Gun (A Spur Western Book 8)

by Matt Chisholm

  The man was shaking badly. His eyes were wild.

  ‘I leave go this stick and I start bleedin’ again.’

  ‘You’re bringing tears to my eyes,’ Spur said. ‘Do like I say.’

  The man obeyed. The tourniquet loosened and the blood started to darken the leg of his pants again. Spur put his gun away and stepped toward the man. When he was close, Makin tried to swing at him with his clenched fist, but the pain of his leg caught him and the blow never fell.

  ‘Try that again,’ Spur said an’ I’ll bend the barrel of my gun over your fool head.’

  The man stood. Spur slipped the noose over the wrists and quickly lashed them together. He shoved the man.

  ‘Go sit down over yonder,’ he said and turned toward the Kid. He dropped to his knees with the boy between himself and the prisoner, so he could quickly lift his eyes and see him.

  He looked at the boy’s face. His eyes were closed and he was very pale. He searched for any sign of a bullet entry and couldn’t find one. The men must have fired at him from the front. If he was hit, there must be a bullet hole in view. He rolled him over and found nothing.

  Spur rolled the Kid onto his back again, puzzled. An idea hit him and he started to gently feel through the Kid’s longish black hair. His fingers became sticky with blood.

  ‘Creased is all,’ Makin said with some disgust. ‘I’m bleedin’ to death.’

  ‘No, you ain’t, Rule,’ Spur said. ‘You ain’t goin’ to die. Yet.’

  The Kid’s pulse was faint, but it was there. Spur lifted him and carried him into the shade of the willows. He reckoned the little varmint would live. He had a gully cut in his skull two-three inches long and he had lost a little blood. Maybe it would knock some sense into him. Though that seemed too much to hope for. He took the blanket down from Jenny’s saddle and laid it over the boy, then he went back to Makin.

  ‘I’m goin’ to fix you up, Rule,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect no thanks for it, but if you try anythin’, you so much as look at me wrong and I’m goin’ to knock your teeth down your throat. You hear?’

  ‘I hear,’ the man said, ‘just so’s you fix my leg.’

  Spur drew his knife from the rear of his belt and slit the thigh of the left leg of the pants and revealed an ugly hole. The soft lead had ripped the flesh open to the bone.

  Squatting, Spur looked at Makin.

  ‘I got you, Rule,’ he said. ‘You can live or die.’

  The man looked startled.

  ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Even you couldn’t do that, Spur.’

  Spur watched him, silent for a moment.

  ‘It’s the girl,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe if it had of been some-thin’ else like just robbin’ a bank or killin’ a man, I’d be actin’ different. But you see how it is, Rule. A man can only be what he has in him to be. That’s a good philosophy. I don’t feel nothin’ for you, you see, Rule. You’re just a source of information. You got what I want and I have your life. Right here in my hand. You can live or die.’

  ‘Girl,’ the man said. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about no girl.’

  ‘Don’t make up your mind so quick, Rule,’ Spur said gently. ‘Just lie there an’ bleed some more. Every piece more you bleed, it’s goin’ to be harder to save you. You see that don’t you? The lead’s in there poisonin’ you. It’s goin’ through your whole body, reachin’ up for your heart. When it reaches there, you’re plumb dead, Rule. If you ain’t, why there’s always gangrene. You’re goin’ to lose that leg for sure. Where’ll that leave you, huh? Just a one-legged bum, bummin’ drinks. Ever heard of a one-legged ridge-rider, Rule?’

  ‘You bastard,’ Makin said through his teeth. Then he changed his tone. ‘You can’t do it, Spur. You ain’t that much Indian.’

  Spur rose and walked to the Kid.

  The boy groaned. A moment later, he opened his eyes. For a minute or so sight conveyed nothing to him and then he saw Spur.

  Makin said: ‘Spur.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Burt Simons sat his horse, watching the Indian in the moonlight working over the sign with a ready-made broom of brush. The man worked intently, moving backward.

  When the shooting from the rocks started, they were maybe a quarter-mile from the spot. The Indian at once jerked upright.

  Simons said: ‘Go ahead, hurry it up.’

