Wanted: Dead or Alive

by Ray Hogan

  He walked to the rear cabin and entered. Woodward’s horse, a handsome sorrel gelding with white forelegs greeted him with an anxious whicker. Ben comforted the animal, then led him into the open, and picketed him on a small patch of grass a few yards up the slope. The sorrel was a fine-looking horse, much better than the buckskin.

  Leaving the gelding to graze, Jordan hunted around until he found a broken spade and with that dug a shallow grave. He buried Woodward, covered the mound with rocks to keep away the wolves and coyotes. Then, wearing the dead man’s jacket, and with the bulging saddlebags heavy with gold coins and packets of currency, he mounted the sorrel and rode down the mountain.

  The trail was again visible, the rainwater having drained away, and he had no difficulty in following it except when he would come upon a gash cut at right angles to its course where an arroyo, surging downward from the high peaks, had slashed a channel. He had no idea how far it was to the next settlement but, as before, he figured the trail would eventually bring him out at some point. He was not particularly disturbed about it since a northerly course would take him in the right direction and lead him finally to the Lazy A Ranch of Tom Ashburn.

  Food was the pressing problem; he had not eaten since the previous morning and hunger was now a gnawing pain within him. Around noon he saw a long-eared jackrabbit. Using Walt Woodward’s rifle, he killed it. He halted then, and roasted the animal over a low fire. The meat was tough and stringy, almost tasteless for lack of salt, but satisfied his stomach, and he rode on an hour later feeling better.

  As the miles passed, he appreciated more and more the qualities of the sorrel, and as well the country surrounding him. Everywhere the land was green and beautiful, much different from the dry wastes of the Barranca Negra. He wondered if the country where Tom Ashburn had his ranch was like this, and found himself hoping it would be. It should be no chore raising fine cattle in a land so lush. Grass covered the ground in a deep, green blanket anywhere a man looked. Water was plentiful. It was strange that he saw no ranches, no farms, then remembered that the area was devoted mainly to mining. Men searching for gold or silver had no time for anything else.

  He pressed on, the sorrel seemingly tireless. They topped out one succeeding rise after another and the realization gradually came to Ben Jordan that he would be forced to spend the night in the open again. But that was no problem. Being under a roof with Walt Woodward was the first time he had not slept on the trail in over a week. He glanced at the sky, thankful that no rain-heavy clouds hovered about. It would be cold, but not wet.

  Again he had to think of food. He began to watch the brush and scrubby growth that fringed the deep forest, alert for another rabbit, preferably a cottontail or a young jack this time. Venison would taste good but he rebelled at the thought of wasting a whole deer for only one or two meals.

  He killed another rabbit a short time later, a young jack, and halted there to skin and cook it. He would get the meal out of the way, he decided, and at the same time allow the gelding to rest. Then he would ride on until full darkness overtook him before he bedded down for the night.

  He had just finished eating, and was stamping out the embers of his fire when he chanced to look back over his trail, rising and falling as it climbed in and out of the long swales and topped out the ridges lying in between. At first, he saw nothing, only the deep, rich green of the land, and then suddenly riders came into his vision. Interest stirred through him and was followed quickly by alarm. They were at a considerable distance but were moving toward him at steady pace, coming along the exact path he had taken. Of course they could be simply fellow pilgrims, headed in the same general direction, but Walt Woodward’s money was making him suspicious, jumpy. And then, as they moved out into the last of the bright sunlight and he had a good look at them, he knew his fears were warranted. There were four men in the party.

  IV

  Ben Jordan swung to the saddle quickly and wheeled into the deep shadows off trail. He could not be certain they had seen him yet, but that they were following him, tracking him by the hoof prints left by the sorrel in the soft ground, there was no doubt. He studied the men, striving to identify them and thus rule out all possibility of error. He waited until they crossed the next shallow valley, climbed the grade, and were again outlined on the horizon. A big man on a black horse—that would be Crawford. Two on dark brown animals; a fourth on a gray. He was not wrong. They were the outlaws.

