Spur now had his rifle loaded. He snapped it to his shoulder and fired. But Blaxall seemed to lead a charmed life. It was a long shot and he lowered his head over the neck of his horse in the moment Spur fired. There came the sound of the horse getting on the move.
Spur jacked a new round into the breech.
The horse came into view going fast. Spur fired again and again, but his sighting was obstructed by brush and rocks. He cursed furiously and turned back to the cliff’s edge. He had to go after Blaxall and he wanted the mare fast. If he knew the game little animal, she was standing right where he left her. He hoped to God that the man Smith hadn’t reached her.
He reached the edge of the cliff, put his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. He could hear Blaxall clattering away to safety. He didn’t have any time to lose.
He whistled again.
A man fired at him from below. The shot fell low, hitting the face of the cliff and whining away into the blue. He whistled again and again.
Now he could hear Jenny on the move.
He ran along the rimrock and headed for the top of the narrow trail. The rifle tried for him again and again and he heard Ben firing at the marksman.
Reaching the top of the track, he started down it. The gradient was too steep for his weak legs and they started to buckle under him. He stopped and leaned against the wall of the cliff, feeling that he must fall onto the rocks below. He passed an unpleasant few seconds, getting a grip on himself and then forced himself to go on. His legs gave under him and he went down to his knees. He heard the sound of hoofs and turned his head to see Jenny heading toward him through the brush, head high.
He forced himself to his feet and continued the descent. Every step he took he felt would put him into the rocks below. He cursed the vertigo that was overtaking him.
He could hear a man yelling something and thought it was Ben, but couldn’t be sure.
A shot came. Again the shot was too low. He staggered on, cursing his weakness.
He was suddenly at the foot of the track, down among the boulders, going on at a staggering run, knowing that every second counted in the pursuit of the fleeing Blaxall.
He came to an open space and saw Jenny headed for him. He called to her.
Suddenly, he saw a dark shape launch itself from a dark patch of brush, saw it land like a cougar on the mare’s back, legs clinging tight to her barrel. He heard the screams of the man and the horse joined as one. Jenny was pitching wildly. The man clung to her back like a burr. The powerful hands were on the lines, tearing her head around, no doubt tearing the tender mouth.
Spur was running now, running and yelling. The mare turned toward him, pitching and trying to rear. He could hear her iron shoes striking the rocks. She stumbled and nearly went down. Those strong hands kept her on her feet. She fought the bit, her eyes wild.
Then she was on top of him and the man with the burning eyes launched himself from her back onto Spur. The man’s irresistible weight bore Spur backward. His shoulders struck the ground hard and he heard the wind go out of him. The man went on and over him. Spur rolled and came to his feet. Smith was already prepared for him, running into the attack with his hands like claws. Spur had a glimpse of his bloody arm and then the hands were on him. Spur knew that he couldn’t last a minute against him.
Where the hell was Ben?
As if from a long way off, he heard a gun sound.
He jabbed upward with the muzzle of his rifle, fiercely with all his strength and thought he caught the man under the chin. The fellow staggered back, his face contorted with pain. Spur swung the butt of the rifle, whacking it into his body. Smith tried to grasp at the weapon, but Spur managed in the nick of time to pull it from his grip.
Smith yelled and charged again.
Spur stepped to one ride and swung the full weight of the rifle by the barrel. The heavy butt caught the fellow on the side of his head. He broke stride, staggered a little to one ride and wait down to one knee. A soft moaning sound came from his bearded lips.
Spur took one pace forward and struck again.
This time the man keeled over like a great felled tree, hit the ground, kicked once and lay still.
Somebody fired a rifle.
Spur had dropped his own rifle with the effort of the last blow. He was now so weak that he was in a state of utmost confusion. It was as if he were now running on will power only. He called to Jenny to stand and went toward her, fell against her side and stayed there for a moment, pulling air in sobs into his heaving chest.
He heard feet pounding and reached for the butt of his Colt.