  The Indian continued with his work, but his full attention was no longer on it. Simons could feel the tension in him. He was preparing to be spooked. Simons knew they couldn’t afford to lose the man until he had gotten them safely back to town. After that he would be of no value to them.

  Silence rested on the night. Simons listened for the sounds of Bell’s horse getting on the move, but he heard nothing.

  Then suddenly there was a shot and his experienced ears knew that it had come from a belt-gun. Had Bell swopped weapons or had the attacked man fired? There was a pause of silence and then there came another shot.

  Now the Indian was spooked. He straightened up and started toward his pony.

  ‘Stay put,’ Simons said, ‘or I’ll drop you.’

  The Indian stopped.

  Simons concentrated on listening. A long time seemed to pass and then he heard hoofs going east along the malpais. He gave a sigh of relief. That would mean that Martie Bell was circling east. They would meet up further along the trail.

  Simons said: ‘All right, Billy. Mount up and we’ll ride.’

  With relief, the Indian sprang to his pony and stepped into the saddle. They wheeled their animals and rode slowly south. After about fifteen minutes, Simons heard a horse moving toward them from the east. There was a lot of low brush around and it was hard to spot a horseman in the moonlight until he was pretty close to you. Simons and the Indian halted.

  A short while after, Simons saw a dim figure moving toward them in the moonlight.

  ‘Martie?’ he called.

  The rider stopped.

  An alarm sounded in Simons’ head. Hastily, he reached down and wrenched his rifle from the boot under his right leg. When his attention was once more wholly on the rider, he realized that the man was no longer in the saddle.

  ‘Get down, Billy,’ he said.

  The Indian didn’t move. His nervousness was communicated to his horse and the animal danced this way and that.

  ‘Goddam you,’ Simons said, ‘get down.’ He swung himself out of the saddle.

  The Indian’s response was to whirl his horse and to kick it in the ribs. He cried out shrilly to it and the animal jumped forward. Simons was confused and enraged. His instinct was to blow the damn fool out of the saddle. But, when the shot came, it didn’t come from his rifle. It came from that of the man out there in the brush. It passed a foot to Simons’ right and he flung himself down. His horse skittered off to the right, trod on its trailing line and stopped.

  What a mess, Simons thought. There was Bell back there on the malpais most likely shot. There was Maddox ahead there trying to get back to town undetected. The plan had been a risky one and now it looked like it was impossible. Maybe if he killed this man, they could start from taw. But the Indian had gotten away and his mouth would be loose. Simons could hear the rapid beat of the pony’s hoofs dying away in the night. One good thing, Maddox would hear the shooting and come back. They’d get that bastard yonder in a crossfire and settle his hash. But it would make the whole thing untidy. He started worming his way north.

  He came on the mule.

  The fact that the animal was a mule and not a horse upset him a little. He didn’t know why. He lay behind some brush and gazed at the animal. Its owner was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d gone crawling over to the spot from which Simons had just come. Christ, he thought, they could creep around till daylight and never find each other.

  He debated what he should do next.

  He was still debating when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘You’re covered.’ The voice was steady, deep. He didn’t know it. At least it wasn’
t Spur or that damned Negra.

  His mind ticked. He didn’t panic. He was superb with guns, his reaction was fast and he was justly proud of it. Once in El Paso he had drawn on a man whose gun was pointed directly at him and cocked. He had hit the man between the eyes with his first shot.

  The man behind him said: ‘Leave your rifle on the ground. Stand up. Touch your belt-gun and I’ll blow you in half.’

  He weighed the possibility of rolling over and using the rifle against rising and drawing his revolver. He decided he was faster and, at this distance, more accurate with the latter.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ he said.

  He left the rifle lying on the ground and rose slowly to his feet. He didn’t turn.

  ‘Turn,’ the man said.

  Simons started to turn.

  His right hand whisked back the skirt of his coat and he lifted his gun from leather with his own fourth and fifth finger movement. His eyes picked up the dim form of his adversary not twenty paces away from him, standing with the rifle held low. His belt-gun was cocked and his finger was pressing the trigger when something hit him hard in the belly.

