One by one, the five horsemen rounded the bend and hustled their mounts toward him. He accorded them an eager grin and a cheery wave. They reined up.
“Howdy,” he greeted them. “Well, by glory, I’m sure glad somebody happened along.”
“You got trouble, cowboy?” drawled Pete Holbrook.
“Nothin’ I can’t handle,” said Arch, “if one of you fellers can loan me a jack knife. This cayuse picked up a rock.”
Red Weems drew a knife from the sheath of his pants-belt, hefted it, then hurled it. The blade embedded into the earth four inches from Arch’s right boot. Arch glanced downward, chuckled admiringly and bent to retrieve the weapon.
“Hey, that’s neat—real neat.” He flashed the burly redhead a grin. “Slickest knife-throwing I’ve seen in many a year.” Turning side-on to his audience, he held the bay’s leg firmly and prodded at the offending stone with the point of the knife. “I got a brother throws a knife purty smart, but not as smart as you.”
“It takes practice,” said Weems.
“Don’t believe I caught your names,” drawled Arch. “Mine’s Gillery—Arch Gillery—and I’m headed for Byrne City on mighty special business.” The questing point of the knife found the stone and prised it clear. He lowered the bay’s hoof and turned to face the five riders. Their faces were impassive. Only Truscott had reacted, and his head was bowed, his features obscured by his hat brim. “Marryin’ business—you know?”
His grin broadened, as he stepped up to the redhead’s horse and returned the knife. Weems slid it back into its sheath. Holbrook folded his hands over his saddlehorn and asked, with calculated nonchalance, “Marryin’ business?”
“You betcha,” nodded Arch. “We’re gonna have us a weddin’ at the old Box G. My sister.”
“That so?” grunted Holbrook. “Well—I hope the little lady’ll be happy. And who’s the lucky man? Some hombre been courtin’ her a long time, huh?”
“Hell, no!” chuckled Arch, as he remounted the bay. “He’s justa stranger that we happened onto. Us Gillerys—we move fast and sudden, you know? Make up our minds in a hurry we do. Well—I gotta be movin’ along now. Gotta find us a J.P. in Byrne City and hustle him home to Box G muy pronto. Sure obliged for the loan of the knife.”
“Welcome,” frowned Weems.
“So-long, cowboy,” drawled Billy Joe Hale.
“Be seein’ you,” grunted Gus Clayburn.
With a parting wave and another friendly grin, Arch Gillery started the bay moving again. Truscott looked at Holbrook and felt his stomach heave. Unhurriedly, almost casually, the boss-outlaw was emptying his holster, thumbing back the hammer of his six-gun. He turned in his saddle. A sardonic grin creased his scarred countenance as he lifted the weapon and drew a bead on the hapless Arch. Less than twenty-five yards separated Arch from the five horsemen when Holbrook’s Colt roared. The bullet drove Arch forward against the bay’s neck. In sudden alarm, the animal reared and the oblivion, the blackness descended on Arch. His boots left the stirrups. He struck the outer edge of the trail shoulders-first, somersaulted and hurtled down the slant, falling to a soft section and rolling in a welter of dislodged rock and rubble, starting a small avalanche.
Still grinning, Holbrook ejected the spent shell, tugged a fresh cartridge from his gunbelt. As he reloaded, Truscott eyed him aghast.
“What’s the matter, tinhorn?” chuckled Billy Joe. “You never see a man killed before?”
“The trouble with you, Truscott,” muttered Weems, “is you’re weak-bellied.”
“This was the easiest way of stoppin’ him,” Holbrook calmly pointed out. “We were mighty lucky—runnin’ into him. His brothers’ll wait for him to show up with a J.P. and, by the time they guess somethin’s happened to him, it’ll be too late for ’em to get the girl wed.”
“We—we’d need to be very sure about that,” muttered Truscott. “They might—still have time ...”
“I figure I’ve given us an edge,” said Holbrook. “We got one less Gillery to tangle with when we reach Box G.” He jerked a thumb. “Billy Joe, you go help yourself to young Arch’s rifle and whatever he was totin’ in his saddlebags—if it’s worth keepin’. Then walk the bay to the edge of the trail and put a bullet in its head. That’s the smartest way of gettin’ rid of that critter.”
