by Clay More
CHAPTER THREE
The sudden noise of thunder, totally unexpected in the heat of a late afternoon beneath a cloudless, cobalt blue sky roused Jake Scudder from the daydream he had been indulging in as he ambled across the semi-desert towards the Pintos. Then about five or six miles ahead he saw the slow rise of a long low dust cloud. Instantly he realized that he was watching the start of a cattle stampede.
He frowned when along with the thunderous clamor he heard distant cracking noises. He reckoned that some of the riders were probably trying to bring down the leaders to halt the stampeding herd’s progress. He well knew that running alongside a stampeding herd was no place that a sane man would want to be, yet it was just part of the job that a puncher signed up for.
As he watched the progress of the dust cloud and listened with cocked ears to the accompanying thunder he realized that the herd was heading towards the Pintos Mountains. That meant that the cattle trail presumably followed in the direction of some pass that he could not discern from his distance and the angle that he was approaching from.
Scudder sighed and mentally tossed up in his mind whether or not he should investigate. He pulled off his Stetson and ran his fingers through his thick black hair, freeing a goodly cloud of trail dust as he did so. He was a tall, handsome fellow with a three day growth of stubble, which mirrored the fatigue he felt after his long ride from Sonora via Tucksville. His clothes were covered in a patina of southwestern dessert sand and dirt, his throat was parched and the back of his neck burned from an overdose of Arizona sun on his exposed skin.
"Not really any of my business, is it, old horse?" he remarked to his big black stallion. Then after a moment he guffawed as he finally gave in to his conscience. He couldn’t in his heart ignore the plight that some riders might find themselves in over there. A stampede almost always resulted in casualties, both to critters and to humans. "Guess we’d better pay a visit and see if we can be of any service. They might need me, my rope and you, you big heap of horseflesh."
The stallion tossed its head and snickered, as if it well understood both his words and his sense of humor. And a few moments later, they were picking their way towards the fast retreating stampede and its accompanying dust cloud.
* * *
One thing that Rubal Cage prided himself upon was his knowledge of critters. He somehow understood the way they thought, both as individual ornery beasts and when they were moving together as a herd. He had worked with them for all of his adult life – on both sides of the law – as a regular puncher and ramrod, and as a brand-buster, in between spells as a road agent or hired gun. And he knew just how to work them either way. Yet the thing that he was proudest of was his knowledge of the way a herd worked when it was stampeding, when it was running flat out without direction. He knew, probably better than most, on account of the fact that he had orchestrated stampedes on numerous occasions in the past.
And nowhere offered a better place to stampede and control a herd than Rattlesnake Pass in the Pintos. The natural lie of the land and the way the pass turned about on itself in a natural U-shape meant that the cattle naturally slowed down as they navigated the bend.
"And that’s just where you’ll be waiting for them," he had told Hog Fleming and Cole Lancing before they had set off at the beginning of the venture. "Hog, I reckon that you’ll have to deal with the cook first, because they’re bound to send him through the Pass first to get chow ready for when they bed the herd down. Then the two of you find a place up in the rocks and be ready for when we stampede the herd. They’ll be coming around that U-bend as though Old Nick is chasing their tails, and that’s when I want you to shoot the lead steers on the far side. That’ll start the herd to turn and once they get into that part of the pass that opens out they’ll begin to circle on themselves. There is just enough room for them to begin that circle, and if you take down a few more, they’ll soon slow up and then they’ll stop."
And indeed, that was exactly what happened as the stampede hurtled around the bend. Fleming and Lancing were waiting up on the canyon wall and they took down about ten lead steers and a few more as the herd started to circle on itself. The dust cloud was as thick as smoke, but it eventually settled on the gasping herd and the rustlers.
"Goddamn it!" Rubal Cage exclaimed joyfully as he rode up with the other rustlers to meet Hog Fleming and Cole Lancing. "That was the slickest job I ever did see." He noticed the blood soaked bandana wrapped around Hog Fleming’s ear. "What the hell happened to you? Did that cook give you some trouble?"
