by Jack Sheriff
The next morning breakfast was another simple meal eaten by the fire, consisting mostly of jerky washed down by several tin cups of scalding coffee drunk in a hollow shrouded in mist and with the blankets they had slept in draped around their shoulders. It was taken early. Five- or six-o’clock. And after it they sat smoking, drawn close up to the crackling flames, and tried to work out their next move.
‘Stay back from the herd,’ Bobbie Lee said, after a long, contemplative silence. ‘That’s what Van Gelderen wants; he’s got Cassie, so that’s what we’ll do.’
‘Way back,’ Will Blunt said, eyes narrowed and distant in thought. ‘Back so far we can see the herd move. Back so far we can watch the last of the drag riders tidying up the tail.’ He turned to look at Bobby Lee. ‘Back so far we can watch that bastard Van Gelderen tag on behind – because that’s what he’ll do – and I can maybe get a long, clear shot at him with the Sharps.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘A long rifle knocked Ed Morgan out of the saddle; another can do the same to Van Gelderen.’
‘Different circumstance,’ Bobbie Lee said, and let Blunt chew on it.
In a tense silence they both pondered on that thought, each man knowing that the risks were enormous, each looking for a way round those risks. Van Gelderen had Cassie, and he would be smart enough to keep her close to him. To avoid being seen, Bobby Lee knew he and Will would be forced to ride something like half a mile behind the outlaw; maybe more than that. At that distance, on the Staked Plains, the heat rising from yard upon yard of hard-packed desert would create a wicked, shimmering heat haze. A target viewed through that would be there then gone, jumping about like a flea on a string, most of the time more mirage than reality. Add to those difficulties the possibility of a searing cross wind, and at that distance – anything from eight hundred to one thousand yards – it would take a brave man or a fool to try to drop one of a pair of riders.
‘We wait,’ Will Blunt said flatly.
‘Our time will come.’
Will grinned ruefully. ‘Yeah, and I reckon that pronouncement can be taken in a number of ways, not all of them guaranteed to lift a man’s spirits.’
The way Bobbie Lee had it figured, Harlan Gibb would get his men fed in the late afternoon, ensure his rested livestock had taken their fill of water from the deep, slow-moving Pecos then point them towards the desert as the sun went down. He would push them hard, putting as many miles behind them as he could before sun-up the next day. Trouble was, a man could wear his ’punchers to a frazzle trying to get speed out of a bunch of cattle, and at the end of a long night still wind up just twelve or so miles from the starting point.
That left an awful lot of desert to be covered. And, on the Llano Estacado, letting the herd rest during the heat of the day was liable to prove fatal. There was no shade. All that happened was the cattle got dehydrated and went crazy while stationary instead of on the move. Dying was less of an effort, but just as permanent.
Those thoughts, and many others, were there to intrigue Will and Bobbie Lee as they washed the breakfast plates and looked ahead at a long day of inactivity.
According to Will Blunt, it was the lull before the storm.
Before they left the Halt they’d been astute enough to share the extra water bottles among the three of them. Cassie’s would be almost untouched. Bobbie Lee and Will had used more than a couple of pints for supper and breakfast, and so had at least one empty. Knowing it would be foolish to start across the desert short of water, Bobbie Lee rode out later that morning to refill their bottles. He deliberately rode south and west, heading towards the Pecos River some way downstream of the herd so that he could observe the situation.
He tethered his horse in a stand of cottonwoods, filled the bottles from a bend in the river were the water was clear, and once they were safe in the saddle-bags he looked around for some high ground. The land was gently undulating, and that was in his favour; when he walked up a low rise and gazed north, he had a clear view of the distant herd.
As he’d expected, there was little sign of life. With the aid of a battered pair of army field-glasses he could pick out a couple of ’punchers who were doing nothing more than ride the herd’s perimeter keeping a watchful eye out for strays. But Gibb’s trail boss had picked his last stop with care. If any animals did take it into their heads to roam, they would most likely sniff the air and trot down to the Pecos – which was exactly what Gibb wanted.
