He finally figured such remembrances would only make him feel worse in the end, so he leaned back and closed his eyes to do some heavy thinking before sinking into one of his usual restless cat naps.
He had a good horse and weapons with plenty of ammunition. But a search of the saddlebags showed them to be empty. The cowboy who owned the stallion evidently hadn’t planned on being gone from his ranch for more than an evening in town. There was plenty of room for Ben to stuff his ammo and the bundle of clothing in them. Unfortunately there wasn’t a rifle boot on the saddle, so he had to carry the Winchester with the muzzle stuck in the right-hand bag while he held onto the butt-end of the stock when he rode. It was an inconvenience he was willing to bear. The extra range of that long gun could spell the difference between escape and capture in the wide-open country where he had to travel.
Ben’s big problem—aside from avoiding recapture—was food.
There was plenty of game in the area, but the last thing Ben wanted was to attract attention with gunshots—particularly if the sounds of hunting might be heard by a pursuing posse. He’d been alarmed to note the number of farms that had sprung up in the area. He could remember when a man could ride through that part of the territory for three days before he’d run into any sign of other people being around. Back in those days a fugitive could have brought a brass band along with him without alerting anyone.
The obvious answer was to steal some eats somewhere. Rustling a cow was out of the question. That would also mean making noise, then having to do some elaborate butchering. Even such an undignified thing as getting into a chicken coop could cause a racket. Ben remembered the farm hand who had worked for Jim Baldwin just before he showed up. The fellow had looted the smokehouse before leaving. That would be his own best bet too, Ben decided. Raiding a farm and getting ahold of some meat that was already butchered and ready to eat was the ticket. All that was required was to carry it away.
Ben’s mind settled it all. He would wait for dark, then scout the area as best he could until he found a smokehouse. After that, he could go hell-for-leather to the Kansas line, then turn east to Wichita.
His mind also reflected on the hopelessness of his situation under any circumstances. He had now killed three lawmen. Even if he received a presidential pardon, there would be irate starpackers who would hunt him down and kill him without mercy no matter where he might go. An outlaw would forget a pard who died in a bank or train robbery, chalking it up as part of the game. But lawmen were different. When one went down, all the others went after the killer.
Ben started to drift off to sleep. But thoughts of Arlena replaced those of his desperate planning. He had consciously concentrated on not thinking about her the way he had done about the girl Maybelle Beardsley while he was in the penitentiary. But there was a big difference between a boyhood crush and a grown man’s deep love for a woman.
If he had only met her ten years earlier, he thought, then he would have gone straight and settled down. But the fact that she’d already been married at that time entered his head. Ben sighed sadly. A full and happy life was just not destined to be his. There were too many mistakes and too many regrets—except one: Ben Cullen would never regret the emotions and feelings of falling in love with Arlena.
He finally sank into a shallow sleep, waking up every five or ten minutes.
Ben divided the rest of the daylight hours between short naps and taking observation tours around the edge of the wooded area to see if any interlopers had ridden in. The countryside remained empty except for the natural prairie lushness of grass and the comings and goings of animals that lived there.
He waited until dusk before resaddling the horse and mounting up to search out a good smokehouse to rob.
The first farm he checked was a bleak, badly run outfit. The yard boasted only a crude, sod residence and an outhouse built of the same material. A tent was pitched between them, and from the look of the man, woman, and five kids who lived there, they were dirt poor. Ben wouldn’t have stolen from them even if it guaranteed absolute freedom.
Ben moved on in the growing gloom. The country was so populated that he had only to travel a half hour until he reached the next farm. Although much more prosperous, there was no smokehouse visible. Perhaps the farmer there kept it as part of the barn, but Ben didn’t have the time to check out that possibility.
In only twenty minutes he was at the next place. The type of structure he searched for was clearly visible. There was the house, a barn and tool shed, and an outhouse. The smokehouse was the farthest building away from the main abode. Ben smiled in satisfaction to himself. The other buildings were between the two, cutting off all view from any window if the owner happened to peer out.
