Saddle Tramps

by Owen G. Irons

  I had to stop. Not for the sake of my battered body, but because it was senseless to charge on farther into these broken hills without an idea of where I was going. I halted, my breathing ragged, looking and listening for any small sign of life: a bit of color, a low voice, the whicker of a horse.

  Or – angry shouts, women screaming, gunshots blaring out, echoing down the long canyons.

  EIGHT

  The day continued silent, cold, the twist of canyons below me empty and forbidding. The wind sang among the tangled rocks, mocking me. I could not go aimlessly on, but neither could I stand and wait as time ran past. Who knew what notion the bandits might take now that they were alone with Eva and Marly, hidden from the world? Bull Mosely would protect Eva, saving her for himself, but who was there to protect Marly? I started on again, staggering down the rough hillside, small stones rolling beneath my boots. Twice I fell, crashing to the stony ground. Twice I rose. A few more bruises and scrapes were of no importance anymore. I only hoped I wouldn’t be careless enough to misstep and twist an ankle, break a leg.

  I reached the floor of a narrow canyon with high-rising red bluffs shadowing it, blocking out sun and sky. I held my broken ribs, they would not be ignored, tried to force the chill air into my lungs. I was a fool even to attempt this trek. I was lost myself now, and hadn’t the strength to climb out of the canyon and reach the stage station again even had I wished. I rubbed an elbow I had torn open in one of my falls and looked skyward. Two hours had passed, at a guess, since the stage had been taken. A lot could happen in two hours. I looked down for easier footing.

  And saw them. Twin ruts carved into the red sand of the canyon floor where a wheeled vehicle had passed.

  It had to be the stagecoach. What other wagon could possibly have come this way? There were no ranches, no farms, no towns around here, and if there were, certainly they would have an easier trail to use than this uneven, sand-and-rock wash. My heart rate lifted and I felt a surge of eagerness. Still I hesitated.

  The questions remained. Was I just to walk up to them – assuming they had not already abandoned the coach and ridden off on their separate ways? Four Winchesters against my badly-slung Colt. They would shoot me down before I had even gotten in pistol range.

  My purpose, however, also remained the same. I had to find Marly and get her away from this murdering crew. I started on blindly, without a plan, with only desperate hope.

  I came around a bend in the ravine and was suddenly in sight of the stagecoach. There was no one on or near it, and my heart sank. The robbers had taken care of their business already and departed. My silent curse was vicious and bitter.

  I started on. The horses were still hitched to the coach. The piebald saw me approaching and stamped a hoof, rolling its eye at me nastily as if I were another human come to make his life still more miserable. I peered cautiously into the coach compartment. No one. Nothing. I had begun to step forward when I heard a voice ahead of me. I froze in my tracks and crouched low, snaking my Colt from my holster.

  They were arguing. Crouched around the broken-open gold chest like vultures. I heard Andy clearly saying, ‘That’s the split, if you don’t like it….’ Then his words faded away in the wind. Remaining in a crouch, I narrowed my eyes and searched for and found – the women.

  Marly and Eva sat together on a rocky bench overlooking the wash. Eva had her head resting on Marly’s shoulder. She must have been feeling overwhelmed, lost again after a few brief hours of hope. Mosely had bartered for her and she had been stolen away. Her future must have seemed too bleak to imagine. Marly’s head came up and I imagined that she could see me across the distance between us, even though common sense told me that she could not.

  Now was the time. It was the only chance I was likely to get. The four men huddled around the gold. Bickering over the amount of their shares, it seemed. I could have told them that it was of no use. I could have cautioned them against arguing with Andy Givens about anything. Right now my mind was busy with other matters, trying to devise a plan. I knew roughly what I intended to do, but there was no way of predicting the outcome. Is there ever, in any enterprise?

  Easing my way forward, my eyes on the bandits whose attention was diverted now, I stretched up one hand and exerting all of the pressure I could, managed to slip the stagecoach’s brake. Still no one had glanced my way. They were intent on dividing their fortune. I stepped away a little, keeping the coach between the outlaws and myself. Crouching, I scoured the ground for a few rough, fist-sized rocks.

