Spur

by Matt Chisholm

  He walked back to the horses, appalled, his mind leaden with horror. This bore out what he had been told and hadn’t been able to believe, thinking that the tale was of the kind that grew so easily and rapidly into legend in the West. But it was true. The evidence was back there, plain to see.

  The thought hit him that the man he had killed had thought that he, Spur, was connected with the massacre. That was possible and the thought depressed him profoundly.

  He picked up the line of the bay, mounted his own horse and started north-east. If the horse bearing the Box R brand arrived home without a rider, that might start something interesting. And dangerous. He wondered what Jody had managed to dig up.

  Night caught him on the edge of the green country that was the beginning of Randerson’s range. He didn’t want to be caught with the bay horse for that would open him to a horse-stealing charge, so he let the animal go. No doubt it would be quickly home. He camped without building a fire in a motte of trees on fairly high ground that would, in the dawn, give him a good view of the surrounding country.

  He slept well, was awake before dawn and saddled the roan with a strong desire for coffee and a hot breakfast working in him. But he had now run out of food except for some jerky he never failed to carry in his pocket and a little water in his canteen. So he sipped water, after he had moistened the roan’s mouth, and chewed the jerked beef.

  When the light came it revealed that there was water not far off, it glistened invitingly through trees not a mile away and he rode to it, keeping a wary eye on the countryside. At the creek the roan, as horses will, tried to drink more than was good for it, a weakness which no mule ever suffered from, and Spur had to drag it forcibly away from it. It was pleasant by the creek and cool as the sun rose. He stayed there, thinking and smoking, shaded by the willows.

  The roan started and put its ears forward and in a short while a faint sound came to Spur’s ears. There was a horse running in this direction from the north. Spur put his hand over the nostrils of the horse to prevent it from giving his presence away, and peered through the foliage of willows.

  His horseman’s eye immediately told him that, even at that distance, the horse was tall and leggy, a rangy sorrel with speed, maybe a thoroughbred. Who in hell rode a thoroughbred in this country.

  It wasn’t long before he knew. It was a woman. As she came closer, he saw that it was Lucinia Randerson.

  His first thought was to stay hidden and let her go past, but, on impulse, he stepped quickly into the saddle and rode out to meet her.

  She reined up, startled at the sight of him, but not frightened.

  She was a Randerson and, anyhow, who would harm a woman in this country?

  “My,” she cried, “if it isn’t the big bad gunman, Sam Spur.” She mocked him in that first instant, looking at him as boldly as a whore.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” he said, touching his hat, looking his fill of her, not missing one facet of her womanhood, wondering how or if Randerson kept the men away from her in a woman-hungry area.

  “And what,” she asked, mocking her name as much as him, “are you doing on Randerson range?”

  “I’m doin’ it now,” he said.

  “What’s that?” she enquired. “Sitting there looking as smug as the cat that swallowed the cream?”

  “Lookin’ at you, ma’am.”

  “Oho,” she almost shouted, “you’ll have to do better than that, Spur. The poorest hired hand on the place can do better than that.”

  He grinned. He liked this girl. Maybe she was spoiled and maybe she thought she had inherited the whole Goddam earth, but he liked her.

  “Wa-al,” he said, “there I was waterin’ my horse, thinkin’ I was livin’ in the best of possible worlds, happy as a lark, but I was wrong. You rid along and, why, the hull durn creation just turned naturally dull.”

  “That’s better,” she said. “Let me hear some more while I water my horse.” She turned toward the creek and they rode at a walk to the water, the roan runty beside the tall black gelding. When they halted, Spur stepped out of the saddle and went to help her down. She swung down into his arms and stayed there, looking up at him. She smiled brightly.

  “I was never in the arms of a hired gun before,” she said.

  He smiled back as brightly and told her: “Never hired a gun in all my life, lady. I’m just a killer.”

  He thought he felt her shudder in his hands. He released her and walked her horse to water. She stood watching him from the bank, suddenly sullen and resentful. After a while, she cried out: “You’re letting him have too much. He’ll be loggy.”

