Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3)

by Neil Hunter

  The flat whip-crack report of a rifle going off told him he was wrong in thinking along those lines.

  Jim felt the bullet pass him. It was that close. It was the first time he’d ever been shot at, but he reacted with an assurance that spoke more of pure desperation than practical experience. Jim let his boots slip from the stirrups, then left the back of his horse in an uncontrolled lunge towards the ground. He hit hard, the breath driven from his lungs, scrambling frantically for the closest cover — a low hummock yards to his left. Stumbling, sweat beading his face, he hurled himself behind the grassy mound a fraction of a second ahead of another shot that still tore a painful furrow across the top of his right shoulder. Jim slithered belly down, clawing his holstered Colt free.

  The rattling echo of the rifle shots faded into silence. Jim hugged the ground, conscious of a nagging hurt where the bullet had gouged his shoulder; he could feel the sticky ooze of warm blood trickling down his back; a queasy sensation filled his stomach. Drawing himself close in to the base of the hummock he raised his head and peered across the tufted him.

  He figured that the shots had come from the shadowed brush that flanked a stand of timber a couple of hundred yards across from him. Jim studied the area for a while; it had to be the place; there was no other cover close to. A movement off to his extreme left brought his head round with a snap; it was only his horse, moving restlessly.

  Jim wished he was back in the saddle, digging in his heels and putting some distance between himself and the sneaky son of a bitch who’d tried to put a bullet in his back.

  The gun in Jim’s hand suddenly weighed heavy. He glanced down at it, the realization of what holding it implied — that he was thinking about taking another man’s life. The thought scared him for a moment, but then he recalled Tyree’s words. Sweetwater’s lawman had been right. This was no game. It was deadly serious, and the man who didn’t think straight was liable to end the loser. And in this kind of situation the loser didn’t walk away when it was all over.

  All right, you back-shooting bastard, let’s see you try it when your target’s facing you with a gun in his hand!

  Jim had no intention of lying where he was for the rest of the day so he rolled away from the hummock, and dismissing the thought that he was probably doing a stupid thing, he came to his feet and ran directly for the brush in front of him. If he’d sat and thought about it he wouldn’t have contemplated it, but he was good and mad, and that was as good an excuse as any.

  He loosed off three spaced-out shots as he ran, changing his aim with each bullet, laying them along the span of the brush. As the third shot crashed out there was a noisy thrashing in the brush. As Jim twisted in that direction he caught a blurred glimpse of a dark figure bursting out of the brush; he had time for a quick impression of a bearded brown face, lips peeled back from large white teeth in a snarl of anger; there was a dark-blue shirt with a wide stain of red spreading across one side, just above the belt. He saw too the long rifle in the man’s hands, sunlight glittering coldly on the steel barrel as the weapon was jerked into line with Jim’s body. Jim went down on one knee, then forward, rolling desperately. Dimly he heard the heavy slam of the rifle as it fired. He felt dirt sting the side of his face as the bullet whacked the ground inches from him. Then he was throwing out his left hand to steady himself, his right bringing up the Colt in a smooth arc, finger surprisingly relaxed against the trigger. He held his aim for no more than a fraction of a second, then fired, dogged back the hammer and fired again. The blue-shirted man gave a hurt groan; his arms flew wide and skywards and he arched backwards, rising almost to the tips of his toes before toppling like a felled tree. His rifle flew from nerveless fingers, spinning over and over, catching the sun as it dropped to earth.

  For a long time Jim stayed where he was. His eyes were fixed on the man he’d shot, almost as if he didn’t accept what had actually happened. It seemed an eternity before he stood up, glancing around, then walked slowly to where the man was lying.

  ‘ ... done for me, you son of a bitch,’ the man was saying as Jim neared him; he was badly hurt yet his words came clearly and with considerable force.

  ‘You didn’t give me much choice,’ Jim said. He became conscious of his gun, still dangling from his hand. He put it away as he knelt beside the man. He noticed there was a grubby bandage tied around the man’s left thigh, the soiled cloth crusted with dark, dried blood. ‘You catch that back in Sweetwater?’

