The Streets of Vermijo

by Neil Hunter

  ‘Could be. That could be,’ he said. ‘We got a sharp feller here, Breck. Don’t he seem exactly the one we been waitin’ for? Damned if it ain’t so.’

  Breck eased his long haired pony aside, opening a wide gap between himself and Kell. His sharp eyes never wavered from Luke.

  ‘They say iffen you wait long enough the right feller will come along,’ Breck said. ‘Pity I ain’t a God fearing man ’cause it would be like a gift from heaven.’

  ‘Certain sure about that,’ Kell said.

  He gave a low chuckle and reached for the Colt on his right hip.

  Luke had been expecting some kind of sly move, so he was primed when Kell made his move, and kicked his boots free of his stirrups. Let himself roll out of the saddle. He lighted on his left side, plucking his own revolver clear as he landed.

  Kell completed his draw but there was no target when his gun came up. He attempted to alter his aim. Too slow. When Luke arced his .45 round, hammer back and finger against the light trigger, Kell was an open and clear shot. The thunder of his shot was followed by a second. Both heavy slugs caught Kell in the middle of his boney chest, tipping him backwards. The close range allowed both bullets to tear through his lean body, blowing out between his shoulders and spurting bloody debris as they emerged. He fell across his horse’s withers, making awful sounds, then toppled free and slammed to the ground.

  ‘Goddam lawdog,’ Breck yelled, dragging his own gun free and swinging it in at Luke.

  He couldn’t make his target because Luke, staying low and blocked by the bulk of his own horse, moved forward and lunged under his horse’s neck. He pushed his gun arm out, lifting his pistol and triggered two more shots up at Breck. One ripped through Breck’s throat, opening a raw wound that gushed blood. His second shot blew in through Breck’s left cheek, angling up to tear a bloody swathe through his head to emerge out the top of his skull in a grisly spray. His horse reared back, making a shrill cry and skittered aside. Breck’s pistol hammered out a single shot as his finger squeezed back on the trigger. The shot went skywards.

  Luke stood upright, body shaking in the aftermath, stomach churning, a sick feeling in his throat. It had happened so fast there had been little time to think about what he was doing.

  A soft thump of sound snapped him back to reality, pistol arcing round, but it was only Breck slipping from his saddle to the ground.

  It seemed unreal as Luke stood there, shucking the empty shells from his pistol and replacing them with fresh rounds, then dropping the loaded weapon back in his holster. He reach for his canteen with hands that shook. He splashed water on his face. Took a swallow to rinse out the sour taste in his mouth before he took a drink.

  ‘You taught me too well, Frank,’ he said out loud.

  Now he understood why.

  His grandfather had been instructing him how to survive in difficult situations. Drilling into him the need for vigilance. Making him ready for such situations as the one he had just gone through. If he had been a tad slower reacting it might have been him stretched out on the ground with bullet holes in his flesh instead of the two men.

  Comes down to you and the other feller. If he shows he’s ready to use his gun it’s your choice, boy, whether you want to live or die. Your choice …

  ‘Hell of a choice to have to make,’ Luke said, noticing the tremble in his gun hand.

  He spent some time checking the dead men’s’ belongings and found what he was looking for in the saddlebags. Banknotes and silver nuggets. Their pay for looking out for anyone following his man. Luke stripped off the saddles and trappings before setting the horses free. He picked up the fallen handguns, choosing the best of the pair to add to his own saddlebags as a backup, plus extra ammunition he found. A burlap bag was loaded with the stolen money and silver for return to the Vermijo bank. One of the men had a new canteen and Luke added it to his own. Extra water was never passed by.

  His final chore was to drag the bodies to a stand of brush where he laid them together, covering them with their own slickers and blankets. It was a bound fact that scavengers would eventually find the bodies. There wasn’t much Luke could do about that.

