Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3)

by Neil Hunter

  Jenny didn’t answer immediately. She ran a trembling hand through her tangled hair.

  ‘He in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Jenny said. ‘He ... he’s out on that mountain somewhere. Chasing the Parsons gang.’

  ‘They’ve been here?’

  ‘Yes. They rode in two days ago and stole horses to replace theirs. Dad refused to just stand back and let them get away with it. He tried to stop them. They just laughed at him and beat him until he couldn’t stand. They could have killed him. After they’d gone I dragged him inside the house and got him cleaned up. I thought it was done with. But when I woke up the next morning Dad had gone. He left me a note telling me what he was doing. He told me not to worry. He said he just wanted his horses back.’

  ‘I know how he feels,’ Jim said. ‘It’s the same kind of feeling that brought me up here.’

  Jenny’s eyes blazed with frustrated anger. ‘You men and your damned pride.’

  ‘When it’s all a man has he doesn’t like losing it.’

  ‘For half a dozen horses? For a handful of money?’

  ‘The money’s part of it, Jenny, but there’s more to it,’ Jim explained. ‘For me it’s five years out of my life. Five years of sweat and aching bones. Being frozen in winter and baked in summer. I reckon your father will be carrying the same notion.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘I can see there’s no sense talking to you about it. You’re on his side.’

  After the meal they sat in front of the fire with fresh mugs of coffee.

  ‘What are you saving the money for?’ Jenny asked.

  Jim smiled across at her. ‘I want my own place. So I can be my own boss.’

  ‘Cattle?’

  ‘Horses,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve seen enough cattle.’

  ‘You could do worse,’ Jenny said. ‘This is good horse country. Plenty of grass and water. Good protection from the bad weather.’

  ‘I noticed while I was riding up.’

  Jenny suddenly leaned forward to stare at his ripped shirt and the dark stains of dried blood. ‘I didn’t notice before. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Just a scratch,’ Jim said.

  She moved to his side and ignoring his protests she opened his shirt to examine his shoulder.

  ‘Heavens, that must hurt like mad. Why didn’t you tell me? Take off your shirt and I’ll clean that wound out properly.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘You take off that shirt, Jim Travis, and quit talking back. I’ll stand no nonsense from you.’

  While he took off his shirt Jenny brought warm water, bandages and ointment. It was as she was cleaning the raw, congealed gash that she asked the inevitable question.

  ‘How did it happen, Jim?’

  ‘I tangled with one of Parsons’ men a ways back. They’d left him behind on account he was holding them up. Sam Tyree put a bullet in him back in Sweetwater.’

  ‘And this man shot at you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What happened, Jim?’

  ‘We got it settled.’

  Jenny turned to stare at him, her face set. ‘You make it sound so final.’

  ‘Killing a man is about as final as you can get.’

  ‘But he was trying to kill you, Jim.’

  ‘I guess so. It’s what I keep telling myself.’

  Jenny finished cleaning his shoulder. She put on some cooling ointment and then bandaged the wound.

  ‘Do you have a clean shirt?’

  ‘In my saddlebag.’

  Jenny brought him the shirt and Jim put it on.

  ‘Doesn’t it make you want to quit? If you catch up to Parsons and try and get your money back it’s bound to end in some kind of violence. Heavens, Jim, they outnumber you and they’re men who live by the gun.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then how can you even ... ’

  Jim grinned awkwardly, aware of the foolishness of his actions but still determined to follow them through.

  ‘Jenny, it’s the only way I can do it. I’ll just have to face whatever it puts in my way.’

  Chapter Five

  Five riders sat hunched over in their saddles, black slickers glistening with rain. They held their mounts motionless beneath a curving overhang of crumbling rock, peering out from under the sodden brims of worn hats, eyes bleak in the gaunt planes of hungry faces. They watched in silence. Waiting. Affirming the uneasy feeling that had caused them to break their journey.

  A distance away, moving slowly along a rain-misted ridge, came a lone rider. The man in the saddle held himself with extreme caution, head casting back and forth in anticipation of some unseen threat. He was following the five riders, and he had already gained enough knowledge about them to temper his thoughts of vengeance with restraint.