  The man grinned quickly, showing his large teeth. ‘Damn lawman. Figured he was out of it, but the bastard still put one in me.’

  Jim shoved his hat to the back of his head. He could hardly believe his luck. There he’d been thinking he was going to lose Parsons and his bunch and now he had one of them right in front of him.

  ‘Why’d they leave you behind?’ he asked.

  The man didn’t answer for a while. He started coughing, pink froth bubbling from his lips. He drew in a few deep breaths. Then he stared at Jim, anger bright in his eyes.

  ‘Ain’t right for one man to catch all the bad luck,’ he stated. ‘I catch the damn bullet back in Sweetwater. Then those pissants leave me ‘cause I can’t stay in the saddle. Now you come along and shoot me to pieces. Jesus Christ, boy, life can be real miserable to a feller if she takes a mind.’

  ‘Knew a preacher once who used to say every man sows his own seed an’ collects the harvest.’

  The man scowled darkly up at Jim. ‘Meanin’ what?’

  ‘I guess it means you get what you deserve.’

  ‘Boy, you’re gettin’ to be a pain in the ass! I had me a feelin’ you’d be trouble soon as I spotted you trailin’ us.’

  ‘That why you took a shot at me?’

  The man chuckled softly. ‘Would have blowed you in half if I hadn’t got the fever from that hole in my leg.’ He spotted the blood staining the shoulder of Jim’s shirt. ‘Seems I clipped you anyways.’

  ‘Why bother trying to stop me after your partners rode off and left you?’

  The man looked hurt. ‘Hell, boy, they’re my friends. Shit, you don’t ‘spect me to sit back an’ allow you to ride on an’ mebbe get the drop on ’em! What do you take me for?’

  Confusion crowded Jim’s mind. He couldn’t understand the man’s logic; later, though, thinking about it he did begin to see the man’s reasoning; the rest of the bunch were his friends, probably the only true friends he’d ever had, and though they’d left him behind for their collective survival, he still felt obligated when they were threatened.

  ‘You want to tell me where they’re heading?’ Jim asked.

  ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘Jim Travis.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something, Jim Travis. There ain’t no way I’m going to tell you a damn thing. Now you save your breath an’ let me die in peace. Least you can do for me seeing as you put me on the path.’

  Jim walked away from the dying man, knowing there wasn’t a thing he could do. He collected his horse and led it to a tree, looping the reins. Then he reloaded his Colt and after a while he went back to where the man lay.

  ‘Quit all that creeping around,’ the man said. ‘I ain’t dead yet, Jim Travis, so just ease off.’ He closed his eyes against a rise of pain, sweat glistening on his face. Then: ‘Just why are you so eager to find Luke an’ the boys?’

  ‘I had money in the Sweetwater bank,’ Jim told him. ‘You took it and I want it back.’

  ‘Hell, I didn’t figure you for a rich man. How much we talkin’ about?’

  ‘Three thousand dollars.’

  ‘You must miss that money awful bad to think about takin’ on old Luke an’ his boys.’

  ‘Damn right I do,’ Jim said.

  The man didn’t ask any more questions. When Jim took a close look he found the man had quietly died. He moved away and started to search for stones to cover the body. It took him a long time. Searching for a couple of lengths of timber Jim fashioned a rough cross and wedged it upright between a c
ouple of flat rocks. It was all he could do for a man whose name he didn’t even know.

  Jim found the man’s horse tethered in the trees. He unsaddled the animal and took off the bridle before he turned the beast loose. The horse wandered around for a while before it cut off across the slope and vanished from sight.

  Jim climbed into his saddle and rode on. His shoulder was giving him a fair amount of pain but he wanted to get away from that hill and the mound of stones.

  He kept riding until he reached the far end of the valley. Here he dismounted on the bank of the creek he’d first seen earlier. He took off his shirt and washed the wound in his shoulder. The cold water made the tender edges of the gouge tingle. Jim fished a clean kerchief out of his saddlebag and tied it clumsily across the top of his shoulder, bringing the ends under his arm. It wasn’t the best bandage but it was going to have to do until something better came along.

