Brand of the Hunted

by John Glasby

  There was the feel of eyes watching their every move. Jackson motioned to the riders to swing forward. No point in taking too many chances if they were to get through without too many casualties.

  Neil spurred his stud forward, heels kicking into the horse’s flanks. He was followed by Tom Jessup and the other men of the outrider team. A gun flared among the rocks, half-hidden by the fringe of trees. The harsh, flat sound bucketed in the clinging stillness that lay over everything, breaking over the rumble of the horses and the wagons. One of the riders close by suddenly clutched at his shoulder where a red stain began to bubble through the cloth of his shirt, dribbling between his fingers. He swayed in the saddle, managed to stay upright, dropping back towards the wagons.

  More shots bucketed out of the rocks. Neil narrowed his eyes, swung the sorrel round sharply, brought up his Colt and loosed off a couple of swiftly sighted shots, saw a dark figure hidden in a cleft among the boulders suddenly throw up its arms and pitch forward, sliding down the smooth face of the rocks to land on a narrow ledge some ten feet above the trail.

  Fanning out around the rim of the wagon train, the other riders joined in, racing past the slow-moving horses that hauled the Conestogas, heading for the bend in the trail where the shooting was coming from. A bullet drummed over Neil’s head as he crouched low over the neck of the sorrel. Then he reached a spot less than five feet from the trail’s edge, flung himself down out of the saddle, and moved swiftly into the trees, pushing his way forward through the tangled brush and scrub. The other men were slipping from their mounts, urged on by Jackson.

  One of the gunhawks lifted his head, tried to bring up his rifle to line it up on Neil’s chest, then collapsed backward as the other’s bullet found its mark. Behind them, the men in the wagons were firing too, adding the weight of their rifle fire to the sharper, more frequent sounds of the Colts.

  Neil sank to the ground, flattened himself under a clump of mesquite, mindless of the tough bare branches that scratched and raked his face. He kept angling towards the left, detouring to get the extra cover, edging around the boulders among which the gunmen were hiding. When he was sure he had moved far enough to get around to the rear of them, he turned back, edging down the steep slope that overlooked the trail. Using what concealment the mesquite bushes afforded, he worked his way cautiously down the slope. The roar of the guns was a vast sound in his ears and occasionally a slug would tunnel through the branches around him and bury itself in the ground close to his body. Coming downslope into the deserted area to the rear of the boulders, he moved more carefully now, crawling forward an inch at a time, keeping his head low, judging the position of the gunslingers from the volume of their fire. Nearby a horse snickered and he froze instantly, keeping his body pressed tight towards the earth, listening for the faintest warning sound from dead ahead of him, which would tell him that the horse had given him away.

  It came so suddenly, so close to him, far closer than he had imagined, that his taut nerves vibrated like plucked strings.

  ‘Keep firing at those wagons, damn you! The rest of us will take care of those men in the trees.’

  Neil sank to the ground, checked his guns. For a moment he lay quite motionless, his scalp still tingling at the narrow margin by which he had escaped blundering into the others. They were less than two feet away, directly below him, and now his straining ears picked out tiny sounds. A grunt and a low curse as some of the rifle fire from the wagons hummed and ricocheted off the boulders.

  Cautiously, he began to ease his way forward, snakelike, through the tall coarse grass that grew at the top of the rocky incline. A kind of haze formed in front of his eyes as he held his breath, then risked a quick glance over the top of the rocks. The whining scream of a ricochet, fired from the wagons, screeched past him less than a foot away, but he ignored it. There were seven men directly below him, and one man stretched out full length on the rocks to the right. One glance was enough to tell him that there was nothing to fear from this man, he had been caught by the fire from below.

  Very carefully he got to his feet, saw the men at the wagons lower their rifles as they spotted him, outlined in the harsh glare of the sunlight. For a moment he noticed the outlaws directly below him pause, obviously puzzled by the sudden cessation of firing from the train. Then one of them, more sharp-witted than the others, turned his head swiftly, then relaxed imperceptibly as he saw the twin Colts levelled at him.

