Drifter 1

by Jake Henry

  “Got a rider comin’ in,” Byron explained. “A damned Yank.”

  “What are you goin’ to do?”

  “Give him what for and send him packin’,” the older Hunter explained. “The boys are gettin’ their guns.”

  “This should be interestin’,” Chase said, as his face split with a cold smile.

  ~*~

  When Savage saw the cowboys make towards the bunkhouse, he knew there was going to be trouble. He dropped his hand to the Remington and left it resting there.

  It had been five days since he’d left Silver Ridge. He’d stopped off at Presidio and been told where to find the Bar-H. He’d also learned that they were preparing for a trail drive.

  Word had it that in June, about a month away, Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving, were going to make a drive north. And Byron Hunter figured he’d follow along behind and cash in on the market that they opened up.

  Except he wasn’t going to take two thousand head like they were. He had four thousand head of longhorns he wanted moving. It may be the way in, that Savage needed. He hoped.

  Hunter would be hiring more hands for the drive and if he could get hired on, then he should be able to get his hands on Chase.

  The first step was to get past the introductions.

  From a distance, Savage could see that the ranch house was a solid, well-built, single-story building with a long veranda, on the end of which two men now stood.

  His pulse quickened and he assumed that one of them would be the man he had come to kill.

  Off to the right lay a long bunkhouse and the corral. The left side of the ranch yard held a large barn.

  When the sorrel finally reached the hard-packed earth of the ranch yard, Savage was met by a wall of rifles, all pointed at him.

  “You boys might want to point them guns somewhere else,” Savage remarked casually. “I don’t fancy gettin’ fired before I’m hired.”

  They all looked at him dumbly.

  “What was that?” asked Byron Hunter as he moved forward off the veranda, his son by his side.

  “I was told you were hirin’ for a drive,” Savage told him. “I’m lookin’ for work.”

  Chase Hunter snorted derisively. “You sure got some nerve Yank. Ridin’ in here like that. The last time I saw a feller looked like you, I filled him full of holes.”

  There a few sniggers from the cowhands.

  Being brave in front of the hands, Savage surmised.

  “Was he runnin’ away?” he retorted.

  “Why you …,” Chase snarled and clawed at the gun on his hip.

  “You pull that thing and I’ll kill you,” Savage’s voice cracked.

  Chase’s hand froze, gun half drawn.

  Savage was right, he had no spine.

  “Like my son said, stranger, you sure got a nerve.”

  Savage looked Byron Hunter in the eye. “I only came here lookin’ for a job Mr. Hunter. I don’t want any trouble. If it’s these clothes that bother you, the next time I shoot a feller wearin’ ’em I won’t keep ’em for myself. Only I didn’t have a choice at the time.”

  The elder Hunter stared him directly in the eye and Savage held his gaze. There was a pregnant pause and tension built before Hunter said, “Do you know cows?”

  “Pa …” Chase blurted out but was cut off.

  “Shut up Chase,” he snapped. “If I want to hire this feller I will. Until you run this ranch, you’ll take orders like the rest.”

  It was then that Savage saw the look in Chase’s eye. He may be a coward, but he was a dangerous coward. And he guessed that if he ever got up the courage, he’d shoot his father in the back.

  “Well, Do you know cows?” Hunter asked again.

  “Yeah I know cows.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Savage.”

  “Savage what?”

  “Just Savage.”

  “Then you’re hired,” Hunter said with finality. “The men will show you the ropes. You’ll get thirty a month and found. Payday is Saturday.”

  “Obliged.”

  ~*~

  “Where you from, Savage?” asked Morg Stanley, the ranch foreman that evening in the bunkhouse.

  It was dim inside as the only illumination came from two lanterns which were all but useless.

  “Rich Water,” Savage answered. “Do you know it?”

  “Know of it,” Stanley allowed. “What brings you out this way?”

  “Nothing left for me there,” Savage told him. “So I just started driftin’. Heard tell that you fellers were makin’ a drive and I needed money.”