  Satisfied he had done all he could Luke mounted up and set off again. The incident with the pair of drifters had set him back time wise. Nothing he could do about that except keep moving, following the tracks of the man still a distance ahead of him.

  As he rode Luke noticed a faint drift of wind stirring the dust. It rattled through the scant, dry vegetation, sent harsh grit scurrying across the land. it was not a good sign. If the wind increased, lifting more dust, the chance of losing the trail he was following became stronger. It was the last thing Luke wanted. The worst thing he needed.

  He was following a man a distance ahead and to make matters even more difficult it was a man he had never met.

  A man without a face, or a name.

  ~*~

  Damned if he couldn’t hear his joints creak with every move he made. Not for the first time did Frank Tyler consider what he had done by riding out a manhunt … though not enough to regret it

  Yet here he was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dust and flies and every vicious plant that ever grew on the face of the earth.

  Despite his everlasting grumbling this was the only thing he could do that offered him a whole lot of satisfaction. His ranch was a distraction. Something to fill the empty hours in his life since he had first handed in his badge. If the truth be told he had been lost without it. Hell, he had made a fair success of his ranch. Yet his heart had not been in it fully. Times were he had dreaded getting out of bed come dawn, knowing he would be doing the same tiresome things he had done the day before and would be doing the very next day. Frank Tyler was no cowman. Ranching, if you liked it, was all a man could need. He never would. As much as he applied himself the life of a rancher was slowly grinding him down.

  Taking back his badge was the only way to fill his life. Grumble as he did and curse the long hours in the saddle, Frank Tyler was back doing what he really liked. As he had in the years gone by, seeking out the lawbreakers, the owlhooters and killers, gave him more purpose than hazing a lazy steer out of the brush. He would admit a cow was never going to let go with a .45 slug from a revolver, or try to stick a steel blade in him. That part of the job he accepted. It came with pinning on a badge and carrying a gun.

  Tasting the dry dust in his mouth Frank drew rein and reached for his canteen, uncapping it and taking mouthful to rinse his mouth. His horse turned its head, eyeing him with the look only a horse could make. Frank took a mouthful to swallow, then eased out of the saddle and tipped water into his hat so the horse could drink. If he had a dollar for each time he had done that he figured he would be a wealthy man.

  ‘Hoss, we need to go careful. Could be a while ‘fore we hit fresh water.’ He took a long look around. ‘If it was sand we needed, we’d be right well satisfied.’

  The foreseeable terrain stretched out in each direction, dusty sand and sprinklings of dried grass and clumps of brush. Not a single shady tree to be seen now. It was a less than hospitable landscape. Near cloudless sky that shimmered with heat.

  ‘A godawful place,’ Frank said.

  He rehung his canteen, took the reins in his left hand and walked alongside his horse, giving it some relief from carrying him. The hat he’d used to water the horse felt cool for a while. He knew that wouldn’t last. The oppressive heat would dry it out soon enough so he made the most of the sensation.

  He had picked up faint hoofprints again, trailing north as they had since he and Luke had parted company. The same tracks. If he had one added talent Frank could follow tracks. Pick them out, faded or no, when others might overlook them. Years back, when he had first put on the badge, he had sided with a Papago Indian who scouted for the service. The tracker had ridden with Frank on a number of pursuits and seeing the young man showed serious intent, had passed along a great deal of his tracking skills. Frank had never forgotten what
he’d been told and put it to good use himself.

  Right now that learned skill was coming in handy, and Frank made good use of it that day.

  A couple of times he had found himself thinking about Luke. He tried not to allow it to dwell on his mind but the need to wonder how his grandson was faring refused to go away. He had to remind himself each time that Luke was a man grown and had signed on as a marshal of his own free will. All things considered Luke was no fool. Frank was sure he wouldn’t do anything that would put him in danger. Even so he had taken off after one of the bunch that had raided the bank in Vermijo and been there when Sam Piggot died. It could be the man Luke was after was the one who had killed Piggot. A man who could kill the way Piggot’s murderer had wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

  You watch yourself, boy.