  ‘’Jest turn around slow and easy,’ Neil advised. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot any of you in the back, but I will if you make me.’

  Slowly the men turned to look down the barrels of the guns Neil held at his sides. The barrels were still; stone steady. No use for any of the men to take the gamble and hope to outshoot him, but for an instant the thought crossed the mind of one of the men, lived briefly in his eyes. Then he shrugged, tossed his gun on to the rocks as the others did likewise.

  ‘That’s better.’ Neil went down into the level patch among the rocks. Already the other men from the train were moving in, their rifles held steady on the gunslingers, covering their every move. Three of the men had been wounded and stood clutching their shoulders; one man badly hit, a film of whiteness under the leather of his face, the blood bubbling through his fingers with every breath that he took. He stood swaying against the tall rocks, strength and life bubbling out through the deep wound.

  Keeping them covered, Neil called down to Clem Jackson, and the giant of a man came climbing upward, moving with an agility that belied his tremendous size.

  ‘What do we do with them, Roberts?’ he grated. ‘I never was one for shooting down men in cold blood, although I doubt if that goes for these hombres.’

  Neil eyed the six men casually, saw the look of fear that showed in one man’s eyes.

  ‘You wouldn’t do it,’ muttered one of the men sullenly. ‘Three of us are in bad shape. We’re through. You wouldn’t shoot now?’

  ‘You tried to gun down helpless women and children in those wagons down there,’ said Neil softly. There was an overtone of menace in his voice.

  ‘We only carried out our orders,’ said another of the gunslingers.

  ‘Whose orders?’

  Sullenly again: ‘Jesse Sherman’s.’

  ‘We figured that. Any reason why he should send hombres like you out to kill innocent women and children?’

  ‘This is his land, my friend,’ said one of the wounded men with a snarl. ‘He don’t allow any wagon trains to move over it.’

  ‘I understood that the Government were turning over most of the land to the settlers,’ murmured Neil quietly. He snapped his gaze from one man to the next.

  ‘He reckons that he bought it ten years ago. We can’t argue that point with him. Besides, he’s a big man in these parts. We’re only paid to carry out his orders, and if he says we’re to run any wagon trains off his spread, that’s what we gotta do.’

  ‘Reckon that if we had any sense, we’d shoot the lot of you. Rattlers like you don’t deserve to go on living.’

  ‘They’ll ride back to the ranch and warn Sherman of what has happened if we let them go,’ said Jessup harshly. He held his rifle warningly in his hands, his finger crooked tightly around the trigger.

  ‘It’s a mighty long way to the ranch from here, best part of five days’ journey on foot.’

  ‘You ain’t going to — ’ started one of the men, then fell silent as Neil swung his gun once more to line the barrel up on his chest, stopping all further argument.

  ‘Better check where they left their horses, set ’em loose. These hombres can walk home. I reckon they’ll be footsore by the time they get back to Sherman’s ranch.’

  ‘But Simms, Carter and Sneddon are wounded, they need a doctor fast,’ argued one of the men. He slitted his eyes, starting forward.

  Tension crackled in the heat that lay over the trees, flowing though the branches, over the tumbled rocks. Neil’s eyes were bright with challenge, hands rigid around the guns, fi
ngers crooked over the triggers, ready. Another step by the gunhawk would have started those guns hammering. Anything or nothing if the tension lasted another ten seconds. Then the other stopped, stepped back, face sullen, lips twisted with hate.

  ‘That’s better,’ nodded Neil tightly. ‘Didn’t reckon you were such a damned fool as that.’

  ‘You’re goin’ to regret this, mister, ‘growled the other harshly, the voice rasping from the depths of his chest. ‘One of these days we’re going to meet again, and the next time you won’t have the drop on me. Then I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll get that chance,’ grunted Neil. He lifted his gaze a fraction of an inch, saw the big man climbing over the rocks, searching for the horses. A moment later he heard Jackson’s loud yell, followed by the stampeding thunder of hooves as the gunmen’s mounts galloped from out of the trees, down the slope and across the plain. Jackson came back, gave a brusque nod.

