by Stan Krumm
“I’ll leave the white one saddled. You’ll ride him,” I shouted.
“I can take my own horse if you want.”
“No, Jack. I’ve been seen riding that big white, and I want everyone to recognize me—that is, recognize you and think it’s me. Anyway, I’m afraid part of the deal is a trade of horses. I bought that white fellow and this brown mare fair and square, by the way. I need one to ride and one to pack, so I’ll need to take yours with me.”
At this he hesitated, but it was hardly a moment until he shrugged. “Oh well, Nathaniel will get you to Fort Hope safe enough; don’t you worry, Zach. You’ve got a good horse there! Been with me a long time, you know.”
Evans finished his work and buttoned up his shirt.
“I’m not actually going down the canyon,” I said. “I’ll go over to Fort Kamloops, then south from there.”
He half smiled and nodded sagely.
“Don’t you worry, Zach. Half the country will hear how you’re ripping down the canyon, I’ll make sure of that. You pay me an honest dollar, and I do the job good and proper, you know.”
“That gold poke is still inside on the floor. You take it and hide it someplace good while my back is turned here,” I suggested. “You want that waiting for you when you come back north. Take a bit with you now in a twist of paper if you want, just for expenses.”
He tottered away while I saddled his horse, and ten minutes later we were ready to go, Evans on the white horse wearing my hat and long, green coat, with the whisky bottle protruding from one pocket.
“I’ll ride with you as far as that main valley. Then I’m coming back here for the night. I want you to get a head start on me.” I was telling the truth when I said this, but I also wanted to be sure he was on his way before he started drinking. I only hoped that if he passed out, the horse would continue to head south, rather than return to the Farrell ranch. I don’t know whether Jack guessed my ulterior motive or not, but he spoke at some length about how confident I should be. He could be relied on to execute his part of our plan, whatever the obstacles.
“Yessir,” he said, with a philosopher’s distant gaze, “I’m mostly a loner these days, because of the ranch and all, but I know good and well what’s involved in taking on a partnership. I had myself some good partners in my time. Phil Prescott and me was together for better’n two years when I first come north. Helped me build the house right at the start, but he had the consumption, and went south and died. Joe Willis was a good man, too. We had a claim together up on Meagre Creek, but he died too. Drowned. Good man, though. I been lucky with the partners I took on.”
I declined comment on the sort of luck his partners seemed to have had, but allowed that, indeed, good fortune was sometimes more important than good judgment in choosing one’s companions.
“Well, I always had to depend on luck, myself,” Jack observed, “because I never had much in the line of good judgment.” We both had a good laugh at that. Then he said, “You’re pretty much of a loner yourself then, are you?”
“Pretty much,” I agreed, then added, “I’ve been working with a partner or two lately, though.”
“And now you divided up and went your own ways, I guess?”
“Probably. It’s always hard to say, of course.”
“Well, I’m glad you asked me to sign on. We’ll do this job up right and proper, you and me.”
As the sun reached its zenith behind us, we rode together across the meadow to the mouth of the ravine that led down into the long horseshoe-shaped box canyon.
I had chosen Farrell’s white horse purely because it would be easily noticed and remembered when people saw Evans ride past doing his imitation of Zachary Beddoes, but it was in fact proving to be a good horse. It showed no signs of tiring or protesting as Evans started it out on a new leg of the journey. His horse, on the other hand—the one I rode—sensed something unusual afoot and kept bumping up against her former owner’s leg as if for reassurance. It took most of my concentration to handle her, for I was not a great horseman to begin with, and I still felt a trifle tipsy.
Once we reached the dry creek bed, the canyon narrowed so that we had to travel single file. Then, for the last few hundred yards of the southernmost end, the baked clay hills opened out a little, and we rode side by side up to the place where I had planned to leave my new companion, but as we turned the final corner we were confronted with a frightening surprise.