  Near the north end of the valley Jim picked up clear tracks; they showed that the bunch of riders were still making for the high country. Jim set his horse up the slope before him. As an afterthought he took out his rifle, checking that it was ready for use, and set it across the front of his saddle.

  It started to rain about mid-afternoon. Jim had watched the big dark clouds scudding across the high peaks. He was almost able to predict the moment when the rain would start. As the first drops spattered his face Jim realized that he was going to be riding directly into the storm. He reached behind him and loosened his slicker. He drew it over his head, dragging the folds of water-proof material down to cover his body. He fastened the neck and jammed his hat back on seconds before the full force of the gathering storm barreled down off the distant peaks ... heavy rain, driven by a rising wind, battered him. It stung his exposed face, ripping the breath from his throat. Jim lowered his head, narrowing his eyes while around him the grass and brush was mercilessly hammered by the elemental fury of the storm. The ground, previously hard-dry, swiftly became waterlogged. Overhead the sullen, dark-glowering clouds blotted out the blue of the sky. The light faded and the shadows lengthened.

  Jim watched with dismay as the sluicing rain washed away the line of tracks he was following. He stared ahead, peering through the silver mist of rain. The rain couldn’t last forever, he reasoned. And somewhere up ahead he could pick up those tracks again. One way or another he would ... he had to …

  Chapter Four

  He came on the small homestead in the final period of dusk. The light was slipping away quickly now. Already the high peaks were lost in a curtain of shadow and pouring rain. Jim might have ridden clear by the place if a lamp hadn’t been lit inside the house, showing as a muted orange glow against the darker surroundings. He reined in his horse, gazing down the gentle slope beyond, eyes straining to make out the shape of the house and the outbuildings. He could make out the skeletal forms of corrals too.

  Sitting there in the cold, with the rain dripping off the brim of his sodden hat, Jim debated whether to ride on or call at the house. His desire to make some kind of contact with the Parsons bunch was stifled by an admittance over the futility of riding on. It would be full dark soon and the storm showed no signs of slacking off; he wasn’t going to achieve very much by wandering around the mountains all night; better to get a good night’s rest, then move off at daylight. The thought of warm food and a dry place to sleep did a lot to persuade Jim to give up his pursuit of the Parsons bunch for the time being.

  Jim cut down the slope and across the muddy yard in front of the house. He climbed stiffly down out of the saddle, his boots sinking into the soft earth. With his rifle in the crook of his arm he stepped to the door and knocked on the weathered panel. Nothing happened for a minute or so. Jim was about to knock again when he heard a bolt being drawn. The door eased open slightly, and then abruptly was thrown wide open.

  Before Jim could react a dark figure appeared in the doorway, and the round black muzzles of a double-barreled shotgun were jammed painfully against his chest.

  ‘You just stand there, mister, and don’t move until I tell you to.’

  The voice was young and female — but that didn’t lessen the potential danger of Jim’s position.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what’s got you all upset, but I ain’t part of it.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘My name’s Jim Travis. I’ve ridden up this damn mountain from a town called Sweetwater. About five days back Luke Parsons and his bunch robbed the bank and took every dollar in the place. Some of that money was mine and I want it back.’

  The shotgun withdrew. The door was flooded with lamplight and Jim took his first look at the girl behind the shotgun.

  ‘Come in out of the rain, Jim Travis, and welcome. I’m Jenny Mulchay.’

  ‘My horse is ...’

  A slim hand reached out and drew him through the door. ‘You look like a man who’s ridden a long way. Get rid of that wet slicker and then take yourself over to the fire. There’s a pot of coffee freshly made. Help yourself. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘I can see to my own horse,’ Jim protested. ‘No call for you to get soaked.’

  ‘You’re a guest,’ the girl said, her voice muffled by the folds of the heavy slicker she was donning. ‘Besides this is a horse ranch, and I can find my round in the dark better than you could. So don’t argue, Jim Travis.’

  The door closed with a solid thump as she went out, leaving him alone.

