by Ray Hogan
The mud treatment and the night’s rest had done much for the bay, and while he was, of course, far from cured, some of the lameness had disappeared and he was usable. If ridden sensibly and with care, he should last out the remainder of the journey to the settlement.
All that could change swiftly, Starbuck realized. If the Apaches were trailing them and gained rapidly, thus nullifying their lead, the bay would be unable to stand any hard running even for a short distance. The alternative to a headlong race—that of forting up or once more making a stand—would be necessary. He hoped this time a more advantageous spot could be found.
Mason seemed to have improved somewhat in spirit. While the hard-cornered bleakness of his features had not vanished, there was a breaking down in the bitterness that seemed to fill him, and for the first time since they had met, there appeared to be an appreciation for the broad, savage vistas of the country through which they were slowly making their way.
Once, near mid-morning, when they halted on a long ridge to breathe the horses and probe their back trail for pursuit, he gazed out over the endless, rolling country and sighed quietly. There was a vacuity to the man, as if somewhere along the line life had dealt him a terrible blow from which he had not recovered.
“You never know how much you can miss all this—the mountains and the sky—even the heat, until it’s taken away. Can miss anything, I reckon. Sounds funny maybe but a man can miss the smell of blood and death once he’s grown used to it, and then puts it behind him.”
Starbuck’s eyes were on the distant slopes. He thought he had seen movement but wasn’t certain. “Suppose so, but I wasn’t in the war so I don’t know. You were, I take it.”
“Four years—four goddam years.”
“It was hell, I’m sure of that,” Starbuck said, deciding the motion he thought he saw was merely the shimmer of steadily rising heat. “I’ve heard others hash it over.”
“Something nobody won—a man ought to remember that. Nobody ever wins a thing like that. The North came out on top but that don’t mean it won. I wore a blue uniform, fought for Mr. Lincoln’s idea of saving the Union. But I lost—personally. Everything except a piece of land I’ve got down in the Mescals. Was the same story with every man that got into it except the rich ones. They just got richer.”
“Plenty of them lost, too—fortunes in cash as well as property.”
“Property—land,” Mason went on as if not hearing, “that’s all that counts in this world. Man can lose cash, his house and furniture, cattle—things like that, and start over. But if he loses his land he’s finished. He’s got nothing to start from.”
“This place of yours, in the Mescals. You planning to make a new start there?”
Mason turned, rubbed the bay’s neck slowly. “What I aim to do. Was just getting it going when the war hit. Felt I had to go. My folks tried to talk me out of it but I was young and full of vinegar—wanted to do my part for my country. Wouldn’t listen, went just the same.
“Reckon it made them kind of proud of me, being one of the few who went and volunteered from around here. Anyway, I’d just begun building my cabin—and I plain up and walked off to do my bit leaving behind five thousand acres of good grass, timber, and year-round water just standing there.”
“You’ve never been back?”
Mason shook his head, lapsing again into that near sullenness that characterized him. “Not since.”
Shawn moved to the sorrel, reached for the reins, and prepared to mount. Idly, he glanced once more to the trail behind them; no sign of Apaches, but his thoughts had centered on something else: the war had ended ten years ago; where had Mason been in the intervening time?
“Sounds like a fine place,” he commented, going to the saddle.
“It’s going to suit me,” Mason said in a low voice and let the subject drop, offering no explanation as to why he had taken a decade to return to what obviously was very dear to his heart.
Starbuck waited until the man had mounted, and then led off, continuing along the ridge which lifted gradually to a higher plane where a round, thumb-like peak thrust itself bluntly into the sky.
It was all much like the land he had so recently covered in New Mexico, he thought as he swept the surrounding country with his glance. The same clean, blue sky with its batches of snowy cotton clouds; the same yellow and tan earth gashed here and there with reds and browns; the same towering hills, some clothed in green, others in barren, gray rock.
But then this had been part of New Mexico once, he recalled, before the war began. At the onset a Confederate colonel, John Baylor he thought it was, had split the territory down its center and given the western portion the name Arizona.