By shifting the glasses, Bobbie Lee could see the chuck-wagon. A thin column of smoke was rising from the fire, but here too there was a whole lot of nothing happening. Up in the trees near the wagon – too shaded for Bobby Lee to make out with any certainty – there were shapes he knew must be the rest of Gibb’s cowpokes, either still sleeping, looking to their equipment, or lazily playing cards. He could see a figure over by the remuda, and guessed the wrangler was one of the few men raising a sweat.
Of Cleet and the man with the buffalo gun there was no sign at all – but, hell, Bobbie Lee thought as he turned away in disgust, I’m a goddamn mile away and here I am trying to pick out individuals.
It took him a half-hour to ride back to the hollow. He could smell the smoke and coffee a quarter-mile away. When he’d pulled in and unsaddled his horse he told Will Blunt what he had seen from the rise. Will agreed that Bobbie Lee had probably found the ideal spot from which to start their night ride. A long way back from the herd, with plenty of space for Van Gelderen and his hostage to slot in between.
With that major decision taken care of, they finished off the coffee and prepared to bed down under the trees for the afternoon. They intended to ride out, and be in position long before dusk. And Bobbie Lee’s last recollection before he drifted off to sleep with clouds of flies droning hypnotically in the intense heat was the sight of Will Blunt with the Sharps rifle across his knees and his tongue sticking out as he applied oil to the weapon’s breech with a soft rag.
Chapter Thirteen
Cassie was some yards into a thin stand of parched trees, sitting in the shade with her back against a twisted trunk, her ankles hobbled.
Me and my horse, she thought ruefully, glancing across at the tethered pony. Two of a kind, stuck here while those three sit chewing the fat around the camp-fire – and again she marvelled at the ingenuity of Van Gelderen, who had left her hands free, used thin rawhide bindings to restrict her leg movement and poured water over the knot so that it tightened and would be impossible to unpick.
After the terrifying assault when she had stared into the muzzle of Van Gelderen’s six-gun, they had ridden north and west from the hollow and camped when the sun was a band of dazzling light stretching across the horizon – Cassie linked to Van Gelderen by a length of rope that connected their ankles and made her escape impossible.
She had estimated that on that night ride the outlaw had been pushing towards the Llano Estacado’s eastern escarpment. The realization set her wondering what Bobbie Lee and her pa had planned. Clearly, those plans would, to a great extent, depend on the location of the outlaws. Cassie was with the leader of the bunch and, from where he’d made camp, she assumed he intended riding up onto the Staked Plains through one of the jagged gullies splitting those eastern heights. That would bring him onto the plain some way to the east of the cattle drive.
Trouble was, she had no way of getting that information to Bobby Lee, nor any way of knowing what Bobby Lee and her pa had found out when they left her to ride to the herd in search of the truth. If there was a herd. And, assuming there was, if the rancher they were hoping to meet knew what the hell they were talking about.
Her jumbled thoughts were abruptly interrupted. Van Gelderen had leaped to his feet. With a flick of the wrist he sent the dregs of his coffee hissing into the fire. The thud of hooves had announced the approach of a rider in a hurry. Feeling her pulse quicken, Cassie prepared to do some listening.
‘This’ll be Callaghan,’ Van Gelderen said.
Moments later, t
he buckskin-clad outlaw who had left the Halt before the others came racing round a bend and rode hard into the camp. Close to the trees he pulled his horse to a sliding stop. He slid from the saddle and moved to the fire, slapping clouds of trail dust from his clothes. He nodded to Cleet and the man with the buffalo gun, and grinned happily at Van Gelderen.
‘That’s it done. She’s all set.’
‘No problems? Nobody there who knew the real Morgan by sight?’
‘Nope. And Gibb moves his herd at sundown. Right now he thinks I’m out there on the plains blazing a trail – though Christ knows where he got the idea you need a brilliant plan to cross a featureless desert.’
‘Maybe he’s hoping you can use those mysterious Comanche water-holes as steppin’ stones,’ Cleet said.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard there’s a couple out there,’ Callaghan said. ‘Me, I’m from the south, and knowledge of any water-holes up this way conveniently died when Sangster shot the Morgan boy.’