Our horses strolled into the open valley at a patient walk, but as soon as we looked across the half mile of desert prairie to the opposite hillside, we pulled hard on the reins and had the animals fairly dancing on their hind hooves back into cover. Out of sight, we quickly tethered the horses to the most convenient bit of brush, scurried back up the rise on foot, and peered over. Crouched together behind a great sandstone boulder, we looked across to the place a quarter-mile distant where I had said goodbye to May Sang. There were five men there—three mounted, two on foot beside them, examining the ground.
I muttered something unpleasant under my breath, regretting that I had wasted so much time using a bottle to introduce myself. I had never once guessed that such a remote, widely scattered community could organize and mobilize a rescue committee so quickly. Now it appeared that Evans was going to have to figure a way to manoeuvre himself in front of those characters, for this group had surely been sent out on my trail. They spent a long time there, examining the tracks and talking amongst themselves. The possibility now presented itself that they might choose to follow the lesser trail, and come straight towards us.
We both held our breath, so to speak, as we squatted, watched and waited, but I remained confident that they would ride away, would follow the route taken by May Sang and showing the larger number of hoofprints. No one had seen Evans and I when we blundered into their view. The surprising thing to me was that they were taking so long to come to a decision.
So intent was I on this observation that it startled me when Evans uttered a loud profanity. Turning to look at the animals, I saw that they had shaken themselves loose from the brittle sagebrush branches to which they were tethered, and while the dark one had evidently started for home, the white had strolled out from concealment and was foraging for dry grass in plain view of all and sundry.
Evans leaped from the hillock where we were stationed, skidded down the slope on his backside, and trotted out to retrieve the animal, but by then it was too late. As I watched, one man pointed towards us, then all turned their attention.
A moment later five men on horseback trotted down the valley, trapping us within the narrow walls of the dry creek’s gorge without any route of escape.
By the time Evans came back with one horse, I had control of the other. Without speaking and without haste, we mounted and headed back in the direction of his homestead. We were each trying our best to come up with a plan, but it now seemed clear to me that my good fortune had been used up. We reined in at a sort of bottleneck twist in the canyon, and Evans jumped down, holding his rifle in one hand, the whisky bottle in the other.
“Let’s take our own horses back, Jack,” I suggested. “You go on to your ranch, hide my stuff wherever you can. You can have it all. Chase that other horse of Farrell’s down in this direction and try to hide any evidence that I’ve ever stopped up there. I’ll handle things from here. I guess they’ve caught me, but I don’t want these beggars getting any of my gold. Go on, Jack.”
I was tired, too tired to fight any more.
Evans didn’t show any sign of hearing what I had said. He handed me the reins to his horse, took another pull at the bottle, then went back to the bend we had just passed, where he scrambled up the cliff face about fifteen feet and wedged himself behind a fold in the rock.
I didn’t know what to do. He looked like he was preparing a single-handed counterattack, which I knew would not only be futile but would greatly reduce my chances of being fairly treated when I did surrender. I meant to run after him to say this, but while
I was trying to find a place to secure the horses, I heard the pounding rumble of the riders coming down the draw.
They never came fully into my view, for at that point my partner raised his rifle and fired five shots in quick succession. I kept our mounts from bolting, but not without effort, for the reports echoed like thunder in the enclosed space.
I managed to tether the white to some sagebrush as Evans ran up to me, grabbed the lead to his own horse, thrust his rifle into my hands, and clambered into the saddle.
“Everything’s going just great, Zach.” He gasped for breath but was obviously exhilarated. “They’re off their horses and running for cover. You go keep on top of them like. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t you let them move, now. Keep them right like they’re sitting!”
He was off before I had a chance to speak, riding back towards his ranch as fast as he could manage over the rough rock of the dry creek bed.