It had been a shrewd move on the part of the officer; those souls inhabiting that part of the sprawling domain had long sought separation and independence. For the miles that lay between them and the capital in Santa Fe were hazardous and long—so long in fact that their pleas and presence had gone practically unnoticed year after year by the politicos in power.
Mesilla, a settlement not far north of El Paso and adjacent Fort Bliss, was declared the capital of the new district, but such glory was short-lived. A victorious North, while permitting the division of the land to stand, thereby breaking up a territory that would have proved a close rival in size to Texas, voided Mesilla’s claim to fame and relegated it once again to the status of irrelevancy—a small town dozing in the sun, disturbed only now and then by the noisy exploits of passing outlaws.
It was close on to noon when they reached the base of the huge peak, and there again paused to rest the horses.
Shawn took advantage of the opportunity to inspect the bay’s hoofs, found them holding up well. Another night’s rest and packing in soft mud, followed by applications of oil, and the horse would be on the way to recovery.
“He’ll make it if we keep taking it easy,” he said, moving to a rise on the rocky flat surrounding the peak. Gaining its highest point, he turned his gaze once more to the trail over which they had passed. He stiffened, his attention being drawn to a dozen or so figures crossing a sun swept flat in the valley below. Apaches. They had gained appreciably.
“There they are,” he said, pointing.
Mason climbed to Shawn’s side, followed his leveled arm. “Them sure enough. Dogging our tracks.”
“Means we’ll have to move faster. They’ll try to cut us off and I don’t know how far we are from Lynchburg.”
“Ten, maybe twelve miles,” Mason said readily, and pointed to another, somewhat higher ridge forming a horizon in the southeast. “Town’s on the yonder side of that—in the middle of a big valley—the Rockinstraw they call it.”
Again Shawn realized Mason was a great deal more familiar with the country than he let on.
“No need stewing over them getting close. We just move right along like we’ve been doing and we’ll soon be in the Rockinstraw,” Mason continued, turning back to where the horses waited. “Won’t bother us there.”
They pressed on shortly after that, a heavy silence, for some unaccountable reason, falling upon the two men—one that was broken only when around the middle of the afternoon, they reached the foot of the ridge’s far side and were on a well-marked road leading to the settlement.
A while later they pulled off into a grove of sycamores where a small creek cut a clear, narrow channel, watered the horses and took advantage of the occasion to wash the caked dust from their faces and arms. Refreshed, and leaning against one of the trees, Starbuck stretched, yawned.
“Going to feel good sleeping in a real bed, eating somebody else’s cooking for a change.” Pulling off the old hat he’d produced from his saddlebags, he dusted himself down the front. “Reckon about the first thing I’d better do, however, is blow myself to a new lid. Seen better-looking hats on the plow horses back home.”
Mason ignored the humor, merely nodded. “Man can miss the comforts or he can get used to doing without.”
“Sure
,” Shawn agreed, “but when a man’s been on the trail for what seems like months, the change is mighty welcome.”
They moved on after that and soon houses began to appear in the broad sweep of the valley; small ranches, a dirt farmer here and there, planted fields, haystacks. Still in the distance and somewhere near center, smoke was rising into the sky; Lynchburg would lie there, Starbuck guessed.
He wondered where the Box C would be, remembered then that it was to the west of the settlement some twenty miles, and shifted his attention to that direction. A faint, blue haze clung to the area and all was not as definite as it might have been. It appeared to be an area of low, rolling hills, like gray bubbles spread across a wide flat beyond which were many buttes and benches. There was no large timber visible except in the higher reaches edging the Rockinstraw to the north.
A mile short of town, which loomed up suddenly when they broke out of a thickly brushed swale onto a level flat, two men in a buggy cut in from a side road, overtook their slowly moving horses quickly, and passing by, made the customary salutary wave. Both then turned abruptly, as if startled, stared briefly, and then continued on toward the settlement at a fast clip.