  He moved off at once, putting the gelding to a lope. He had a good lead on the four men, and darkness was not far off. If he could reach rocky ground, a place where the sorrel would leave no prints, there was a good chance of losing Crawford and his bunch. But as the miles wore on that hope dwindled. The heavy rainfall had soaked the country generally, and there was no hard ground within reach.

  He began to curve then toward the higher hills, aiming for the ridges and peaks. It would be rougher going with plenty of granite ledges and benches that would not mark his passage. He rode on, pushing the gelding, now beginning to labor as he moved upgrade. Daylight was disappearing slowly. Jordan, grim, looked ahead. Another mile, perhaps two, and he would be at the foot of the mountain. And by then it should be night.

  He reached the first upthrust of solid rock, and halted. Slipping from the saddle of the heaving sorrel, he dropped back a dozen yards to a huge boulder that stood out away from the edge of the trees. He climbed to the top and there, after his own rapid breathing had calmed, listened in the darkness.

  Somewhere, far to the south, a pair of coyotes were setting up a wild chorus. An owl hooted into the blackness and a rain frog chirped his warning of more storms to come. There was nothing else. If Crawford and the others had swung off the trail as he had done, it seemed logical to expect some sign, some noise that would indicate their approach. He could hear nothing. He remained perched on the rock for another quarter hour while the light of a pale moon rising above the low hills to the east grew stronger, and then gave up. He dropped to the ground and made his way back to the sorrel.

  He mounted at once. He would take no chances, not with his life and Walt Woodward’s $20,000, although all indications were that he had thrown the outlaws off his trail. He would continue on for another hour at least, and make camp. Thus he would put a safe distance between himself and Crawford.

  He found a good camping place a few miles, and a long hour, farther along. It was a shallow cave, hollowed by wind and rain from the face of a high butte. A cautious man, even when he felt reasonably certain he was in the clear, he built no fire and left the sorrel saddled and ready to ride. He gave his precautions no thought, simply doing these things from instinct, and perhaps from a smattering of habit, for in the Barranca Negra a man learned to hold himself in readiness for an emergency at all times, or else he was not destined for a long life. Ben Jordan hoped to enjoy the same thing in this new land across which he was riding. He intended to live, to take on the fine job his father’s old friend, Tom Ashburn, had offered him, and no outside influence in the guise of four hardcase outlaws was going to prevent him doing so. He had been sucked into something he would have gladly avoided, if there had been a choice, but since there was not, he would now see it through to the finish, and stay alive.

  Using Woodward’s blanket roll, he made himself as comfortable as possible in the cave. The night was cold, the ground hard, and his hunger was still far from satisfied, but he took it in stride. All things came to an end, eventually, he had learned, and tomorrow he would likely reach a settlement where he could stuff himself with a good meal, rest on a soft bed, and perhaps … Ben Jordan came suddenly alert. An unusual noise had prodded his senses to wakefulness, setting small flags of danger waving in his mind.

  He lay still for a long minute, his ears tuned to the darkness, hand gripping the butt of his revolver. It could have been a prowling animal, possibly the sorrel. He heard it again—the sharp, metallic click of iron against rock. It was the soun
d of an approaching horse. Crawford? Jordan sat up instantly. It was black as jet inside the cave, only a little better beyond in the feeble moonlight. Clouds had begun to pile up and were scudding swiftly across the sky, gathering for more rain.

  Picking up the saddlebags and blanket, Ben moved into the open. He took each step with extreme care as he worked his way toward the sorrel picketed fifty feet or so to the left. Almost there, he raised himself to full height and glanced toward the stand of oak brush, seeking to pinpoint the horse’s exact position. He saw the silhouette of the gelding, and at the same instant heard a man’s hushed voice speak.

  “There’s his horse. It’s him, sure enough. I’d know that sorrel anywhere.”

  There was a brief silence and a second voice said: “Where you reckon he is?”

  “Hunkered up against that cliff, I expect. Bart and Cleve are movin’ in from that side. Smart thing for us to do is set tight. He’ll make a run for the horse.”