  “If you keep your nose clean you’ll be fine,” Stanley told him. “Just stay clear of Chase for a while.”

  “What’s put a burr under his saddle anyways?”

  “Came back like that after the war,” the foreman explained. “Mostly he’s all yap but I wouldn’t trust him. Neither should you.”

  “Fine, I’ll tread soft for a while,” Savage said, telling Stanley what he wanted to hear. “But if he comes straight at me I ain’t goin’ to turn tail.”

  Stanley caught the edge in his voice. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Turn in, we got an early start tomorrow.”

  Later, as Savage lay in the dark on a lumpy mattress, he thought about Amy. About their wedding day and as always, the memories turned dark as he thought about her dying.

  He’d make them all pay he thought bitterly. All of them.

  Savage’s first opportunity at Chase Hunter came two days later.

  ~*~

  “You, Savage, get my horse and put a saddle on it,” Chase ordered. “And hurry it up. I have work to do.”

  It wasn’t long after sunup and Savage and Stanley were getting ready to head out. Their job for the day was to look for strays in a part of the ranch the hands had already worked.

  Savage just stared at Hunter without saying a word.

  “Are you deaf or somethin’?”

  He could sense the other hands watching him, their hands resting on six-guns, waiting to see what he would do.

  In that moment, Savage wanted to pull the Remington and kill Chase. Just do it and get it over with. But he was certain that the hands would shoot him down when it was done. Best he wait.

  He turned away to tend to the sorrel.

  “Don’t you damn well turn your back on me,” Chase snarled and grasped Savage’s left shoulder to spin him around.

  Instead of resisting, Savage let himself be turned and once he was square on, his right fist streaked out like a striking rattler and sank into Chase’s middle. All of his rage was channeled into the blow.

  There was a loud whoosh of air as it exploded from Chase’s lungs. The young man went weak at the knees, sank down and doubled over, trying to suck in much-needed air.

  Savage knocked off Chase’s hat and grabbed a fistful of blond hair. He dragged his antagonist’s head up and cocked his fist ready to smash him in the face again.

  “Savage,” Stanley snapped.

  He turned his head to look at the ranch foreman, a wild look in his eyes. Then he saw the cocked six-gun in Stanley’s hand.

  “Let him go.”

  Savage’s hand opened and Chase fell back down on hands and knees.

  “Just so you know,” Savage said through gritted teeth. “If he does that again, I’ll kill him.”

  “Looks as though Chase ain’t the only one with a burr under his saddle,” Stanley surmised. “Get on your horse and ride. I’ll catch you up.”

  As the thunder of hooves faded, Chase managed to climb to his feet. His face screwed up into a look of hatred when he snarled, “That son of a bitch is dead.”

  “You might want to tread softly around him, Chase,” Stanley warned. “I have me a feelin’ he could chew you up and spit you out.”

  “He won’t even see it comin’,” Chase murmured.

  ~*~

  “Mind tellin’ me what all that was about?” Stanley asked when he caught up with Savage.

>   “Weren’t nothin’,” Savage answered. “He just learned that not everyone is goin’ to take his bluster.”

  “Nope,” said Stanley with a shake of his head. “There was more to it than that. If I hadn’t stopped you when I did, I reckon you’d have near killed him.”

  “Maybe he deserved it,” Savage mumbled.

  “What?”

  “I said let’s go and find these strays.”

  Stanley watched Savage urge his mount to go faster. He had a nagging feeling that he hadn’t heard the last of it and the conclusion would be the death of one or both men.

  Eleven

  “HOLD IT right there, Gringo,” said a voice from behind Stanley. “Keep your hands away from your guns or I will kill you.”

  Stanley froze in front of the brush built gate he had been about to open to free a number of cattle penned up inside.

  He was on foot and his horse was out of reach. He and Savage had split up to check separate brush-filled draws when he’d happened upon the makeshift yard with fifteen head in it.

  Undoubtedly someone had worked hard to get them together and now he knew who.

  Stanley turned slowly and stared at the smiling, unshaven face, split wide with a mirthless grin that showed yellowed teeth.