  ‘Reckon they won’t be roundin’ up those mounts in a hurry,’ he said in a satisfied tone. ‘You figgering on letting ’em go now?’

  Neil nodded slowly. ‘I guess so.’ He turned to the others. ‘Take your friends with you and get moving.’

  It was simply said, but the words carried the promise of death if there was the slightest argument on the others’ part. There was none. The gunslingers recognised the threat in the veiled tone. Slowly they made their way down through the rocks and boulders and into the trees. While the men from the wagons retrieved the guns which the gunhawks had discarded, Neil went back to his horse and mounted up. The wagons began to roll, bumping and swaying along the narrow trail between the tall trees. The timber was old first-growth pine, thick and massive at the butt, tapering in a smooth and flawless line towards the interwoven top covering which here made an almost solid umbrella against the sunlight. But if it kept out the light, it did not keep out the heat, and very soon sweat formed a film on his features, running down into his eyes and along his neck.

  Far away he heard one solitary starved echo, a sharp blast of sound that might have been a gunshot, but he could not be sure, and it was not repeated. The tall, red-barked trees ran solemnly before them and somewhere over the thick arch of tangled boughs the noon sun blazed like an inferno fire, hidden by the green of the leaves, but here, under the trees, the air was blue-shadowed and still, with the hot smell of the pine needles in his nostrils. They broke cover by early afternoon, came out into the vast green plain that stretched away to the west. Far in the distance the cattle grazed, placid as yet, but how they might react to the wagons as they approached was something no man could have predicted, and there might be riders with the herd who would cause more trouble.

  They held to the curve of the high ridge for as long as possible before dropping to the plain, heading west towards the distant herd on the shoulder of the low hills. Back of them, the mountains lifted to the unsullied arch of the heavens. Overhead the sun was lowering, westering, keeping its heat. Now that they were out in the open the heat struck them more forcibly than when they had been among the trees.

  The wagons moved in single file, rumbling out of the trees at Neil’s back as he sat the sorrel, pausing to turn and look behind him, running his gaze over the line of Conestogas. Ahead of them the sunlight shone on sleek backs and waving horns that caught and reflected the sunlight like polished slivers of glass. Around them now was a silence that was so deep and heavy and still that it seemed easy for a man to be able to reach out and touch it. A silence that was enhanced, rather than diminished, by the faint creak of the wagons as the horses plodded slowly over the soft earth and grass. Neil gigged his mount, rode in a great circle around the train, pausing to warn each of the outriders in turn of trouble. He had the feeling that it would come very soon, but from which direction he was not sure. Perhaps from that vast herd which they would soon pass, perhaps from the men who might be riding it, perhaps, although he did not think it likely, from the men they had left behind among the trees, left to walk back to the ranch or their nearest companions.

  A quarter mile. Half a mile, and now they were well into the plain, moving out and away from the ridge at their backs. For a long while they rode in silence, men and women engrossed in their own thoughts, remembering the firing back along the trail, thinking how easy it would have been for some of them to have been lying back there with bullets in their bodies, looking ahead even to try to visualise what might lie in store for them, some eyeing the herd that moved like a rippling black wave over the side of the hill.

  ‘We’ll have to keep riding until we’re clear of that herd,’ Neil told Jackson, as he rode alongside the lead wagon, turning his head a little to eye the other. ‘They look mean, could be trouble if we tried to camp too close. Besides, they’ll have riders out fanning around them, especially after dark. Reckon they’ll be just as mean as those critters we met back on the trail.’

  Jackson nodded musingly. ‘The horses are tired,’ he observed. ‘You reckon it would be wise to push them too far?’

  ‘We’ve got to.’ He knew it sounded hard, but there was no other choice open to them.

  ‘If you say so.’ Jackson flicked the long whip over the horses. The other wagons followed. Neil threw a swift glance at the sky. Another four, perhaps five, hours of daylight left. Then it would be dark, but they would have to keep the wagons moving that night, long after nightfall. Deliberately he edged the train away to the left of the herd, hoping to pass more than two miles from it. Perhaps he was being over cautious, seeing danger where none existed. It was not likely that Sherman would send out his paid killers to watch a herd, even one of that size. He could usefully employ them on better business. The men riding the perimeter of the herd would be ordinary cattlemen, skilled in the way of handling cattle, but not equally skilled in the ways of handling guns.