  His surprise and shock was complete. It just didn’t seem possible. The heavy slug drove him back into the brush and as he went he heard the rifle being levered. As the brush crashed under him, the rifle cracked viciously again and it seemed that his whole skull was split in twain. After that, there was nothing. He was dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holy Madder was a burned-up, whang leather, evil-smelling little man who seemed to have a carcass made of the toughest rawhide and in place of a heart a solid rock. His tastes were simple and crude, he thought and sometimes acted like a bronco horse and he killed with the unsullied conscience of a man who accepted murder as a legitimate mode of living. In all the years that they had ridden together, Maddox had never seen the man exhibit fear.

  He didn’t show fear now, but his uneasiness was apparent.

  The shooting to the east had stopped and the three of them sat their horses, waiting.

  For the first time, Maddox was considering the possibility of his reckless scheme blowing up in his face. He didn’t like it. Maddox liked to come out on top.

  Madder said: ‘I don’t like it, Maddox.’

  There was a new note in the man’s voice that Maddox didn’t miss. In the past, Madder had been unquestioning. Now, involuntarily, Madder doubted Maddox’s ability to handle this.

  Maddox said: ‘There’s two good men back there, Holy. They can look out for themselves.’

  ‘Two lots of shootin’,’ Madder said. ‘It could only mean one thing. They come from different locations. Martie didn’t stop that feller back yonder. Now he’s come up with Burt and the Indian. There’s shootin’ an’ the Indian could high tail it. Things ain’t too good with that Indian loose. You know that.’

  Wayne Gaylor spoke. He was spooked and the tone of his voice showed it plainly to the other two.

  ‘Give up the idea of goin’ back to town, George,’ he said. He almost pled. ‘We have the gold. Head for the Border. We can make it before noon. Nobody can touch us south of the Border.’

  Maddox said: ‘No, we’ll play it my way, Wayne. You know being in Mexico won’t get that bastard Spur off our butts. Not unless we have the girl.’

  Gaylor leaned forward on his saddlehorn.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he said. ‘The girl’s the reason why Spur will keep after us.’

  ‘That’s not good thinking,’ Maddox said coolly. ‘We’ve touched the girl. Even if Spur gets her back, that won’t stop him. He has to keep after us.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Madder said with an unusual show of impatience. ‘Right now what matters is there’s two of our boys back there needs help. Leave us go back.’

  ‘No, Holy,’ Maddox said patiently, ‘we don’t do that. Both of ’em can look out for themselves. We’ll go ahead.’

  He had to have the girl. Not for the reasons he gave the others, but for reasons of his own. He faced up to it now. He wanted the gold, but gold could always be had. He had to have that girl. He’d go back to town, but he’d change his plan. He wouldn’t hide out on the edge of town. He’d take the girl and head for the Border, fast. They’d get fresh horses and they wouldn’t stop till they were in safety. It was possible that Billy’s hiding of the tracks was all undone now. Only speed could save them.

  ‘Jest wait a while,’ Madder said. ‘I ain’t never left a partner in the lurch in my life.’

  ‘All right,’ Maddox said. He didn’t want to alienate Madder. He needed him.

  They waited. Gaylor fidgeted. Only Maddox’s strength held him there. The smell of the jail was still on him, it was on his flesh, in his nostrils. And he wouldn’t be rid of it till he had put great distance between himself and the place where he had been caged like a wild animal. He wanted a bath and a shave, a good meal, the company of a pretty woman. He’d lived soft and high as sheriff and he missed it.

  Maddox was about to give the word to move on when they heard the sound of a walking horse. They listened, trying to locate it exactly. Madder, half-mustang that he was, picked it up almost at once. He pointed silently and signed for them to hold their horses’ noses. They slipped from the saddle and gripped the animals’ noses. Off in the night, they heard the approaching animal snort. Maybe it had gotten wind of their own beasts.

  Madder whispered to Maddox: ‘Maybe it ain’t one of ourn. Hold my horse. I’ll go see.’

  Maddox took the other animal and slipped his left hand over the nose of Madder’s horse. The little man walked away into the night.

  He covered about fifty paces when he stopped and dropped to one knee under cover of some brush. A mule brayed.

  He thought: It’s Cusie Ben on his mule.