  He grinned up at her. “The loggier the better - you won’t be able to get away from me.” She didn’t say anything, but glowered at him. Like Maria Regan, she was handsome when she was mad and you couldn’t say that of most women.

  He walked the big horse up the bank and ground-hitched it. She didn’t put a hand on the line, in no hurry to go.

  “Can a girl ask what you’re doing here?” she asked.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I asked.”

  “All right. I rode this way to return a horse I found over in the canyon country. It had your pa’s brand on it.”

  She jerked her head up. “You mean one of our men’s on foot over there?”

  “One of your men’s dead over there.”

  ‘Who was it?”

  “I didn’t ask his name before I shot him.”

  She fell back a pace from him, horror in her eyes, the back of her hand against her mouth. In that moment, she wasn’t the rich man’s daughter, she was just a scared kid. The sight didn’t give him much satisfaction.

  She was silent a moment. Then she said: “I didn’t believe what they said about you, but it’s true. You’re just a cold-blooded killer.”

  “I kill men who try to kill me. He fired eight shots at me before I knocked him over. How much more forbearing can you be?”

  “You’re on the other side,” she said. “You killed one of my father’s men.”

  “Sure,” he said. “All your life your daddy’s been the law. Not only for you, but all the men who worked for him. He’s been judge, jury an’ hangman. The only difference between him an’ me is I’m a loner an’ I kill my own snakes. He hires men to kill his for him.”

  She cocked her head on one side and smiled at him, her mood and her attitude to him abruptly changed.

  “Every now and then,” she said, “in flashes, you’re kind of good-looking.” She pulled her horse away from the water, ducked under its head and came up close to him. “Why, I bet if you tried real hard you could turn a girl’s head.”

  “Wa-al - I ain’t spent my hull life shootin’ guns. We gun-hands relax times.”

  She stood very still looking up at him and if ever he had had a girl’s mouth offered to him, it was now. Her mouth said it and her eyes confirmed it. He dropped his mouth lightly on hers. It parted softly beneath his. He didn’t force the moment, but took his mouth from hers. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she had slapped his face. Her kind did that.

  “That satisfied you what a killer’s kiss is like?” he asked.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “More?”

  “Please.”

  He took her in his arms and held her against him. For the smallest moment her body was tensed and refusing, then as his mouth touched hers again, she gave entirely to him, so that every inch of her was braced against him.

  One more grapple like that, he thought, and I shall be helping this young lady on the way to motherhood, which would be a good way of hitting her old man, but pretty mean to her.

  When he released her, she was pale and shaken, showing that she was neither as sure of herself or as experienced as she would like to have boasted. For a moment, he felt sorry for her.

  “What does that prove?” he asked.

  She smiled wryly.

  “That you’re a dangerous man, I shouldn’t have stopped and we better not
let this become a habit.”

  “Now,” he said, “you can get on your horse an’ ride outa here.”

  The words and the tone startled her.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “You suckered me,” he said. “The men you held me here for are durn nigh breathing down my neck.”

  Chapter Five

  She looked around hastily and saw the men even as the roan trumpeted. It was the roan’s ears that had warned Spur.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  “It don’t matter,” he told her. “They’re here. Get on your fancy horse and ride. Make it fast.”

  She protested, but he picked her up, dumped her into the saddle and gave the horse a whack with his hand. The animal jumped and ran along the side of the creek. Spur looked past her through the willows and saw the men were headed toward him. He reckoned they had back-tracked the horse he had sent home. It wasn’t greatly surprising.

  He mounted the roan and took his rifle from the boot, riding out to meet them. The girl gave him a scared look over her shoulder and rode on past the men. It was faintly satisfying to know that something could shake her. But that didn’t help him at all in this situation.

  He spotted Brocius riding a sorrel. There were four other men and they all had their rifles out. He centered his rifle on Brocius and went forward at a walk. Right next to the big man was one of the boys he had clobbered in town. He was in for a rough time, if this lot got their hands on him.

