Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3)

by Neil Hunter

  The way ahead opened out. A broad expanse of rock stretched before them. Above the furthest rim blue sky shimmered with heat.

  ‘Now we ride,’ Troop said.

  They mounted up and moved across the rock. Troop held Fargo’s horse close to the rear of his own. From where Parsons was sitting he could see the ragged wound in Fargo’s side. It looked bad. The bullets had splintered rib bones, shoving broken edges through the lacerated flesh. Blood was still oozing from the wound. Parsons cursed the situation that was forcing them to keep moving at a time they should have been attending to Fargo’s wounds. The way Fargo was losing blood he wasn’t going to get very far.

  They had covered close on a mile when Parsons picked up a faint shout way behind them. He hunched round in his saddle and saw riders picking their way through the rocks a good quarter mile back.

  ‘They’ve picked us up again, Nolan!’ he said.

  Troop had a look, smiling thinly. ‘Was starting to think we’d lost ’em.’

  ‘They ain’t about to give up.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ Troop said.

  A few times during the next half-hour rifle shots echoed across the lava-beds. The Mexicans, realizing that their quarry had gained a good distance on them, tried to bring them down with long-range shooting. All they did was to use up a little more ammunition.

  ‘Hey, Nolan, when are we going to get out of this damn place? Parsons asked. ‘Sooner we hit real country ... ’

  Fargo, who had been riding almost bent double, slithered loosely from the back of his horse. He landed on the rock in a loose sprawl, almost as if his body was devoid of bones. Parsons dismounted and bent over Fargo, turning him on his back.

  ‘He dead?’ Troop asked.

  Parsons nodded. He unbuckled Fargo’s gunbelt and removed it from the body. He tossed it to Troop who hung it from his saddle horn. Moving to Fargo’s horse Parsons removed the canteen. He took what food lay in Fargo’s saddlebags and placed it in his own, along with a box of rifle cartridges he found.

  ‘You want the rifle?’ Troop asked.

  Parsons shook his head. ‘Never did like the way it shoots to the left.’ He loosened the saddle and dumped it, then removed the bridle. He whacked the horse on the rump. ‘Get out of here you asshole.’

  Mounting up Parsons kicked his horse into motion.

  ‘Come on, Nolan,’ he yelled. ‘Let’s see if we can shake those goddam greasers out of our hair.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Reining in before the cantina Jim climbed stiffly out of the saddle, conscious of the hostile eyes watching every move he made. There were a number of Mexicans lounging outside the cantina, all clad in the grey uniform of the Rurales. Jim had heard stories about the Mexican law force. This was his first contact with them and it was setting up to be an unpleasant meeting. He’d ridden straight into the waiting guns of three Rurales on the outskirts of Valerio. They had disarmed him, using the hard butts of their rifles to hurry him along when he’d moved too slow for them. Then they had ridden him into Valerio. He stood beside his horse, wondering what they had in store for him, determined not to do anything that might provoke them. One of the three who had brought him into Valerio approached Jim. The Mexican gestured with the muzzle of his rifle towards the door of the cantina, indicating that he wanted Jim to enter. Jim walked in through the door, feeling the cooler air of the interior close around him. The long, low-ceilinged room was deserted save for a uniformed man sitting at one of the tables. As Jim stepped through the door this man raised a hand and beckoned him.

  The Mexican who had brought Jim into the cantina spoke in rapid Spanish to the seated man. During this time the man at the table kept his eyes fixed firmly on Jim’s face. When he spoke it was in clear English.

  ‘You do not understand what has just been said?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then we will speak in your tongue.’ The man leaned forward. ‘I am Captain Melendez.’

  ‘Jim Travis.’

  Melendez frowned slightly. ‘A name I am not familiar with.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to know me.’

  ‘I assumed I knew all the members of Luke Parsons’ outlaw band.’

  Jim gave a thin smile. ‘Captain, you’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘I have, Senor? Perhaps you can correct me then.’

  ‘Easy done. First off— I ain’t one of Parsons’ boys.’

