Badlanders

by David Robbins

  Smiling and returning the waves of the well-wishers, Edana felt her happiness suddenly shattered when she saw her sister glaring at her. Before Edana could call out and ask what the matter was, Neal whisked her indoors.

  Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and for the life of her, Edana had no idea what it might be. She personally carried a piece of cake out to give Isolda and question her, and was stunned to find out that her sister and the gambler had already left for town.

  Edana didn’t know what to make of it. One thing she knew, though. It didn’t bode well

  It didn’t bode well at all.

  33

  Three months later

  When Holland wasn’t breaking broncs, he worked the range like the rest of the hands.

  On a crisp autumn morning he was twenty miles from the home ranch, searching for strays in a rugged area of mostly rock and sandstone, when he heard a shot. Several bluffs caused an echo. Reining up, he cocked his head, trying to pinpoint the direction. He hoped there would be another, but there wasn’t.

  Gigging his horse, Holland trotted to a tract of spires and slabs. He wound through them cautiously.

  Beyond stretched a flat dotted with scrub brush and mesquite. And there, out in the middle, lay a steer.

  And the man who had shot it.

  Holland drew rein. The shooter apparently hadn’t heard him, and was intent on cutting meat from the body. Sliding his Colt from its holster, Holland cocked it. He was no gun hand. Like most cowboys, he regarded his revolver as just another tool of his trade. He’d killed a few rattlers with it and once he shot a rabbit for the supper pot, but that was all. Scarcely breathing, he moved his horse forward at a walk. He needed to be closer to be sure of not missing.

  The cow killer wore a floppy hat that had seen a lot of use and, of all things, an old bear-hide coat. Hunkered down, he was slicing away with a bowie. His back was partly to Holland, and the bronc buster couldn’t see the man’s face.

  Then the man’s horse, a paint with a saddle but no bedroll or saddlebags, raised its head and pricked its ears in Holland’s direction, and whinnied.

  Instantly the cow killer stood and whirled. He looked to be as old as his hat and his coat, and had a mane of gray hair. Bending, he scooped a rifle off the ground, shoved the bowie into a sheath, and vaulted onto the paint with an agility that belied his years.

  “Hold it right there, mister!” Holland hollered.

  The cow killer did no such thing. Reining around, he flew to the north.

  With a jab of his spurs, Holland gave chase. He extended his Colt but didn’t shoot. He might hit the horse and he never, ever harmed a horse if he could help it.

  That paint could move. Raising swirls of dust, it reached the other side of the flat and started up a rise.

  Holland wasn’t expecting the cow killer to turn on him, but that’s exactly what the man did. Suddenly reining broadside and stopping, the man jerked his rifle to his shoulder. A Sharps, unless Holland was mistaken. No sooner had that registered than the Sharps boomed and it felt as if a sledgehammer had struck Holland in the shoulder. The impact lifted him from his saddle and sent him crashing to earth. He lost his six-shooter and his hat, and lay dazed in a welter of pain.

  Shock began to set in.

  Holland fought it. He was bleeding, bleeding badly, and if he passed out, he might never wake up.

  Belatedly, Holland became aware of slow hoofbeats. Struggling to stay conscious, he blinked up into the glare of the sun. Without warning, it was blocked out by the cow killer and the paint.

  The man pointed the Sharps. “Did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Holland gasped in confusion.

  “Did you kill him? Were you the one?”

  “Mister,” Holland got out. “I’ve never killed anybody in my life.”

  The cow killer bent down. He had gray eyes to match his gray hair, and there was a fierce glint to them. “I reckon I believe you. You get to live. Tell them others I’ll find the one who did, and when I do, there’ll be hell to pay.” With that he straightened and reined around.

  “Wait,” Holland called out.

  The drum of the paint’s hooves faded.

  With an effort, Holland rose onto his elbows. The cow killer was just going over the rise. “Hold on!” Holland tried again, but it was no use.