  “Just what I was figurin’.”

  Ben remained crouched behind a clump of brush, listening, waiting, trying to think of a plan, a means for escape. Crawford and the one called Cleve Aaron were sneaking up to the cave, according to what he had just heard. That placed them behind him now. Gates and Arlie Davis would be the two hiding in the darkness ahead, blocking his course to the gelding. He could not drop back—and he could not go on.

  “Gates?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just can’t figure it out. Known damn’ well I plugged that jasper. Hit him square … but here he is, ridin’ just like nothin’ had happened.”

  “Maybe you just thought you got him.”

  “You seen the blood, same as me.”

  “Sure, but it could have been a flesh wound, somethin’ that didn’t do much damage.”

  “Don’t make sense. I seen him grab at his chest, dang’ near fall offen his horse …”

  “Then who the hell we been follerin’, his ghost?” Gates demanded impatiently. “We seen him ridin’, and we know he’s around here somewhere. Ain’t that proof enough you didn’t wing him?”

  “But I know I …”

  “Forget it, and keep your trap shut for a bit. We don’t want him findin’ out we’re hidin’ here.”

  The fact that he was riding Woodward’s sorrel was not the only reason they were mistaking him for the man, Ben thought with a tight smile. He was wearing the sheepskin jacket that had been Woodward’s, also. Recognizing it wiped all doubts from their minds. His thoughts came to an abrupt halt. A sound back in the direction of the cave brought him sharply to the moment. Crawford and Aaron would break out into the open soon. They would discover the cave was empty, and press on toward the sorrel. He must move, and move fast or else become trapped in a deadly game of hide-and-seek.

  He raised himself again, swept the surrounding brush with a probing glance. Gates and Arlie Davis were somewhere to his left, on a direct line between him and the gelding, judging from their voices. If he could circle wide, come in to the sorrel from the far side—it was worth a try. He moved off at once, keeping low and taking time to create no sound. Every few yards he paused, listened, and now and then he would search out the silhouette of the big horse to be certain he was not going too far.

  Inch by inch, it seemed to Ben Jordan, he made the circle. He had heard no more sounds back at the cave and Gates and Davis were remaining stone silent. He crept on, always fearful the saddlebags would scrape against the brush and betray him, or that he would put his weight upon a dry branch, and create a loud popping noise that would be heard by all four of the outlaws. But finally he completed the arc. He was in front of the sorrel now, and could approach the horse head on. He hunched forward, and rested himself on his elbows, breathing hard. It had been a tiring effort, but he had been lucky. He had not aroused Gates and Arlie Davis. He turned his head toward the cave, disturbed because there had been no sounds from Crawford and Aaron. Were they still there, or had they closed in? Were they also standing watch over the sorrel?

  He resumed the tedious crawl, reaching a point where he dared advance no farther. His sudden appearance was certain to startle the horse, and cause him to shy and draw the attention of the outlaws. He considered that, but could find no answer to it. He had to gain the gelding’s side, and jerk the short tether rope free and get on the saddle.

  His hand touched a rock, one the size of his fist. He picked it up, a thought racing into his mind. If he could turn the outlaws’ attention to another direction for only a few moments …? He drew himself to a crouch, made ready to race to the sorrel. He cocked his arm, threw the rock toward the cave.

  The instant it struck, setting up a loud, dry clatter, Jordan surged toward the gelding. The horse saw him and jerked back. Ben seized the tail of the tie rope with his left hand and pulled, gathering the reins with his right, all in one motion. He vaulted onto the shying sorrel’s back, and fought to bring the frightened animal under control.

  “Hey … here! He’s over here!”

  It was Gates’ surprised voice. Jordan ignored the nearness of it, and sawed at the bit to bring the gelding about to head him off and away from the outlaws.

  “Over here! Over here!” Gates yelled again.

  Jordan got the sorrel pointed right, sent him plunging recklessly down the slope, praying he would not stumble and fall, would not run straight into a cañon or a dead end.