Still grimacing with anger and confusion, I followed instructions, by turns running and climbing to the perch just vacated by my overzealous accomplice. I found things as he said. Here and there, behind rocks and around corners, the five members of the pursuit party had deployed themselves so that only occasionally could I glimpse a hat, a coat sleeve, or a thatch of hair. They had bunched themselves into more or less a single group—a sign that they were amateurs in the game of chasing dangerous men, for it made it easy for one person with a gun to control them, at least for a short period of time.
They were positioned along one side of a triangular opening in the ravine. Their horses were behind them, around the corner, hidden from my view. As I watched, the fifth member of the troop emerged tentatively from this direction, probably having just finished attending to the mounts, and I squeezed off a rifle shot that kicked up a spray of gravel not far behind his foot. I smiled to myself as he leaped and squirmed to where his cohorts crouched.
Just once did one of them attempt to return fire—a single pistol shot that sailed aimlessly off into the sky. I fired again in their general direction, and heard the bullet ricochet ominously down the enclosed corridors of stone. They stopped shooting completely. They had to aim uphill into the sun, and I don’t think any of them had seen exactly where I was. Past the ringing in my ears I could hear their anxious voices, no doubt coming to the same conclusions that I had reached. I had the upper hand for the moment, but in the long run they must win, for like them I was unable to move.
Five minutes passed. I was rather mystified when one of them chose to wave his hat around as if to draw my fire, but I obliged with a careful shot that ripped through the fabric and scared the fellow half to death. Thinking about the peculiar action, I realized that they were not aware there was no exit on the other end of the canyon and wanted to make sure I did not slip down and ride away while they remained in hiding. It was interesting to know that they were not familiar with this piece of country, but I couldn’t think of a way to turn the information to my advantage.
Finally I looked down the gorge and saw Jack Evans trotting towards me on foot. He motioned quietly for me to come, and for the first time I realized that our pursuers must still think they were dealing with only one man, possibly a man holding a hostage.
Evans still had a half smile on his face.
“I found a good, solid little tree just past that boulder there. You take your horse down there now, you see, and tie him real tight. Then, come on and follow me.” He pointed down the canyon wall to a pattern of footholds that gave access to a ledge that ascended and led around the corner. “That path there. I’ll go along there, and you catch up. Are they still all squirrelled down under cover?”
“I suppose so,” I replied.
“Good, good. You get that horse tied down good, like. Then follow me, okay?”
As he said this he reached into the deep pocket of my long green coat and drew out two dun-coloured sticks of blasting powder.
I was shocked into momentary silence by the sight of them, but once again he was off and running before I could gather my wits enough to speak—hopping and scrambling up the vertical face of the hard clay and sandstone wall like a mountain goat.
He meant to blow them to pieces. Win or lose, I couldn’t stomach that. It didn’t take long for me to firm up my resolve. I had to stop Jack Evans. I could not countenance the massacre of a group of strangers who threatened me only because they meant to uphold the law.
Desperately I hoped, as I jumped from foothold to foothold, that Evans would wait for my arrival before he tossed the explosives onto the unsuspecting citizens. If they realized that it was safe to leave their cover and advanced, though, Evans might use the gunpowder before they had a chance to separate, and the bloodshed would be terrible.
My haste was too great. A third of the way up, I lost my footing and bounced and skidded all the way to the bottom. Still I heard no deafening blast, and back up the cliff face I went. This time I made it to the top, side-stepped as fast as I could along the ledge, and found myself standing on a broad rock about the size of a kitchen table. I figured that I must be directly above the five deputies, but Evans was nowhere in sight.
The quick climb had completely taken my breath away, and I allowed myself a second or two to squat down and rest.
I decided to crawl over to the edge of the rock and peek over the side to clarify my exact position. I was just kneeling to begin this action when I heard a scrape and a rustle from exactly that direction. A second later a head and a pair of shoulders appeared, as one of the manhunters hauled himself from the last of his own set of footholds onto the ledge.
I found myself face to face with one of the only people in the region that I actually knew by name. Bill Atherton was as surprised as I was to renew our acquaintance in that particular spot, but I was first to recover from the shock and jump to my feet.