  Gritting his teeth, Holland sat up. He saw his hat and jammed it on his head, and his Colt and jammed that in his holster. His horse had gone another dozen yards and stopped. He tried to whistle, but his mouth was too dry. Swallowing a few times, he tried again, and the roan returned, as he’d taught it. He snagged a stirrup and with considerable difficulty managed to pull himself to his feet. Leaning against the roan to keep from falling, he gripped the saddle horn with his good arm and attempted to pull himself onto his saddle. He was too weak. More from the shock than anything, he reckoned, and took deep breaths to steady himself.

  Holland tried again. This time he got his leg up and over and then sat slumped in the saddle, his head pounding.

  His shirt was wet with blood. He had to reach camp and get help.

  The ride was a nightmare. He blacked out several times. Each time he expected to wake up on the ground, but somehow he stayed on the roan.

  Holland lost all track of time. It could have been an hour, it could have been two, when he saw the wagon and the horse string and several cowboys around the fire.

  He tried to call to them, but he couldn’t yell loud enough to get their attention. His chest felt numb, and he was light-headed.

  He blacked out again.

  The next Holland knew, hands were on him, lowering him. He was aware of voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. A face floated above him, a face he should know but couldn’t seem to place. As if from down a long tunnel, a voice reached him.

  “. . . did this to you, Holland? Who shot you?”

  “The cow killer,” Holland croaked. “Fetch Neal.”

  Blackness devoured him.

  • • •

  Neal Bonner was on the front porch with Edana in matching rocking chairs, enjoying the spectacle of the setting sun.

  “This is one of my favorite times of the day,” Edana remarked. “All the work is done and we can be together.”

  It was one of Neal’s favorite times, too. He liked quiet moments with her, just the two of them and no one else.

  Neal had never imagined married life could be so grand. They got along so well, sometimes it astounded him. He considered himself incredibly lucky to have met a gal like her. That she’d cared for him enough to marry him was a miracle.

  “Who can that be in such a hurry?”

  Neal looked in the direction Edana was gazing. A puncher was coming from the north, riding hell-bent, lashing his horse with his reins in a way a cowboy would only do in an emergency. “Trouble,” he said, and was off the porch waiting when the puncher galloped up and came to a sliding stop.

  “Neal!” the hand exclaimed. His name was Aldon. “It’s the cow killer.”

  “He’s shot another steer?”

  “And Holland, too.”

  Edana gasped.

  “Is he . . . ?” Neal said.

  “He almost was,” Aldon said. “He’d lost a lot of blood, but we managed to pull him through. He’s weak as a kitten and can’t be moved, but he’ll live.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Edana said.

  Neal barked orders. He told Aldon to go to the bunkhouse and tell Jericho, Billy, and Yeager to saddle their horses and be ready to head out in half an hour. Aldon was to get a fresh horse and lead them back.

  Nodding, the puncher clucked to his lathered animal.

  “This is terrible, Neal,” Edana said. “I should go with you.”

  “No.” Neal turned and went up the porch steps. She caught up with him as he e
ntered their parlor.

  “I’ll bring bandages. And I have some tincture in the cabinet that helps prevent infection.”

  “No,” Neal said again. He stepped to where he had propped his Winchester a couple of days ago, picked it up, and stuck it under his arm. He turned to go, but Edana planted herself in his path.

  “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  Edana put her hands on her hips. “We run the Diamond B together. We make decisions together. We do things together.”

  “Not this.” Neal started to go around, but she caught hold of his sleeve.

  “You’re being unreasonable. I want to talk this out.”

  “There’s nothin’ to talk about,” Neal said. “No means no.”

  Edana regarded him in baffled hurt and puzzlement. “This is the first time you’ve ever done anything like this.”

  “Like what? Puttin’ my foot down?”

  “You’re treating me as if I’m inferior somehow. As if I’m a child who must be protected from herself.”