  “Sanchez.” The name hissed from the foreman’s mouth.

  “Si, it is me,” he then motioned about himself. “And a few others.”

  When Stanley looked he saw another four men emerge from the thick brush. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He was as good as dead.

  Lazaro Sanchez was a two-bit bandit who was wanted both sides of the border for murder and rustling. The Bar-H hadn’t had trouble with him since they’d run him back across the border for trying to steal their beef. Now he was back.

  “Still up to your old tricks I see,” Stanley remarked, trying to show calm.

  The Mexican shrugged. “It is a living.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I’m afraid that has already been decided,” Sanchez said trying to sound apologetic. “You will die and I will take the cattle across the river and sell them. They will not bring much but they will feed the army of the revolution.”

  “What are they fightin’ about this time? Who’s goin’ to take the next bath? Stinkin’ Mex killer,” Stanley snarled.

  Sanchez’s eyes glittered with rage as he took offense to the insult. The Americano was meant to be scared, not showing signs of aggression.

  “You talk too much, Gringo,” he snarled and raised his six-gun to shoot Stanley in the head.

  ~*~

  Something wasn’t right. There were too many fresh cattle tracks in the draw and Savage didn’t like it. If they remained from the previous roundup a few days before, they wouldn’t be as fresh.

  Not only that, mixed in with the cow track were the imprints of shod hoofs.

  Savage reined in and took the Winchester from the saddle scabbard. He jacked a round into the breech and looked about the draw. Especially the high ground.

  It looked clear but his sixth sense told him that there were rustlers about. Whether they be American or Mexican it didn’t matter. To be caught out here alone spelled certain death.

  Savage made the decision to find the Bar-H foreman before anything untoward happened.

  ~*~

  Stanley stiffened when the gunshot came. He cried out in anguish at the prospect of dying. But it wasn’t him that had been shot. His eyes snapped open and the scene before him was chaotic.

  Sanchez was down in the sandy bottom of the draw, a bright red blossom on the front of his stained jacket and he was twitching his last as death claimed him.

  The rustlers scrambled for cover, but weren’t quick enough and the rifle fired again. Another bandit screamed as he collapsed with a .44 Henry slug buried deep in his chest.

  Stanley cast a glance at the top of the draw and caught sight of Savage just as his Winchester whip-lashed again, bringing down another bandit.

  A wave of relief flooded over Stanley but he knew it wasn’t over just yet. There were still two more bandits in the brush.

  The Bar-H foreman drew his six-gun and advanced on the brush where the two had disappeared. He could hear them crashing about somewhere ahead of him so he loosed off two shots.

  From above, Savage fired again, more in hope than anything else. He caught sight of Stanley about to disappear into the dense thicket and called out.

  “Stanley, wait!”

  The foreman stopped and looked up at Savage.

  “Let ’em go. You can’t see much of anythin’ in there. All you’ll do is get yourself shot.”

  Stanley thought hard about what Savage had just told him and knew it made sense.

  “OK,” he called back.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  As he waited for Savage, he heard the drumming of retreating hooves and knew that the bandits were now riding hard for the river.

  Savage appeared on his sorrel.

  “Good thing you appeared when you did,” Stanley allowed. “I thought I was dead there for a while. Bastards jumped me when I was lookin’ over their makeshift corral.”

  “They left a heap of fresh sign in the draw I was checkin’ out,” Savage explained. “I figured they were rustlers and thought it would be better if we worked together.”

  “Damn fine idea. I owe you a drink when we go to town next payday.”

  For a moment Savage forgot why he was there. “I’ll keep you to that.”

  “I believe I have you to thank for riddin’ the state of Texas of a murderous son of a bitch named Sanchez, is that right?”

  Savage looked up at the big man standing beside the scuffed table. He wore trail-stained clothes, a battered wide-brimmed hat, and a Texas Rangers badge. He had brown eyes set in a walnut-colored face.