  ‘Do not take me for a fool, Travis. Why do you think we have been waiting here in Valerio?’

  ‘I don’t know why, Captain Melendez. Tell me why.’

  ‘I am not in the mood for games, Travis. You know as well as I that Valerio has long been a haven for the Parsons’ outlaw band. Those days are over. They ended two days ago when three of the outlaws reached here. We were waiting for them. Unfortunately they spotted my men and rode away. We gave chase and killed one of them, and I also lost a number of men. The other two eluded us in the lava-beds and then rode north towards the border. I decided to stay here in Valerio in the hope others of the band might show up.’

  ‘I hate to spoil your plans, Captain, but I’m not one of them. Hell, I’m chasing Parsons myself.’

  Melendez sighed. ‘That is so easy to say. Should I allow you to just ride on then?’

  ‘I hope you do, Captain, because if Parsons has jumped back over the border you can’t touch him. But I can. I’ve trailed him all the way down here and I’d hate to lose him now.’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘What brought you to Valerio?’

  ‘News reached us that Parsons and his band had robbed an American bank. Always before they would return to Mexico and come to Valerio.’

  ‘That bank was in Sweetwater in my part of the country, Captain. Part of the money they took from that bank was mine. Hard-earned money. The only way I’m ever going to get that money back is to take it from Luke Parsons. That’s why I been trailing him’.

  Melendez studied Jim closely. ‘The one we killed was named Fargo. Parsons himself and one called Troop escaped. There are still three others not accounted for.’

  ‘Sheriff Tyree back in Sweetwater put a bullet in one of the gang during the robbery. Parsons left him in the mountains ‘cause he was slowing the bunch up. I come across him and we shot it out. I buried him on the mountain. I met up with Will Loomis and Lee Brown in some town close to the border. They jumped me first and gave me one hell of a beating ‘cause I’d been asking questions all over town about Luke Parsons. Later we had us another run in. Only this time they come out shooting. I was lucky. I stopped one of their bullets. Loomis is dead. Lee Brown is in jail with one of my bullets in him.’ Jim paused for a moment, his anger starting to rise. ‘And that, Captain Melendez, is the damn truth. You believe it or do what the hell you like, ‘cause I’m tired of being kicked around.’

  Melendez considered for a moment. He spoke to the man who had brought Jim in. The man turned and left the cantina, leaving Jim alone with Melendez. The Mexican stood up and gestured towards a chair.

  ‘I think you had better be seated, Senor Travis,’ he said. His tone was distinctly softer.

  Jim slumped into a seat. He was grateful for the chance to take the weight off his feet. The long ride down into Mexico had been hard on him. The wound in his side had been aching most of the time, and he had felt every jolt from every step his horse had taken. Doc Quincy had been right. Jim had left his bed too soon.

  ‘I believe your story, Travis,’ Melendez said. ‘It could only be true. You are a very courageous man. These outlaws are wild animals. They have no respect for the laws of man or God.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Jim said. ‘All I want is what they stole from me. Nothing else. I ain’t about to let it go.’

  ‘This money they have taken. It is what you have worked for? Earned with your own sweat?’

  ‘Five years of my life is what it’s taken to get that money together. It’s as simple as that. No way I can let any man walk of
f with five years of my life.’

  ‘Si.’ Melendez nodded. ‘This I can understand. It is a matter of pride. Of honor.’

  It’s three thousand damn dollars, Jim thought. But he didn’t say any more because Melendez was rapidly becoming even more friendly and Jim wanted to keep things that way.

  ‘When will you ride on?’ Melendez asked. ‘There are no more one or two hours of daylight left.’

  ‘I’ll make a start come morning.’

  Melendez smiled. ‘Good. Then you can eat with me tonight. I am tired of my own company.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Those peasants out there can do no more than ride horses and shoot guns, neither very well. Not one of them can hold a conversation.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t all that good myself,’ Jim said. ‘I can run cows and I know horses. That’s about it.’

  ‘You favor horses?’ Melendez smiled. ‘I also know about horses. We will talk of them tonight.’