  Neal was anxious to get to the stable and saddle up. Instead he grasped her hand and led her to settee. He bid her sit and she did, but he stayed standing. “First off, when it comes to brains, I’m the one who’s inferior, as you put it. You think rings around me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.” She went to respond, but he held up his hand. “I’m not done. As for you bein’ a child, that’s plumb ridiculous. But you are my wife, and it’s a man’s duty to look out for his runnin’ mate.”

  “I don’t need looking after,” Edana said. “I’m perfectly capable of holding my own in a man’s world.”

  “Us men run things? That’s news to me.” Neal tried to make light of her anger. “Seems to me that women do more of the bossin’ than men do.”

  Edana wasn’t amused. “Give me one good reason why you don’t want me to come. And I do mean good.”

  “Have you ever shot anybody?”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  “Could you?”

  Edana hesitated.

  “You see? That could get you killed.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Neal was patient with her. “Whoever this cow killer is, he has no qualms about killin’ people, too. And when someone is out to shoot you, the only way to stop him is to shoot him first. Hesitate like you just did and you’re dead.”

  “Is that your reason?”

  “I care for you too much to let you be hurt, or worse,” Neal said. “If that’s not good enough, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t like being treated this way,” Edana said. “I don’t like it at all.”

  “Then stay here for my sake.”

  “Yours?”

  “If you come with us, I’ll be so worried I won’t be able to do my job. We catch up to that cow killer, I’ll be thinkin’ about you and not what needs doin’, and that could get me hurt, or worse.”

  Edana chewed on her bottom lip, then said, “When you put it that way.”

  “You’ll stay?”

  “I will. But just so you know. The next time you want me to do something, ask. Don’t order me. Don’t boss me around like I’m one of the hands. I’m your wife. I deserve better. I deserve respect.”

  “There’s no one in this whole world I respect more,” Neal declared, and bending, he kissed her. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Bonner, there’s a coyote who needs tendin’ to.”

  “Give the bastard hell.”

  “Oh, Edana.”

  She laughed.

  Neal grinned and was still grinning when he reached the stable. His saddle and saddle blanket were in the tack room. When he led the buttermilk out, Jericho, Billy, Yeager, and Aldon were waiting on their mounts.

  Neal nodded and climbed onto the buttermilk. No one said anything as he reined to the north. Edana was on the porch, looking apprehensive. He smiled and waved. She waved, but she didn’t smile.

  The sun had set and twilight was falling. The first star had appeared and it wouldn’t be long before more did the same.

  Jericho brought his zebra dun alongside the buttermilk. “Your missus ain’t happy about you goin’?”

  “You read minds now?” Neal rejoined.

  “She didn’t smile.”

  Neal sighed. “You notice everything, don’t you?”

  “Try to,” Jericho said.

  Just then Aldon brought his horse up on Neal’s other side. “I almost forgot,” he said. “There’s more.”

  “I’m listenin’,” Neal said.

  “Holland wanted me to be sure to tell you what the cow killer said to him. He reckoned it might be important.”

  Neal had assumed that the killer shot Holland from a ways off. “They talked?”

  “The killer did most of it. He asked Holland if he’d killed somebody. When Holland said he hadn’t, the killer rode off.”

  Neal glanced at Jericho. “Make any sense to you?”

  “Not a lick.”

  They settled down for a long night’s ride.

  Neal spent the first hour or so thinking about Edana and her sister. Edana hadn’t heard from Isolda since the wedding, and she was anxious to go talk to her. He hoped she didn’t do it while he was gone.

  Midnight came and went. A crescent moon provided enough light to see by, and the wind, for once, was still.

  Neal held to a walk in order not to tire the horses more than was necessary. It would take them until almost dawn to get there, and after a short rest, they’d head out again after the killer while his trail was still fresh.

  Occasionally a coyote yipped. Once, far off, a wolf howled. Another time, a cougar screamed.

  Finally they arrived. All the punchers were up and standing around looking miserable.

