The Cimarron Kid (A Sam Spur Western Book 5)

by Matt Chisholm

  When the meal was finished and Ben had gone to take a last look at the stock, Spur asked the Kid; “You throwin’ in with us, Kid?”

  The Kid looked at him from the other side of the fire. Spur thought how young and artless he looked.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Ben came back and they turned in. They agreed that the posse would be more than a day behind them and that they needed their sleep too much to post a guard. They all slept soundly.

  The Kid awoke with a start. He knew that something was wrong. He sat up and threw aside his single blanket. He heard the sound again. It came from Spur.

  The boy leaned over and shook Ben. The Negro came awake with his gun in his hand.

  The Kid said: “There’s something wrong with Spur.”

  Ben was at his friend’s side in a second, kneeling beside him and looking down into his face. He grunted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Ben said: “He got the fever.”

  Spur’s eyes opened and he seemed to stare at them, but he didn’t see them. He started babbling about Texas, his father, mother and sister, he talked about a girl called Netta. Ben looked at him with something like despair and said: “Now we sho’ in a fix.” He cared for Spur as gentle as a woman, fetching water from the creek to bathe his burning face.

  “We gotta move on,” said the Kid.

  Ben looked up at him over his shoulder and said: “You tell me how, boy. You know how?”

  The Kid said he didn’t know how. He walked up and down a couple of times and then said how about them toting Spur the way Spur and Ben had toted him. They made a travois then, what was stopping them making a travois now? Ben curled his lip. Sure, he said, they could travel real fast with a travois and they wouldn’t leave no trail, oh, no, sir. The Kid got red in the face. He shouted well they couldn’t stay here and they couldn’t go on, so what the hell did they do? If Ben was so Goddam smart, let him find an answer to that.

  Spur stays put, Ben said. One of them would have to go back and lead the posse astray, lay a few trails they could follow, scare ’em with some fancy shooting. And, Ben added, he was the man to do that. The Kid would have to stay and look out for Spur. Oh, no, declared the Kid, he wasn’t sitting around any place. If there was going to be some action it was going to be his. He wasn’t so smart at sitting around and looking at the scenery. That was a chore for old men and Ben was kind of old. Ben didn’t take very kindly to that and it would maybe have come to blows if Spur hadn’t started throwing himself about and yelling. It took them both to hold him down.

  When they got him calmed down a little, the Kid walked away in the direction of the horses. He came back leading the mare, saddled and bridled.

  “Where the hell you think you goin’?” Ben demanded.

  “Stop that posse,” said the Kid.

  Ben said: “So you thought hit over and you throw in with us’ns. That enough. You don’t have to lose yo’ fool head.”

  “I lost more posses’n you had hot dinners,” the Kid said.

  Ben yelled: “Why, you—”

  He stopped because the Kid had palmed his gun Ben had to allow he did it pretty fast.

  Ben stood up and pleaded.

  “Use your sense, if’n you got any,” he said. “I’m the tracker here. You stay here and stop ’em if they come.”

  “Not a chance,” said the Kid. He stepped into the saddle and not for a moment did he take his gun off Ben. The Negro sighed. The Kid backed up the mare, then whirled her and rode away. Ben didn’t make a move. He grinned a little to himself and turned back to Spur. His friend was quiet now. Ben gathered him in his strong arms and carried him into the rocks. He made him a bed as best he could there and spread the tarpaulin above him so that he would be protected by the sun when it came up. He checked the horses and returned to Spur to find him conscious. He was very weak and when he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper.

  “You an’ the Kid,” he said. “You have to go on, Ben.”

  Ben sneered at him and said there wasn’t a chance of them doing that. They were sticking together.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Kid decided to play it dangerously. That was in the boy’s character; he liked to feel that he was smarter and faster than any other man living. He reasoned it this way—he was a better shot than any man in the posse and he was on better horseflesh. He could outshoot them and he could outride them. It was as simple as that.

  He knew that he would find the posse somewhere in the vicinity of the spot where Ben had lost them. So he headed straight there. He didn’t plan anything. He would play it by ear and think fast. He enjoyed the feeling of excitement that arose in him.

  He nursed the mare along, knowing that he would want speed and staying power from her before long. It was fine to be riding her; there was a horseman’s joy in her effortless pace, in the precise way she picked her path through difficult country. She ran on easily, not straining. Together they went south-east until they came down into the creek country and the Kid, who had been there only the once before, had to ride with his eyes open, searching for landmarks which he remembered. His eye for country was good. Late in the day, he knew that he had hit the creek on which Ben had planned to lose the posse. Now he rode with extreme caution. He rode the ridges and used all the cover he could.

  Towards dusk, he saw smoke and guessed that he had found what he wanted. He hid the mare well and tied her, loosening the cinches. Maybe he would want her in a hurry, but he wanted her refreshed when he jumped astride once more. He took his carbine from the rocks and worked his way downhill.