  And talk they did. Over their meal and well into the night. Melendez did know horses. His enthusiasm was boundless. They talked and argued and when it seemed they had exhausted the subject one of them would pick up on some other aspect and the talk would rise again. When Jim did eventually turn in he fell into a deep, sound sleep and didn’t wake until bright sunlight caught his face.

  ‘If you ride with us,’ Melendez said over a quick breakfast, ‘we can show you where Parsons and Troop left the lava-beds and rode north.’

  They reached the spot by mid-morning. The trail was faint but it was enough for Jim to follow.

  ‘I wish you luck,’ Melendez said. He took Jim’s hand. ‘Take care, Jim Travis.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘It will be thanks enough to know we have heard the last of the likes of Luke Parsons. Mexico has enough troubles of her own.’ He paused. ‘And maybe a few friends.’

  Jim nodded. ‘We can all do with those.’

  He took his horse off to the north, looking back some while later to see the straggly line of uniformed Rurales riding west, Melendez sitting ramrod straight in his saddle.

  ~*~

  He camped that night in a dry wash, eating cold because he didn’t want to risk a fire. The day’s ride had left him stiff and sore. He knew he was pushing his body too hard. Not allowing his wounds time to heal. The trouble was he didn’t have time to spare on such luxuries. He needed to close the distance between himself and Luke Parsons. He’d been lucky up to now in that Parsons had been unable to do anything with the money from the robbery except carry it with him. If Parsons managed to find time he might easily hide the money so he could return and pick it up some time in the future. If that did happen recovering it could prove even more difficult than it was already. Jim’s best chance — his only chance — was to reach Parsons before any thoughts of hiding the money occurred to the outlaw.

  ~*~

  Jim crossed the border late in the afternoon of the following day. The trail led off slightly to the west now. Ahead lay bare sandstone hills and beyond, purple against the lowering sky, ranged higher, jagged mountains. A faint dry wind drifted across the dusty landscape. Jim urged his horse forward, his red-rimmed eyes studying the faint tracks.

  He had ridden no more than a couple of miles when something caused him to rein in. He leaned forward to get a clearer view of the new sets of tracks and a silent curse passed his lips.

  He was looking at the tracks of a group of riders.

  Eight — maybe nine of them. The tracks were following those left by Parsons and Troop.

  There was something else.

  The horses of the trailing riders were unshod.

  And in this part of the territory that meant only one thing.

  Apaches.

  Chapter Twelve

  He rode through the empty foothills and on towards the silent mountain slopes, increasingly aware of the danger of his situation. The night before he had camped at the base of a high rock outcropping, denying himself the comfort of a fire for the second time. Towards midnight he had picked up the distant rattle of gunfire. The sounds had come down out of the high divide beyond his camp. Jim had rolled out of his blanket, moving to where he could see the black shapes of the high peaks silhouetted against the night sky. He had wondered who was doing the shooting. Apaches? Parsons and Troop? It made little difference. Come morning he still had to ride up there. The presence of the Apaches made no difference. He wasn’t about to abandon his claim to that stolen money now. Not after all the time and trouble it had taken to get this far.

  The higher he got the more difficult became the terrain. The early slopes of the mountains were sparsely dotted with greenery. There were a few stunted trees and brush. For the most part it was rock. Crumbling, loose talus slopes footing the sheer rock faces he was forced to search until he found a way that would allow him to reach the next crest. The ride was slow. The sun was high, moving with infinite slowness across the burnished sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight — or a breath of wind to relieve the oppressive heat. Jim was forced to stop at regular intervals to allow his horse a chance to rest.

  By the middle of the afternoon he was above the foothills, trailing through deep canyons and skirting the edges of deep ravines. Towering rock faces flanked him on both sides. He was finding it increasingly difficult to spot the tracks he was following. The hard rock failed to retain the marks of passing horses, save for the occasional streak where an iron shoe had burred the surface.

  He saw where the trail drifted down towards the dry bed of some long-extinct river. Jim took his horse down the dusty, crumbling bank and along the cracked channel. The river had obviously wound its way down from the higher slopes of the mountain during its life. Now all that remained was this dusty course.