  He called out: “That’s far enough, Brocius.”

  The big man halted his horse, pushed his hat to the back of his head and said: “There’s five of us, Spur.” He sounded very calm and very confident.

  “My Henry’s looking at your belly.”

  “There’s a Spencer on the other side of the creek.”

  That could be a trick, of course. Spur flicked his eyes in that direction and saw the man with the carbine. The girl had stopped her horse on the top of the nearest ridge and was looking back.

  Spur knew he was a dead duck and said: “I’m putting my rifle away.”

  “No,” Brocius said. “Just drop it.”

  Spur hated to do that to a good rifle, but arguing would only have made the big man’s victory sweeter. The rifle hit the ground.

  “Go, break it.”

  The boy Spur had clobbered in town, slipped from his horse, walked over to the rifle, picked it up and smashed the stock on a rock. Spur sat still, his face like stone, hands folded on the saddlehorn. The man from the other side of the creek rode his horse through the water and joined them.

  The boy tossed the two pieces of rifle into the creek and asked with youthful eagerness: “Do we do it now?”

  “No,” said Brocius. “Mr. Randerson wants him.” He shouted an order, men dismounted, tied Spur’s feet beneath the belly of the roan, roped his hands to the saddlehorn. Then one of them took a line and led the horse forward. They rode in silence and the girl drifted ahead of them. Nobody remarked on her being there. Spur’s thoughts were that she was maybe the last woman he would kiss on earth. He must be getting old the way he had allowed these men to come up on him. Maybe the sight in the canyon had unsettled him more than he knew. It didn’t make any difference one way or the other now. They had him and unless he thought of something smart, he would be dead by sunset. Maybe they would be killing him for the man he had shot and maybe they’d be killing him for something else.

  It took them a couple of hours to reach the Randerson place. Spur had never seen the headquarters before and the sight of it was enough to show him what the man was worth. A fortune must have been invested into the place and by what he heard, Randerson owned it all, lock, stock and barrel. A real live cattle king.

  The house was long and narrow, two storied and with galleries running around the whole house; the additional bunk houses, barns and other out-houses made the place look like a small town. In the corrals were horses that made his eyes widen. Here was blooded stock that made the roan look like an uncurried mustang just caught in the hills. Trees shaded the yard that was centered by a fine stone well, flowers brightened beds at the front of the house. Here was money and, in the terms of the country, power.

  The girl’s horse was being led away by a Mexican vaquero as they rode up. She was not in sight. The men swung down from their horses and one of them led the animals away. The rest stayed, lounging, their rifles still in their hands. Randerson walked onto the stoop, a big cigar protruding from his fleshy face. He lived well and it showed. He wore a good suit and his linen was white. He was as well-groomed as his thoroughbreds.

  He took the cigar from his mouth and without taking his eyes from Spur, said: “Get him down.”

  They cut his bonds, Brocius dragged him out of the saddle and dumped him in the dust. Spur couldn’t do much about it, because the bonds had been tight and his hands and feet were without blood.

  “Take him around the back of the bunkhouse,” Randerson said. “Brocius, Jake, Haggerty. The rest of you can go.”

  Brocius took him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet. Spur stood choking, wondering if he would be able to walk. Somebody prodded him in the small of his back with a rifle muzzle and he stumbled forward. They drove him across the yard and around the long bunkhouse to the corral fence beyond.

  Randerson said: “This’ll do.”

  They stood around him, eyeing him coldly. Only Brocius showed any emotion; he looked pleased. Randerson now held a quirt in his hand and he kept gently beating the whip against the calf of his boot.

  “One of my horses came home, Spur,” he said. “What happened to the rider?”

  Spur said: “He tried to kill me. That was his error.”

  “You killed him,” said as a statement not a query.

  Spur nodded.

  “You assaulted my daughter.” So the girl had run straight to her father with a lie to cover herself.

  Spur said: “I reckon.”

  He thought: They’re going to kill me, but they’ll remember me for many a long day after it’s done.