  One of the five moved. Thrust aside his cumbersome slicker with angry gestures. He leaned forward and slid his rifle from the sheath on the side of his saddle. Working the lever he put a cartridge in the breech. Then twisted his solid body round and brought the rifle to his shoulder. He let the distant rider reach a break in the ridge. The very place where he and his companions had reached the lower slope. When the rider was halfway down the loose, rain-washed slope, the rifleman touched the weapon’s trigger. The rifle whacked out its brittle sound, the echo whipped away as swiftly as the wreath of powder-smoke by the drifting wind.

  The rider sat sharp upright in his saddle and then rolled slowly off his startled horse. He struck the slope face down, arms and legs twisting loosely as he rolled over and over, coming to rest finally against a jutting rock.

  The rifleman put away his weapon and pulled his slicker back into place. He sat watching the motionless figure splayed out on the distant slope.

  ‘Stupid son of a bitch,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Should have finished him back at that damn ranch.’ The man who spoke cuffed back his shapeless hat, ignoring the chill rain that slapped at his unshaven face. ‘Hell, he was stubborn enough then.’

  ‘Well he’s finished now, Nolan, so you can quit peein’ your pants,’ the first man said harshly. He was big and broad, and it showed despite the sagging folds of the wet slicker. Even his face was broad, the bones heavy, pronounced. He had penetrating, cold eyes shadowed by thick dark brows, and a wide nose. He wore a thick moustache on his upper lip, the ends curling down at the corners of his taut mouth. His name was Luke Parsons.

  ‘You want to know something, Luke?’ the man called Nolan said. He jabbed a thick finger at Parsons. ‘This has been a horse-shit deal right from the start and it ain’t gettin’ no damn better.’

  ‘What were you expecting? Goddam roses and sweet music? I reckon you’re gettin’ old, Nolan. Maybe it’s time we put you out to pasture.’

  One of the other men laughed. ‘Put him out to stud, Luke. Tether him in a field with half a dozen females and he can start siring his own little wild bunch.’

  Nolan Troop scowled angrily. ‘We going to ride? Or are you pissants figuring on sittin’ out on this mountain permanent?’

  Parsons pulled his horse’s head round and dug in his heels, pushing the animal to a swift walk. He hunched his wide shoulders against the chill air, wishing they were over the mountains and down on the flat, sunbaked plain that would take them to the silent wilderness of the border country. He closed his ears to Nolan Troop’s grumbling; though he would never have admitted it he sympathized with Troop; things hadn’t gone too well for them from the moment they had ridden into Sweetwater; there was only one consolation — when life got as low as it was now it could only get better ...

  The tight group of riders faded into the grey mist of falling rain. After they had gone the only moving thing in the area was the horse of the man Luke Parsons had shot. It drifted back and forth across the distant slope, standing for long periods, head up as it search the surrounding terrain. Eventually it climbed back to the top of the slope and wandered into a nearby stand of timber.

  After a long time the shot
man moved. Slowly. Painfully. He raised his head from the saturated earth and stared about him. Time slid by with infinite deliberation. The man began to crawl up the slope. A foot at a time in the beginning. Then, as his strength slipped away, the feet became inches. Slow, tedious inches that sucked away the remaining energy. The man lay his face against the wet earth. He lay very still.

  Towards dusk the rain slackened off and just before darkness fell it stopped altogether. The sun rose at dawn and flooded the land with brilliant light. By mid-morning the sun was high in a clear blue sky. A gentle breeze, warm and heavy with the scent of wild flowers, drifted down off the green slopes. It was almost as if the wild storm had never taken place. The sun dried out the land. It began to bake the earth hard once again. It dried the shallow claw marks the wounded man had gouged out of the mud. It crusted the earth clinging to his clothing and to his hands. The man himself moved for the first time since the sun had risen. He tried to raise himself but the effort proved too great. He only managed to start his wound bleeding again. He realized he was far too weak to help himself, and knew his only chance of survival lay in the hope of someone passing by who might spot him. He knew that possibility was slim, because this was lonely country, and few passed through.

  So he lay, and he prayed that someone would ride by. He drifted into unconsciousness again some while later, stretched out on that barren mountain slope.

  And that was where Jim Travis found him.