  The animal walked clear into the moonlight, showing the rider tall in the saddle. This wasn’t Cusie Ben. This was a whiteman. Madder worked his way forward, crouching down so he could intercept the man. He allowed mule and rider to pass him a little, then he stood up and said: ‘Hold it right there.’

  The rider reined in and stayed still, looking to neither right nor left. Madder walked forward, coming around the front of the man and staring up at him.

  ‘Who’re you?’ he asked.

  ‘Go to Hell.’

  ‘I’m holdin’ the gun,’ Madder reminded him.

  ‘I’m holdin’ my tongue,’ the man said.

  ‘Cute,’ said Madder. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You most likely.’

  Madder whistled briefly. A moment later, Maddox and Gaylor rode up with Maddox leading Madder’s horse.

  ‘Well, well,’ Maddox said, ‘it’s Charlie Doolittle. What do you want around here, Charlie?’

  Doolittle peered at the man in front of him.

  ‘George Maddox, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I might of known. You know why I’m here, George. I’m part of the posse scouring the country for the girl you took. You must be outa your head, pullin’ a trick like this. Where do you hope to get?’

  ‘It’s not just the girl,’ Maddox said. ‘It’s the gold, too. And you’re with no posse. You’re on your lonesome.’

  ‘Believe what you like. I know I’m with a posse.’

  Madder hawked and spat.

  ‘I’ll knock him off an’ we’ll get on. I ain’t in the mood for conversation.’

  ‘If he’s telling the truth and there is a posse around,’ Maddox said, ‘we could bring ’em down on us with a shot,’

  ‘Cut his throat,’ Madder said.

  ‘No. Till we get where we’re going we could do with a hostage. We’ll take him along.’

  Doolittle looked at Gaylor.

  ‘You been takin’ orders from Maddox all along, Wayne?’ he asked.

  ‘We work together,’ Gaylor said stuffily.

  Maddox chuckled.

  ‘Take his guns, Holy. Tie his hands to the saddlehorn,’ he ordered.

  Madder relieved Doolittle of his weapons and found a peg-
gin-string for his hands.

  Maddox said: ‘You yell out at all, Charlie and you’re dead. You know that?’

  Doolittle said resignedly: ‘I’m dead any road, I reckon, George.’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it,’ Maddox agreed. ‘But I might change my mind if you behave yourself.’

  ‘Maybe you have me in a tight, George,’ Doolittle said. ‘But it don’t look too good for you, just the same. Spur an’ Cusie Ben’re out lookin’ for you an’ I never knew them not catch up with a man when they had their minds set on it. You can’t win.’

  ‘You can always win,’ Maddox said, ‘if you keep your head and hit hardest. That’s what it’s all about.’

  Maddox turned his horse and headed on west. Gaylor fell in behind him leading Doolittle’s mule and Holy Madder brought up the rear. They advanced steadily through the night, walk and trot, stopping every now and then to listen and, when Maddox was satisfied that they were not being followed, they went on. An hour or more they must have traveled this way with Charlie Doolittle’s wrists giving him hell. Madder had seen that his bonds were tight and painful.

  Doolittle himself was in a somewhat confused state of mind. He had led a rough hard life, but he had kept clear of the company of such men as these. He had worked hard and built a sound freighting business. He had come a lot further than poor farm boys from East Texas usually came. He had had fights, but never before had he killed a man. Tonight he had killed two. Now he found himself in the hands of men who, he knew, would kill him without a qualm or hesitation. Gone now was his material success, gone was his dream of Lydia Carson. Maybe around dawn, he would be a cold corpse.

  There was only one possibility that might ensue from this last ride. He might find himself face to face with Netta Manson, Maddox’s prisoner. But that would not do him much good. He couldn’t do anything about her. His only hope was that Maddox was riding to where she was being held now and Cusie Ben would pick up the trail.

  They came to broken country and trees after crossing a wide and fairly well used trail. With a shock, Doolittle realized that he knew the spot well. He had ridden and driven wagons along this stretch many a time. He knew that they were not so very far from town. He was baffled and excited. A little hope came to birth in him. Somehow, being near town made him feel that help might be near. It would certainly be nearer than if they had taken him out into the wilderness.