The Cimarron Kid (A Sam Spur Western Book 5)

by Matt Chisholm

  “Get over to the bunk, Kid,” he said. “An’ remember—you’re wanted dead or alive. In fact, I’m of two minds whether to kill you or not right here an’ now.”

  “I can’t,” said the Kid. “I’m wounded in the leg.”

  “That’s too bad,” said the sheriff. “Drop that knife an’ move or I’ll change my mind. Get to the bunk the same way as you left it.”

  The Kid dropped the knife and hopped across the cabin to the bunk. He gripped the edge and dropped there, exhausted with effort and the pain.

  He heard movement behind him and started to turn. But he was too late. Something hard seemed to drop from the roof and he didn’t know any more.

  Carmody moved quickly. His life could depend on his speed. If it was Spur and Cuzie Ben with the Kid, he could be very near to death at this moment. Hurriedly, he put away his gun and lifted the Kid’s inert form into the bunk. Searching the cabin, he found a rope. With this he tied the Kid up till he was like a trussed chicken. He found some rag and stuffed it into the boy’s mouth, then gagged him with his bandanna. Covering the still form with the blankets, he sat himself on the chair on which the Kid had sat. Then he too waited.

  He too waited a long time.

  During that time, the Kid came to his senses and started to groan. Carmody hurried across the cabin and put his mouth near the boy’s ear.

  “Kid,” he said, “you be still. I’m goin’ to take your partners. You make a sound and you get it. Hear?”

  The Kid heard. He lay still.

  Carmody returned to his chair.

  If somebody had ridden up to the cabin and entered it then, he would have been all right. Time ticked by and no sound came from outside. Now and then a muffled sound would come from the Kid.

  Carmody started sweating. His mind began to play tricks on him—he imagined he heard the sound of a walking horse coming up from the valley; the footsteps of a man outside, soft and stealthy. What was that? The sound of a cocking gun?

  Slowly, it dawned on him that he was afraid. The realization unnerved him still further.

  He should have killed the Kid while he had the chance and fled with the body tied across a horse. Ambition had taken him beyond his capacity. He started to rage a little against himself. Then slowly, his fear started to ebb away as he told himself how he had managed himself in the past. He had handled tougher men than Spur and Cuzie Ben.

  Hunger began to trouble him. He pined for a smoke.

  God in heaven, would nobody ever come?

  What was that?

  A faint sound caught his ear. He knew that it was the whinny of a horse when one of the animal’s in the corral replied. There—that was the sound of hoofs on loose stones. A rider was coming. He eased himself from his chair and risked looking out of the window. There was a hole in the pared down skin that covered the aperture.

  A rider came slowly up the rise mounted on a little mare. Carmody knew that this was the famous Jenny which had carried Spur out of so much trouble with her speed. He eyed the notorious gunfighter with awe that he could not prevent from coming.

  The fellow was smaller, slimmer and of a milder expression than Carmody expected. Young and pleasant-faced, an almost innocent expression. The last of the sheriff’s fear went. He would handle this one.

  He took up his position behind the door, moved the chair back so that he would have room for movement.

  Across the cabin, he hissed to the Kid: “Now, you be still. One sound out of you an’ you get it.”

  Outside, Sam Spur didn’t hurry himself. At a leisurely pace, he turned the mare loose into the corral, placed his saddle and bridle on the fence. He stopped to build himself a smoke before he came toward the cabin. Carmody reached his gun from leather, thumb on hammer.

  Spur’s hand was on the latch. The door opened and Spur stepped inside, closed the door behind him.

  Carmody said: “Reach, Spur.”

  The sheriff had to give the man credit. He didn’t start; he didn’t even show surprise. He raised his hands above his head and stayed still, not even turning his head.

  Carmody walked into the center of the cabin, not taking his gun from Spur.

  “Two down and one to go,” Carmody said, not without good-humor.

  Spur eyed him with some curiosity.

  “An’ who might you be, if a feller can ask?” he said.

  “Michael Carmody, sheriff, at your service.”

  “Howdy,” said Spur.

  Carmody couldn’t help saying: “You’re awful calm for a man who’s goin’ to hang.”

  Spur said: “I ain’t hung yet.”

