The Cimarron Kid was another kind altogether and Ben reckoned at the time they met him that Spur was crazy to take up with him. He still thought so when the Kid was ornery. He and Spur had rescued the Kid from a posse. The Kid owed them a debt and the fact stuck in his gullet.
The Kid was five foot eight, twenty years old, swarthy complexioned and he had a grudge against mankind. The story went that the grudge was so bad that he had killed a man for every year of his life. That was the way so many of those stories went about outlaws. Spur reckoned the Kid was pretty good with guns, but he was a little short on gray matter and he hadn’t killed more than two or three men.
So far as Ben was concerned, the Kid had one redeeming feature, and that was his unwilling admiration and respect for Spur. Spur was supreme with guns; he was fast and he was accurate. Ben was no slouch with a belt-gun himself and Spur could leave him standing. The Negro reckoned the Kid was hanging around till he was faster than Spur. Then he’d draw and kill Spur. It was his burning ambition. Spur laughed and said the Kid was only a boy at heart and had no real evil in him.
The three partners, if they could be called that, had been in the cabin three months—which they considered a long time to be in one place. They had spent the time catching wild horses and selling them down on the plains. Catching the wild ones was a craziness with Ben and it looked like Spur had caught it. It was Spur’s ambition to breed good horses. The sire he used was a red stallion they had caught in Colorado the year before and he reckoned that before many months were out his famous little mare, Jenny, would drop a foal to the mustang. He and Ben couldn’t wait to see the result.
The Kid grumbled a little, asked questions he didn’t get any answers to and followed Ben out of the cabin to catch up his horse. Spur switched his saddle from the mare to a bay gelding and caught another couple of animals to take along in case they had to make a litter. For the same reason he took along some odd lengths of rawhide rope. Then the three of them rode, leading the spare horses behind them.
When they reached the two wounded marshals, Ben took one look at Malcolm and the badge on his vest and stopped dead. He looked at Spur accusingly.
The Kid stared down from the back of his horse and said: “You said it was a coupla men, Spur. These ain’t men, they’re law dogs.”
Spur said: “You mind your manners, Kid. Climb down and give me a hand.”
The Kid snarled: “Like hell I do. I don’t give no hand to this kind of a bastard.”
“He’s right, Sam,” Ben said. “You ain’t played fair with us.”
Spur got a little mad.
“All right,” he said, “so I ain’t played fair. You know who shot these two?”
“Who?”
“Lucky Lincoln.”
“So Lucky defended himself. Wouldn’t you an’ me do the same thing?”
Malcolm spoke: “There were three of them. They came into the courthouse and they shot Wayne Ulster to ribbons.” They stared at him. “He didn’t have a chance.”
Ben looked into the distance, frowning.
The Kid said: “So they knocked off a marshal.”
Ben turned and snarled at him: “You hush your fool mouth, Kid, when men is talkin’.”
The Kid glared at him from the depths of his hatred. He looked like a man who would like to kill but dared not make the attempt.
“Boys,” said Spur, “you don’t want to help. You ride out of here. But don’t come back.”
Ben said: “You sure fix a feller,” and climbed off his horse.
“I don’t help no lawman,” the Kid said.
“Then go ahead, clear out,” Spur told him and turned away. He’d brought a small hand ax with him and he started cutting saplings. Ben took them as he cut them and trimmed them with his knife. When they had enough the Negro started to make a litter skillfully with the rawhide. They didn’t talk. They used blankets and tarp as saddles for the spare horses and rigged the litter between them over that. They lifted the unconscious man onto it. Ben took a look at him and shook his head as if to say they were wasting their time. Spur helped Malcolm onto his horse, the three of them mounted and they rode slowly down the valley.
Spur said to the Kid: “You were a great help.” The Kid snorted.
They were half-way to the cabin when Ben, riding beside the litter, called for a halt. He dismounted and inspected Travers.
“He’s dead,” he said.
Spur stepped down and confirmed it. Malcolm looked grim. They went slowly on. When they reached the cabin, Spur helped the deputy to his own bunk and told him to take it easy. Then he and Ben took shovels and dug a grave in the side of the nearby ridge. They buried the dead man without any ceremony. The Kid sat outside the cabin, smoking. When they entered the cabin, Malcolm said: “He was a good man. That’s two good men they killed.” Ben just stared at him. He went to the stove and started preparing a meal. He always liked to cook when he was agitated. It calmed his nerves.
“Spur,” Malcolm said, “you’ve helped me enough. I reckon I owe you my life. But I have to ask another favor of you.”
“Name it,” Spur said. “I don’t say I’ll do it.”
“I have to get back to the capital.”
“You askin’ me to go with you?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’m wanted, George.”
“I’ll vouch for your safety. I swear it. You help me and I won’t forget it.”
The Kid stood in the doorway listening.
“Jesus,” he said, “I heard all this before. You go along with him and you’re inside, Spur. There’s a rope waiting for you down there.”
Ben turned from the stove.