Some five minutes later, its life snuffed out by a well-aimed bullet, the bay colt toppled down the edge of the trail, dropped to the slant and slid down to the base of the cliff.
Six – Return to Double L
That section of the regular trail, the scene of Holbrook’s act of treachery, was less than two miles from the east boundary of Double L range. At the time of the shooting, Sam Beech was approaching, but too far distant to hear the sound of the shot. He reached the trail, wheeled his pinto and rode slowly toward Byrne City, approximately fifteen minutes after the five southbound horsemen had passed this same spot.
Soon, he was riding within the shadow of the soaring cliff-wall to his right, the rock-littered slant to his left, and he might have travelled all the way to town and never suspected the proximity of the stricken Archer Gillery—but for the fact that Arch was wearing his favorite bandanna. That bandanna was of polka-dot pattern and red. Bright, fiery red, dazzling when caught by the sun. From this high angle, Sam could not discern the carcass of the butchered colt, but the small patch of red was a distraction, showing stark in the clutter of rock and rubble at the base of the slant. At first, he thought nothing of it. He actually rode on for a distance of some twenty yards before, prodded by his curiosity, he turned his pinto and ambled it back to the extreme edge of the trail. Mindful of his natural clumsiness, he dismounted with scrupulous care. He didn’t stand at the edge of the trail; he didn’t dare to. Instead, he sprawled on his belly and gingerly nudged his head over the edge, to scan the area below.
That flash of red—what had it been? No sign of it now. His eyes must have been deceiving him. He withdrew from the edge, rose to his feet and made to remount. Then, on a sudden impulse, he walked another twenty feet southward and again bellied down to check the litter of rubble below the slant.
This time, he didn’t spot the flash of red, but what he did see caused his heart to thump. Portion of the dead horse. Enough of it to indicate it was still saddled. A rider had gone over the edge and, judging from the condition of the grade, had dislodged a great deal of rock in his fall to the base.
He ruled against attempting a descent astride the pinto. Why risk the pinto’s life? After leading the animal to the right side of the trail, he carefully tethered it within the concealment of a straggle of brush. Another fifty yards south he walked, before deciding that the slant was less steep, comparatively safe for a descent.
Gingerly, he lowered himself to the slope. His boots sank into almost eighteen inches of soft earth and crackling shale. He began his descent, slowly at first, then at increased speed, the increase of speed being caused by his natural clumsiness; he lost his balance, pitched forward and rolled twenty feet. Battered, dusty, but undaunted, he struggled to his feet and resumed his downward journey. From there to the base of the grade, he fell and rolled three times. He was dizzy, when he finally reached level ground. Happily, his injuries were superficial, amounting to nothing worse than bruises and abrasions.
He stumbled northward along the base of the slant and, in a few moments, came to the carcass of the bay. A short distance further on, he again sighted the flash of red. He clambered over a heap of rubble and flopped to his knees beside the sprawled figure of a burly hombre some eight years his junior.
There could be no mistaking that the bay horse was dead, but the same couldn’t be said for its rider. At least not yet. He was groaning. His Stetson was rammed low on his head. Sam removed it as gently as he knew how, squinted at the blood congealed in the hair and on the neck, and guessed, “This feller got himself a bad bump when he fell—and no wonder. All them doggone boulders. Holy smokes—he could’ve been crushed to death.”
His scalp crawled when he noted the wound in the back. He half-rolled the groaning man over and discovered a similar wound high to the left side of the chest. It was level with the back-wound. Easy-going though he was—and always peace loving—this was not his first sight of a gunshot wound. It was all too obvious that the bullet had penetrated, not lodging. Well, maybe that was fortunate for this hombre. He had heard of men who had survived such wounds, sometimes inflicted by a bullet, sometimes by an arrow. If the slug went clear through, missing heart and lungs, the wounded man enjoyed an even chance of survival. But there were other aspects of course—the possibility of internal bleeding or the wound’s becoming infected. The charitable act of carrying this hapless hombre might be more than enough to finish him off. On the other hand, Sam didn’t relish leaving him here while he made, the journey to Byrne City to fetch a doctor.