  “Turn around,’’ Carmody said. He would have to move fast before the Negro returned.

  Spur hesitated for a moment. He knew what was coming, but he reckoned it was better than being shot down in cold blood. At least he had a thin wafer of a chance. He turned. He heard the Kid groan from the bunk. From the sound, he thought the boy was gagged. Therefore bound hand and foot. He couldn’t expect any help from there.

  He used his ears. Carmody was a big man, chesty. The only thing that Spur could judge movement by was breath. He held his own to hear the better.

  Carmody took a heavy intake of breath.

  Spur let almost a full second pass, then he moved.

  The barrel of the descending gun caught him on the tip of the left shoulder. It hurt, but he was moving too fast to worry about that and the moment was too urgent.

  He turned quicker than a cat, caught hold of the gun-wrist and pulled the sheriff forward with all his strength. The man’s face met the wall of the cabin, hard.

  He fell to his knees. But he wasn’t finished. Even so he tried to turn the gun on Spur. But Spur had unlimbered his own weapon. He fired one shot. It passed within an inch of the sheriff’s head and buried itself in the wall of the cabin.

  “Drop it.” There was no good-humor in Spur’s voice now. It was curt and crisp.

  Carmody raised his eyes from the muzzle of the gun and into those of Spur. They were deadly and cold. He didn’t doubt that if he didn’t obey, he was a dead man. He dropped the gun.

  He got to his feet, dazed from his meeting with the wall.

  “Step aside,” Spur ordered and he obeyed. Spur kicked the gun into a corner. “Huntin’ the Kid?” he asked.

  Carmody nodded.

  “I only came for the Kid,” he said and found that his voice was husky with apprehension. “I don’t want you, Spur.”

  “You waited for me with a gun.”

  “I—I didn’t know who you were. You could of been anybody.”

  “No,” said Spur. “You knew. You’ve been here a good time. You could of lit out with the Kid long gone. I know you, Carmody. You’re a manhunter.”

  “Spur—I swear—”

  He heard a sound. Another rider was coming. Fear bit at his guts. He had summed up this outlaw in front of him. Maybe he was outside the law and a wanted man, but he was no callous killer. A gun-artist, maybe, but this was no cold-blooded murderer. The Kid would have killed him as he walked in the door if he could. Cuzie Ben ... he was a killer plain and simple. He had heard stories about the outlawed Negro that froze a man’s blood.

  The rider came up to the door, leather creaked and the door was pushed open. A medium-sized, very dark Negro stepped inside. He looked at Carmody and the sheriff was surprised to find that here was a man with as mild an expression as Spur’s. Yet even so, he trembled. He had heard how Ben hated whites.

  Solemn-faced, Ben said: “Who this, Sam?”

  “Carmody. After the Kid and thought he’d take us in as a bonus.”

  Ben laughed.

  “He crazy?”

  “Search him.”

  A moment later, the sheriff’s flesh crept as black hands went over him. He was a man who believed that all Negroes were born to be slaves. He didn’t like being handled by one. This one handled him thoroughly. He found the little hideaway up-and-over Carmody carried in the pocket of his vest; he found the razor-s
harp knife he carried as extra insurance to the rear of his belt. He tossed them on the table.

  “Tie him up,” Spur said.

  Ben went and fetched a rope. He built a noose, tossed it over the sheriff’s head, let it fall to his ankles and then pulled on it. Carmody hit the dirt floor hard. With his toe, Ben urgently rolled him on his face, pulled his hands behind his back and tied them. He used the whole length of the rope to truss him up thoroughly. By the time he finished, Carmody was helpless, red in the face and cursing like a demon. Ben straightened up and looked at him impassive.

  “Drag him outside while we talk,” Spur said.

  Ben took hold of the sheriff’s bandanna and obeyed. The sheriff’s hatred of Negroes by the time he lay outside the cabin was well developed.

  Ben came back in and found that Spur was untying the Kid. The boy was spitting with fury when he got the gag off. For a few minutes he raged incoherently.

  “He jumped me,” he managed eventually. “The dirty sneakin’ sonovabitch snuck up on me…”

  He broke off as Spur crossed the cabin and picked up the knife the Kid had dropped.

