Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘’Cause I want it that way,’ Jeff replied, directing a cold, challenging glare at the deputy. ‘I know I can count on Uncle Brady, come hell, high water and the river up over the willows.’

  ‘And, in my opinion, that is the main consideration right now,’ Barnstaple declared. ‘Don’t forget that Mr. Trade will be ahead of us and is likely to be the gang’s first target if they decide to fight back.’

  While listening to the passage of words, Brady had been watching Cuthbertson and Minter. Most of the talking was being done by the banker. Noticing the number of overt looks they directed his way, Brady believed that he must be the main topic of conversation. He wondered what kind of instructions the peace officer was receiving. As if suddenly realizing that he was watching, the banker and Minter separated.

  ‘I’m all set to go now,’ the sheriff declared, striding in what he felt was a masterful manner towards his horse. ‘You handle things how you want, Mr. Trade. It’s fine with me.’

  ‘I aimed to do just that all along,’ Jeff assured him, swinging astride the appaloosa and setting it into motion.

  ‘Hey, Uncle Brady!’ Briskow called, as the stocky man boarded his bayo-tigres and was about to follow his nephew.

  ‘Got something on your mind, young feller?’ Brady inquired, sounding so mild that anybody who knew him well would have made ready to hunt for the storm-shelters.

  ‘Seeing’s how you’re going to be so all-fired busy a-guarding and a-watching over your favorite nephew,’ Briskow elaborated, hefting his long-barreled Sharps buffalo rifle to give added force to his statement. ‘Shouldn’t you be holding that Winchester ready to start doing it?’

  ‘You-all ever stop to think why we’re riding the horses,’ Brady inquired,’ ‘stead of it being the other way ’round?’

  ‘Can’t say’s I ever have,’ Briskow admitted in a mocking tone, delighted to observe that most of the crowd and the other members of the posse appeared to be hanging on to his words. ‘You tell me why it be so, Uncle Brady.’

  ‘Don’t know’s we’re kin, young feller,’ Brady protested, looking as meek and jovially harmless as a stone cherub squatting on a rich man’s lawn. ‘But it’s ‘cause—some of us, anyways—are a heap smarter than the horses. Which I’ve got more sense than to tote something heavy in my hand when it can ride easier and less troublesome on my saddle.’

  ‘Yeah?’ sniffed the young deputy, writhing a little uncomfortably when he realized that his ‘appreciative’ audience were now laughing at and not with him. ‘Well, I aims to be ready—’

  ‘So do I,’ Brady pointed out gently. ‘When the time to be ready comes. ... Or do you reckon we’ll find the gang waiting for us just outside town?’

  ‘They might at that,’ called an anonymous voice from the depths of the crowd, ‘kind of law we’ve got in Edwards County.’

  ‘Who said that?’ Briskow snarled, glowering around furiously. ‘Come on. Just step out and say it again.’

  ‘Let’s get going, shall we, Sheriff?’ Barnstaple put in and the words were a command, not a request.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Minter ordered, trying to sound as if he had been on the point of speaking those words.

  Almost without having waited for the sheriff’s permission, the other men mounted and moved off. Brady allowed his bayo-tigres to range itself alongside Jeff’s appaloosa and flashed a grin at his kinsman.

  ‘Looks like most of them agree with me about the rifles, nephew.’

  ‘I’m betting that loud-mouth yack comes to wish he was toting his Sharps in its boot instead of cross his arm, afore we’ve gone too far,’ Jeff replied. ‘Stupid son-of-a-bitch.’

  ‘Could be he’s only young,’ Brady suggested charitably.

  ‘Could be I’m right and he is a stupid son-of-a-bitch,’ Jeff countered. ‘I’m betting we’ll know one way or t’other afore we get back to town.’

  Of the posse, only Briskow was carrying his rifle in his hand. The rest had adopted the more sensible course of leaving their weapons in the saddle boots. Anticipating that Barnstaple probably did not have a suitable firearm available, Mueller had supplied a Winchester with the horse and rig he had selected for use by the distinguished-looking man.

  As Jeff had expected, there was little difficulty in locating where the owlhoots had left the trail beyond the outskirts of the town. They had turned roughly south-west, once safely concealed by the buildings, and headed in a straight line across the range. Following their tracks at that stage of the pursuit was easy enough, they were moving at a gallop.