  A gun blasted through the darkness. Another. Someone was yelling—Crawford probably—shouting for the others to keep shooting, for someone to bring the horses, to watch the sorrel, not lose him.

  A fresh volley of gunshots smashed through the night, and set up a chain of rolling echoes. Jordan bent low over the saddle, urging the gelding on. The big horse responded with a burst of speed, then suddenly began to slow. The dark formation of a bluff loomed directly ahead, blocking his path. Desperately Jordan cut to his right. A stand of scrub oak barred the sorrel’s path; he cleared it in a long jump. Guns blazed through the darkness immediately. Jordan realized the outlaws had spotted him, and were now rushing down slope, trying to head him off. He hammered at the sorrel’s flanks for more speed. The big gelding seemed to sink lower as he lengthened his stride. And then Ben Jordan felt the sudden, solid jolt of a bullet driving into his left arm, just below the shoulder. He sagged forward in the saddle, shocked by the impact. He grabbed for the horn and hung on.

  V

  The sorrel plunged heedlessly through the rock and brush for a good half mile, finally broke out onto a wide, grass-covered flat. By some miracle he had not fallen, although there had been three or four times when the big red horse had stumbled, but always he had recovered and raced on. Near the center point of the plain they intersected a road. It was little more than paralleling trails in the pale moonlight, but Jordan swung the gelding onto it, and they rushed on through the night, the horse running free and easy over the smooth, spongy ground. Ben threw a glance over his shoulder.

  The outlaws were in pursuit. Two followed the route he had taken, the other pair were higher on the slope, keeping pace with him. But he had a good quarter mile lead and the sorrel showed no indication of slowing. Jordan settled down to a race. His arm was beginning to pain him now that the anesthesia of shock was wearing off. He examined the wound as best he could. The outlet had struck just below the bone, had passed entirely through the fleshy part of his arm. It had bled considerably and Jordan further stanched the steady oozing by cramming his handkerchief inside his sleeve and forcing it about the openings in a makeshift pressure bandage. It would serve until he could get the outlaws off his heels but he knew he must have proper medical attention soon.

  He looked ahead. The road appeared to run on indefinitely, faint, twin lines of gray in the deep color of the grass that stretched northward through the half light. But the valley through which he fled seemed to be narrowing, crowding in closer to create a sort of pass. There was no poss
ibility of Crawford and his men overtaking and blocking his flight—thanks to the sorrel—but the darkly shadowed hillsides did offer a solution to a problem that would eventually present itself. He must rid himself of the outlaws soon, for with daylight, the men would bring their rifles into use and his lead was not sufficient to put him beyond a long gun’s reach. If they failed to hit him, they would get the gelding.

  He began to drift the sorrel off the road gradually angling toward the darker shadows to the right. It would be slower going over the rougher ground but the sacrifice of speed would be well worthwhile, if his plan worked. The break in the horse’s stride immediately sent shooting pains stabbing through Jordan’s injured arm, but he clenched his teeth and rode on; if luck were still with him it would soon be over.

  When he was well off the road, he pressed the sorrel to a faster pace, hoping his disappearance from the open had worked its desired effect. He looked back. He could not see the two men who had been behind him on the flats because of the long shadows, but the pair high up on the slope were now swinging down, hurrying to rejoin their companions.

  Jordan grinned tightly. So far it was going as he had expected. He wanted Crawford and the others to believe he had cut off and was seeking a hiding place somewhere on the hillside. While they were thus diverted, searching about for him, unsure whether he had actually turned off or not, he would continue on through the pass. If he could make his way through, relying on darkness to cover his movements, he would gain precious time.

  He reached the foot of the slope that led upward to the narrow gash between the two hills. Here the good fortune he had hoped for was evident; the shoulders of the road were brushy, shot with deep shadows. Keeping within the wild growth, he gained the crest and halted. He looked back. There was no sign of the outlaws. They had taken the bait and were now somewhere in the trees on the rock-strewn hillside miles below, hunting for him.