Fleming scowled. "No! Him I dealt with easily. And that blasted ramrod, Coburn." He spat contemptuously on the ground. "As Coburn was dying his gun went off and a stray shot – "
Rubal Cage guffawed. "A stray shot creased your ear? An inch inwards and it would have creased your brain, and then you would have been herding cattle in a hotter hell-hole than here."
Lancing, a coarse featured young man with a lazy eye sneered at his companion’s discomfiture. "But what about the bodies, Rubal? Are we just going to leave them there on the trail?"
Cage shook his head. "You know that gully we passed as you went a ways into Rattlesnake Pass? I reckon that would make a good place to bury the witnesses. We’ll just leave the beef carcasses where they are, though. The buzzards will soon strip them clean."
* * *
The stallion was a powerful beast and would have galloped all the way, if Jake Scudder had allowed it. But he was all too aware that the black’s strength would be needed, as likely as not, once they reached the final resting place of the herd – once it had run out of pace and the front critters either collapsed from exhaustion or were themselves run down. And all of that could add miles to the journey. So he held the stallion in check a mite, content to simply catch up as best they could, so that they could be of some use at the end of the chase.
Glancing upwards, the appearance from nowhere of a brace of buzzards was not unexpected. "You devils always seem to know when there is a good dinner of fresh flesh, don’t you," he said jocularly. "There’s bound to be a few dead critters and a few that are too crippled to walk."
He cringed at the idea of all the creatures that would play their part in stripping the flesh from the bones; from the buzzards and coyotes, to the maggots that would finish the job to leave bare bones for the sun and sand to bleach. Then the skeletons would decorate the desert with more ornaments of death.
Jake Scudder was ever a humorous man, yet the buzzards' appearance unsettled him more than he would have expected.
"I have a bad feeling about them, old horse," he confided to the black as they approached the Pintos and he saw the entrance to a pass opening before them. The ground was all churned up from the stampeding herd.
"I reckon this must be the famous Rattlesnake Pass we heard about back in Tucksville when we passed through. I guess any rattlers that lived here would have skedaddled out of the way once they felt the vibration of that coming stampede." He chuckled. "But let’s you and me just step careful in case any come out to look after the procession that just passed through. They might be a touch angry." And at the thought he winced, for snakes were not Jake Scudder’s favorite creatures.
Entering Rattlesnake Pass was an eye-opener for Scudder. It was huge; great sheer red rock walls with occasional patches of green as various cacti and shrubbery had seeded themselves in cracks and crevices to gain a precarious yet sustainable foothold on life. The air was stuffy, thick with settling dust and sand, so he slowed down to take a drink from his canteen to wash the dust from his throat. He had just put the stopper back in the canteen and pulled up his bandana over his nose when he heard the unmistakable reports of gunfire, each shot followed by a cacophony of echoes from all around Rattlesnake Pass.
"Sounds as if there’s a puncher at work, putting a few crippled or dying critters out of their misery," he said conversationally to the back of the black’s head.
The horse flared its nostrils and stamped a forefoot, a gesture that
he recognized as an indication that the horse was displeased with something.
"You don’t like that idea, do you, old feller?" Jake asked, shaking his head. "And neither do I, but I also hate to see any creature suffering. Come on; let’s see if we can help whoever is up ahead. It sounds as if he’s somewhere around that bend ahead."
And as he let the black trot its way along the pass he heard several more shots followed by another series of echoes bouncing off the canyon walls. Turning the great U-bend of the pass, in the distance he saw the source of the gunfire. A lone rider was sitting astride a palomino aiming a rifle down into a hollow.
"Some of the poor critters must have gone dashing down a ravine or gully," he mused to the black. He raised his hand to his mouth, positioning his thumb and forefinger against his tongue to produce a loud high-pitched whistle, such as those who were practiced in the ways of cow-punching were usually adept. It rang out along the pass, producing its own rippling echo effect.
The effect on the shooter was instantaneous – and unexpected!