  Jeff realized that his work was likely to become much harder once the gang had been compelled to slow down. That was when they were most likely to start thinking about taking evasive measures.

  Chapter Five – Not If They Are Waiting For Us

  ‘Can’t we go no faster?’ Minter complained, after the posse had covered about a mile and a half.

  ‘Sure!’ Briskow seconded in a carrying voice. ‘Speed it up, nephew. The sign’s so plain even a half-blind cow-nurse could follow it.’

  ‘We’re making good time as we are, Sheriff,’ Barnstaple pointed out coldly. ‘Don’t forget, they’ve built up a good head start on us.’

  ‘And, way we’re ambling along,’ Briskow complained, ‘it’s sure as hell not going to get no shorter.’

  ‘So help me, Uncle Brady!’ Jeff ejaculated, making as if to draw on the appaloosa’s right rein and cause it to swing around. ‘I’m going back there and...’

  ‘Forget it, nephew,’ Brady advised, knowing that Jeff was quite likely to do whatever was being considered. ‘You lay but one hand on him and that skinny-gutted sheriff’ll throw you in the pokey as soon as we get back to Rocksprings; no matter what way things turn out.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it!’ Jeff declared, cheeks reddened by annoyance.

  ‘Not if you get such a big fine slapped on you that we couldn’t pay off the mortgage on the spread. Which I wouldn’t put it past the banker to have told his tame sheriff to try and fix a way to do something like that. Way they kept looking our way while they was talking private-like, I reckon it could have been us they was talking about.’

  ‘I don’t like being rid and spur-hooked by a one-hoss-town hard-head,’ Jeff grunted, but kept his horse moving forward instead of turning it

  ‘Don’t fret none, nephew,’ Brady consoled. ‘None of the other fellers feel like he does. And, comes powder being burned, they’re the ones who’ll count.’

  Although Jeff did not look behind him, he sensed that his uncle was—as usual—calling the play correctly. None of the thinking members of the posse felt that they should try to go faster. They were already holding their horses to a steady trot. It was an economical pace which the horses could keep up for a long period and yet still retain something in reserve for use if required. Carefully selected by Mueller for their knowledge and ability in equestrian matters, the citizens understood—and accepted—the situation far better than Bristow, or the sheriff for that matter, was doing.

  Another mile fell behind the posse and Jeff could tell that the owlhoots had started to reduce their speed. The terrain was rolling, fairly open range with gentle slopes dipping into or rising from wide valleys and dotted by clumps of bushes or post-oak trees.

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the tracks veered towards a small post-oaks grove on a hillock.

  That mouth-flapping deputy still toting his rifle ready, Uncle Brady?’ the red-head inquired, studying the trees with considerable disfavor.

  ‘Got it across the crook of his arm, like he was Buffalo Bill scouting for the U.S. Cavalry,’ Brady answered, throwing a quick glance to the rear. ‘I’ll try and stop him shooting you in the back of the neck.’

  ‘Obliged, Uncle Brady,’ Jeff drawled, without diverting his gaze from the grove. ‘Only it’s not getting shot in the back of the neck that’s worrying me just now.’

  ‘I’d say you’ve got right good sense there, nephew,’ Brady praised and reached down to slide the
Winchester from its boot. ‘They’ve headed towards the trees for some reason. Could be they aim to stop us chasing them.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Minter called worriedly, watching Brady throw the heavy caliber rifle’s lever through its reloading cycle.

  ‘Do you think that they might be lying in wait for us among the trees, Mr. Anchor?’ Barnstaple inquired, producing and loading his borrowed rifle.

  ‘Could be, or maybe not,’ Brady replied over his shoulder. ‘I’ll wait until they start shooting afore I give you a definite answer.’

  ‘We’ll certain sure say “yes” happen they start shooting,’ Jeff promised and drew his big Centennial.

  ‘Huh!’ Briskow snorted, surveying the grove. ‘They ain’t laying for us. They wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Could be they don’t know we’ve got you along,’ Brady pointed out. ‘Only this’s the time when I figure I need to be ready. It’ll be way too late to start thinking about getting a rifle in hand happen they should be there.’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ asked Barnstaple, directing a glare at Minter which caused him to scowl a warning at his deputy.