Lynchburg itself looked to be slumbering in the afternoon’s intense heat when Shawn and Mason turned into the single main street and proceeded slowly. Starbuck, brushing at the freshly accumulated sweat on his forehead, pointed at what evidently was the largest saloon—the Maricopa.
“Don’t know about you, but a beer is the only thing that’s going to cut the cotton out of my throat. What do you say we stop there first?”
“Suits me,” Mason replied indifferently.
Together they swung from the street’s center, rode up to the hitchrack, and dismounted. In that next moment Shawn was aware of motion directly behind them. He threw a glance over his shoulder. A man wearing the star of a town marshal pinned to the pocket of his plaid shirt and carrying a Wells-Fargo shotgun was advancing slowly. A half-dozen men, all armed, accompanied him.
Starbuck frowned, slid a look to Mason. He, also, was aware of the group, was watching them with dark, fathomless eyes. All the ease that had erased his earlier attitude had melted away, and he was again the bitter, deeply withdrawn man he had been in the blistered depths of the sink.
Stepping away from the hitchrack, Shawn pushed his worn, sweat-stained old hat to the back of his head, moved along the flank of the sorrel until he stood at the gelding’s hindquarters. Leaning against the horse, he considered the oncoming lawman and his supporters stoically. On the whole he respected the men who wore the star of authority and ordinarily got along well with them, but there were those who made nuisances of themselves; this one appeared to fall in that category.
“What’s on your mind, marshal?” he asked in a patient voice.
The lawman came to a halt, his eyes narrowing as his lips pulled into a tight line. He flicked Starbuck with a sharp glance, turned his attention to Mason. The other men—merchants and town elders, Shawn supposed—ranged about him, forming a half-circle. Other persons were coming now, attracted by the conflux in the street.
A tall individual standing directly behind the lawman swore, said: “By God, it is him!” in a strained voice, and drew his pistol. The man next him looked familiar—one of the pair who had been in the buggy.
Patient, Shawn waited in the burning sunlight while the small clouds of dust lifting from beneath the shuffling feet of the citizenry drifted aimlessly about. This was no ordinary confrontation between a small town’s officialdom and unwelcome drifters being invited to move on, he realized. This was much more—and undoubtedly serious.
“Asked you a question, marshal,” he pressed firmly.
The lawman flashed him a hard glance, and cradling the shotgun, faced his companion. “All right, Mason Lynch—put your hands up!”
“Means you too, saddle tramp,” the tall man who had earlier drawn his pistol added, motioning at Starbuck.
The marshal threw a confirming look at Shawn, made a gesture with the shotgun. “Now—the both of you—head for jail.”
Five
The marshal had called his trail partner Mason Lynch. Shawn pondered that as temper stirred through him. He’d been misled, not actually lied to, perhaps, but the truth had been withheld for some reason, and that rankled him; for now he was finding himself again in the position he continually sought to avoid—that of getting involved in someone else’s troubles.
Anger for this man he had helped but who had seen fit to deceive him brimmed suddenly, spilled over, spattered also the lawman.
“The hell with you, marshal,” he said in a quiet, flat voice. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some reasons.”
The lawman’s face colored and the shotgun in his hands came up warningly. “You being with Lynch is all the reason I need.”
“For you, maybe—not for me. There some law against bumping into a man on the trail, riding with him?”
“You lay down with a dog, you’d best figure on some fleas,” the marshal said, wagging the shotgun suggestively. “You coming along, or am I going to take you?”
Shawn drew himself up fully, glanced out over the threatening crowd. Half-turning, he caught Mason’s eye, saw the look of helpless frustration on his bitter features, heard the plea in his voice.
“Do what he says. This whole bunch is trigger-happy. I’ll try to make Huckaby believe you once we’re inside.”
Starbuck shrugged, moved out into the ankle-deep dust, and took his place beside Mason. One of the men in the crowd, a husky, wide-shouldered, well-dressed blond with neatly trimmed mustache and beard, stepped in behind him, shoved him roughly.