  Frank walked alongside his horse for close on an hour before mounting up again, easing the animal around as the tracks veered. The ground was rising in a long slope, strewn rock and brush showing as the sand drifted away to show hard-baked earth. Some quarter mile ahead a larger rock formation showed and Frank made out a line of timber showing on the skyline. The first trees he had seen in a while.

  The rider he was following moved in an erratic course, avoiding the stretches of rock as he closed in on the timberline. Frank slid his rifle out of the scabbard and made sure it was primed and ready to fire. He held it across his lap, searching the way ahead.

  He studied the tree line. Watching to catch a glimpse of sunlight on the metal of a waiting rifle. It was a healthy caution. He didn’t think his concern was needed. The man he was following would still be a distance ahead and would be wanting to stay in the clear rather than engage in a standoff. Frank understood he could be wrong just as easily. Either way he had to keep moving. This was no time for backing down.

  He reached the tree line and lifted his Winchester, finger resting lightly against the trigger as he scanned the timber.

  Nothing.

  Frank could have felt foolish. On the other hand he was still alive. No sudden shot that might have lifted him out of his saddle. He felt a tickle of sweat form across his brow.

  Old man you’ll be burning lead at shadows next.

  He heard his horse nicker softly, its head craning forward. It smelled water.

  ‘So go find it, son,’ Frank said, letting the animal have its head.

  It moved through the trees, brushing aside undergrowth until it stopped short of the narrow stream that bubbled from a mossy overhang of rock and wound its way through the timber.

  Frank climbed stiff-legged from the saddle, taking his pair of canteens. He uncapped them and tipped out the remaining water. After he had refilled the canteens and hung them back on the saddle he took a drink from the stream, splashing his face. Leaving the horse to drink he cast around and finally found what he was looking for.

  Hoof and boot prints in the soft earth along the edge of the stream. Still visible and part filled with water that had seeped through the soil. He traced the tracks to where they emerged from the trees. The rider had mounted up and moved off again.

  Clear to see.

  And still heading north.

  Always north …

  ~*~

  The pair of riders were making a definite sweep that would, if they kept it up, take them back in the direction of Vermijo. There was no doubt in Ruby’s mind. They were cutting a new trail, maybe parallel to the one they had been riding, but the direction was taking them back towards town.

  As she fell in behind the riders Ruby’s mind was initially confused. Why would two men, on the run, suddenly decide to head back the way they had come? Up until now they had been heading directly south, aiming for the border where they would have been able to cross to comparative safety. With warning they had turned about, doubling back on themselves.

  What they were doing made no sense. In effect they were heading back in the general direction of the town they had robbed and left a dead man on the floor of the bank.

  Their actions were bordering on crazy, though Ruby did not consider them to be so. Plainly they had a reason for what they were doing but right then she had no idea what it was. All Ruby could do was to stay on their trail and attempt to catch up with them. There had to be a logical reason for the change in their travel.

  It frustrated her because she was unable to figure it out. Her agile mind turned the thought over and over. Why risk losing the chance to get over the border and escape possible capture? No matter how she went over the implications Ruby couldn’t come up with a sane reason.

  Shadows were lengthening around her. Ruby sought a spot where she could make camp for the night. There was no way she was going to make a deal of progress in the dark. All it needed was for her horse to take a misstep and break a leg. Then she would really be in trouble.

  A cold camp. Ruby secured her horses, unsaddled and gave them what was left of the bag of oats she carried. She fed herself on beef jerky and water from her canteen. Not what she would have chosen but there was little choice. She tried not to dwell on home comforts back in Vermijo. She and her husband sitting down to a decent meal she had cooked. Safe and secure in her own home. Sleeping in her own bed. Not wrapped in a blanket resting on the hard ground, her mind still trying to make sense of the actions of the two men she was trailing.

  Just what had she got herself into?

  What were the outlaws planning?