  If he was right in this, there might be little danger. If he was wrong, then all hell might be let loose on the plain, a hell that moved on four feet, that held needle-sharp horns, a squat, evil head, and a ton or so of solid beef and muscle behind it. There was an odd edge of tension to his body as he sat the saddle, pushing his mount forward, eyes flicking from the wagon to the herd, and back again.

  4. Stampede!

  Slim Farrel had a dark, saturnine face, dominated by a thick black moustache and dark brows which slashed across his features like a black line drawn by some artist’s swift stroke of the brush. His shoulders were broad and he had a deep, powerful chest but thin, spindly legs which looked as if they could scarcely support his own weight. He was a cattleman who had herded cattle across most of the vast continent until he had grown tired of the business and thrown in his lot with the wagon train, seeking fresh horizons to the west, further along the trail than he had ever travelled before, hoping to settle down in California. He now drove one of the wagons with the train, a man who kept himself to himself and did little talking along the trail.

  Now, however, he had quite a lot to say. The wagon train was camped on a stretch of level ground by a narrow river that ran along the perimeter of the grasslands. Neil had set a hard pace. It had been an unwelcome decision, but an extremely necessary one. Not until they had left that herd behind was he satisfied that there was little danger to the train. They had seen nothing of Sherman’s men with the herd, but there was the feeling that they had been watched all the way across the plain.

  ‘Likely you’re wonderin’ why I insisted on making you travel so fast and hard this afternoon and evening,’ muttered Neil.

  ‘You scared of that herd back there?’ queried Jessup. He raised his brows into a straight interrogatory line.

  ‘Could be. Sherman knows we’re here, I’ve had that feeling for a long while ever since we crossed the stream this morning.’

  ‘If he wants to kill us, there’s one sure way he can do it,’ put in Farrel. His sharp blue eyes peered through the darkness, brows furrowed. There were years of knowledge in his brain, knowledge of cattle, their little meannesses and ways.

>   ‘Just what do you mean, old-timer?’ asked Jessup. His eyes held Farrel’s.

  ‘That herd back there. It wouldn’t take much to start them on the prod, set them stampeding in this direction. I’m a Texan. I’ve ridden herd more times than I care to remember. I’ve seen ’em at their best and at their worst. And I didn’t like the look of that herd back there.’

  ‘And you figger that’s what they mean to do?’ murmured Jessup. He seemed to be thinking over the possibility in his mind, as if the thought had never occurred to him before.

  Farrel shrugged. ‘I don’t claim to read the minds of Sherman’s men, but if I wanted to get rid of a wagon train and I had that damned great herd poised back there, just ready to move, I’d know just what to do.’

  Jessup rapped his knuckles irritably against the pommel of the saddle lying on the ground close beside him. His strong teeth tore a strip of beef from the bone in his hands and he stretched one leg to ease the ache of his muscles. ‘If they do decide to do that, this ain’t the best place for the wagons to be.’ A breath whistled in and out of his flared nostrils.

  Around the fire nearby there was the murmur of voices. The others were preparing to settle down for the night, the children had been put to bed in the wagons and quietness was settling over the camp. The fire crackled and there was movement in the dark shadows that moved beyond the flickering glow of the fire.

  ‘I’ll check the horses,’ muttered Jackson harshly. He got heavily to his feet and moved away from the fire.

  Jessup waited until he had gone, then said softly: ‘I don’t like this, Roberts. A stampede is something I never bargained with when I said I’d make this drive, and I’m sure that goes for most of the others, too. A gunman I can stand up to and fight, but a thousand head of beef cattle on the run — that’s something different. We wouldn’t stand a chance against them. They’d run down the train and leave nothing once they’d passed over us.’ He turned to Farrel. ‘You reckon that could happen? You know these steers. Would they start a stampede?’