The Whispering Bandit

by Franklin D. Lincoln

The tracks were practically non-existent all the way to the outskirts of town as they blurred in with the tracks of all the traffic of early morning and when the road forked about a mile and a half outside of town, Caleb took the right fork, heading west into the sun now hanging higher in the late morning sky.

  After a while, not finding tracks that looked like a lone buggy and accompanying horseman, he gave up and rode back to the other fork, leading east. Tracks were heavy here, but not as much traffic had passed this way as on the other fork. There of course, was the possibility that Beecham and Kittridge had left the trail altogether and had continued across rough country.

  He had just about given up and believed that they had in fact left the trail somewhere behind him, when he found it. The track of a light buggy and one horse pulling with the tracks of a lone rider beside it. Caleb smiled to himself and urged the dun forward at a faster walk.

  After a quarter mile and another branch in the trail, these tracks trailed off as lone tracks. Caleb urged his horse into a trot. Another quarter mile on, he followed the tracks as they left this trail and headed across flat hard baked barren land, save for occasional scrub brush and cactus. The carriage wheels left clear tracks and extended far off to the western horizon, disappearing where the land and pale sky seemed to meet.

  The noonday sun was now directly overhead and the sweltering heat was beating down with a vengeance.

  Caleb was glad that he had left his corduroy jacket behind with old Mose . He had loosened the string tie and collar of his shirt and sweat beaded down the nape of his neck. He regretted that he had not taken time to go back to his hotel to retrieve his Stetson before hitting the trail after Doc Kittridge and Hal Beecham. The sun on the top of his head was blistering hot and his hair was matted down with sweat.

  When Caleb saw Kittridge and Beecham return from delivering Jeanne Harding back at the church and hurrying out of town, he began to have suspicions. He remembered Beecham leaving the Chessman sometime before him the night before, and then, he remembered the absence of Pete Stover shortly afterward.

  Could it be they were the ones who had attacked him? But why? Then he remembered Michael Avery saying something to Hal Beecham just before he left the saloon. Did Avery sic Beecham on him? If so, why? Did Avery know that the man known as Dave Bishop was not the man Caleb knew?

  If in fact, Beecham and Stover had been his assailants, that would mean that Stover had been the man who took his bullet and he would need it attended to. Since Doc Burrows had not been consulted that would mean other options would have to be looked for.

  Caleb knew full well that the man known as the Reverend Black had once been a fully competent doctor. Rod Kittridge had been a doctor long before the War Between the States and four years of death and mayhem on the battlefields of the south had turned him into a sour, angry and confused man. Caleb never knew the full story of what had turned him into the outlaw and gunman he had become in subsequent years.

  If Hal Beecham had engaged Doc Kittridge to treat Stover or whoever Beecham’s accomplice was, for a bullet wound, then Beecham knew who the pretend parson really was. If so, was it, in fact, Doc Kittridge, himself who had put the pair on Caleb, in the first place? Probably. Kittridge was the only man in town who knew Caleb Gant. The only one who would have wanted him put upon. But then again, what about Avery? Maybe nothing. Maybe.

  His suspicions being what they were had prompted Caleb Gant to follow after Kittridge and Beecham. Perhaps, where they were going and the reason for the trip would give Caleb some explanation of what was going on.

  After an hour of traveling over the wasteland, the landscape began to be a bit more arid with the ever increasing appearance of grass; although sparse. The land fell away into deepening ravines and basins lined with rock walls on each side.

  The tracks of his quarry were beginning to be more visible. The carriage wheels sunk deeper into the softer soil and where they passed over grass, the greenery was pressed down. It was clear that the buggy had passed through only moments before, for the tall stems of scrub grass had not yet had time to spring back erect. Caleb knew he was getting close, but Kittridge and Beecham were still not yet in sight. They had probably already passed through out of the basin, turned one way or the other with the rocky slopes on each side hiding them.

  Caleb drew rein, his keen eyes scanning the land ahead. But, then an unknown sense seemed to tell him that something was wrong. As sweat trickled down the back of his shirt, he suddenly felt an unnatural chill. He twisted in his saddle and checked his back trail.

  Once again, his instincts had not let him down. Far behind him, he could see riders hidden in a rising dust cloud, following in his direction. Couldn’t be anyone following him, he thought. Or could it? He sat hip shot and half turned in the saddle for a few moments; waiting and watching. A few minutes later, the silhouettes of two riders began to take shape out of the dust cloud. They were traveling fast, closing the distance behind him.

  Why would they be after him? Caleb mused to himself. It didn’t make sense, but something told Caleb that these riders, whoever they were, were in fact, after him. Best, he didn’t stay around to find out if he was right. Besides, he still needed to catch up with Beecham and Kittridge.

  He twisted sharply around in the saddle, lifted the reins, bent forward and spurred his mount forward into a gallop. A quick glance behind him, told him that the riders had quickened their pace too. They were pursuing him! Caleb lashed the reins across the dun’s neck and spurred him into a faster run.

  He was almost to the end of the basin when a winking flash of light from high up on the rocky left side of the basin up ahead, from over the top of a large boulder, caught his eye. It was only a brief glimpse, but it was enough to recognize sunlight glinting off a rifle barrel and just enough time to pull up sharply on the reins, drawing his mount to a sliding, twisting halt, just as the rifle thundered.