He got a foot in the stirrup-iron and heaved on the saddle horn with all his might. Jenny stood as quiet as a lamb, knowing what was expected of her. He gritted his teeth and heaved. As his butt hit the saddle, Jenny Jumped forward and his right foot sought the other stirrup-iron.
He heard Ben yelling for him to stop. He told the Negro to go to hell, but he didn’t know if he actually said the words or merely thought them. The mare had her legs under her and was running. Vaguely, he wondered if the third man would shoot him out of the saddle. But no shots came and they clattered south through the rocks, Jenny weaving her way through the land.
How he stayed in the saddle during that crazy ride, he would never know, but somehow he managed to do it.
He didn’t know how long he rode before it occurred to him that he was in the saddle for a purpose. He was after a man and he didn’t have any idea where that man was.
Trying to clear his blurred sight, he looked around him. The mare was pacing south at a steady mile-eating lope, covering the ground with ease. To the right, he expected to see the cliff-face, but it was no longer there and he knew they had run on south past it. They were now running across a sandy waste, brush scattered, stretching away south for as far as the eye could see. And, as far as the eye could see, he could see no moving dot that could be a man and horse. But somehow he lacked the willpower of sense to know that there was no purpose in going on and that he should now turn back. He let the mare run on south and felt childishly pleased that he was able to stay in the saddle.
The mare stayed with that loping pace and it looked as if she could keep it up all day. They hit a dip in the plain and she slowed her pace to go down it. It now came to Spur that the whole plain could be pocked with such dips without his being able to see them. So it was possible that there was a rider ahead of him without his being able to see him. They climbed the far side of the dip, ran a half-mile, then came to an arroyo. The mare took him down into it and up the far ride and then Spur Saw the dot that moved.
It was slightly to the southwest and he angled the mare toward it. He knew that it was horse and rider when Jenny slightly quickened her pace. No animal on earth took more readily to a chase than that little horse. Spur spoke to her, encouraging her to give of her best, knowing that if the horse up ahead could out run her, it was an exceptional animal, Jenny now stretched out.
After a while, Spur could make out the clear shape of horse and man. He also knew that the rider had spotted him. He saw the man lashing urgently with his quirt.
You’ll have to kill that poor damned beast, Blaxall, Spur thought. And it wouldn’t do you any good.
Jenny was running superbly now, stretching out with that pace that looked so deceptively lazy, eating up the miles. The man ahead grew larger and larger as the little mare threw the distance behind her. The horse ahead responded to the lashes of the quirt with a sudden burst of speed, but Spur guessed that it wouldn’t last and it did not.
Suddenly, the run went out of it.
The rider lashed it furiously, but there was nothing more to beat from it. The little mare was now gaining rapidly.
Blaxall saw now that nothing could save him but a gun. He halted abruptly, piled from the saddle and stood on the far ride of his horse. Spur saw his rifle poke across the saddle. He didn’t hear the shot above the pounding of hoofs, but he saw the whisp of gunsmoke.
/> His thought was now for the mare.
Just the same; he dropped to her far ride, angled her slightly to go past the man, let her run for fifty yards then dropped to the ground. The fall shook him up like hell and his ribs felt as if they had collapsed. But he had done what he wanted. There was plenty of low brush around and he doubted Blaxall had seen him drop.
He lay there for a short while, weak and wanting to give up the ghost. He heard the mare go on thirty or forty yards and then stop.
Now Spur started to worm himself forward on his belly. He had only his Colt gun and he had to get within pistol range. He could not see Blaxall, but he knew his position from the nervous snort of his horse. He could feel the puzzlement and alarm of the man.
He continued to creep forward.
Blaxall’s yell came-
‘I can see you, Spur. You don’t stand a chance. Throw down your gun and I’ll let you ride out of here.’
The lie in the promise was so futile that a sort of hysterical laughter welled up in Spur. He went on forward.
There was a sudden flurry of movement ahead of him. He heard the creak of saddle-leather and knew that Blaxall was mounting. The waiting and the uncertainty was too much for the man.