He walked to the fire, found himself a tin cup in the ashes up against the ring of stones and poured coffee from the pot.
‘You want bringing up to date?’
‘I’d guess not much happened,’ Van Gelderen said. ‘I can’t see Gibb swallowing Janson’s story after the show ol’ Cleet tells me he put on.’
Callagan was hunkered down, grinning over his coffee.
‘I was close enough to hear most of it. And I heard everything Gibb said afterwards when Janson rode in. The rancher was willing to listen, but wanted Marshal Earp there with Janson so he could get both sides of the story with them face to face – only Earp and his pard had turned into a couple of ghosts.’
‘Ghost riders,’ Cleet said, ‘out on the trail. Once this pow-wow’s over we’ll ride back with you. Old pals. You to show Gibb the trail to nowhere; me and Sangster there to stop the wicked Caprock Kid from frightening his cows.’
Van Gelderen chuckled.
‘You and Callaghan’ll ride in first, Sangster will follow later. Before that I’ve got another job suited to our friend’s unique talents with that rifle.’ He nodded in the direction of the woods. ‘Janson and that woman’s pa are out there—’
‘Damn right they are,’ Callaghan cut in. ‘Gibb made sure they hung up their guns, but Blunt pulled a hideaway pistol from his boot and threatened them with a stampede.’
‘Gibb should have paid attention, because that’s exactly what’s going to happen,’ Van Gelderen said. He looked across at Sangster. ‘It’s just a pity Blunt and the Kid won’t be there to see it.’
The rifleman smiled.
‘You want me to find them, I’ll do that. You want me to make sure there’s two riderless horses – I’ll do that too.’
‘Cold-blooded bastard.’ Van Gelderen’s grin was cruel, his eyes thoughtful.
‘There’ll be a full moon tonight,’ Sangster said. ‘Like cold daylight. but even if that don’t work out right, even if there’s cloud over the moon. . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m as good with a pistol as with that big buff’ gun. All it means is I get closer, maybe they’ll see me in the last seconds of their miserable lives.’
Van Gelderen’s fingers tapped the empty cup. ‘It’s easy enough to work out where they’ll be. Janson knows Gibb is not happy with him, and he knows I’ve got Blunt’s girl. That threat could cause him and Blunt to think twice about coming after me. But I don’t really believe it. The way I see it, all it’ll do is make them more cautious. But that works in our favour. When the herd moves out, they’ll hang back. They’ll be watching for me, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. They won’t be expecting danger because they believe you, Cleet and Murphy will be with the herd.’
‘Two-thirds right,’ Sangster said.
‘The one third they’re wrong will prove fatal.’ Van Gelderen eyes were gleaming with a strange light. ‘The Caprock Kid’ll be out of my life, out of my waking nightmares. Dead and buried. The debt finally paid, snuffed out by his last, dying breath.’
‘Because I’ll be out there,’ Sangster said, ‘watching the watchers.’
‘But not for too long.’
‘Just long enough to get them in my sights,’ Sangster said. ‘Squeeze off a couple of shots. Then, yeah, all your troubles’ll be over.’
In the woods, despite the heat of the afternoon, Cassie Blunt was frozen with horror. She had listened and learned names, got a hazy idea of what had gone on when Bobby Lee and her pa had talked to the rancher, and from where she sat could see the badge shining on Cleet’s vest.
The outlaws had used that badge to gain credibility in the rancher’s eyes. The story they had told had blackened Bobbie Lee’s name. Cassie guessed they had simply told the rancher – Gibb – exactly what was planned, but named Bobbie Lee as the troublemaker, the man bearing a grudge. If he believed that, Gibb would always be looking the wrong way; always searching the scorching plains for trouble when trouble was riding with him.
But the rancher’s problems were as nothing compared with those facing Bobbie Lee and her pa.
Staring out through the trees at the outlaws, Cassie’s eyes blurred with tears. She’d just heard two men pass sentence of death on the men she loved and there was nothing she could do about it.
Or was there?