There was still a bit of light, so Ben rode over to the side where the smokehouse was located. He found a handy stand of buffalo grass and concealed himself and the horse to await darkness.
There was a brief flicker of lantern light that could be seen falling outward onto the farmyard, but this was extinguished after a couple of hours. Ben waited for a bit of time to go by before he forced his horse to endure the hobble again. Then he moved down toward the farm.
His boots crunched lightly on the soil as he approached the smokehouse. When he reached the corner of the structure he stopped and listened for a couple of minutes. The only sound was the breeze playing through the barn loft, making the pulley on the hay-lift squeak as it swung back and forth. Ben stepped around to the door.
The dog snarled and leaped at his throat.
Ben’s arm instinctively went up in front of his face. The large canine bit down hard at it, and the intruder could feel the stinging, ripping pain. The animal increased the pressure of the bite, shaking his head as if trying to drag the man down to the ground.
A door opened and a voice called out. “Shep? Shep?”
The dog couldn’t bark and let go at the same time so he growled as loud as he could. But Ben’s knife swiped deep across the furry throat and the dog let go.
“Shep? Heah, boy! Heah, boy!”
The blade wound was so deep that there was only a weak, gurgly growl as the hound rolled weakly on the ground, bleeding to death. Ben pulled his injured arm in close and eased the pistol from the holster with his free hand. If the man came out, there was no sense in worrying about noise.
“Shep?” There was a pause, then the man’s voice was muffled a bit, showing he’d turned his head to speak inside the house. “Prob’ly scared up a coyote or fox.” Then the door slammed shut.
Ben gritted his teeth against the pain, and went into the small meat-curing building. He fumbled in the dark and pulled a large hunk of meat off one of the drying racks. After stepping back outside he listened to make sure no one was coming out to investigate. Knowing that his arm was bleeding, he went back to the horse.
~*~
Ben could feel the blood seeping through his torn shirt-sleeve while he rode slowly through the night. The pain had subsided a bit, but he could not move the last two fingers of his left hand. He kept the injured limb in close and gripped the hurt part as tightly as he could to keep the bleeding under some sort of control. He rode clumsily, balancing the hunk of meat and keeping the rifle barrel under his right knee at the same time.
By the time the sun was pink on the eastern horizon, he figured he was far enough away to stop and inspect the arm. Ben gently peeled the sleeve back from the mess, and rolled it up past his elbow. The sight made him wince. Both top and bottom of the arm were badly ripped by the dog’s teeth. Although no artery seemed to have been punctured, there was still plenty of bleeding.
He decided to sacrifice one of his shirts. He pulled it out of the saddlebag, and carefully cut off the sleeves with his knife. It seemed a shame to do so because of the care and cleaning that Arlena had done on the garment. But it was an absolute necessity. He wrapped them both tightly around the wound. After securing the makeshift bandages with a couple of knots, he used the rest of the shirt to wrap the
meat in. He discovered, in the light, that he’d gotten ahold of a well-cured ham. He bundled it up and hung it over the saddle horn.
Now, with the arm throbbing under the tight pressure, Ben remounted and urged the horse into a canter due north. He endured another two hours before he had to stop. His arm was throbbing badly and the makeshift dressing was completely soaked in blood. Ben got another shirt, the last one, and clumsily fashioned a sling out of it. He inserted the hurt limb inside and was somewhat relieved at the extra comfort of being able to allow it to relax. The constant strain of holding the arm to his side had caused a muscle cramp in his shoulder.
Remounting, he let his eager horse resume the pace. He found he could use the minimal guidance the animal required with pressure from his knees. He kept a northerly course as much as possible, but there were detours to be made each time a farm or small settlement popped up on the horizon.
In mid-afternoon, he was almost dozing off in the saddle. Between the steady, rhythmic sound of hoof-beats and the warm sun, Ben had grown sleepy. But suddenly a chill went through him. This was the old instinct developed over the years of being chased.