  Chapter Six

  Jenny had mentioned the existence of a neighboring ranch further down the mountain and Jim figured he was closer to it than the Mulchay place. So he laid Jenny’s father across his saddle, climbed back on his own horse and cut off across the sun-bright slopes.

  Jim’s knowledge of bullet wounds was basic. He’d seen one or two, but didn’t have the experience to decide on the seriousness of Mulchay’s wound. It was plain to see the man had lost a fair amount of blood. Yet he was breathing steadily. The one thing Jim did know for certain was that Jenny’s father needed help, and he needed that help quickly.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Jim found Mulchay. He rode for close on two hours before he raised sight of the ranch; it was exactly as Jenny had described it — even down to the pleasant-faced woman scattering handfuls of corn for the chickens running free in the big yard fronting the house. As Jim rode in, skirting a big corral, the woman glanced his way. She stared for a moment, then stiffened. Placing her pail of corn on the ground she walked out to meet Jim as he reined in before the big house.

  ‘That looks like John Mulchay,’ she said. Her eyes searched Jim’s face.

  ‘It is, ma’am,’ Jim said. He eased himself out of the saddle. ‘He’s hurt bad. Took a bullet and I reckon it’s still inside.’

  The woman nodded. She turned towards the house. ‘Henry,’ she called out.

  Almost immediately a broad, gray-haired man stepped out of the house. He took a quick look at the scene before him, then strode across the yard.

  ‘It’s John Mulchay,’ the woman said. ‘Been shot this young feller says.’

  The man swung his head, scanning the seemingly empty yard. ‘Buck. Charley. Get over here.’

  Two men appeared from the far side of the yard, boots scuffing up the yellow dust.

  ‘Give a hand, boy,’ the gray-haired man said to Jim.

  Between them they eased John Mulchay off the horse and into the arms of the two ranch hands.

  ‘Take him inside, boys,’ the woman directed. She took a quick look at the wound. ‘I think we’re going to need Doc Buford out here.’

  Her husband nodded. ‘Do what you can for him.’ To Jim: ‘You want to walk with me, boy?’

  Jim fell in beside him. They crossed the yard, heading for the big, sprawling stable on the far side.

  ‘Tell me about it, boy.’

  Jim told his story, from the time the Parsons bunch rode into Sweetwater and ending with his finding of John Mulchay.

  ‘John is a good friend. I’m obliged for what you’ve done, Jim.’ The man held out a big, work-roughened hand. ‘I’m Henry Treece.’

  They entered the stable. Horses stirred restlessly, stamping against the hard-packed floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in thin shafts of sunlight.

  ‘Tom.’

  A bow-legged figure eased out of the shadows. Bright eyes glittered fiercely from a seamed, brown face that held a lifetime of experience.

  ‘Put a saddle on a fast horse, Tom, and get over to Ellington. Find Doc Buford and get him back here. Tell him John Mulchay’s bad hurt and needs him. Bullet wound.’

  The man called Tom turned without a word and vanished into the depths of the stable.

  Henry Treece led Jim back to the house. They entered the wide, low-ceilinged living-room and Treece motioned for Jim to sit down.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Jim nodded. He perched himself on the edge of a big leather armchair and gazed around the room. He was impressed. Treece was obviously a man who had worked hard. Built his place with pride. It showed in the room and the furnishings.

  ‘Here,’ Henry Treece said. He had returned from the kitchen with mugs of hot black coffee.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Treece sat himself in a chair across from Jim, watching the younger man, ‘So you intend to settle with Luke Parsons and his bunch all by yourself?’

  ‘I don’t expect it to be easy,’ Jim answered.

  Treece chuckled softly. ‘Damned if you ain’t got the gall to just do it,’ he said. ‘But you’ve set yourself one hell of job.’

  ‘So everybody keeps telling me.’

  ‘But you just keep on going all the same.’

  ‘In my place what would you do?’

  Treece sat back, a distant expression clouding his eyes for a moment. ‘If I was thirty years younger and I’d lost what you have, why I reckon I’d be chasin’ Luke Parsons too.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Chasing ’em seems to be all I’m doing. I lost their trail back a ways. During that storm.’

  A thoughtful look crossed Treece’s face. He stood up and crossed the room. Going to a roll top desk he opened a drawer and took out a rolled map which he spread out on a nearby table.