  With a silent apology to the dumb animal I took aim and flung one of these at the flank of the piebald horse. He tossed his head angrily and whickered in annoyance. My second stone took him nearly on the same spot, and he bolted ahead, the team following him out of necessity.

  I heard one of the bandits yell, saw eyes widen and men come to their feet and try to dive aside. It was already too late. The stampeded horses had no room to turn aside in the close confines of the canyon, and towing the stagecoach behind them, they raced through the bandits, the terrifying thunder of their hoofs loud and ominous.

  I saw one man go down beneath the hoofs of the horses, another trip as he tried to make his escape and be similarly trampled. As he tried to rise again, the heavy wheels of the stagecoach rolled over him and he stayed down for good.

  I withdrew behind a stony outcropping the size of a door and pressed myself against the walls of the cliff, my Colt clenched tightly in my left hand, hammer eared back. I could see nothing through the dust cloud, but I did see Marly and Eva, high enough up the rocks to be out of harm’s way, stand and stare in awe. Eva had her hands to her mouth; Marly was trying to look down the canyon, perhaps to try to determine if more help might be arriving or if the runaway stage had simply been an accident. I eased out a little from my rocky shelter, trying to get a better look. And found I had shown myself.

  One of the bandits shouted, lifted a pointing finger in my direction and raised his Winchester to his shoulder. A .44-40 slug spanged off the rock face, showering me with stone fragments. I took a shot back with my pistol, but must have missed entirely. My left-handed work was just no good. Andy had been right – I couldn’t hit a kitchen wall if I were locked inside the room.

  I fired again, but the bandit didn’t even flinch as I shot.

  He just folded up, dead, his face grinding into the red-sand floor of the canyon. I had gotten him with a chance shot! Or so I thought. Then I saw Andy Givens standing a few yards behind the bandit, his Colt curling smoke.

  Andy had shot his own man down!

  I knew he hadn’t done it to save my hide. Although Andy could not see me, he must have felt certain who it was that was crazy enough to trail them out there on foot. He knew it was me, no doubt, but Andy hadn’t been trying to save my life; I was sure of that. He had simply taken the chance to divide the gold in a way more to his liking.

  ‘Keogh!’ he yelled, and I was dumb enough to peer around the shoulder of the rock. Andy Givens fired three rounds through the barrel of his pistol, and any one of them could have killed me if I had been inches farther out of my shelter. ‘Just remember that, Keogh. Back off.’

  He had known that his bullets couldn’t tag me in my hiding place. He had done it to keep me back, but more, Andy Givens had been showing off! In the middle of the carnage, panicked horses, dying men beside him, Andy Givens had taken the time to show off for me, perhaps for the women, once again.

  I knew what I was facing with Andy. He was a dead shot. I wouldn’t doubt that he could shoot my ears off had I shown myself. I didn’t know who else – how many – I was facing. I didn’t know what would be done now with the women. I had to take another look, no matter that the lead was flying. The day grew cooler; the sun nearly completely blocked by the thrusting walls of the canyon, but I was sweating. Perspiration ran down my spine and trickled into my eyes. Yet I had to have another look to see what was happening.

  I went to my belly where I figured to be less of a targe
t and inched my way forward a few inches. The dust was settling and I could see more clearly now. One man had been trampled to death. He lay unmoving against the canyon floor, his body broken. The rifleman Andy had shot lay nearby, his Winchester still in his hand. That left Andy and Mosely unaccounted for.

  One of them had caught up the stagecoach team as the horses, stymied in their effort to escape from the wedge of the canyon, had given it up. Now Andy – or Mosely – backed the team until they and the stage provided cover for where they had been dividing the gold. I could see neither man.

  Nor could I see Marly and Eva any longer!

  In frustration I shouted at Andy, my voice unnaturally high. ‘Andy, let the women go! There’s a dozen men not far behind me. You’ll never outrun them taking the women along.’

  No one answered. Probably because no one believed me. I could almost picture Andy Givens smiling to himself, shaking his head at my foolishness.