  And where were they heading?

  Ruby drifted off into sleep without being aware and when she opened her eye it was to a gray sky and the remains of the night’s chill. Shivering she moved around her campsite, working the stiffness in her joints as she chewed a little more of the jerky and drank cold water. She saddled her horses, gathered up her blanket and secured it.

  ‘What do you think about all this?’ she said. The pair of horses regarding her in silence. ‘That’s what I figured you’d say.’

  In the saddle she picked up the tracks again and moved off. The landscape around her was uneven, broken up with stretches of scattered rocks and dry cracked earth.

  With the full rise of the sun heat developed. A noticeable change from the low temperature the night had brought. It was the way of this extreme country. Heat and cold. Mostly dry. Inhospitable. Full of contradictions.

  Not dissimilar to the people who roamed across it. The good, the bad, and the downright unexpected.

  Just like the men Ruby was trailing.

  The reminder jarred her senses. She was becoming obsessive about them. With good reason because their actions were unreasonable. Going against what they had been doing to get themselves out of the country. A sudden reversal that defied logic in Ruby’s mind. And because she couldn’t figure it out it rattled her.

  Why had they changed direction?

  It was one of those instances where logic had been thrown out the window.

  Though she didn’t yet have the answer Ruby understood one thing. She needed to catch up with them before something bad happened.

  She never understood how the thought pushed its way into her conscious train of thought. She almost dismissed it at first. Found she couldn’t shake it off. As wild as the demand was Ruby had to accept it.

  It unsettled her.

  Left a queasy sensation in her stomach.

  She hoped she was wrong. That in her eagerness she was not creating some false answer. Ruby Tucker did not welcome vague solutions. She had a sound head on her shoulders that demanded definite answers.

  She stroked her horse’s neck.

  ‘Tell me I’m not being stupid,’ she said, because she suddenly had the feeling the men she was trailing were on their way back to town.

  They were returning to Vermijo to settle an old score.

  ~*~

  The rise of low hills brought Frank to a spread of land where large boulders mingled with unexpected greenery. Brush and some stretches of grassland. It was a welcome change from the arid areas he had been crossing. Pleasant in its own way. He did
not let his caution slide. Here the lay of the land offered places where a man could conceal himself and lie in ambush. And a hidden man also had the advantage of height over anyone he might be waiting for.

  Frank eased his holstered .45 caliber Colt and kept his rifle in hand as he moved along the first slope, eyes on the still visible tracks that had brought him this far.

  Now this could be where the fun starts.

  He wasn’t being casual about the situation. Frank Tyler understood the danger he was riding into. As good as any man was, moving into such territory became a mortal risk. There was no way around it. No easy way to approach it. All he could do was stay on his trail, his senses attuned to any changes around him. It wasn’t going to resolve itself by Frank sitting tight and waiting. He had to brace it. Hope his instincts served him well. It was not the first time he had been presented with such odds and survived. This was no different to the previous face downs.

  He scanned the way ahead and to the sides. Watching and waiting to see if any slight movement indicated a waiting gun.

  The day became uncomfortably warm. Frank knew it was more through tension than the heat of the sun. His body was reacting to the moment. Nerves alerted. Senses heightened. Feelings he had gone through before. Truth be told it never got any easier. Hunting an armed man was no easy affair. Those on the run would resort to anything in order to escape capture. Anyone who got in their way would be dealt with in no uncertain terms. Frank had witnessed the aftermath of such events in his time. Never pleasant and never forgotten.

  He reached the first rim of the undulating slope, drawing rein, stepped down out of the saddle to let his horse rest while he maintained his vigilance. He almost missed the drift of smoke off to the northeast. The moment it registered Frank felt a tightness in his gut. He was looking at something that had to be more than a campfire. There was too much of it.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ he said.

  Frank eased back in the saddle, gathering the reins and set his horse in the direction of the telltale smoke with the feeling he was already too late.