He spent a few moments in fretful indecision. Why not tote him to Double L? The ranch was a sight closer than the county seat. He knew for a fact that Double L’s foreman had treated many a gunshot wound in his day. The chuck-boss old Dan Collins, was a fair hand at setting broken bones. Mrs. Loomis played nurse every time a Double L hand went down with fever or an old-fashioned bellyache. Sure. This feller’s chances might improve plenty, if only he could get him to the ranch in time, and without too much jolting.
While he was replacing the wounded man’s Stetson, the eyes opened, surveying him blearily. And it was characteristic of Arch Gillery that his first words took the form of blistering profanity. Sam urged him to, “Take it easy, amigo, and try to save your strength.”
“You …” groaned Arch, “… ain’t—one of the sons of bitches that back-shot me ...”
“Hell, no!” frowned Sam. “Only thing I ever look a shot at in my whole life was jackrabbits, rattlesnakes and a skunk—and I missed ’em all.”
“Feels like …” Arch closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, “… feels like—I’m on fire ...”
“Can you hear what I’m tellin’ you?”
“Yeah … I hear you.”
“My name’s Sam Beech, and I aim to ...”
“Mine’s Gillery. Arch Gillery.”
“Howdy Arch. Now I’ll tell you what I aim to do—and I’m sorry it’s apt to be plumb painful for you. I gotta find a part of this slant that ain’t so steep. Then I’ll tote you up to the trail, load you onto my horse and take you to the ranch.”
“I—wasn’t headed for no ranch. Gotta—make it to Byrne City ...”
“It’s too far Arch. Double L is closer. They ain’t got a regular doctor, but the ramrod tends a bullet-wound plumb smart. Arch? You hear me ...?”
In sudden anxiety, Sam bent and pressed an ear to Arch’s bloodied chest. Arch had lost consciousness, but his breathing was fairly steady. Well, maybe it was just as well. It might go a lot easier on the wounded man if he remained unconscious during the journey to Double L.
It took Sam all of a quarter-hour to locate what appeared to be an ideal route back up to the trail. He could—he hoped—keep his footing and his balance.
“I just better, that’s all,” he warned himself. “Because, by Aunt Lulu’s bustle, this Arch feller looks plenty hefty.”
Plenty hefty was putting it mild. By the time Sam reached the trail, with Arch’s limp body draped across his shoulders, he was ready to drop. He stumbled to the pinto, laid Arch on his back while he caught his breath. During this brief respite, he uncapped his canteen and forced a few drops of water between the injured man’s parched lips.
The pinto would have to tote a double load. Well, that wasn’t so bad. This critter hadn’t been ridden hard and was still fresh. But how to prevent Arch from falling? On an inspiration, he used his lariat. By dint of much heaving and shoving—and the pinto’s unfailing patience—he managed to lift Arch astride. Then, with the lariat, he lashed Arch’s wrists to the saddlehorn, pulled down the rest of the line and used it to secure Arch’s hoots to the stirrups. When he swung up behind, wrapped his arms about the injured man and took his reins, he prided himself on having ensured that Arch would stay put.
At twelve-thirty p.m., when he halted his mount in Double L’s front yard, certain parties ventured forth to eye him incredulously. Nobody had believed he would have the nerve to show his face at Double L again. Cole Robinson emerged from the bunkhouse gaping in disbelief, a fork laden with a chunk of steak still gripped in his right hand. Luke and Dora May Loomis appeared on the balcony of the upstairs parlor. Old Dan Collins toting a sizzling pan and with his soiled apron wrapped about his midriff limped out of the cook-shack and glowered at him. But, as swiftly as they had recognized Sam, the people of Double L noted that he was not alone, and that his companion was in a somewhat reduced condition.
“All I know is his name!” called Sam. “I found him down below the slant—just before Lampazo Bend. He’s hurt bad—and Byrne City was too far away ...!”
“Cole!” called the rancher. “Have him toted to the ground-floor bedroom.”
With assistance from the foreman and the chuck-boss, Dora May worked at cleansing and binding the patient’s wounds for the next thirty minutes or so. At the end of that time. Arch Gillery was conscious again, but in considerable pain and experiencing difficulty with his vision. Sam stood to the right of the bedroom doorway hat in hand, not daring to budge for fear he might overturn a chair, rip the rug with a spur, or smear trail-dust on the wallpaper.
At a time like this, the amateur physicians should not be distracted.
He heard Dora May questioning the patient.