  Before he could say anything, Stanley interrupted. “Hell Butch, He nailed him dead center. If he hadn’t, there is no way I would be here talkin’ to you as the bastard would have killed me instead.”

  The ranger nodded. “I see. What’s your name stranger?”

  “Jeff Savage,” Savage answered.

  The ranger looked at him thoughtfully. “Savage huh? Seems to me I’ve heard that name of late.”

  “I doubt it,” Savage responded, trying to deter any more questions.

  He looked about the bar room, hoping that would do the trick. Except he locked gazes with Chase Hunter who stood at the long, plain, hardwood bar with his right foot resting on a battered foot-rail.

  The scrape of chair legs on plank flooring drew Savage’s attention back to his table and he saw that the ranger had sat down.

  “My name is Butch Harper by the way,” Harper introduced himself. “I kind of haunt these parts.”

  “Harper’s been tryin’ to nail Sanchez for the last couple of years,” Stanley explained.

  “Almost had him once too,” Harper allowed. “That was until he slipped through my fingers.”

  Harper’s gaze lingered on Savage as though he expected him to say something, but the moment was broken by the squeal of a whore as one of the Bar-H cowboys swept her off her feet and onto his lap.

  A sudden realization dawned on him and a look of recognition came over Harper’s face.

  “Now I recall,” he exclaimed. “You’re that feller who’s been huntin’ Carver and his outlaws. From what I hear, you’ve been makin’ quite a dent in ’em too.”

  There was an inquisitive look on Stanley’s face as he tried to comprehend what he’d just heard.

  And of course, there was no denying it so Savage nodded calmly and said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

  It wasn’t said overly loud but was clearly audible to the cowboy at the next table. He casually stood up and walked across to the bar beside Chase Hunter. He leaned in close and whispered what he’d just heard.

  “The hell you say,” Hunter blurted out loudly as he squared up from the bar to face the table where Savage sat.

  Savage saw the moveme
nt and was instantly alert. His hand dropped to his holstered Remington.

  “Well, I’ll …” Harper started but got no further.

  “Look out!” Savage shouted a warning and lunged at the ranger.

  Chase Hunter’s face wore a look of contempt as he drew his six-gun and thumbed back the hammer. The barrel wavered in a drink affected fist. One of the whores who saw what was about to happen screeched with fear.

  Savage hit Harper solidly and spilled him from the chair just as the gun in Hunter’s hand roared loudly. He heard Harper grunt from the impact of the bullet as they both sprawled onto the hard floor.

  The gun sounded again and this time, Savage felt the slug burn into his right side. It left him stunned and he lay on his back beside the fallen ranger, unable to move.

  Once more the gun thundered and this time the slug dug splinters from the plank floor near Savage’s head. He knew that Hunter would eventually hit him if he stayed where he was.

  “Chase, put it down,” Stanley’s voice boomed in the room.

  Savage heard Hunter curse then the gun fired once more.

  This time, Hunter hit his target and Stanley died before his body hit the floor next to Savage, his eyes wide, staring.

  With all of his willpower, Savage reached down and drew the Remington. The movement felt sluggish but was far from that. As he brought the gun up he rolled over. The Remington snapped into line and the hammer fell.

  The six-gun bucked hard in the palm of his hand and the .44 caliber slug smashed into Hunter’s middle. It buried deep and doubled him over. The man’s gun fell from his grasp with a thud onto the floor.

  Savage struggled to his feet and walked towards the wounded outlaw. There was movement to his left from one of the Bar-H cowhands who tried to draw his own gun.

  Savage swiveled the Remington and shot him. The slug hit him dead center and the man fell into a crumpled heap.

  “Next one tries drawin’ on me gets the same,” he snarled as the pain of his wound started to bite.

  A hush descended over the saloon as Savage moved farther forward to stand in front of Hunter. He could feel the blood of his wound running down and soaking his pants.

  Hunter looked up at him, hate and pain filled his eyes.

  “Why?” he gasped out.

  “The woman you bastards took from Summerton,” Savage hissed. “She was my wife.”