Next, he decided to leave the body out in the open so they would be able to see it. Maybe the breed’s death would unnerve them.
* * *
* * *
Where’s Sequoia?” Seaforth complained. “He should’ve been back by now to report.”
“Something must’ve happened,” Garfield said.
“Really? You think Big Jake Motley did something to him?” Seaforth asked.
“I don’t think he could,” Garfield said. “He’s just a rancher. Maybe something else . . . his horse might’ve stepped into a chuckhole and thrown him . . .”
“Not that mustang,” Seaforth said. “That’s the most surefooted horse I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, I think that’s more likely than Motley overpowering him,” Garfield said.
They turned and looked behind them at Walker and the other two men, who were sitting their horses, impatiently waiting for instructions.
“Okay,” Seaforth said, “we’ll just have to keep moving. Hopefully we’ll find him, or he’ll find us.”
“You know,” Garfield said, “I’ve never thought he was as good as he thinks he is. If that old-timer managed to get the best of him—”
“Never mind,” Seaforth said. “Let’s just ride.”
* * *
* * *
What the—” Seaforth said.
He reined in and raised his hand to stop the others.
“Jesus,” Garfield said.
Up ahead was Sequoia’s mustang, standing still near a thicket of trees, with Sequoia in the saddle. Only he was sitting very unnaturally.
“Is he tied up?” Garfield asked.
“There’s one way to find out,” Seaforth said.
Garfield looked at him.
“Go take a look.”
Garfield turned in his saddle.
“Walker,” he said, “go take a look.”
Walker rode up to where Seaforth and Garfield were.
“Is he tied in his saddle?” Walker asked.
“That’s what you and Gar are going to find out,” Seaforth said. “Go!”
CHAPTER FORTY
Jake settled upon the idea of tying the breed’s body in his saddle. But he had to hurry. There were still five of them, and he still needed to tend to his own wound so that it wouldn’t get worse.
He struggled to get the breed into his saddle and almost gave up at one point, but finally got him situated. He hoped the mustang wouldn’t wander away, so instead of simply grounding the reins, he tied them to one of the nearby bushes.
That done, he mounted the sorrel and continued to ride north, getting as far away as he could before Seaforth and his men reached that point. He’d have to wait to tend to his wound, trying to find a more permanent solution to his bleeding.
* * *
* * *
Seaforth watched as Garfield and Walker approached the breed’s horse.
Garfield stayed alert, in case Jake Motley was watching and waiting for a chance to take a shot.
“Oh, Jesus,” Walker said, “half his face is gone. Is that him?”
“It’s him,” Garfield said, “after he took a bullet to the back of the head.”
“Ambushed?”
“Looks like it,” Garfield said, “only I can’t see how that rancher could’ve ambushed this half-breed. Sequoia could hear a fly’s wings flapping.”
As they reached him they each went to one side.
“Is he dead?” Seaforth called.
Garfield waved his assent, then looked around again.
“Check that thicket over there,” he told Walker.
“If he’s in there he’ll blow my head off before I get to him.”
“I’ll keep watch,” Garfield said. “Go!”
Walker turned his horse and rode toward the thicket, waiting to see the muzzle flash of a rifle. But as he reached it he realized there was nobody hiding there.
He turned in his saddle and waved at Garfield, then turned his horse and rode back.
“What do we do with him?” he asked.
“Bury him,” Garfield said.
* * *
* * *
Jake slowed his horse when he felt darkness growing around him. He needed to stop and dismount before he fell off.
Choosing another thicket of bluewoods to use for cover, he knew they wouldn’t offer much in the way of protection if any shooting started. But at the moment they hid his horse and him from sight.
He grabbed the extra shirt from his saddlebags, took it with him to a seated position where he was out of sight but could look through the thicket to see if anyone was coming. Tearing the shirt into strips, he managed to fashion a more solid dressing for his wound, which would hopefully stop the bleeding rather than just stanch the flow.
He had some water, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey with him. After pouring water into his hat for the sorrel to drink, he remounted, feeling slightly stronger. But he wasn’t in any condition to face five men, so he needed to find a place where he could spend the night, get some rest, and start again in the morning.
* * *
* * *
Seaforth told Garfield, “You can leave two men behind to bury the breed. Then they can catch up.”
“It’d go faster if we all dug,” Garfield said. “Motley can’t get that far ahead of us.”
“What makes you think that?”
He handed Seaforth Sequoia’s rifle.
“One shot’s been fired,” he said. “I’ve got to believe he nicked Motley. So the rancher might be riding with a bullet in him.”
“But Sequoia was shot in the back of the head.”
“Still, I don’t think that rancher could’ve ambushed him,” Garfield said. “I didn’t like the breed all that much, but I have to admit he was better than that.”