He stood up in the stirrups and looked back.
There were two of them. Both riders had spread out so they could approach from separate wide-spread angles. Ben put the reins in the hand of his hurt arm and grasped the Winchester with the other.
“Ha-yahh!” he yelled and kicked the horse’s flanks. The animal leaped forward and broke into a gallop in a joyous burst of energy.
The first shot zapped across Ben’s nose. He jerked his bad arm from the sling. “Damn!” he said aloud in pain, but he was happy to see he could use the rifle. He squeezed off a round in the direction of the nearest man, then swung over and cut loose on the other.
The chase got serious then. Ben forgot about shooting. It was useless anyhow, since accuracy was completely out of the question. Ben put all his effort on the escape. The run streaked across open, flat areas and down into gentle gulleys.
Occasional shots ricocheted by, zinging off into the wide expanse of open space. Although the noise was impressive, these were not close. It would take a wildly lucky shot for one man on a galloping horse to shoot another man speeding along the same way.
Ben dipped into another gulley and pounded across a shallow creek, sending muddy splashes of water flying. He climbed the other side and urged his mount to greater speed. Ben’s plan was not to continue running. That would have eventually led him into a spot where he’d be pinned in or cut off. A farm or town might crop up at any time. And there was also the possibility that the two gunmen chasing him had pals out in the area somewhere too.
What Ben needed was a place to hole up and shoot it out. But there was no place to be found. The terrain had turned flat again and there wasn’t as much as a single tree around to use as cover. The situation had to be brought under control and damned near immediately.
Ben pulled on the reins, and turned around.
He charged straight back toward the startled pursuers. They continued to press on, shooting at him now, and with the range rapidly decreasing there was a damned good chance they’d knock him out in the saddle. Ben let the reins go and held the Winchester in his bad hand. He drew the revolver with the other and leaned low over the horse’s neck.
Once again he chose the nearest man for his target. Ben stuck the pistol out and fired three times. The second round caught the man in the abdomen. He suddenly bent over in the saddle and rode past. Ben wheeled around again in time to see the gunman slip from the saddle and hit the ground hard, rolling over several times before stopping and lying still.
His partner, full of spit and fight, had also turned around. Ben galloped toward him. He waited until they were close together. Both passed each other firing ineffective shots.
The two adversaries raced in a circle, keeping up a steady rate of fire. Now Ben’s pistol was empty but he still had fourteen rounds left in the Winchester rifle. He cut loose with three of these as their circling grew tighter and tighter.
Then Ben made his move.
He reined in sharply and leaped down from the saddle. Standing up he took a quick bead on his adversary and pulled the trigger.
The .44 caliber round hit its target solidly. The man looked like he’d leaped sideways out of the saddle. He hit the ground kicking up a cloud of dust. Ben, cranking in another bullet, walked toward him. There was no movement from the gunman except for a slow flexing of one leg. Then he was still. Ben, still cautious, slowly approached until he stood over him.
The wound was ghastly. The big slug had splintered, blowing out a large portion of the right side. Ben could see his innards, red and green, in the bloody mess. The dead man’s eyes were wide open and full of dirt.
Ben turned and walked back to the horse. Mounting, he rode toward the other fallen pursuer. The fellow was sitting up. He attempted to hold up his hands to show he would offer no resistance. But the effort caused him to topple over. Ben also came up slowly on this one.
No doubt the lawman was alive. That meant he was still a potential and dangerous threat.
Ben swung out of the saddle. “Don’t move them hands.”
“Lemme sit up,” the man said weakly. “It hurts to lean over.”
“You gut shot?” Ben asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. But if you as much as frown, I’m gonna put the next one through your head.”
“You’d probly do me a favor if you did.” The man, wearing a badge, struggled to straighten up. “I ain’t got no fight left,” he said with a hint of pleading in his voice.
Ben picked up the man’s carbine and tossed it away. “I ain’t gonna shoot you no more.”