Biting her lip, she watched the men gathered around the fire. The one called Cleet had gone across to his saddle-bags and returned with a bottle of whiskey. The bottle was being passed around. Nobody was paying her any attention.
She looked across at her pony. No more than thirty yards away from her, it was loosely tethered to a tree. A pull on their loose ends would free the reins. No tight rawhide there to be unpicked.
Her Hobbsles were a different matter. They could not be untied. She had no knife. With the hobbles in place she could not ride the pony even if she could reach it.
But that, Cassie decided, was the thinking of a defeatist.
If she did reach the pony, it could be ridden. She’d heard of ladies’ side-saddles. If a lady could use a special saddle to ride with both her legs on the same side of the horse, then by heck she, Cassie Blunt, could do the same without any goddamn special saddle.
And if the outlaws looked around, caught her in no-man’s-land somewhere between the tree and her pony – then they were in for one hell of a surprise. Because didn’t she still have that little over-and-under Remington .41 tucked down all snug in her boot?
Damn right she did.
She chuckled softly, quickly smothering the laugh with her hand.
Van Gelderen had taken her arms in his iron grip, forced her down against the tree, dropped to his knees in front of her and used the length of skinny rawhide to make a hobble. His hands had been all over her ankles as he worked – and still he’d missed the bulge of the pistol.
For that slip, he would pay dear.
Cassie took a deep breath. She cast a final glance towards the camp-fire as harsh guffaws rang out, saw the bottle tossed glittering across the now dancing flames. Then she made her move.
No time for pussyfooting. She moved fast, decisively. From the awkward seated position she rolled, came to her knees then sprang to her feet. With both hands on the coarse bark, she swung herself behind the tree. She was breathing hard but controlling it. Her mouth was open so there was no hiss of breath.
It was a solid fact, she knew, that movement drew the eye while stillness went unnoticed. The prisoner was no longer sitting cross-legged, but her first swift movements had been missed. Now the advantage lay with her. There were several trees between her and the pony. As she crossed those thirty yards – which looked uncomfortably like thirty miles – she would ensure they were between her and the outlaws.
But how should she move?
Biting her lip, Cassie tried a pace, then another. Short paces. Paces restricted as the rawhide snapped taut. The alternative was a series of awkward double-legged hops, but that could be noisy, and she’d be risking a fall.
Reckless speed, and to hell with it? – or a
duck-like waddle that would set her nerves screaming with impatience and fear?
Cassie waddled.
It was like exposing herself in the slots of those new-fangled moving picture machines she’d heard about, and she had to clench her teeth to hold back a giggle. She’d pass a tree, through the gap get a glimpse of the outlaws around the camp-fire, then the next tree would block her view. She went through that half-a-dozen times; seven trees, six gaps through which her progress might be glimpsed – and then she steppd one last time, stumbled, and fell against the startled pony; clapped a hand over its warm muzzle; whispered soothing words of comfort.
She’d reached her mount, but every second that passed brought discovery closer. And even as she cupped the pony’s muzzle and whispered those soothing words she knew she had blundered. Yes, she could walk after a fashion, hop all through the long hot day, even ride sideways-on without a special saddle – but first she had to climb up on the horse. Compared with the struggle that lay ahead, making it to the pony had been a cakewalk – and she was running out of time.
Breathing deeply, salty sweat trickling into her eyes, Cassie kept her hand on the excited pony as she looked back towards the camp-fire. All she could see was the smoke rising above the trees. The outlaws were hidden by the trees and so couldn’t see her – thank God!
But they could see the tree where she’d been sitting, and if they looked that way now . . .
Desperation threatened to turn to panic. Her hand was clutching the saddle horn. She was breathing in shallow gasps. Suddenly her legs felt weak. Frantically she tried to think, but as her eyes darted wildly as if seeking inspiration she could see no way of hoisting herself up onto the horse without floundering and finishing up belly down and creating enough commotion to stampede that goddamn herd never mind warn the outlaws.
And then she saw her saddle-bags. Almost under her nose. In them she had stowed water bottles, some food and clothing – and her clasp knife!