  Jim stood and took a long look around the big, low-ceilinged room. It was solid and comfortable, giving off an air of permanence. The warm air exuded mingled odors. The smell of tangy wood smoke from the open hearth. The rich flavor of coffee. Jim thought he could smell meat roasting too and the warm smell of fresh-baked bread — unless his mind was in league with his stomach, playing tricks on him.

  He became aware of rainwater dripping from his slicker onto the smooth-worn floorboards. He leaned his rifle against the wall and took the slicker off, hanging it on one of the pegs set into the wall beside the door. He dropped his hat over the top of the slicker, then turned and ventured deeper into the room. As he neared the fire, welcoming the heat that radiated from it, the aroma of hot coffee proved irresistible. The coffee pot, polished and gleaming, stood on a stone ledge at one side of the hearth. There was a china mug beside it and a small bowl of sugar. Jim poured himself a generous mugful, spooning in sugar. He took the drink and perched himself on the edge of a fat leather armchair.

  The heat from the crackling fire lulled his senses. Overhead he could hear the steady drum of the rain on the roof. He drank the coffee, feeling it warm him deep down. He leaned back, allowing the heat from the fire to wash over him. The chair was so comfortable. It felt good. Real good ...

  Something snapped him out of it. Jim sat up with a jerk, almost spilling the remains of the coffee out of the mug. His eyes focused on the shape kneeling before the fire.

  ‘Steady there, Jim Travis, it’s only me.’

  Jim stared at the smiling girl. His first impression was of bright, penetrating eyes and a full, mobile mouth. A mass of dark hair curling around a face that was nothing less than beautiful.

  ‘Sorry to be so rude, ma’am,’ Jim apologized. He stood up, awkward in her presence, feeling as if he had taken advantage of her hospitality.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, craning her neck to stare up at him. ‘Now just you stand still long enough for me to say a few words.’

  She rose to her feet and Jim was surprised to see how tall she was. Nor was she skinny, which almost always was the case with tall girls. She was wearing a much-washed check shirt and bleached Levis; shirt and pants had both been designed with men in mind and no accounting had been made for a full-breasted female with supple hips and long, trim legs.

  ‘I’ve stabled and fed your horse,’ Jenny said. ‘I brought across your saddlebags and put them by the door. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  He caught a defiant sparkle in her eyes �
� which he now saw were brown — and then she said firmly: ‘It’s Miss — not ma’am — but the name is Jenny.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem proper calling you by your first name ... ’

  ‘While you’re under this roof, Jim Travis, you’ll oblige me by doing what I ask!’

  ‘All right — Jenny.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s go and eat.’

  On the far side of the room stood a heavy table, obviously made by some caring hands. Four chairs ringed the table.

  ‘Sit down,’ Jenny said.

  Jim seated himself. An open doorway led to a kitchen area built onto the rear of the main house. Jenny had vanished through the door and he could hear her moving around. Now he realized he hadn’t been imagining the cooking meat. Jenny appeared shortly with a couple of plates and a large platter holding a joint of beef. She placed the things on the table and returned to the kitchen for dishes of browned potatoes and green vegetables. There was also a jug of rich gravy and a heaped plate of hot biscuits.

  ‘Still hungry?’ she asked as she sat down.

  Jim found himself grinning. ‘Yes.’

  She carved him thick slices of beef, heaping on potatoes and greens. While she served herself Jim helped himself to gravy and biscuits.

  ‘You say the Parsons gang robbed the Sweetwater bank?’ Jenny asked after they had been eating for a while.

  Jim nodded. ‘Cleaned it out. Killed a man doing it and wounded the sheriff.’

  ‘Sam Tyree?’ Concern clouded Jenny’s face. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘No. He took a bullet through the leg. He’ll be on his feet again in a month or so.’ Jim glanced up from his plate. ‘You know Sam?’

  ‘Yes. He’s an old friend of my father.’

  ‘Your father runs this place?’ Jim asked. He’d been wondering about the ranch’s men.

  Jenny took a slow mouthful of food. ‘He does when he’s here,’ she said.

  Her tone caused Jim to stare at her. ‘Where is he now?’