by Kay Stuart
Royce gave Layfield a friendly grin. His green eyes telling the man he understood his dilemma. “Howdy,” Royce greeted using campfire slang.
“How . . . howdy,” Layfield stuttered. He looked Royce over a second time. “You’ve met Milton,” he said indicating the man with him.
“No I haven’t,” Royce replied. He extended his hand first to Layfield then Milton Ferguson. The latter ignored Royce’s friendliness. Without seeming to do so Royce studied Ferguson. The man was a contradiction. His hair was long on his shoulders and appeared unkempt while his face was clean shaven. Great care had gone into his shave. His cheeks and jowls were smooth. Ferguson smelled faintly of flowery toilet water. Another contradiction that was intriguing for the man clothes were wrinkled and soiled. As if he might have slept in them. At a glance Royce took in all of this before turning back to Layfield. “This the horse you brought for me to ride,” he asked casually indicating the chestnut gilding tied to a fencepost.
Layfield grinned. His eyes sparkled with mischief in his sun browned face.
The horse shied when Royce stepped closer. The animal raised his head and pulled on his led. Placing his hand on the horse’s neck Royce made soft soothing sounds in his throat. “I’m a stranger,” he whispered patting the horse’s red coat. “You don’t think much of strangers do you old son,” he continued in the same even tones.
The horse rolled his eyes.
“Let’s see what you are made of,” Royce said as he pulled the reins free. The next instant he was in the saddle before anyone knew what he was doing. The horse reared on his hind legs before back stepping and giving a shrill whinny. Royce was prepared for the horse’s antics. He had seen enough green broke nags to know this mount was barely in that category. The horse landed on his front hooves and shot across the stable yard. Royce hauled on the reins turning the horse around. The animal was humping and back kicking stirring up a dust storm.
Layfield let out a whoop. Taking off his hat he waved it in the air before slapping the hat across his thigh. He ran for the fence when the horse made a wide circle in the yard nearly bumping against him.
Royce clamped his knees around the horse’s middle and settled on the saddle for a rocky ride. It seemed like hours before the horse decided he was not going to dislodge the hated weight. It was more like seconds. Royce took a deep breath into his burning lungs and shook his head. Trees and buildings were still bobbing up and down. His hat rolled around the stable yard before landing against a fencepost.
“That was some ride,” the stableman ejaculated. He stood with his hat in one hand as he scratched the back of his head with the other.
“I thought you said you were a schoolteacher,” Layfield shouted amazement in his voice.
Royce’s smile broadened. “I wasn’t born in a schoolhouse,” he answered.
“Seems so,” Layfield replied with admiration. “This knot head has thrown every man that has had the misfortune to drawn him. He won’t be worth a plugged nickel at next week’s rodeo,” he prophesized.
“Maybe,” Royce replied noncommittal. “He still has plenty of steam left in him.” Royce ignored Ferguson’s narrow eyed stare. He could see the wheel’s inside the man’s head spinning and hoped he had not shown his hand.
“We going hunting or hang around the stables all day,” Ferguson growled.
“Hunting,” Royce replied. “I intend to eat three meals a day. A teacher’s salary makes that next to impossible.”
“You carry a Henry,” Layfield said picking up the rifle Royce had leaned against a fencepost. He admired the leather scabbard holding the rifle. It was decorated with tooling. Brightly colored dyes rubbed into the leather. “Interesting,” he said. “I’d say Kiowa.”
“You would be right,” Royce replied. He took the rifle from Layfield’s hand. The symbols were a Kiowa Prayer. The leather scabbard was a gift from a Kiowa Chief. Royce had returned one of the chief’s daughters home safely after she had been abducted. Royce had not been sent to rescue the young woman. It was the men he was trailing when their paths crossed. He had simply done the right thing in returning the young woman to her family. Part of his job the way Royce saw it. Others, he knew would disagree. What was the life of one more Kiowa Squaw. “As for the Henry, it’s a dependable rifle. Heavier than the new Springfield Rifles. When taking a long shot I find the Henry more reliable. A man that needs a repeater when hunting can’t be much of a hunter. My Pa says one shot should be enough to bring home dinner.”