The lawman believed him. “Obliged.”
Ben studied his face. “Didn’t I see you in Red Rock?”
“Yeah. Me an’ Hammond seen you when we rode in.” He forced a grin. “You give us the wrong direction to the jailhouse.”
“You two U.S. marshals?”
“Yeah. Outta Guthrie. I’m Tom Price.”
“Howdy. I reckon you know my name.”
“Sure do, Cullen,” Price said.
“How many o’ you jaspers come after me?” Ben asked.
“Just the two of us. We found the sheriff and deputy you cut up,” Price said. “The deputy’s dead but the sheriff’s fine.”
“I thought he was dead too,” Ben said.
Price shook his head. “Nope. Getting cut like that just scared the shit out of him. The town doc even says he wasn’t too serious.”
“I don’t think you are either,” Ben said. “You might just make it. But your pard is dead.”
“You sure?”
“His whole side was blowed out,” Ben said.
Price nodded his head. “He was the one who tracked you. He was madder’n hell when we finally figgered out it was you we seen when we come into town. He finally wanted a hunk o’ your ass, Cullen.”
“Turned out the other way around, though,” Ben said.
Price pointed to Ben’s arm. “What happened?”
“Just a damn dawg bite,” Ben said. “Nothing serious.”
“You’re bleeding,” Price said. “It’s running down your fingers.”
“You’re bleeding, too,” Ben said. He looked at Price for several more moments, then glanced out and saw Price’s horse calmly grazing some fifty yards distance. He slowly walked across the grass to the animal. The horse calmly watched him approach, then allowed itself to be led back. Ben held onto the reins. “I ain’t gonna help you into the saddle, Price. But I’ll put down whatever you need outta your gear for you.”
“Just gimme the bags and my blankets,” Price said.
“I can’t have you riding back to some farmhouse and spreading the word,” Ben said.
“Yeah,” Price said in understanding.
“Somebody might be by,” Ben said.
“Ain’t likely.”
“Nope. But if it’s any comfort
, I’ll tell ’em about you if they catch me,” Ben said.
“Obliged.”
The fugitive searched the saddlebags to make sure there were no weapons hidden in them. All he found was whiskey, bandages, beef jerky, and dried beans. He also pulled off the lawman’s canteen. “I’ll leave this too and go get your pard’s. Dying o’ thirst can be worse’n a gunshot.”
“Maybe I’ll die of a combination of both,” Price said.
“Save the whiskey for last,” Ben advised him. “Sometimes it’s better to cash in your chips drunk than sober.”
“Can I have Hammond’s whiskey too?”
“He’s got likker with him?”
“Yep.”
But Ben shook his head. “I need that whiskey for my arm. But you’ll get his saddlebags too.”
Price took a deep breath and grimaced as a wave of pain went through him. “Y’know, Cullen, if somebody comes by I just might make it.”
“You might.”
Ben forked his saddle and rode back to where the dead man lay in the undignified position with his entrails out in the grass. There were already big blowflies buzzing around the body. Ben got his horse and led him back to Price. Once more he dumped some supplies at the man’s feet. “I’m gonna take his guns and bullets,” he said, putting a pair of Remington .44s in his own saddlebags.
“If they catch you, Cullen, I’ll tell ’em how you done me right,” Price promised.
“Shit! You’ll be dead in four or five days, Price,” Ben said. He got back up in his saddle. “But I reckon you can be glad the Injuns ain’t around no more.”
“I surely am,” Price said.
“So long.”
“Obliged.”
Ben again turned north and resumed the run.
~*~
The dead marshal’s whiskey wasn’t drunk by Ben Cullen. Instead, he kept his bloody bandages soaked in the stuff. There were two bottles, but from the amount he used on the dog bite they would only last a couple of days. He wished he’d kept Price’s, but somehow he couldn’t gut shoot a man and take his liquor too.
Desperado Run (An Indian Territory Western Book 2) Page 13