  Neal’s gut clenched when he spied a blanket draped over a body. He had no sooner drawn rein than the punchers converged.

  “Holland didn’t make it,” one said. “We thought he was doin’ all right, but he passed away in the middle of the night.”

  “Well, damn,” Billy said.

  “I liked that hombre,” Yeager said.

  “Grab a bite to eat,” Neal directed. “We’re goin’ after the cow killer as soon as the sun is up, and this time we’re not givin’ up no matter what.”

  34

  The spot where Holland was shot was easy enough to find. They backtracked his horse.

  The dead steer lay where it had fallen, its haunch only partially cut away. Flies had swarmed to the feast and rose in a cloud when Neal climbed down.

  “Doesn’t stink too bad yet,” Billy remarked.

  “Give it a week,” Yeager said.

  Jericho didn’t say anything.

  Neal had left the rest of the hands at the camp. Why put them in danger when there wasn’t any need to? was his reasoning. He walked in a circle around the steer and over to where hoofprints led to the north. They were overlaid on tracks coming from the north. “He went back the way he came.”

  “I have a feelin’ about this,” Billy said. “We might get lucky this time.”

  “Let’s hope,” Yeager said.

  Without being asked, Jericho assumed the lead. The tracks were plain enough that a ten-year-old could follow them, for the first mile, at least. Then, as before, the cow killer cut across rocky ground where his horse left little sign. Jericho dismounted and searched on foot. He soon found scrape marks that pointed them to the northwest.

  As they resumed their hunt, Neal slid his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, jacked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber, and slid the rifle into the scabbard again. He liked being prepared.

  Several times Jericho climbed down to examine the ground. In each instance he said, “Lost the trail.” And in a minute or two he’d find it again.

&nbs
p; Neal curbed his impatience. They mustn’t slip up. They’d lost too many steers, and now one of their own.

  The sun climbed and so did the temperature.

  Jericho never once gave up. He stuck at it with the persistence of a coon hound on a scent.

  This was the longest they’d ever been able to follow the killer’s trail. Neal was encouraged, if guardedly so. They’d lost the sign too many times before to take anything for granted.

  Then they came to a tableland with patches of green. The tracks pointed up a grassy incline.

  Jericho drew rein at the bottom. “I don’t like it,” he said, scanning the heights. “It’s a good spot for an ambush.”

  “Oh, hell,” Billy said. “The cow killer is so used to gettin’ clean way, I bet you a dollar he doesn’t know we’re after him.”

  “Listen to Jericho, kid,” Yeager said. “He’s not wet behind the ears, like you.”

  “Wet, am I?” Billy retorted, and tapped his spurs to his horse. Passing them, he glanced over his shoulder. “See? You’re worried over nothin’.”

  “Billy, wait,” Neal said. He trusted Jericho’s instincts.

  “The last one to the top is a rotten egg,” Billy said.

  The boom of a heavy-caliber rifle was nearly simultaneous with part of Billy’s head exploding in a shower of hair and brains. As if slammed by a battering ram, he was hurled from his saddle and crashed to earth in a heap.

  “Hunt cover!” Neal bawled, hauling on his reins. He galloped toward a cluster of boulders, bent low to make less of a target.

  The rifle boomed again and a horse squealed in agony.

  Yeager’s mount had been hit and plunged into a roll. Yeager kicked free of the stirrups and pushed at the saddle to get clear but didn’t make it. The horse came down on top of him. There was the loud crack and crunch of bones, and he cried out. The next moment both he and his mount lay still in the dust, Yeager partly under his animal, his head bent at an angle no head was ever meant to bend.

  Neal reached the boulders. Galloping behind one that would shield the buttermilk, he vaulted down, shucked his Winchester, darted to a smaller boulder, and crouched.

  Jericho hadn’t gone for the boulders. He was racing around the incline to the north, hanging on the offside, Comanche-fashion. In less than a minute he went around a bend and was lost to view.