Ferguson scowled at Royce, the man grumbling under his breath while Layfield’s grin never left his face. Yet, Royce was sure Layfield was the more dangerous of the two men.
“Let’s see how much vinegar you have left,” Royce said turning his attention back to the chestnut gelding. The horse turned his head and nipped at Royce’s shirt sleeve. “So that’s the way it is going to be.” Royce swung into the saddle giving the horse a jab in the ribs with the heels of his boots. The horse leaped into a gallop. Royce took the reins slapping them across the horse’s rump. “Yaw,” he shouted as they rounded the last fencepost. A few moments later Royce hauled back on the reins and the horse slid to a stop.
“You proved you can ride,” Ferguson growled. “Now let’s see if you can shoot that fancy rifle of yours.”
Royce’s eyes never left Ferguson’s face. The other man’s words were a challenge. “My Pa was sheriff in more hole-in-the-wall towns than I can remember,” Royce replied, secretly watching for Ferguson’s reaction. He was not disappointed. “I cut my teeth on a pistol barrel. I don’t think much of sheriffing,” he scoffed. “Too little pay for dodging bullets. Ranching ain’t much better. You eat dust from sunup to sundown in blistering heat and freezing cold. With teaching, I get to sit indoors all winter and idle away the summers.” Having completed his say, Royce heeled the chestnut gelding and galloped across the field behind Cook’s Feed and Grain Store. He turned in the saddle and saw Ferguson and Layfield arguing heatedly. He had set bees among the honey pots. Sure Ferguson was chewing on Layfield for including him in on their hunt.
The chestnut horse jumped and bucked to a stop tossing his big head. He was anxious for a run. “You coming,” Royce shouted.
Ferguson snarled an answer.
Ferguson was the older man. He was also the one in control. Layfield was impulsive. A follower and not a leader. Royce had meet men like Layfield before. Men with too little initiative and too much time on their hands. They followed another man blindly never questioning authority. That was Layfield in a nutshell. He was more dangerous than Ferguson because of his impulsive nature. The young man would shoot first and reckon the consequence of his action afterwards.
They rode silently towards the mountains. The sky overhead was a deep blue. The grass was turning yellow with a few late blooming wildflowers bobbing their blossoms on long slender stems. The air smelled fresh. Royce realized just how much he missed the freedom of the outdoors. A schoolroom was stifling.
The chestnut gelding was chomping at his bit. Royce had to keep a tight rein or the horse would take off like a roman candle. Layfield rode beside Royce. His engaging grin spread wide his lips. “I was sure he would have you lying in the dust by now,” Layfield called with admiration sounding in his voice as they approached the foothills.
“Sorry to spoil your fun,” Royce retorted.
Layfield laughed. He heeled the gelding he was riding, leaning over his horse’s neck raced towards a notch separating two mountains. Royce let the chestnut run. The ground was flying beneath his hooves. The horse jumped brush rather than riding around. Royce felt his teeth jar against each other. If he made it back to Junction City in one piece he might consider shooting the horse. For now, he hung on and let the horse have his head.
Royce and Layfield were watering their horses when Ferguson rode up. The creek was a trickle of water flowing over stones. Vegetation was sparse. Mountains in the background were barren rock pillars reaching into the sky. The ground covered with thorn
bushes and stones.
Ferguson sat on his horse while the animal dipped his nose in the creek. The man’s blue eyes glistened in his sun browned face, a snarl ever present on his lips. Goose pimples stood up on Royce’s flesh and a chill slid down his spine when Ferguson stared at him.
Layfield looked over tracks cut into the ground around the creek. “I’d say a Buck was here watering not more than an hour ago,” he announced.
“I want the Buck,” Ferguson stated, his snarl more pronounced. Royce wondered if the man was asserting his authority. Seeing how far he could push Royce before he would respond.
Royce turned his interest towards the hoof prints clearly marking the ground. “He has a couple of Does with him,” Royce replied. “I’d rather have a Doe.” Layfield made no comment. Royce had not expected him to.