  I stood watching, waiting. For a moment there was a flurry of activity and then what I thought was the creak of saddle leather. Then silence. I waited in my hiding place until I could take it no longer, then slowly I crept out, my hand cramped around my pistol grips, my legs knotted with the day’s walking, my ribs continuing to burn. I eased my way forward, keeping as near the cliff face as possible. Inch by inch I made my way, ready to exchange lead at any moment. I needn’t have been so cautious in my movements.

  They were gone.

  Andy, Mosely and the women had vanished up the canyon, leaving me behind with the two dead men. I stooped and snatched up the fallen man’s Winchester, feeling more comfortable with that than with my left-handed gun. Then I started away, after them. After only a few steps I halted and turned back toward the stagecoach. I dropped the trace chains to the team and freed them to make their way home in harness, leaving the coach behind.

  But not before I had unsheathed my bowie and cut the piebald from his harness. The tall horse continued to give me the evil eye as if he suspected that I was responsible for the stones hitting his rump. Still, he was fairly patient with me, perhaps because the only men he knew who unharnessed him were those who meant to take him to the stable, rub him down and feed him.

  When he discovered my true intentions, I did not know what the result might be. Returning to the stage, I cut a ten-foot length of leather from the reins and began fashioning the crudest sort of hackamore. I meant to ride that horse. I doubted he had ever been broken to saddle, but I had broken more than a few broncs in my time. None of them had been delighted with the prospect. This big dray horse would be completely different, but I doubted he was any tougher than those little mustangs that Andy and I used to bust for ten dollars a head. I settled a loop over the piebald’s head. That was easy. He was used to standing in place to be harnessed as well. The problem would come when I tried to clamber on to his back and stay there without a saddle.

  I turned the team, swatted the lead bay on his rump and set them running. The piebald naturally wanted to run with them, but I held him back. Again that was easier than I had expected it to be, and it was a good thing. The shape my hands were in, I could never have held him if he put all of his effort and muscle into running.

  I began talking to the horse. ‘You aren’t going to like this, but we are going to do it. We don’t have much time to teach you the rules, but we have no choice. I can’t run them down afoot again.’

  I slipped the hackamore over his muzzle, and he stood for that as well. Maybe, I thought with shallow optimism, the horse had even been ridden before. Maybe some stable kid used to take him for rides. Maybe.

  I stroked the big horse’s muzzle, ran my hand along his quivering flank and mounted him quick – Indian-style. I was on his back before he knew it.

  I was off again before I knew it.

  Bunching his muscles, he had arched his back and tossed me neatly. I landed on my shoulder and skull. I rose again wearily. At the second attempt he let me stay mounted. Maybe I had just surprised him the first time with my sudden mount. No matter the reason, I was grateful for his change in attitude. Now what? I was going to try to catch up with four well-trained saddle ponies on this lumbering coach-horse who had no idea what it was that I wanted him to do. My only positive thought was that those ponies, burdened down as they were with the stolen gold, would need to be rested somewhere, sometime before the sun set. If I could get the piebald moving in the right direction there was a chance.

  The piebald would mind the hackamore, I thought, being used to reins. If only I could once get him started. I heeled him a couple of times, but he didn’t get the idea. His lifelong signal to move was a snap of a bullwhip. I tried a crude substitute. Yelling ‘Haw-yup’ as I had heard Allie shout to start his team, I flicked the piebald’s ear with the finish end of the reins.

  And we started forward up the canyon, the piebald seeming confused, but determined.

  It was anything but an easy horse to ride, but I was riding the big rebel. I was hoping that over the miles his intelligence would cause him to come to understand what was required of him. Only time would tell. In the meantime, I clung to the piebald, following the tracks the other horses had imprinted in the sandy earth.

  I glanced skyward. I needed to find the route Andy and Mosely had taken out of the canyon before full dark, or all would be lost. Even then, I thought unhappily, my chances of following were not good. They had a lead on me, good ponies under them, and a destination in mind.