Blaxall yelled to the horse and the animal got on the move.
Spur rose to his feet.
Blaxall was twenty yards away, bent over the neck of his horse. The animal was starting to run. Spur lifted the Colt’s gun from leather with the smooth motion of the master, cocking it as it came into the palm of his hand. Her unconsciously steadied himself and there came upon him the professional calm that he could always rely on when he made a shot.
He saw Blaxall’s face turned momentarily to him, saw the fright and expectancy in the eyes. There was a second of indecision in the man—should he surrender or should he run? He decided to run. The quirt lashed viciously at the horse and the animal strained forward. Spur sighted carefully. He didn’t want to hit the horse; he didn’t want to kill the man. It wasn’t his habit to bring in dead men. This man was going to stand trial.
He fired and the heavy gun bucked in his hand. He didn’t have to check that he had hit the man in the right shoulder.
Blaxall fell forward along the neck of the racing horse. The rifle he had held in the right hand fell into the dust. The horse ran south.
Spur whistled the mare, she jerked up her head and came trotting toward him. In a moment, he was in the saddle and she was running. Ahead of him, Blaxall was riding loose and heavy in the saddle. The horse had little run in it, already it was flagging again. Jenny paced easily behind it.
A mile and the horse ahead slowly came to a stop and Blaxall fell out of the saddle. Spur circled him. The man came to his knees, his face ashen, a gun in his left hand. Spur halted Jenny and said: ‘Drop it or I’ll kill you.’
The man looked at him for a long moment, then his pain-washed face drooped in despair as he dropped the gun to the ground.
Spur said: ‘Get on your horse and we’ll go back.’
‘If you don’t do something for my shoulder, I’ll bleed to death.’
‘I won’t let you die,’ Spur assured him. ‘Bank on it. I’m goin’ to see you sentenced. Now get on your horse.’
The man rose slowly to his feet and staggered to his horse. One-handed, he heaved himself into the saddle. At a walking pace they headed north.
An hour later.
They came into the lee of the cliff. All was quiet. Spur was weak and tired to the bone. All he wanted was to get into his blankets and sleep. He looked around and could see nothing. No shot came.
‘Ben!’ he called.
There was movement off to his right and Ben walked out from behind a boulder. He stood and looked at the drooping figure of Blaxall. He grinned a little.
‘Not a bad day’s work,’ he said and walked back behind the boulder.
Blaxall fell out of the saddle. Spur let him lie, wearily dismounted and followed the Negro. Behind the boulder he found Smith and another man he had never seen before sitting on the ground, tied back to back. They both looked at Spur with a hatred that he found pleasing.
Spur said: ‘You’re quite a handy man to have along.’ He jerked his head over his shoulder and added: ‘You’d best take a look at Blaxall or he’s like to die on us. Then we’ll get on the move, Clance’ll be feelin’ kinda lonesome.’
He sat down with his back to the boulder and fell asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
It was noon when they rode into Crewsville. It was hot as the underside of hell and the town, being inhabited by sensible folk, was sleeping.
Outside the sheriff’s office was Mike Student with his backside in a rocker and his feet on the hitching rail. Against the chair rested a 12-bore shotgun. To prove that he was the one man on the alert in town, Student pushed his hat back from his eyes, brought his feet down from the rail and stared at them.
He saw a very tired Spur, pale-faced, mounted on a little mare that was as fresh as when she started, followed by three woe-begotten men on exhausted horses, their feet tied beneath the bellies of their animals. Off to one side rode Clance Damyon, glaring triumphantly around out of one bright eye, riding an equally bushed horse. The rear was brought up by a dust-covered Negro riding a mule who regarded the world with eyes as belligerent as those of its rider.
The sight impressed Student to a moment of utter stillness. Then he intoned in a voice of awe—
‘Well, I’ll be goddamned.’
The little cavalcade halted. Spur slid from the saddle.
‘Lost any prisoners since we’ve been gone?’ he asked.