Leading his horse, Royce started after the Buck on foot. He was not surprised when Ferguson chose to ride his horse. The man had trouble walking. The rocks and bushes would add to the man’s difficulties.
Purple shadows were stretching across the landscape when they spotted the Buck. He was a large specimen and carried a full rack of antlers. He was partway up the side of the mountain in among a stand of stunted cedars. Royce dropped to one knee his other foot flat against the ground. He raised the Henry to his shoulders and sighted along the barrel.
“The Buck is mine,” Ferguson growled coming off his saddle.
The Buck leaped into the air carrying him a good twenty feet before landing and leaping again. Royce pulled the trigger catching one of the Does in mid air. She hit the ground and lay still. “I wasn’t aiming at the Buck,” Royce replied softly.
“This is your fault,” Ferguson roared. His body was held taut with his eyes blazing.
“You said the Buck was yours,” Royce stated calmly. “You had plenty of time to make the kill.”
Ferguson mumbled under his breath. His breathing was labored.
“Hargadon is right,” Layfield said. “I got a Doe and so did Hargadon. We knew you wanted the Buck all you had to do was sight and pull the trigger. It is nobody’s fault he got away.” Ferguson snarled at Layfield. His long arms swinging back and forth and his face tilted sideways against one shoulder. He did not look human. “We can share the meat with you or help you track down the Buck,” Layfield cajoled. “Which do you want?”
Ferguson followed Royce up the side of the mountain dragging one foot as he walked. His back hunched over and his arms swaying like pendulums his mumbled sounds not making sense. He was mad dog enraged. Royce seemingly ignored Ferguson while at the same time was fully alert to the man’s every move.
“I want the Buck,” Ferguson roared. He foamed at the mouth spittle running down his chin.
“Sure,” Royce replied. He worked at gutting the Doe. Layfield was leaning over his Doe knife in hand.
“I want him now,” Ferguson roared.
Royce stood after wiping his hands in the grass. His feet were spread and his shoulders held taut. He stared at Ferguson with his green eyes glowing brightly. “You will get your Buck,” he stated. Swearing silently he would never go hunting with Ferguson again. The man was only half human.
Layfield brought up the packhorse and helped load Royce’s Doe. He was stoic when he looped a rope over the Doe’s neck then under the horse’s belly. It was Layfield’s reaction Royce was watching. The man was plainly puzzled over Ferguson. Meaning Ferguson was not acting normal.
Royce picked up the Buck’s trail. Leading the chestnut gilding he climbed to the mountain’s summit and started down the other side. It was then Royce realized what was puzzling the back of his mind. Earlier when Ferguson had stepped to the ground he had not held a rifle in his hand. The man had not intended to shoot the Buck. Royce stopped and looked back at Layfield. The man was crouched down looking over the trail. Royce placed his boot over the Buck’s hoof print obliterating the sign. He walked on and did the same to the next print he found. “I don’t find any sign of him,” Royce called across to Layfield.
Layfield sauntered towards Royce keeping his head lowered, eyes watching the ground. “He was moving fast,” Layfield said coming to a halt in front of Royce. “His leaps took him out of sight before I had time to think. You find anything,” he yelled back to Ferguson.
“You Jaspers couldn’t find the side of a mountain if it fell on you,” Ferguson growled. It was the longest speech Royce had heard from Ferguson. There was something familiar about his voice. “I want that Buck!”
Royce moved down the side of the mountain leading his horse. Stopping at intervals to check the ground for prints. Was Ferguson testing him. Trying to discover just how good a tracker he really was. Royce felt the man watching him and an icy chill slid over him. “I am not much of a tracker,” he said a few minutes later. “I do alright when the trail is clear,” he shook his head sadly. “On a trail like this I might as well admit my short comings.”
Ferguson let out a string of curses the like Royce had never heard before. The man slipped off his horse and stumbled down the side of the mountain. He stood above Royce on the hillside so their eyes met. Royce let the man’s words wash over him giving Ferguson a quizzical look. “You sure know a lot of swear words,” Royce declared. He heard Layfield gulp back a laugh. “You mind repeating that in plain English so I can understand.”