  “You’re lyin’,” he said. “You waited behind the door and was got the drop on. You were waitin’ for Ben and me.”

  “That ain’t true,” the Kid said, but his eyes couldn’t meet those of the other two men.

  Ben said: “You sneakin’ li’l rat. You purely make me sick to the stomach. If’n it wasn’t for Spur here an’ me, you be dead for sure. Ain’t you got nothin’ in you but poison?”

  The Kid didn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes darted about the cabin. Finally, he said: “You goin’ to kill Carmody?”

  “Just like that,” Spur said.

  “Sure—just like that. He ain’t nothin’ but a no-good lawman.”

  “An’ you ain’t nothin’ but a no-good little killer,” Spur said. “Where’s the difference?”

  Ben said: “He’s got somethin’ there, Sam. We can’t leave Carmody alive. He’ll point a posse this way sure as God made li’l apples.”

  “How long we been together, Ben?” Spur asked.

  “A purty good while, reckon.”

  “An’ you don’t know me yet.”

  The Negro spread a hand.

  “Hell, man, you think I like it? But a man has to live. That lawman he want us dead. When a man want you dead, you kill him. Makes sense.”

  “Or dodge him.”

  “I been dodgin’ long enough. I like it here. We got ourselves a sweet setup here. We have to move on ’cos a man like him come pokin’ his fool nose in?”

  “So we kill him. How do we know he’s alone? How do we know he didn’t tell somebody where he was headed? A man like Carmody ain’t a fool. So we have to move on either way.”

  “Jesus,” the Kid cried, “you’re Spur, ain’t you? The boys would sure have a good laugh if they thought the great Sam Spur was softer’n a woman.”

  Spur hit him with the back of his hand across the mouth. He did it casually, but he knocked the Kid backward so his head thudded against the wall of the cabin.

  The Kid lay there looking at him with naked hatred.

  “Nobody never did that to me before,” he said through his teeth.

  “You’d have been a better kid if they did,” Spur told him.

  “I’ll kill you for that.”

  Spur said: “If you’re goin’ to stay with us, you’d best know who’s the better man.” He walked across the room and picked up the sheriff’s gun. He checked the loads and laid it on the bunk near the Kid’s right hand.

  “Put your hand on it,” he said.

  The Kid obeyed. Spur put his own gun on the table.

  “Now lift it and kill me before I kill you,” Spur said.

  There was silence in the cabin.

  The Kid was very still. He stared up at Spur, aching to lift the gun and shoot.

  Cuzie Ben smiled and said: “Sam don’t even have a gun.”

  The Kid licked his lips.

  “I heard about him. He could have a hideaway.”

  Spur grinned and said: “Take the chance, Kid.”

  “The nigger’d draw on me.”

  Ben walked over to the table and laid his gun on it.

  The Kid said: “I’m hurt bad. I don’t have my speed.”

  Spur reached forward and took up the gun from under the boy’s hand.

  “I’ll give you another chance when you get to full strength,” he said. He reached for his gun and slid it into its holster. Ben recovered his- and Spur said: “Ben, you do what you think you must, but I’m headin’ out.”

  The Negro stared at him. A conflict was going on in his mind. With impatience, the Kid said: “Give me a gun with one shell in it. I’ll do it, if you don’t have the—” He saw the look on Spur’s face and stopped. Maybe he was learning.

  Ben said: “I reckon I’ll go along with you-all, Sam.”

  “I’m glad, Ben.”

  “There’s other folks in the valley, Sam,” Ben said.

  Sam gave him a quick look.

  “How many?”

  “Four. Well-mounted. I seen their sign and I seen them at a distance.”

  “They with Carmody, you reckon?”

  “I ain’t certain sure, but I reckon they was huntin’ mustang.”

  Spur started to move and Ben followed his example. Together they made up packs for two pack animals, putting in all the necessities they would need on the trail—food, utensils, tobacco, ammunition: two light packs for two animals so they could travel fast without wearing down their stock. The Kid leaned on his elbow and watched them. When they were almost through he said: “What about me?”

  “What about you?” said Spur.

  “I can’t ride like this.”

  “You were goin’ to kill us and light out.”

  “That ain’t true.”

  “Well, you can stay here and have the law around your ears.”