‘Nary a one,’ the deputy told him indignantly. ‘But we sure lost a mayor. He lit out last night.’
Just then a curious thing happened. As though by some secret signal the town became aware that Spur and his party had returned. Doors and windows opened. Men, women and children thronged onto the street. Storekeepers left their stores, the blacksmith arrived all grimed and sweaty from his shop, the priest appeared from Mex Town with every member of his congregation. Mort Gaines came hurrying from his saloon; the Baptist preacher came hurrying from his chapel declaring that virtue had prevailed and the godless had been struck low. Little Milly Prayboy came running in the most unladylike manner, crying with excitement and relief. Molly O’Keefe mingled with the respectable openly and Silena Dueby ran over from her hotel with the same haste exhibited by Milly Prayboy. Manuela followed close on her heels, declaring that her prayers had been answered. Suddenly Spur, being the victor, was the most popular man in town. The crowd stared at Blaxall with distaste and at Smith with loathing.
One or two of the more frequent customers of the saloons who were in their customary state of noon drunkenness fired their guns in the air to exhibit their manhood and declared that they should dispense justice there and then in true Western fashion and hang the criminal trio from the nearest tree. In spite of the source of the suggestion, this seemed to be a fairly
popular notion and there was a general cry for a hanging. Spur gave orders for the prisoners to be hustled inside the jail before matters got out of hand. Legs were untied and the prisoners were hurried into the security of the jail. Smith was heard howling that he would kill the traitor Beddoe if he got his hands on him and Blaxall was loudly calling for his lawyer.
Ben and Damyon came out of the office and led the horses away to the livery. When Spur appeared Silena Dueby kissed him, making it very difficult for him to remember the girl waiting for him in Cimarron country. When Manuela followed her employer’s example, he forgot her entirely. Men were shaking his hand and the violent congratulations nearly tore him from his feet. He told them he could have done nothing without Ben and Damyon. They cheered.
Ben and Damyon appeared and Milly Prayboy kissed Damyon. Damyon’s one arm was seen to go around Milly’s slender waist. The town cheered that and then and there they had the pair married off. The way Clance and Milly looked they could have been right. Ben and Spur
now walked down to Milly’s place and climbed the stairs to her bedroom where the pale- faced Kid was propped up against the pillows looking as sulky as a schoolboy deprived of a treat.
‘You bastards.’ he said bitterly.
They sat down on either side of the bed and beamed at him tiredly.
‘Lucky you wasn’t there.’ Ben said. ‘It was man’s work.’
‘How’d you think I got this dug in my guts?’ the Kid snarled.
‘Guts?’ said Ben. ‘When did you have guts?’
Spur lay back on the bed, smiling.
The Kid said between his teeth: ‘I been lyin’ here thinkin’, black man. I been thinkin’ about you. When I’m healed up good an’ I have my strength back, I’m goin’ to take you with my bare hands. You’re jest a swelled-headed uppity nigger an’ I’m goin’ to whup you so good …’
Ben stood up, grinning benignly.
‘Every kid has a right to dream,’ he said.
The Kid turned to Spur: ‘I been thinkin’ about you, too, Spur. I reckon you ain’t nothin’ without that gun of yourn. When I’m through with Ben, I’m goin’ to—’
Ben said: ‘Hush up, boy.’
The Kid said: ‘Why, of all the puny—’
‘You wake him an’ I’ll take you up on you whuppin’ me.’ he promised. He headed for the door.
The Kid said: ‘That’s right, run out on me when I start fellin’ you a few home truths.’
Over his shoulder as he swaggered out, Ben said: ‘I’m joinin’ that there mule in the straw. He sure holds more charm for me than a sawn-off, sass-mouthed, belly-achin’, ungrateful, iggerent, mean runt like you-all.’
The Kid was so mad he considered kicking the sleeping Spur. He changed his mind when he realized that the violent motion would hurt his wound. He lay simmering, contemplating that those two mean bastards would find some way of swindling him out of the reward.
The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Page 16