“You know what this mean, white man? You comin’ here?” he demanded. “We been livin’ up here real nice an’ comfor’ble. We been havin’ us a real good time, catchin’ the wild ones, sellin’ ’em. Makin’ a livin’. Honest. We been so Goddam honest since we took up with Sam here it hurts. Now we got to run agen. It’s the owl-hoot for us’ns, white man, jest acourse you got your fool self all shot up.”
Malcolm raised himself onto one elbow with some difficulty and pain.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Stay put. Stay right here. I mean it. I’m acting marshal now, I’ve got some say.”
“Stay put he says,” sneered the Kid. “So you can come back with a nice posse and catch us with our pants down. Do we look stupid or somethin’.”
Spur put in: “You’re askin’ a lot, George.”
“Listen, Sam, you helped me. You saved my life. You think I can forget that in a hurry.”
The Kid said: “You’ve forgot it already. Right now you’re schemin’ how you can take us.”
“The Kid’s right, Sam,” Ben said. “Once a lawman, always a lawman.”
“George,” Spur said, “there’s federal warrants out for Ben an’ me. You can’t do nothin’ about that.”
“I can do plenty,” Malcolm said. “Hell, it’s a hell of a waste having men like you on the run.” He looked at the Kid and maybe he changed his mind a little. If ever he had seen a little killer it was this one.
“I’ll get you back home,” Spur said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“All right. Have it your own way.” Malcolm turned his face to the wall and after that they thought he slept.
Chapter Five
Three days later. Spur and Malcolm rode by night. They traveled slowly because the marshal was still a sick man and didn’t find it easy to sit a horse. Spur rode in silence. He didn’t know what to make of Malcolm’s offer. He knew that he wasn’t suspicious enough generally to be in the outlaw business, but he couldn’t help being suspicious now. The marshal had been in a tight spot when he had made it, alone in a cabin with three outlaws; two of them, at least, dangerous men.
But he thought about it as he rode. If George could fix something… He thought about being able to go see Netta, his girl, in the Cimarron country. He thought about being able to ride freely back home to see his fa
mily. It seemed all an impossible dream.
He thought back over the past few days.
While Malcolm had lain wounded in the cabin, Spur had scouted the country for Lincoln and his companions and had found no trace of them, except departing sign that ran south. He had come on the dead body of the Delaware, Charlie Two Moons and had buried it. Lincoln had left a bloody trail behind him.
They rested up during the heat of the day and because they didn’t want to be seen. Malcolm didn’t want it known that Sam Spur was coming into town.
They came to the capital in the cool of the evening and the marshal took Spur to the rear of the governor’s residence. It was a fine house standing on the outskirts of the town in its own grounds. They tied their horses in the moon-shadow of some thick trees and Malcolm told Spur to wait there till he came for him. He was going to speak to the governor about him. He’d be back. He went off into the moonlight and went around the front of the house. Spur was left nervous and suspicious.
It could so easily be a trap. Malcolm could have gone off to set it up now. A half-dozen armed men coming silently out of the night… Sam Spur was caught, hanged.
Spur eased his Spencer out of the saddle-boot and drifted through the trees. Maybe the marshal was on the level. If he wasn’t, Spur would be ready for him.
Malcolm was gone a long time. Too long, Spur thought.
The minutes ticked by. One hour.
Sam’s unease turned to an acute sense of danger. He was prepared to mount up and ride off, to get out while the going was good. Then he heard the steps on the gravel path. A man was approaching without any attempt at concealment. He peered out from his hiding place and saw the marshal approaching in the moonlight. The marshal reached the horses, didn’t find him and called softly: “Spur.”
“Here.”
Spur came out of his hiding place. The marshal saw the rifle in his hands.
“I reckon you still don’t trust me, Sam,” he said.
Spur said: “It isn’t that, George. I can’t afford to trust anybody is all.”
The marshal said: “The governor wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me? What about?”
“He has a proposition to put to you.”
Spur hesitated. If he got inside that house, he could be caught.
“What proposition?” he demanded.
“It’s not my job to tell you. He wants to put it to you himself.”
Spur made up his mind. It was a hell of a risk, but he’d take it. He could always shoot his way out.
As if he could read Spur’s mind, the marshal said: “I’ll take your gun, Sam.”
Something prodded hard into Spur’s side and he knew it was a gun. So he’d been suckered.
“So it was a trap after all,” he said.
Malcolm lifted the Colt from his side and said: “Don’t be a damn fool, it’s no trap. I’ll convince you of that inside a couple of minutes. Go ahead. There’s a door open at the rear of the house.” To show his good intention, he put his own gun away and shoved Spur’s under his belt. They walked across the yard and Malcolm led the way through a doorway. They crossed a room and found themselves in a lamp-lit hall. As they crossed this hall, there was a staircase to their right. On this staircase stood a woman. She was older than Spur and she was very beautiful. Briefly, their eyes met and he walked on. They came to a door and the marshal rapped with his knuckles on this.
A voice said: “Come.”
The marshal opened the door and stepped inside.
“Sam Spur, governor.”
Spur looked quickly around the room. It was large and it was empty except for the man behind the desk. It all looked very rich and he felt very run down and shabby in such surroundings.
The man behind the desk rose to his feet and extended his hand. Spur crossed the room and silently shook it. The man indicated chairs and sat himself down.