  ‘Take a look here,’ he said.

  When Jim had joined him Treece pointed out positions on the map.

  ‘We’re here. You found John somewhere here? From what I know of Parsons he’ll be heading for the border. Seems he has friends in Mexico. I’ve heard tell he holes up in a town called Valerio. There.’

  Jim studied the map, memorizing the winding trail he was going to have to follow. Down the mountain slopes and onto the shimmering flatland that stretched wide and empty all the way to the border.

  ‘Between here and the border there are a few hard places, Jim. Near desert. Short on water and long on hot, dry days. Ain’t much lives out there ‘cept rattlers — some with two legs, and a few Apaches. Now I ain’t one for butting in on a man’s business, Jim, and you tell me if I go too far. But it could be damn hard on you down there. You won’t find many friends. In fact I’d keep my eye on anybody you meet. Parsons has a few friends and they tend to gather in that border country. It’s handy for them to jump over if things get too hot.’

  ‘I appreciate your advice, Mister Treece, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful.’

  Treece held up a hand. ‘But you’re still going — I know.’

  ‘Not before he has a good meal inside him.’

  Jim and Henry Treece turned to see Mrs. Treece standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘I’m not sure what foolishness you’re up to, Jim Travis, and I don’t think I want to. That can wait until you’ve eaten and had a good night’s sleep. And I want no arguments.’

  ‘Ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of arguing.’

  ~*~

  He took his leave of the Treece place the next morning. Henry Treece followed Jim outside to where his horse was waiting. The animal had been fed and watered. Jim’s saddlebags were s
tuffed with food from Mrs. Treece’s kitchen and there was an extra canteen of water hanging on his saddle.

  ‘Will you see to it that Jenny gets to know about her father?’ Jim asked.

  Henry Treece nodded. ‘Don’t worry about Jenny. We’ll see she’s looked after.’ Treece smiled slowly. ‘I’d say you’ve taken a shine to that girl.’

  Jim concentrated on fixing his saddlebags in place. Finally he said: ‘I aim to call on her when this is over.’

  ‘Knowing Jenny I’d say you’ll be more than welcome, boy.’

  Jim swung into his saddle and took up the reins. ‘Thanks for everything, Mister Treece.’

  ‘You’re purely welcome, Jim. Take care now and remember you have friends here.’

  Chapter Seven

  Jim picked up the trail again on the third day out from the Treece place. Tracks left by five horses heading south, and no more than a day — maybe a day and a half — old. He figured that by now the Parsons bunch would be feeling pretty safe; apart from John Mulchay there hadn’t been any pursuit, so they would be congratulating themselves on getting away with the Sweetwater raid; their confidence would relax them, decide on them slowing their pace.

  It was a good time for him to make a try at getting his money back, Jim decided. While the Parsons bunch were beginning to ease their guard. He didn’t fool himself into believing there wouldn’t be any risks at all. Anything he did that concerned the Parsons bunch would be dangerous by definition. Off guard or not they were still professional gunmen. Killers. The type who shot first and never even thought about wondering why. So however he approached the problem he had to keep in mind the possibility of finding himself on the hard end of someone else’s bullet. It was a less than comforting thought.

  An hour after noon Jim stopped to give his horse a rest. He reined in beside a narrow stream that came winding down out of the high hills behind him. Letting his horse drink Jim knelt beside the stream and sluiced the clear, cool water onto his face, feeling it rinse away the gritty dust clinging to his stubbled flesh. Rising to his feet he wandered to the crest of a low rise and stared out across a wild and seemingly endless tract of semi-arid land. It lay dun-colored and shimmering beneath a burnished curve of blue sky that was marred only by a few thin scraps of white cloud. Henry Treece had been right. It was rough country. Jim sank down on his heels, resting his arms across his knees. He gazed southwards, shading his eyes against the harsh brightness of the sun. After some time he reached up and took off his hat, drawing his free hand through his hair. Hell, Jim boy, maybe you’ve bit off more’n you can handle. The thought drifted into his mind unbidden, and the simple act of even admitting the possibility he might be taking on overwhelming odds made him angry. It was akin to accepting failure, which was something Jim Travis never could.