“Arch Gillery, you say? All right now. Arch, you tell us exactly how you feel. We’ve done our best, but we aren’t regular doctors, so we have to depend on you to give me indications—you know what I mean?”
“Sure—obliged to you—ma’am,” mumbled Arch.
In halting sentences, he told his benefactors exactly how he felt. Dora May’s assistants then offered their diagnoses.
“I don’t reckon he could make that much sense if he was gonna die of a skull fracture,” muttered Robinson, “so my guess is concussion.”
“And concussion,” growled old Dan Collins, “is bad enough. Be quite a spell ’fore this jasper is spry again.”
“About the gunshot wound,” frowned Dora May.
“From what I saw of it,” offered her husband, “I’d say the wound is clean enough. He oughtn’t take blood-poisonin’.”
“No inflammation,” she agreed. “That’s something to be grateful for.”
“He wouldn’t be breathin’ so easy if the slug had torn through a lung,” opined the ramrod.
“He wouldn’t be breathin’ at all,” added old Dan, “if it’d nicked his heart.”
“Seems to me this hombre is plumb lucky,” drawled Loomis.
“I don’t—feel lucky—that’s for sure,” sighed Arch. “But I’m mighty—beholden to you folks ...”
“We’ll take no chances,” Loomis decided. “Couple of my men were headed for Byrne City with a supply wagon. I aimed to send ’em tomorrow morning, but now I figure it’d be smarter to get ’em movin’ rightaway. They could make town by midnight and pass the word to Doc Russell. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Well ...” began Arch.
“We’ve done our best for you, young man,” said Dora May, “but we won’t be satisfied till you’ve been checked over by a real doctor.”
“Feel like—I’m gonna sleep again …” panted Arch. “Gotta tell you—somethin’ important—first ...”
“All right, but take your time,” soothed the rancher’s wife.
Sam’s curiosity compelled him to edge closer to the bed. He heard every word of the few sentences uttered by Arch Gillery before that pain-wracked cattleman again lost consciousness.
“As well as—a doctor for me—a Justice ...”
“Justice ...?” prodded Robinson.
“J.P.,” grunted Arch. “Tell—J.P.—head for our place. That’s—Box G spread—down south—near the borde
r. Need a J.P. bad. Gotta—marry my sister ...”
He valiantly made the effort to mumble a few more words, but failed. A long sigh escaped him. His eyes closed, and old Dan hastily checked for pulse and heartbeat.
“He ain’t ...?” began Sam.
“Nope,” grunted Dan. “He’s breathin’ along steady. Plumb tuckered out, I reckon. Wouldn’t surprise me if he don’t wake up before sun-up. Well, when he does wake up, we oughta try and force some vittles into him. Bleedin’ weakened him.”
“Cole,” frowned Loomis, “go find Horton and Jelkie. Have ’em hitch up the wagon and head for town in a hurry. I want Doc Russell here just as fast as that old surrey of his can roll.”
“And a J.P.,” drawled the ramrod, on his way to the door. “We’d best not forget about a J.P. It seemed powerful important to this Gillery hombre.”
“There’s a Justice of the Peace got an office in the Cattlemen’s Trust Buildin’,” Loomis recalled. “His name is—uh—let me think now. Clifton ...?”
“Clifford,” offered old Dan. “Ed Clifford.”
“Right,” said Robinson, as he quit the room.
“So they need a J.P. in a hurry, at the Box G spread,” mused Loomis, thoughtfully studying the face of the unconscious Arch. “A marryin’ on the hustle. The girl just can’t wait, it seems. I wonder if that means ...”
“Never you mind what it means, Luke Loomis,” chided his spouse. “You got no right to cast doubts on a woman you never even met.”
“She ain’t a growed woman—not yet,” interjected the aged chuck-boss. “Not if she’s the same young ’un I saw last spring.”
“You know the Box G outfit?” challenged Loomis.
“I travelled with Harkness and Kinsell last spring,” Dan reminded him. “You recall you sent us down to Montenegro to fetch a couple stud-bulls? Well, we stopped by a spread called Box G on our way back. I reckon it must be the same outfit. Anyway the name is the same. Gillery. We parlayed with a couple hombres name of Gillery and, come to think of it, they looked a heap like this jasper. There was a girl too. Just a sprig.”
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