He was a shortish, square-set man with the head of a lion and deep watchful eyes. His mane was white and the eyes were very blue. These eyes didn’t leave Spur’s face.
“Mind if I call you Sam?” The voice was rich and strong. Like the man.
“Go ahead,” Spur said. He felt a little like a kid up before the schoolmarm.
The governor leaned back in his chair and put his square finger-tips together.
“Sam,” he said, “a governor can’t afford to be unconventional. Not usually. But right now I have to be. Circumstances make me. Wayne Ulster’s killed. Lin Travers is killed. George, here, is badly wounded. Now I want the killers caught. They have to be caught. Federal marshals cannot be killed with impunity and men must see that. This is a raw new territory. If we start off on the wrong foot it could be years before we get anything right again.
“Now I’m a little thin on the ground with peace-officers. Oh, I could find the men to hunt down the killers. They might even do it in time. They just might. But that isn’t what I want. I want them caught quickly and I want ’em alive. You’ll see why later.
“George here tells me you reckon the killers have headed for Mexico. That means they’re lost to me—officially. It means at this stage I can’t send my marshals after them—officially.
“But I’ve got to have ’em.
“That leaves me with one choice.”
He leaned forward across the desk at Spur.
George Malcolm cleared his throat. It was very still in the room.
Spur said: “Go ahead.”
“I want you to get them for me.”
Spur had known that was coming. But, even so, he didn’t know what to say. Nobody would mind catching the men who cut down a man like Ulster. Every decent man would want them to get their desserts. But what did the governor have to offer him in return?
“You want me to go into Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“If I’m caught by the Mexes, you disown me?”
“You’re just Sam Spur the outlaw and you don’t mean a thing to me.”
That was putting it bluntly.
“An’ if I bring ’em back to you?”
“I get you a free pardon.”
“I’m on federal charges. Can you do that?”
“I think I can.”
“Only think?” That wasn’t good enough.
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep. I have the ear of the president himself. I think I can swing it.”
“Why pick on me?”
“Because George tells me you’re the one man who can do it. In spite of your being an outlaw he believes that you are fundamentally an entirely trustworthy man. Having seen you, I believe him.”
Spur said: “I agree I can do it. Now let’s dicker.”
The governor slapped the palm of his hand down on the desk and cried: “Fine. Let’s dicker.”
Malcolm leaned forward. He was smiling.
Spur said: “The Cimarron Kid and Cuzie Ben—they’re in this with me. You clear me, you clear them. I need them to pull this off.”
“I agree.”
“If you can’t pull it off, you give me fair warning so we can get clear.”
“I agree to that too.”
“I don’t implicate you in any of this, but if I get myself in a tight with the law you do all you can to get me out of it.”
“If you haven’t broken the law for your own profit I’ll do my best to do that.”
Sam Spur stood up.
“There’s nothing else to say,” he said.
“Just one other thing,” said the governor. “You pull this off and there’s five hundred dollars for each of you in it.”
Spur grinned.
“That’ll help decide the boys considerably,” he said. They shook, and the governor said: “Good luck, Sam. Keep in touch with George, he has entry here at all times.”
They left. Outside the house, Malcolm gave him back his gun.
“No trap, Sam,” he said.
“No trap, George.”
They walked to the horses.
Cuzie B
en had never been more disgusted in all his life.
The Cimarron Kid was frankly horrified.
Ben said: “You’re tryin’ to turn me into a lousy lawman, Sam. Because a man’s on the run you think he don’t have no self-respect.”
“Christ,” the Kid exclaimed, “you taken my words away.”
Ben said: “He done somethin’ good then. Maybe we can have some peace around here.”
Spur said: “Take it or leave it, fellers. I can’t force you to do nothin’ you don’t want. Here’s a chance for a free pardon. I’m takin’ it.”
“You trust that Goddam governor,” the Kid howled. “A lousy politician. They’re all the same. All liars.”
“I trust George Malcolm.”
“More fool you. I don’t know how you kept alive so long,” the Kid said. “You trust folks.”
“You got to trust somebody. You trust me, don’t you?”
The Kid blinked. He was scared of Spur and he didn’t like to answer that. He said “Aaaah,” and stormed out of the cabin. He wanted to think. He walked to the ridge and over it. He wandered along deep in thought.
He sat down and built a smoke.
“Kid.”
He sat bolt upright and his hand came down on his gun-butt.
“You’re covered, boy.”
He removed his hand. The man was behind him and he didn’t have a chance. He heard a rustle in the brush and a man walked into his view. He had never seen him before. Who was he? A bounty hunter? The Kid went cold and wondered if Spur and Ben were around. There was a gun in the man’s hand.
The man was a tall fellow and pretty sharply dressed. The pants tucked into knee-high boots were of good quality, the boots were expensive and hand-tooled. A natty dresser. The face was smooth, the eyes knowing.
“Who’re you?” the Kid asked.
“That doesn’t matter,” the man said. The gun was pointed at the Kid’s belly. “All that matters is that I have a proposition to offer you.”
Trail West (A Sam Spur Western Book 6) Page 3