“Damned gunslinging saddlebum, coming here. We ought to—”
Starbuck, anger again boiling over, swung a lightning-fast right fist, caught the man full center of his belly. The blond gasped. His eyes bulged as his color changed to a pasty white. Hands clutched to his middle, he took a few faltering steps backward, sat down hard.
Huckaby whirled, shotgun once more lifted. “You try that again, I’ll bend this over your head!”
The faintest smile pulled at Starbuck’s lips, but there was no humor there, only a quiet self-assurance.
“Tell him, and anybody else with the same notion,” he said coolly, “they’d best keep their paws off me. I don’t take a roughing up from any man—including the ones who wear a star.”
Huckaby kept the twin black circles of the shotgun’s muzzle drifting back and forth over Starbuck and Mason Lynch.
“I’m taking that as a threat.”
“Makes no difference to me. I’ve done nothing to get jailed for. Your reasons for doing it had better be good.”
The marshal, a thin, graying man with a hook nose, full sweeping mustache, and small, black eyes that peered out from the deep sockets of a heavily veined face, nodded slowly.
“You’ve heard it.”
“No reason far as I’m concerned.”
In the tense, hot silence of the street the only sound was the retching of the man Starbuck had struck. Huckaby said: “That’s because you don’t know nothing. Get inside. I’ll do my talking there. Rest of you people,” he added, not taking his glance off his two prisoners, “clear out. I want help, I’ll ask for it.”
Shawn, shoulders stirring in resignation, moved on with Mason Lynch at his side. The crowd, ignoring the lawman’s order, followed. As they stepped up onto the landing fronting the jail, Shawn looked back, saw several men helping the blond, still holding tight to his belly, into the Maricopa Saloon. Starbuck reckoned he shouldn’t have hit the man such a punishing blow, but he’d asked for it.
“Keep your hands up,” Huckaby ordered crisply, hurrying into the room behind them. “Stand over there against the wall—facing it.”
Mason complied obediently. Starbuck, anger never decreasing, followed reluctantly. When he had taken his position, the lawman dropped back to the doorway.
“Homer—you and Pete Fortney, come in here. You t
oo, Spearman. Want some witnesses.” Huckaby paused, and as the men summoned thumped into the heat-packed little office, he asked the crowd in general: “How about Kemmer? He hurt bad?”
“Nope,” a voice replied. “Got knocked loose from his wind—and doing some puking. Said it felt like that jasper drove a knife clean through him.”
The lawman grunted. “Well, you tell him if he gets to feeling right, he’s to come over here. Being on the town council, he’s in this, too.”
Boot heels rapped on the bare floor again as the marshal turned back into the room. Shawn felt the weight on his hip lighten as his pistol was yanked from its holster.
“Turn around.”
At the lawman’s command Starbuck wheeled slowly, stiffly, keeping a tight grip on himself as he faced the four men standing behind the desk at the opposite end of the sweltering office. All were sweating freely, and one, a dark-bearded, elderly man, drew out a red bandanna, mopped nervously at his neck.
“Hurry this up, Virg,” he said peevishly. “I got my place to look after.”
Shawn took a half-step forward, words forming on his lips, checked when he felt Mason’s finger press into his arm.
“Hold off. I got you into this—let me try getting you out.”
“Be none of that!” Huckaby barked. “I want you to talk, I’ll tell you.”
Mason’s shoulders stirred with indifference. “Happens this man here’s my friend—only one I’ve got, far as I know—and I don’t aim to see him hoorawed on account of me.”
Huckaby laid the shotgun across the desk where it would be within quick reach, wagged his head. Pulling off his hat, he dropped it beside the gun.
“Don’t try peddling that bull to me, Lynch. I know you and I figure anybody running with you’s going to be the same stripe. What are you doing here?”
The arrogance of the question was like a slap in the face to Starbuck. “This is a free country. Expect he can go anyplace he likes!”
“Don’t apply to him,” commented the second of the men the lawman had called in—a balding, fat man with the smell of a livery stable to him.