Seaforth looked at the sky and sighed. There was no doubt that they were going to have to camp for the night, at some point.
“Okay,” he said, “but make it fast. Get him in the ground and let’s move.”
Seaforth watched while the other four men dug a grave, wrapped Sequoia in a blanket, and lowered him in. That done, they all mounted up again.
“We don’t have Sequoia to lead the way anymore,” Garfield said.
“Walker, can you read sign?” Seaforth asked.
“I can,” the man said.
“Then take point,” Seaforth said.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re not going to catch up to him today,” Garfield said.
“I know that!” Seaforth snapped. “We’ll camp soon, but let’s get a few more miles under us. Maybe while we’re camped the others will catch up to us.”
“If they caught up to those other two,” Garfield said.
They still didn’t know for sure if they were actually on Big Jake Motley’s trail, or following one of his men. If it wasn’t Motley, Garfield knew that Seaforth was not going to be a happy man.
He hadn’t been happy since he ran out of licorice.
* * *
* * *
Jake found a dry creek he thought he could camp in and be out of sight. It wouldn’t hide his horse, but there was nothing he could do about that.
He could have used some hot food, but he dared not light a fire. For all he knew, Seaforth wasn’t letting his men camp for the night. If they were still moving, they were going to catch up to him. That meant he could rest, but he could not sleep.
He had a supper of beef jerky and water, then settled in to try to let his body mend overnight. The wound certainly would not heal, but if it didn’t bleed anymore that would be more than he could hope for.
* * *
* * *
Blood,” Walker said.
“Where?” Seaforth asked.
Walker pointed.
“There, on the ground,” Walker said. “He’s ridin’ and bleedin’.”
Seaforth looked at Garfield.
“You were right. Sequoia put a bullet in him.” He looked at Walker. “Good job. Now keep going.”
After another hour Walker turned and rode back to the others.
“He’s stopped bleedin’,” he told them. “I don’t see any more blood on the ground.”
Seaforth looked at the sky, sighed heavily.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll camp for the night.” He pointed to the other two men. “You two gather wood and get the fire going. We’ll have coffee, but we’re only eating beef jerky.”
“Yes, sir,” they said.
“Walker, see to the horses.”
“Yessir.”
Seaforth and Garfield found a couple of rocks to sit on, watched the men as they set up camp.
“If he’s got a bullet in him, we’ll catch up to him tomorrow,” Seaforth said.
“We better get an early start,” Garfield said. “Depending on how bad his wound is, he’s liable to sleep longer than he wants to.”
“He can sleep as long as he wants,” Seaforth said, “but he better not die on me. If we find Big Jake Motley and he’s dead, I’ll dig that breed up and kill him again.”
Garfield knew he meant it.
* * *
* * *
Jake was hoping he wouldn’t grow feverish during the night. If he did it would drain all the strength from him. He needed to greet the rising sun with some renewed vigor. Without it, he knew he was probably done. There would be no way he could get out of this Texas brush without getting caught by Seaforth and his men.
He was going to be relying heavily on the sorrel to keep him ahead of Seaforth’s Raiders until he could come up with a plan. This hunt for Chance McCandless’s killer was not going the way he had envisioned.
* * *
* * *
Garfield could hear Seaforth tossing and turning in his bedroll. Chasing Motley was starting to get under his skin. The other three men were splitting a watch—two hours each—and then they’d all have some coffee and get moving. But Garfield knew he was going to have to sleep. He had to be the one who was rested. Seaforth, when he didn’t sleep well and was out of licorice, was short-tempered and jumpy, and that was not going to help them catch Jake Motley. At least Garfield didn’t have to smell that sweet candy anymore.
And if they caught up to the rider they were following and it wasn’t Motley, he didn’t know how Seaforth would react. That would probably be even worse than if they found Motley dead.
* * *
* * *
Seaforth hoped his second in command was getting a good night’s sleep, because he sure as hell wasn’t. He needed to find this rancher tomorrow and get rid of him.
He was feeling the loss of his scout, Sequoia. Other than Garfield, the breed had ridden with him the longest. Now they were going to have to do the best they could with Walker at point. But the man had impressed him when he found the drops of blood on the ground.
Seaforth rolled onto his left side, desperately seeking some sleep. This all had to end tomorrow with him putting a bullet in Jake Motley’s heart. That was the only ending Seaforth Bailey was going to accept.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Big Jake woke the next morning, had some water and beef jerky, and tried not to think about a hot cup of coffee. He had left the sorrel saddled all night, just in case he needed to make a fast getaway. Now he watered the animal before mounting up.