Royce thought Ferguson was going to explode. His face turned every shade of purple known to man. His blue eyes bulged out of their sockets. Spittle foamed on his lips. Royce expected the man to jump up and down in rage. What he did was grab Royce by the front of his shirt. Royce managed to keep control over his taut nerves and not react. This unbalanced the man. He had expected Royce to react violently. Instead of just staring at him trying to figure out what was happening.
Ferguson let go, stumbled across the ground and swung back onto the saddle. He headed down hill muttering to himself.
“What was that all about,” Royce said when Layfield joined him. “Is the man right in the head?”
“You are lucky,” Layfield said. “I’ve seen Ferguson kill on less provocation.”
“Now, why would he do that,” Royce replied.
Layfield shook his head. If Hargadon did not know he could not explain it to him. “Just stay away from him,” Layfield advised.
“You won’t have to tell me twice. My mother did not raise any fools,” Royce retorted.
Hunting with Layfield and Ferguson was an eye opener. Royce deciding his time had been well spent. Nothing either man said convinced him they were part of the Barlow Gang. But he knew. A lawman’s instinct. Now all he had to do was watch and wait. Find out with whom the two men associated.
Chapter Seven
Royce lay in bed wondering what had disturbed his sleep. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed he pulled on his discarded jeans and padded barefoot across the floor. A half moon shone outside the window casting shadows along the road. Not a single lighted window penetrated the darkness. Nor did a dog bark. The town lay peacefully in silence.
Walking to the other side of the room Royce stood before a curtain less window and peered out. He could see Miss Ferguson’s house on the hill behind the Elementary School. The windows were all dark. When Royce was about to turn away, he saw the corral gate swing open. A moment later a man stepped out of the shadows and walked across the yard. By the way he moved Royce knew it was not Milton Ferguson. Ferguson walked hunched over with his arms swinging freely. This man walked erect with widely spaced steps. Stopping before he reached the front porch the man looked towards the Secondary School as if he guessed he was being watched. Royce knew this was impossible. Instinct, he wondered. Instinct of the hunter or was it the hunted.
As the man stood looking towards the school moonlight reflected off his face. Royce would swear it was Milton Ferguson’s face he saw. Did Miss Ferguson have two brothers or was Milton Ferguson playing a deceptive game. Pretending to be hunched back and addle headed. If that was the case the man could very well be
Barlow. Not slouched over Ferguson fit what little was known about the outlaw, medium height with blue eyes and mean as a sack of rattlesnakes. Barlow enjoyed killing.
Royce waited barely breathing until the man stepped up on the front porch. A few seconds later light from a front window glowed softly. Miss Ferguson’s bedroom. Had the man woke Miss Ferguson to relay some important information. Was the schoolteacher part of Barlow’s gang. Perhaps she was the contact person. Royce kept up his vigil long after the light went out but the man did not reappear. He did not depart the house through the front door, this Royce was certain.
When the first streaks of light crossed the sky Royce gave up his vigil and went back to bed. He would post a letter to his father containing an encrypted message for Marshal Tinsley. He spent the remainder of the night plotting out what his letter home would say.
* * * * *
Friday morning at nine o’clock Royce locked the schoolhouse door and headed towards town. School was closed for the day. A banner strung across the road between Morse’s General Store and the hotel proclaimed Junction City’s Annual Fair Day. The streets were full of festive people all talking and shouting back and forth to one another. Spirits were high. Under the banner a platform had been erected in the middle of the road. Pillsdale was standing on top of the platform giving his annual speech. He wore a dark suit with a wide ribbon across his chest and a black stovepipe hat. His cheeks were puffed out and his moustache waxed until the ends curled up. His goatee was trimmed. He looked pompous. Papers containing his written speech were held between fat fingers. His voice was raised above the noise of the crowd.
Royce found a vacant place on the boardwalk and leaned one shoulder against the corner of the Newspaper Office with his arms crossed over his chest. Pillsdale was giving the citizens of Junction City a good show. He was theatrical in his performance.