  A bullet whizzed close over Caleb’s head like a buzzing bee as the dun, twisting on hind haunches, fell over, spilling Caleb from the saddle. Caleb’s body splayed out through the air with legs and arms outstretched like a winged bird. He hit the hard packed ground landing on his left shoulder, with a thud and plummeting into the dust.

  Again and again the rifle from up above spoke. Lead pellets burrowed into the dust next to Caleb as he rolled sideways and up against the flailing fallen horse. Two more times the rifle roared; the earlier shots still ringing in echo across the basin. The bullets passed high over Caleb’s head, missing him completely as he was temporarily shielded by the struggling horse.

  As the horse rose to all fours, providing a larger shield, Caleb bent and ran across the basin to the wall on the other side. Bullets plowed into the ground following his footsteps as he ran. There was no time to look back and suddenly he realized that bullets were coming closer, buzzing about him from the side.

  A quick glance took in the advancing two riders, now barreling down upon him. They were masked and had had sixguns in their fists. They were blazing away.

  Caleb dived forward, rolling behind a large boulder. Bullets slammed into the rock spewing chips into the hot stagnant air. He landed just in time, keeping his head down and cringed up against the hard rock. His chest was heaving and he was sucking hard for breath; the stale, burning hot air bringing a dizzying nauseuosness in his stomach. His heart was pounding fast and he was totally oblivious to the sweat beading off his brow.

  The bullets kept coming. Again, Caleb regretted not returning to his hotel room to retrieve his guns before setting out after his quarry. He had only wanted to follow. He hadn’t anticipated any need for weapons. Trapped out here alone, now, he would give anything for a gun. Caleb crawled to the side of the boulder and peeked out to see the two riders slide their mounts to a halt and bringing them up sideways in front of the rock. Their pistols were still smoking. Rifle fire from the other side of the basin had seemed to cease.

  Caleb pulled back in, just in time, as the two riders poured le
ad into the side of the rock where he had just peered out. He threw himself backward and twisting, his back coming up against the side of rock behind him. He was totally trapped now and he could hear the riders approaching.

  Instinct told him to push himself to his feet and run, but there was nowhere to run and even if there were, he would be in the open and surely shot down without a chance. But, better to die that way than sitting there waiting for it.

  Just as he was about to catapult himself upward, he heard rifle fire erupting again. But, this time the fire was coming from back the other end of the basin. He heard the riders shout something as if in surprise and then sixshooters sounded again, but this time no lead chipped into the boulder.

  More rifle fire sounded and then the sound of fleeing horse’s hooves thudded on the hard pack. The sixguns barked again and sounded farther off while the rifle fire seemed to come closer.

  The firing echoed throughout the basin in a continual roar and above it the sound of advancing hoofs could be discerned.

  Caleb half rose in a crouch and peered over the top of the boulder. The two riders were riding away toward the end of the basin and another rider was advancing across the floor. The rider, holding reins high and letting the animal beneath him have its head, galloping forward after Caleb’s two assailants, held a rifle firm against his shoulder with barrel steadied by an outstretched left hand that still held the reins. Flame was spitting from the barrel and powder smoke and dust were almost enveloping the attacking rider. But, Caleb could still see this interloper clearly enough to recognize the masked rider, clad in black from head to toe, astride a big black stallion. It was The Whispering Bandit.

  The bandit drew the big horse to a sliding halt, stamping sideways in front of Caleb’s hiding place, rifle no longer at the ready, but hanging loose in one hand while negotiating the reins with the other.

  Caleb stood up cautiously, his hands raised; his lower body still hidden by the boulder. He tried to hide the fact that he was still scared and fought to control his trembling body, trying to affect a stalwart demeanor.

  He could see the retreating riders leaving the basin at a gallop. He glanced toward the rocky wall on the other side of the basin. There was no sign of the rifleman remaining.

  The rider in black gigged his horse forward and as he came close to the boulder, the deep, husky whisper rasped. “Come out from there!”

  Caleb hesitated for a moment, then obliged. “You can see I’m not armed,” Caleb said as he stepped into the open; arms still raised.

  The rider nudged the horse closer and holding the rifle in one hand, finger inside the trigger housing, extended the barrel forward. It wavered a bit, just inches from Caleb’s chest. He drew in a breath in retreat.

  “You’ve been warned enough, mister.” Even in a whisper, the words were menacing. “Stay out of what doesn’t concern you. Move on!”

  The bandit pulled the black a step back. The rifle barrel swung away and the bandit slid the Winchester into its boot beneath the saddle’s right fender. Caleb started to lower his hands. “No!’ was the raspy whisper. He stiffened.

  “Go back!” The bandit ordered, tossing down a canteen, obviously full of water as it fell heavily in the dirt at Caleb’s feet.

  The bandit wheeled the black and rode off across the basin to where Caleb’s dun had drifted away during the attack, and retrieved its trailing reins.

  Caleb watched solemnly as the rider led his horse away, trailing, first at a trot, then a lope and finally disappearing at a fast gallop, leaving only a cloud of dust behind.

  Silence was suddenly deafening in the empty basin. Caleb glanced at the burning sun high overhead. He grimaced, and as he once again gazed off into the distance where The Whispering Bandit and horses disappeared, he grumbled to himself. “Seems like every time I come across this so called whispering bandit, I wind up losing my horse,”

  ****

  Chapter Nine