  ‘Spread out so that, should it be needed, you can all start shooting without letting blue windows into the wrong people,’ Brady ordered. ‘Then move in slow and easy behind us.’

  ‘Don’t crowd us too close,’ Jeff went on.

  ‘This’ll be a waste of time if they’re not waiting,’ Minter protested, having examined the fringes of the grove without detecting any hint of danger.

  ‘Not if they are waiting, though,’ Brady replied, never shifting his eyes from the front.

  Once again the posse acted in accordance with Brady’s and Jeff’s wishes. They did not delay awaiting the sheriff’s instructions. The citizens had small regard for his ability as a peace officer. In fact, if they could have obtained somebody else for the same price, they would have replaced him. Fanning out, as Brady had told them to do, they formed an extended line. Extracting their rifles and making ready, they advanced at a slower pace towards the post-oaks.

  Ahead of the others, Brady and Jeff—each carrying his Winchester Centennial so that it could be raised and fired with the minimum of effort—devoted their full attention to scrutinizing the trees. They rode with a kind of relaxed wariness. Everything about them suggested that they knew full well the dangers that might be waiting, but were supremely confident that they could handle anything that came up.

  ‘I’d say those two gents’ve done this sort of thing afore,’ Mueller commented quietly to Barnstaple, studying the way in which Brady and Jeff were riding. ‘Yes sir! It’s not the first, nor yet just the second time they’ve hunted owlhoots.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Mueller,’ admitted the distinguished-looking man, cradling the borrowed Winchester across the crook of his left arm with an air of being extremely competent in its use. ‘They are, or certainly have been, peace officers.’

  ‘Rangers is how I’d bet on it,’ Mueller said, making a shrewd guess. ‘The little feller don’t look like much, but I’m betting he’d be a man to stand aside from happen he gets riled.’

  ‘I’ll go along with you on that,’ Barnstaple confessed. ‘And it’s my opinion that the gang never made a worse mistake than when they robbed him.’

  ‘Yep,’ Mueller grunted. ‘Him ’n’ his nephew’ll trail ’em ’til hell freezes over and the Devil gets frost-bite.’

  Without realizing that they were the topic of another conversation and the subject of flattering conclusions, Brady and Jeff came to the edge of the grove. Nothing stirred amongst the trees, which did not fill them with thoughts of remorse at having displayed caution. They were still fully alert, but no longer expected to be ambushed. Taking the lead once more and booting his Winchester, Jeff halted the appaloosa.

  ‘One of ’em got down behind the tree here, Uncle Brady. Was watching their back trail, I’d say.’

  ‘Could be, the rest’ve fresh hosses further in,’ Brady answered. ‘If they have, that loud-mouthed yack of a deputy’ll sure be pleased.’

  ‘What he thinks won’t make me lose sleep,’ Jeff declared. ‘And I don’t reckon it was to change hosses. He got on the same ’n’ rode after them.’

  Allowing his mount to move on, Jeff continued to study the tracks. He had not gone far when he stopped the appaloosa and pointed to the ground.

  ‘Rest of ’em got down here.’

  ‘Change horses?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Could be they were just hiding here and letting them blow for a spell.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jeff conceded. ‘Only they didn’t stop for long. Could’ve been checking their girths, two of ’em, way they stood by their hosses.’

  ‘What’s up?’ called Briskow, who had stopped with the rest of the posse and was shifting restlessly on his saddle. ‘Don’t tell me your nephew’s lost the trail, Uncle Brady?’

  Although Jeff’s face reddened a trifle, he held his temper in check. There would be time to hand the deputy his needings after the hunt for the owlhoots was concluded. Without bothering to reply, the red-head started the appaloosa moving.

  Passing through the grove, Jeff led the way down the hillock and across the range. Once more the owlhoots were heading in a straight line towards the south-west, but at a more leisurely pace.

  ‘Did they go into the grove to change their horses, Mr. Anchor?’ Barnstaple inquired, riding to Brady’s side soon after they had left the trees. ‘Or just to rest the ones they were using?’

  ‘Jeff allows they didn’t change horses,’ Brady replied. ‘And they wouldn’t have been in there long enough to do much resting.’

  ‘Then why did... ?’ Barnstaple began, stopping before he completed a question that could hardly be answered with the available information.

