Maybe it was the still slightly wet clothes he wore, maybe it was a sullen wind that sped through the willow thicket. Whatever it was, the cold awoke Spur about midnight and he thought he'd frozen to death.

  He stood and did a hundred steps running in place. Then he did what his father used to call side straddle hops, jumping out with his feet three feet apart and at the same time swinging his arms over his head until his fingers touched. Out and back, out and back. He did 50 of those and his legs began to burn.

  At least he was awake, and warm. He had forgotten to get a blanket at the livery when he left. There was not a chance that he would start a fire and draw attention to himself. This section of the river in Arkansas was lightly settled. Much of it was overgrown with small hardwood trees of not much value except as fenceposts. He didn't know what the sawmill cut back up the river.

  He at last got warm and kept walking around to stay that way. He wished he had brought a jacket of some kind, but it was far too late for that now.

  By the time dawn came he had dozed off two or three times after sitting down by a tree. Light revitalized him and he remained entirely still trying to hear any approaching man or beast.

  His watch was still waterlogged so he had no idea what time it was. He figured the sun had been up an hour when he heard the first sounds coming from upriver. A slight turn in the road just upstream from him masked the approach of anyone. He waited and at last he saw a man walking toward him. He limped slightly on his left leg and had no hat.

  At first sighting, Spur figured the man could not be Doug Chandler, but as the form grew closer, he changed his mind. At 50-feet away, Spur knew for sure the walking man was Chandler. How to handle him?

  Spur drew the six-gun, spun the cylinder and cocked the hammer. He would not shoot the man down without warning, even though he was a mad dog who deserved to die. His personal code and that of the department precluded any such action.

  He would warn him, give him an ultimatum and if he did not comply, or made some threatening move, then Spur would shoot. He waited until Chandler was 20-feet away and slightly upstream from him before he called out.

  "Freeze right there, Chandler. Don't move or you're dead."

  Quicker than Spur thought possible for any man, Chandler jumped, dodged, dove to the ground and came up running a zig-zag course toward the river. Spur fired twice, then twice more, and each time he missed. He'd never seen such a jittery, herkyjerky target in his life.

  He charged after him when he was only 30-feet away, but the young man sprinted like a running track star. The moment he entered the brush, Chandler was no longer a practical target. The smallest branch or leaf could deflect a .45 slug.

  Spur sprinted after him and was only 20-feet away and gaining when they came to the edge of the river. There was a 10-foot bank here and Spur could hear the sound of white water ahead as the river narrowed. It was still 300-yards wide, swirling deep and strong from the recent rains upriver.

  Chandler never hesitated or looked back. He hit the edge of the bank in stride, flattened out in a racing dive and entered the water cleanly and was at once swept downstream. He surfaced and came up swimming away from Spur.

  For 100-yards, Spur ran along the bank trying to match the speed of the flood tide that swept downstream. Gradually he fell behind. He could see Chandler swimming ahead of him in the direction of the rapids where the river narrowed and increased in speed, but was still plenty deep enough for navigation.

  S
pur put the revolver back in his holster, fas tened the hold down strap securely and jumped into the water. He tried to stay near the shore, but in seconds he was pulled into the current and swept downstream with a force that at once frightened and amazed him. He had never felt such a tremendous force from anything before as he did from the water.

  He went under, came up, headed for a large rock in the side of the channel but maneuvered around it kicking and swimming for all his worth. Now and then he could see Chandler ahead of him maybe 50-feet.

  The water battered them both for a quarter-ofa-mile, then the rough water was behind them and the flow of the river deepened and spread. Both men struck out swimming with what little energy they had left.

  Spur couldn't do the crawl. He worked a makeshift sidestroke, floating on his side for as long as possible with each stroke before his head went under water. He surged upward and checked for Chandler. He had made it to shore, on a sand spit that extended out into the current. He crawled up and fell on his back exhausted.

  By the time Spur made it to the same sand spit, he was so drained he could barely drag himself out of the water. He collapsed on his back on the warm sand with his feet still in the muddy Arkansas flow.

  Spur felt his eyes close and jolted them open. He'd heard something. He looked up just in time to see a large rock over his head. He screeched and rolled to one side.

  Chandler had used all his strength to lift the ten pound rock. It smashed down into the sand a moment later. It would have smashed Spur's skull like a summer ripe watermelon.

  Slowly Spur drew his six-gun and aimed it at Chandler. He sat sagging forward almost falling on his face.

  "Go ahead and shoot," Chandler said. "This whole damn thing went wrong from the beginning."

  Spur tried to squeeze the trigger, but he didn't have enough strength. Or maybe he just didn't want to badly enough. He shook his head and let his gun hand sag. Chandler gave a little cry of surprise and delight, then fell slowly forward into the sand.