He turned in his saddle, spied Jake, and immediately trained his rifle at him, letting off a couple of quick shots. Both were too close for comfort, one actually lifting his hat from his head and depositing it on the ground behind him.
"Hey!" Jake cried, but a third shot ricocheted off the canyon wall and he felt a shower of grit from the point of impact on the rock. Further remonstration or question was clearly futile. What was demanded was cover and a little return fire.
Jake’s mind raced as he considered his options. Turning to retreat was not viable, since he would expose his back as a target to someone who just about had his range. Similarly, a headlong charge would expose him to greater risk as he closed the gap, and a stationary shooter had an infinitely greater chance of success than a galloping rider trying to shoot. He was only left with a half-way approach.
So he spurred the black forward, leaning low in the saddle and drawing his own Winchester from its boot. Two more bullets zinged overhead and he raised his rifle and let off two quick shots himself, albeit with little hope of accuracy. Yet the other’s reaction told him that one of his shots had an effect. The man clamped a hand to his ear as some red rag or something fell from the side of his head. Then, as if stung into rage he lifted his rifle again. Scudder, seeing the man taking longer to aim whispered to the black: "You are on your own for a while, old feller. I’m gonna leave you now."
And so saying, when he heard the next report he threw his hands upwards and flung himself from the saddle to land behind a tangle of scrub-oak. The instant he hit the ground he rolled over three times in order to change his position lest the gunman had pinpointed where he had fallen. Gingerly, he slid the barrel of his Winchester through an opening and squinted through the gap to see if his ruse had worked. He figured that if he played possum then the man would either come in for the kill or, less likely, he would take off.
To Jake’s surprise he did the latter. The rider spurred the palomino into action and headed off with one hand clamped to his left ear. Moments later all Jake heard was the fast retreating cadence of galloping hooves going around the bend of the pass.
"Now just what the hell was that all about?" he asked himself as he came to his feet, brushing off the fresh accumulation of sand and dirt that he had picked up in his tumble.
He whistled and the big stallion came trotting over to him. Jake sheathed his Winchester and climbed into the saddle. "I best see what the bastard didn’t want me to see," he said aloud, his eye catching sight again of the circling buzzards high overhead.
The sight that greeted him a few moments later as he dismounted and stood atop the gulley made him feel sick to his stomach. There were the bodies of nine men piled on top of one another, as if they had been casually tossed down into the gully.
Jake’s stomach spasmed and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Every one of the men had several bullet wounds and they had bled copiously.
"A massacre! What sort of curs would do something like this?" And seeing that a couple of them were little more than boys, he felt a surge of fury. Then he shook his head at the sadness of it all. "The poor devils. And that’s what the bastard was doing. Making sure that no one survived." Then the fury was replaced in part by a feeling of guilt. "Maybe if I had been here faster, I might have been able to save some of them."
The shadows of the circling scavengers reminded him that he needed to act quickly. After all, it was not just the buzzards that he had to think about, it was the possibility that the gunman might return with reinforcements.
"Reckon I had better try and cover you gents up to protect your bodies from those varmints," he said. "Leastways until I get help from Tucksville and get you taken care of properly."
As he gingerly made his way down to see what he could do, he was surprised to hear a low moan. One of them was still alive.
Jake worked as quickly as he could. Having located the young man who seemed to be precariously clinging to life, and having checked to insure that there were no other survivors, he extricated him from between two bodies. "These comrades of yours seem to have saved your life, my friend." Then hoisting him on one shoulder he carried him up to the top of the hollow.
Finding a shady spot below a great boulder he had a good look at the two upper body wounds the man had sustained. Fortunately, neither bullet had hit a major vessel, and as far as Jake could tell from listening to the young man’s chest, neither one had penetrated a lung. One had gouged a groove through muscle on the side of the chest and the other had seemingly smashed the collar bone and somehow been deflected upward and outward, exiting at the top of his shoulder at the back, presumably missing the top of his lung. Jake washed the wounds and staunched the flow of blood as best he could by shredding one of his shirts from his saddlebag and using it as padding and crude bandaging.