  ‘Sure,’ Brady drawled. ‘Why’d they go in there? Unless they went to swop, or rest their horses, all they’ve done is cut down their lead over us. That’s not like the smart way they pulled the hold-up.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Barnstaple agreed. ‘How are they travelling now, Mr. Trade?’

  ‘At a walk,’ Jeff replied. ‘We’re making better time than them now.’

  ‘So it wasn’t to rest their horses,’ Barnstaple said quietly. ‘And they left before they saw us coming, so we didn’t make them cut their rest short.’

  ‘Nope,’ Brady answered. ‘They’d be up and running, ‘stead of ambling along, if they’d seen us coming. That deputy’s enough to scare a dead Pawnee gray-haired.’

  ‘He’s a stupid son-of-a-bitch,’ Barnstaple sniffed contemptuously.

  ‘Funny, young Jeff thought he was the only one who’d figured that out,’ Brady grinned.

  With Jeff continuing to watch the tracks, the posse kept up the pursuit. Barnstaple withdrew to ride at Mueller’s side and pass on the information which he had received from Brady. They increased their speed, holding the horses to a faster trot. It was a hard pace, demanding skill on the riders’ parts and that the horses be in good physical condition.

  After two miles, the sheriff and his second deputy—Milton Haggerty—had started to fall behind. Better mounted than his colleagues, Briskow rode alongside Barnstaple and Mueller in the lead of the main body.

  Five more miles went by. Still there had been no sight of the owlhoots. Sheriff Minter was no longer complaining about delays. Instead, he called a suggestion that they should halt and rest their horses.

  ‘What do you think, Mr. Anchor?’ Barnstaple inquired, when the rest of the posse looked to him for guidance.

  ‘I’m for keeping going a ways,’ Brady decided. ‘How about you, nephew?’

  ‘That’s what I aim to do,’ Jeff replied. ‘I’d say we should be close. Too damned close for folks to be shouting back ’n’ forth.’

  With that, the red-head returned his eyes to the ground and kept the appaloosa on the move. The rest of the posse followed, with Sheriff Minter grumbling sotto voce complaints to Haggerty—who was giving
sycophantic agreement—and dropping further behind.

  Ascending a slope, still concentrating on the tracks, Jeff sensed rather than saw that his uncle had eased slightly in front. He heard Brady’s low whistle and reined the appaloosa to a halt. Raising his gaze, he found that Brady had also stopped. They were almost at the top of the rise and Jeff guessed what must be on the other side.

  Doing his duty as guard against ambushes, Brady had risen on his stirrup irons to study the terrain ahead before allowing himself or his nephew to become sky-lined. The sight which had met his eyes caused him to sink his rump on to the saddle and deliver a soft, yet urgent, warning that he knew his nephew would understand.

  Although the majority of the posse came to a stop, obeying the instructions given by Jeff before leaving Rocksprings, Barnstaple and Mueller moved closer. So did Briskow, staying slightly to their rear but determined not to miss anything.

  Sonny Briskow was ambitious and he had his eyes on the better-paid, more lucrative position held by Minter. It was the deputy’s intention to gain so much glory from hunting down the owlhoots that it would ensure his request for promotion to sheriff received favorable consideration.

  ‘What is it, Mr. Anchor?’ Barnstaple inquired, holding his voice to barely more than a whisper.

  ‘They’re down the other side,’ Brady hissed back. ‘Not more than a quarter of a mile away.’

  ‘How do we... ?’ Barnstaple commenced.

  Before the sentence could be completed, or an answer attempted, Briskow was asserting himself. With his face showing grim satisfaction, he urged his horse onwards.

  ‘What the hell?’ Jeff began furiously, as the deputy rode by him.

  ‘Hold it, blast y …!’ Brady barked, guessing what Briskow planned to do.

  Neither comment served to halt the young peace officer, nor to sway him from his purpose. Instead, on reaching the top of the slope, he sprang from his saddle. Allowing the reins to fall free, so that they brought the animal to a stop and ground-hitched it, he started to kneel and swing the Sharps’ butt to his right shoulder.

  There was a startled yell from beyond the rim. Oblivious of Brady’s and Jeff’s blistering exclamations, Briskow rested his left elbow on the raised left knee and took aim.