  Only now did a spark of emotion show on Randerson’s face. Two red spots appeared on his cheeks and his eyes pinched themselves up. If Spur had touched one of his horses it would have been the same - a man killed, a daughter touched: both were his possessions.

  When he had been taken from the horse, his legs had been cut totally free, but his hands were still tied together with the rawhide thong. There wasn’t much he could do.

  Randerson beat the quirt through the air, making a hissing sound. Spur winced inside in anticipation of the whip cutting into his flesh.

  Randerson said: “You take him, Brocius. He owes it you.”

  The big man grinned. He closed in a little, Jake and Haggerty coming with him. Spur watched them, his muscles and nerves tensing.

  “Your teeth, Spur,” Brocius said conversationally. “I’m going to break your teeth. You’ll be spitting teeth all over. Then your nose, before I really get to work on you!”

  Spur said: “You’re a blown-up yaller bull-frog, Brocius, You don’t have the guts of a coyote. You couldn’t whip me with two to help you, an’ you ain’t goin’ to whip me with my hands tied.”

  Randerson snarled softly: “We ain’t here for conversation. Get on with it, Brocius.”

  “Yes, sirree,” Brocius said, pulled back a ham-like fist and lunged forward. He didn’t hurry, but he leaned his full weight behind the blow.

  Spur went quickly to the right, kicked hard at Brocius’ ankles and tripped him into the wall of the bunkhouse. Before Jake or Haggerty could jump in, Spur had moved with incredible speed, moving around behind Brocius and swinging his bound hands over the man’s head, so that he at once had a strangle-hold on his throat. Jake tried to swing at Spur’s head with the butt of his carbine, but Spur was moving too fast. He heaved backward so that he cannoned into Jake, nearly knocking him from his feet, and, with a superhuman effort, tore Brocius from his feet, his bound hands acting as a
noose. Brocius’s flying feet caught Randerson and flung him cursing against the corral fence. Hastily, Spur disengaged his hands from the big man, letting Brocius sprawl on the ground, choking and coughing.

  Haggerty screamed: “Hold it.”

  Spur was still moving and it was too late to stop. He ducked to the left. Haggerty pulled the trigger and the bullet knocked splinters from the corral fence. Randerson howled for him to hold his fire. Haggerty swung the weapon to cover Spur, but it was too late. Spur was past the muzzle of the carbine and slamming a shoulder into the cowhand. Haggerty staggered and almost lost his balance, but as soon as he had gone into him, Spur was finished with him. There were three men and he had to keep them all occupied. He turned, crouched, keeping moving and something struck him hard on the shoulder, driving him down onto one knee. It felt as though his right shoulder had been broken, but he kept moving. In front of him was Jake, carbine swinging. Spur dove forward, head down, struck Jake just on the buckle, bore him backward at a great rate and slammed him into the corral fence. The wind going out of him sounding like a collapsing organ.

  Spur spun, saw Randerson’s face red and sweating in front of him and sung a booted foot. The rancher’s shout of fury was smashed into silence. Spur’s vision blurred, he tried to locate the other cowhand, found him and charged. This time he ran full into the brass-bound butt of a carbine, fell backward hard, hit his head on the lower rail of the fence and passed out.

  There was the dry stench of dust in his nostrils.

  He coughed feebly and looked up. He didn’t see too well and he squinted to focus his uncertain eyes. He became conscious that there were a great many men standing around him. Far more men than he had had to deal with just now. He found Randerson, standing motionless, the quirt hanging idly from the loop around his wrist. Brocius, pale and puffed. Jake, looking sick. Spur tried to find Haggerty and found a bland Mexican face.

  Sheriff Gomez.

  Painfully, he turned his eyes and found Rick.

  The other men were armed with belt-guns and rifles. They looked travel-worn and grim.

  Spur started to get slowly to his feet. Nobody helped him. When he was on his feet, he said, his teeth gritting on the dust in his mouth: “Reckon you saved my life, sheriff.”