The last time I had seen him I had been aiming the Sharp’s buffalo gun at him, and I had missed. This time it was the toe of my boot that I aimed, and it connected perfectly with the top of his shoulder and his collarbone. He was tough and quick, though, and his balance was admirable. He kept from going backwards, rolled sideways, and drew his revolver from its holster, all in one long motion. I hadn’t even thought of reaching for my gun, and if his weapon had been cocked I think he might have had time to shoot me. Instead the barrel was still pointed silently forward when my second kick landed squarely on his forehead. Without a sound from his lips, Atherton flipped backwards over the edge. I couldn’t see him, but I heard him skid and bounce as he tumbled down the vertical slope. Below me I heard a shout of surprise from one of his fellows, at the same time as I heard a sharp whispered exclamation to my left.
“Zach! Come on now, man!”
Jack Evans was just above and beyond me, calling impatiently. In his hand he held the two sticks of explosives—originally meant to blast stumps from his fields and now destined, I supposed, to end the lives of five of his neighbours. The two short cylinders were tied tightly together and the two-foot length of fuse was already burning.
“Forget it, Jack!” I said. “We can’t do this thing. It’s not worth it—too much killing. They’re innocent men down there.”
“What?” he exclaimed.
The fuse sizzled slowly but steadily along.
“Don’t kill them, Jack!” I pleaded.
“Nonsense!” he said, and threw the bomb as hard and far as he could over the precipice and down the canyon. “I don’t even know them people! I’m not gonna hurt them! I just want to see if they tied their horses up any better than we did a while ago.”
The mighty boom of the explosion was greatly exaggerated by its origins in those confined depths, and even though I was well clear, I felt momentarily deaf and dizzy as the breeze settled fine dust on my shoulders.
“Zach! Come here, Zach!” I finally heard over the hollow ringing, and I ran and scrambled to the higher ground where Evans stood. He was laughing so hard I could not make out what he was trying to say, but I looked whe
re he pointed and soon saw the reason for his glee. All five horses had bolted at top speed for distant pastures. Two could be seen far out on the flat lands going one direction, two more had turned the opposite way, and the fifth was kicking the air and spinning about like an unbroken colt, just past the main gap opening out onto the wide valley.
Jack stood for a moment on the rocky peak like a scarecrow come to life, slapping his thighs and laughing aloud. Then he turned to me as he started back the way we had come.
“Now I got to get moving, like. Good luck, Zach! You be careful, you know. Get yourself a good spot where you can see like, and watch me now.”
He picked up speed as he spoke, and I didn’t try to follow him along the ledge. Just before he dropped over the edge to slide down the cliff face, he turned and shouted back once more.
“You keep watching me, partner!” and he disappeared from my sight, headed back towards our horses.
Things had been happening awfully fast, and I was still dumbfounded at how my new friend had managed to control the events, but I knew what was going to happen next. I returned to the table-sized rock where I had fought with Bill Atherton and flopped onto my belly.
The dust had mostly settled, and from my vantage point I had a pretty good view of the five confused and frightened young guardians of justice as they crawled out of their hiding places to take stock of the situation. They moved cautiously at first, peering down the canyon towards the spot where I had fired on them with the rifle. Then, once they were satisfied that no more shots were forthcoming, they began to shout questioningly to one another. When they were all present and accounted for, they began to argue loudly. One man jogged off to look for the horses, and a couple more squinted into the rays of the setting sun, trying to focus on the top of the canyon walls.
“Beddoes!” someone shouted. “Beddoes, are you there?”
Not one of the figures in this scene of grand confusion had a gun in his hand when Jack Evans suddenly rode through their midst at high speed. He screamed like a banshee and fired one pistol shot in the air as he galloped through. The gun was aimed harmlessly heavenwards, but the five fellows below me scrambled frantically for shelter. As Jack galloped out of sight, they emerged one by one, wailing and cursing and throwing their hats on the ground.