  Ben straightened up and said: “That’s another thing, Sam. I don’ fancy takin’ this kid along with us. Oblige me by lettin’ him lie. We don’ owe him nothin’ but grief. I jest ain’t taken a shine to him, Sam. The sight of him jest makes me natcherly puke.”

  The Kid gave signs of wanting to get out of the bunk and kill Ben with his bare hands.

  Spur said: “Simmer down, the pair of you. Ben, we can’t leave him here an’ you know it.”

  “Jest you watch me, boy,” said Ben.

  “I’ll guarantee his good behavior,” said Spur. “I can’t say fairer than that.”

  Ben grinned widely.

  “He can come if you put him across yo’ knee ever’ time he get outa line.”

  “Done,” said Spur.

  The Kid raved in the bunk and they didn’t pay him any heed. He wasn’t used to being ignored and that made him even madder. He went into some detail about their own and the illegitimacy of their forebears, he expounded upon the punishment that would come to uppity niggers and how they wouldn’t dare treat him this way if he had a gun. In the end Spur paid him some attention. He did this by batting him a couple of times around the head so his ears rang like church bells and told him: “That’s the point, Kid. Without your gun you’re just a stupid little boy and that’s how you get treated around here till you show some sign of growin’ up.”

  After that the Kid’s only expression of his hatred was the look in his eyes and nobody could have expressed that emotion more clearly.

  Sam said: “Ben, you catch up the horses, I’ll go fetch Carmody’s.” He went outside and asked Carmody where his horse was tied. The sheriff wouldn’t tell him at first, but he changed his mind when Spur informed him that, if he didn’t talk, they’d leave him lying where he was and it wouldn’t be too long before he was dead. Spur then caught up Jenny, saddled and rode a mile or so down the ridge till he found the sheriff’s horse. When he got back to the cabin, Ben was loading the mule and a packhorse.

  Ben asked: “How about the stock?”

  “T
ake ’em with us.”

  “An’ leave a trail a mile wide?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Ben nodded.

  They saddled a horse for the Kid and carried him out of the cabin. When they placed him astride, he said: “I can’t ride, I’m too badly hurt,” but they didn’t take any notice of him. Next, they untied Carmody’s legs, put him on his own mount and tied his legs under the belly.

  “It ain’t goin’ to be nice, Carmody, but it’s better’n dyin”, I reckon,” Spur told him. He cut his hands free. “Now, you can’t dismount, but you can guide the horse. Couple of days an’ you’ll be free.”

  Ben said: “You’re crazy.”

  “Spur,” Carmody said, “Ben’s right. An’ the Kid, too. You should of killed me, because I’m goin’ get you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Spur said: “If you catch up with me, Carmody, it will be the last thing you do. You’ve had a chance most men don’t get. You tangled with three killers an’ you’re still alive.”

  Carmody started to say something, but Spur gave his horse a cut with the quirt and his words were cut short. The horse went east over the ridge, straining up the steep gradient. There was cattle range over there and the chances were the man would be released by some rider.

  Spur and Ben mounted. They turned their horses and drove their stock before them. When they reached the timber that cut off their view of the cabin, they halted for a moment and looked back. They didn’t say anything, but they each knew what the other thought. That little cabin had been a home to them for some time. They had an affection for it. It might be a long time before they knew the like of it again. They turned and rode on.

  Chapter Five

  They kept to the ridges after they had ridden down the length of the valley and scattered their stock. That would occupy the minds of the men who came after them when Carmody was free. Now they concentrated on losing their sign. They must leave behind them the impression that they had ridden out of the country. They entered the creek and, with no more than their own horses and the packhorse and the mule with them, they climbed the rising watercourse into the mountains. This was a vast and chaotic country that seemed to climb into the heavens; shelf after shelf seemed to march high into the sierra, expansive meadowlands of rich grass swept into wild uprisings of titanic stone. Men and horses were dwarfed as they slogged hour after hour through the water. Often the going became rough and dangerous and the men were forced to dismount and fight their way over an even streambed and against the down-rush of mountain water. Often they were tempted to turn aside and take to the easier travel of dry land, but they knew that their lives depended upon losing their sign and of their leaving no indication behind them that they were still in the country.