"I can’t say that you were lucky, mister," he said to the still unconscious young man as he moistened his lips from the canteen. "The only thing is that you weren’t as unlucky as your poor friends down there."
With a sigh and a final look up at the buzzards he made his way down to the bottom of the gulley and laid the bodies out as respectfully as he could, before covering them with scrub-oak, rocks and sand. He hoped that it would not be too long before they would be taken back to Tucksville, or wherever they were from, and have a proper burial with their families present. Anything would be better than this ignominious gulley in Rattlesnake Pass, he concluded.
It was as he was gently lifting the young man into the saddle that he noticed the bloodstained bandana the murderer had dropped. He lifted it and examined it, noticing the bullet hole, presumably from his own bullet. "So somebody had hit you, too," he said with a feeling of satisfaction. "Well, I reckon that you’ll have a couple of the Marks of Cain on you – you murdering dog!"
The going was not easy, trying to avoid too much jostling to the injured man. Every couple of hours Scudder stopped to let both the unconscious patient and the stallion rest. It was during one of these stops beside a small spring that the patient stirred, his eyes flickering open.
"Elly – got to see – Elly!"
Jake’s face registered a measure of relief, for he had half expected the young man to pass away during the journey, rather than to regain consciousness.
"Who is Elly?" Jake asked. "And who are you, and where are you from?"
The wounded man’s face contorted as he screwed up his eyes and blinked several times, as if he were struggling hard to fight his way back to consciousness.
"Johnnie – Johnnie Parker – of the Rocking H ranch," he stammered. Then his eyes opened wide in alarm as he seemed to register that he was not where he expected to be, rather like a man awaking from a nightmare. "Cage! It was Rubal Cage that shot me! What – what happened?"
Jake pursed his lips sympathetically. "There is no easy way to tell you this, Johnnie. It looks like there was a stampede. And I am guessing that all of your friends were killed."
/> The shock of the news almost seemed too much. "How - did they die?"
"They were shot. I found eight bodies as well as you. They were all murdered."
Johnnie’s eyes fluttered. "Who are you, mister?"
"Name’s Jake Scudder."
Johnnie shook his head as if trying to shake himself awake. "Jake, can you get me to the Rocking H? I have to tell – to tell – "
But the effort was too much. His eyes blinked shut and he slumped back into deep unconsciousness.
Jake eased him back to the ground. "Well, Johnnie, I don’t know where this Rocking H of yours is, but I reckon that Tucksville is going to be the nearest town. I’ll get you there, then we can see what help we can get. One thing is certain, though – there are some murdering dogs out there that the law needs to know about."
CHAPTER FOUR
It took an entire day to reach Tucksville and it was late in the afternoon when they reached the town limit. Almost immediately, Jake found himself surrounded by a gang of street urchins and a few of the loafers who seemed to inhabit every southwestern town.
"What you got there, mister? A dead man?" queried one dirty-faced youngster of about ten years of age.
"Are you a bounty hunter?" asked another.
Jake shook his head. "The answer is ‘no’ to both questions. I have an injured man here in need of urgent medical attention. Can you point me in the direction of the town doctor?"
A grizzled oldster chuckled. "A sawbones? You won’t find anyone like that in Tucksville. We used to have one but he died of too much drink. Reckon the town marshal might be your best bet, especially if there’s been a shooting."
"Who’s been shot?" called out a high-pitched voice from the back of the crowd.
"Watch out, mister, here comes old Eagle-eye McCaid," squealed one of the urchins, as the crowd parted to allow a small, tubby man of about fifty with the thickest lensed wire-framed spectacles Jake had ever seen. He was dressed in a shirt buttoned up to the collar, but without a tie, a coat that was also buttoned, but which strained over his paunch, and yet with a brace of blue steel Colts in holsters on his hips. Pinned to the waistcoat was a crudely made deputy marshal badge.