In the saddle he sat for a moment, took a deep breath, and tried to assess his condition. His left shoulder was sore, but the bleeding had stopped. The movement of his right side was not impaired. He picked up his rifle, lifted it, and aimed. The stock pressed to his right shoulder, which was natural, and he would normally hold the barrel with his left hand. It was painful, but he could do it. He put the rifle back in the scabbard. He was going to have to utilize his left hand and arm during the course of the day, just to keep it from stiffening up. His ability to use his pistol had not been affected.
Now it was time to see how much or little riding affected his wound.
* * *
* * *
Major Seaforth woke to the smell of coffee. As he approached the fire Garfield turned and handed him a steaming cup.
“Thanks.”
“The men wanted to make some bacon,” Garfield said. “I told them no. They’re getting the horses saddled.”
Walker came over at that point.
“The horses are saddled.”
Major Seaforth dumped the remainder of his coffee on the fire.
“Kill that fire and let’s get going,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Walker said. He took their cups, started kicking the fire to death.
Seaforth and Garfield walked over to the horses, which were being held by the other two men. The Major never could remember their names, but it didn’t matter. They were just his Raiders and they did what he told them to do.
Walker came over and joined them.
“Walker, you take point again,” Major Seaforth told him.
“Yessir.”
“Mount up!” Garfield told the other two men while he and Seaforth did the same. “Today, this ends.”
* * *
* * *
Dundee had quickly dispatched his two pursuers with two sticks of dynamite, simply by lying in wait rather than running. Once that was done, he had ridden hell-bent-for-leather to join Curly and help him with his two. He had come up behind them and, with him and Curly catching them in a cross fire, eliminated them. That done, they began to ride back to the fork to figure out what to do next. Along the way they encountered Taco, coming toward them.
“What’s goin’ on?” Dundee asked. “We each only had two after us.”
“They did not split into equal forces,” Taco said. “There are six tracking Big Jake right now.”
“Then he’s in trouble,” Curly said.
“Perhaps I should have said, he is tracking them.” Taco explained how Jake had doubled back and gotten behind them.
“Still,” Dundee said, “he’s gonna need help.”
“In that case,” Taco said, “we should ride.”
But as it got later they had to camp, and get some rest. Hopefully, Jake as well as Seaforth’s Raiders had also camped.
They had spent the night, and in the morning all emptied the remnants of their cups onto the fire and used their boots to further extinguish it.
“Where do we go now?” Curly asked as they mounted up.
“We should head back to the fork, and go from there,” Taco said. “I should be able to tell by the tracks who is tracking who.”
“That’s not really gonna matter,” Dundee said. “We gotta get to Jake before he decides to take on six raiders by himself.”
They each spurred their mount into a gallop.
* * *
* * *
Jake didn’t like the idea of an ambush, but he felt things might be getting to that point. If he could take out two of them before they knew what was happening, then the odds would be whittled down to three-to-one. Also, from a solid position, he had two rifles and a pistol to put to use.
He had his own Peacemaker revolver, and the 1876 Winchester, which held fifteen heavy-duty rounds. The rifle he had taken from the breed was a Winchester ’73, which also held fifteen rounds, but of a lighter load. His ’76 had a twenty-six-inch barrel, the ’73 a twenty-three-inch. Both could be fired accurately at one hundred yards—if he was a good enough shot. Since he was not the marksman Chance McCandless had been, he might have to fire quickly, loosing as many rounds as possible to do as much damage as he could. But with thirty rounds at his disposal—.45-70s from
his and .44-40s from the breed’s—and six shots from his Peacemaker, he felt sure he would be effective.
As he rode he kept his eye out for a likely position, one that would afford him cover, and them none. With them out in the open, he might even be able to take three before they turned and ran. With any luck, one of them would be Seaforth, in which case he would be done and to hell with the rest of the raiders.
* * *
* * *
The trail’s gettin’ fresher,” Walker said to Seaforth. “We’re closin’ in. If he’s wounded he can’t ride that fast. We should have him soon.”
Seaforth looked at Garfield.
“You ride drag,” he said. “I’m going to ride ahead with Walker. Keep the others ahead of you. I want to make sure they don’t run if shooting starts.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Garfield asked. “I mean, you riding point?”
“I want the first shot at him,” Seaforth said. “As soon as we see him, I’m taking him right out of the saddle. I may not be as good a shot as you, but I’m good enough for this.” He touched the stock of his Winchester ’73, which he had provided for all his men. He considered it the finest rifle ever made.
“Okay, then,” Garfield said. “Have it your way.”
“I always do,” Seaforth said.
* * *
* * *
It was late afternoon when Big Jake broke from the Texas brush. The trail was more open ahead, with no thicket to speak of. All he needed was the right rock formation for cover, and he would be ready.
The longer he rode and withstood the ache in his left shoulder, the less offensive ambush became to him. After all, they had fired from a distance to kill Chance. In the end a coward should be killed by a coward’s bullet—which did not always have to be fired by a coward.
Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive Page 22