  The shot came suddenly. The whip-crack report flat and solid, Jim felt something tug at his shirt, over the ribs on the left side. There was a flash of pain. He kicked free of the stirrups and threw himself out of the saddle. As he hit the ground he snatched his gun from the holster.

  He lay still. The sound of the shot quickly faded. Silence fell again. Somewhere he could hear the muted sound of his horse picking its way along the river bed. There was nothing else. No sound or movement. But Jim knew that somewhere close by was a man with a gun. He would be watching Jim — and waiting.

  Like it or not Jim was going to have to play along. Until he knew where his adversary was located there wasn’t much he could do.

  Sweat beaded on Jim’s forehead and trickled down into his eyes. He blinked furiously against the stinging sensation. There was nothing else he could do.

  Time passed. Far too slowly for Jim’s liking. Ten minutes. Then fifteen. He began to feel a little foolish. Maybe he was alone. Lying in the dust like some damn fool ...

  A faint sound reached his ears. It was off to his left and above him. Jim reckoned it was someone on the rim of the riverbank, maybe twenty-five feet away. He tightened his grip on the sweat-damp handle of the big Colt in his fist and forced himself to stay calm. Another five minutes slid by before he heard sound again. The soft whisper of fine gravel disturbed by light footsteps. He knew now that his unseen assailant was no white man. Only one breed of human animal could move in such a fashion.

  Apache.

  At the back of his mind he had already given thought to the chance of his man being an Apache. There were not many white men who would sit for twenty minutes before checking to see if they had hit their target. Most who shot from ambush would simply mount up and ride on, not even bothering to take a close look. But not an Apache. They were born and bred fighters and they were far too dedicated not to make sure they had a kill. There was also another factor much more practical, and forced on the Apache by his situation. A dead white man meant a source of supply; there would be weapons, vital in the Apaches’ fight for survival. There would also be ammunition, food, clothing, anything and everything a dead man no longer needed. No Apache worth his salt would pass up the chance of adding an extra rifle, or even
a revolver to his arsenal.

  Jim listened as his would-be killer approached. Even now the man moved with caution. Jim knew there would be a cocked gun aimed at him. Until the Apache was certain that Jim was dead he would treat him as a potential source of danger. That fact was clear in Jim’s mind. He knew, too, that when he did make his move it had to be at the right moment. He would get one chance and have to make the best of it. There were no allowances for mistakes.

  A shadow fell across the dusty ground. As Jim’s eyes registered the fact the shadow became motionless. A flicker of tension grew in him. He could almost see the Apache studying him, the keen, dark eyes flickering across Jim’s still body. He slowed his breathing, hardly daring to even move his eyes. He just kept them fixed on that menacing shadow.

  The Apache didn’t move for a while. When he did he began to circle Jim’s body. Jim swore in frustration. One thing he didn’t want was the Apache behind him. He watched the moving shadow. In seconds it would be out of his range of vision. He was going to have to make his move now. No matter how risky. Once he lost sight of that shadow he had no guarantee he would see it again.

  He placed the position of the Apache by the shadow in relation to the sun, judged distance and angle, and then moved without further thought. He twisted over to the right, away from the Apache. As his rolling body faced towards the Apache, Jim’s Colt was exposed. He thrust his arm out and upwards, aiming and firing in one fluid motion. Jim’s thumb dogged back the hammer and he triggered again, his second shot merging with the single firing of the Apache’s rifle. Jim heard the thwack of the bullet as it ploughed into the earth inches from his face. And in that same split-second he saw the Apache; a dark, squat figure in a faded blue shirt and dirty white pants; knee high N'deh b'keh, the traditional Apache footwear. Long black hair held down by a scarlet headband; Jim caught a quick impression of a high-boned face, lips drawn back in a snarl of anger. Then his two bullets hit. The first punched a ragged hole high in the Apache’s broad chest, passing through the body to emerge from the back of the neck in a gout of blood. The second bullet took the Apache’s lower jaw off, jerking his head to one side with a vicious snap.