  The sky was purple with twilight before I found the foot of the trail leading up and out of the canyon. It was a surprisingly easy trail to follow, formed apparently by rains washing down loose soil from the heights. Cresting out of the canyon I halted the piebald, after a few false tries, and sat staring across the wild land where Marly had vanished. The western horizon was deep purple, burnt orange with a few high scarlet pennants where clouds lingered. It would grow rapidly dark now, and much colder before long.

  I looked for any signs of habitation, for any road scratched into the long country. I saw nothing at all promising. I simply took my bearings by studying the direction the tracks were tending and orienting myself by the evening star which had appeared low on the horizon with the sunset.

  I assumed that Andy would now beeline it toward his destination. There was no need for deviousness, for laying false trails or changing direction.

  What did he have to fear? One battered cowboy without a prayer of catching up with them? I heeled the piebald, and this time he understood, moving forward at his heavy pace down the grassy knolls ahead of us, into the steadily darkening night.

  The hours staggered past. I was used to sitting a horse – that was how I made my living – but riding this broad-backed dray animal without a saddle as it plodded on at its ungainly pace was beyond wearying. It was not all the piebald’s fault, of course. My legs, using a different set of muscles, ached from my long trek after the bandits. My right hand was useless for controlling the makeshift reins of the hackamore, my left little better. My head ached, my ribs were hot with pain. I’m not sure, had I fallen from the piebald’s back at that moment, that I would have had the strength to remount.

  And so I clung to the big animal and continued blindly through the night.

  It must have been close to ten o’clock when I saw – thought I saw – distant lights. They were so distant and feeble that it was difficult to be sure. No brighter than fireflies, they blinked across the wide range. The palest star in the sky was no brighter. Still, I eased the piebald’s head in that direction and we plodded on.

  Within half an hour I was sure. They were man-made lights. Some sort of tiny hamlet or settlement, a ranch house, perhaps. Would Andy have ridden toward it? He needed fresh horses; the amount of gold he was carrying would have worn his mounts down, even his big appaloosa. They likely would have had no food with them, either. I had no way of knowing – perhaps Andy had decided to steer clear of any community as he struck out toward the south, wary of local law. I had no choice but to go
with my instincts or ride aimlessly over the dark plains. We continued toward the lights which grew larger and brighter by the mile.

  To my surprise we suddenly cut a traveled road. There were wagon ruts here and the sign of many horses passing. Would the outlaw Andy Givens instinctively avoid the road, or being as bold as he was, follow it carelessly? I knew Andy as well as any man, but nevertheless, not well enough to outguess him – that had already been proven. I thought that with weary ponies and two exhausted women accompanying him, he would have opted for the level road rather than risking breaking a horse’s leg in the rough country surrounding. I turned the piebald on to the road that led to the distant town.

  Steadily the horse clomped on. I felt like some Quixote on an aimless, frustrated search. What did I really think I could do against Andy and Mosely? I shook off the doubts once again. They were of no help to Marly and her sister.

  I came abreast of the camp suddenly, without recognizing it for what it was. Fifty feet, no more, off the road I saw the dark unmistakable silhouettes of two horses, a campfire that would have fit inside a bowler hat, a thin tendril of smoke twisting its way skyward. I let my horse walk on past it, and halted a hundred yards up the road. There could be dozens of reasons someone would camp there. But anyone approaching the town would surely have ridden that last mile. Anyone with a reason to be traveling away from it would surely have put more miles under his pony’s hoofs before halting for night camp.

  Unless a man was trying to remain unseen. Hiding out.

  In the darkness I slipped from the big black-and-white horse’s back, my borrowed Winchester in my hand, and began circling back toward the hidden camp. There were stands of sumac here, and purple sage, and it was easy enough to conceal myself by moving in a crouch. It was not so easy to move stealthily, letting no sound escape as my boots shuffled over the broken quartz soil underfoot. I crept forward, rifle in hand, hoping that the piebald would not, having smelled the other horses, whicker to them. I put my foot down on a barrel cactus and winced as a needle-sharp spine drove through my boot. I paused, stilled my breath and eased my way forward, toward the tiny camp, using the scent of woodsmoke as my compass.