  He found what he expected to find, the posse camped, never dreaming that at this stage there could be danger from the men they were pursuing. Those men must be wanting to get away and stay away from them, else why should they have hidden their trail so carefully? The three outlaws were running for their lives, terrified. The posse sat around their fire and drank coffee, some of them cleaned their guns and they all felt that they were men doing a man’s job.

  The Kid settled himself comfortably a tidy rifle shot from the camp with a clear view of nearly every man there. He checked his rifle.

  Ben had said: “Spur don’t like killin’.” The statement still puzzled the Kid. It seemed to be the obvious thing to do—to kill as many of your enemies as you could. It came naturally to him to want to kill two or three of the men down there before he took to the rocks. A few violent deaths would have taken the ardor out of them. He could see the faint-hearted turning back for town as fast as they could go when they had seen their comrades die. It made sense to cut down the opposition. How could a man who lived as Spur lived be tender-hearted? Spur was no coward.

  Men said he could pull a gun faster than any other man living and shoot straighter. He’d heard men say that even John Wesley Hardin was a slouch beside Spur. Maybe that was no more than talk, but it put Spur up there with the great gun-fighters. And this same Spur didn’t like killing. The Kid might sneer at the wish, but he respected the man. No man had ever made an impression on him as Spur had. If Spur didn’t want men killed … well, it was something to think about. He’d try it.

  He waited a little. He wanted just enough light to shoot by and then dusk in which he could safely make his getaway.

  There was a pot hanging over the fire. He sighted on it. Something in him started to laugh. He was sure going to scare the pants off that lot down there.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The flat slam of the rifle echoed through the hills and the bullet went spaang against the pot. It swayed on its rawhide string. The ricochet sang among the men around the fire.

  The Kid laughed aloud.

  Every man down there froze for a second, not believing it could happen to them.

  The Kid put a bullet into the fire, smashing burning embers in all directions. Men scrambled to their feet. The Kid levered and fired again. Men were running in all directions. A yell of alarm floated up the hillside. A man who had his wits
about him started shooting up at the Kid, who poured fire back and silenced him.

  Dusk dropped like a soft cloak from out of the sky.

  The Kid emptied his rifle, shooting up the camp thoroughly, coolly reloaded and walked back the way he had come. He heard shouting from below him, the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He broke into a run. On reaching the mare, he tightened cinches, pushed the rifle home into the boot and swung into the saddle. Touching the little mare with iron he went higher into the hills. He rode for a few minutes and stopped to listen. Some of the men were damned fools enough to come after him.

  He’d show them the errors of their ways. He’d take a bet Carmody was among them.

  Reining aside into the rocks, he pulled the rifle from the boot again. He reckoned the light was so bad that shooting would be mighty uncertain.

  Within minutes, the first rider hove into view. Close behind him came another and another.

  He started firing. The mare stood motionless under the shooting.

  The first horse went down as though its forelegs had been turned to paper under it. The rider was flung clear. The rider behind jumped his horse over the fallen man and the Kid fired again and again. But the light was too bad and he missed each shot. However, his shooting deterred the other two men and in panic they turned back. Their hoof beats died away.

  The Kid put the rifle away and turned the mare. He rode off into the night at an easy pace. Now he would lay a trail that a dimwit could follow. He’d lead them all over the country; he’d lead them back on themselves; he’d circle and meet up with them again. He’d play such hell with them that they’d be dizzy.

  He hit an easy pace and kept it till dawn. Then he stopped, put the mare on grass and took some naps for a couple of hours. The posse would be on his trail now, eager to get at him. He started a wide circle. He would meet up with them at dusk again. He chewed jerky as he rode and washed it down with water from his canteen.

  The mare, he was pleased to see, was as fresh as when she started. One little thing troubled him—that he could feed her only on grass. If he was going to have some hard runs, she would need corn. He wondered if the posse had any with them. He laid a plain trail down into a valley that took him north-east. He rode right down the centre, watered the mare at a creek and headed for the saddle that allowed him out of the lowland into the next valley. There were cattle here and tracks in plenty. This worried him a little, for the posse might confuse his with those of the cowhands and the cattle. So he looked around for a rider and at about noon found one and made himself known to him, making sure that the man would be able to tell the posse that the Cimarron Kid had passed that way. He rode on in high spirits, circled into the east, worked his way over a range of high hills and went down into the valley beyond. Here were the profuse tracks of wild horses and he hoped once more that the posse wouldn’t be confused.

  On the next upland he reached, he halted and allowed the mare rest and grass. He himself took his first good sleep for nights and awoke toward the end of the afternoon refreshed. He awoke in time, too, to see horsemen making their way along the valley beneath him.

  He couldn’t see them in clear detail because of the distance, but he thought it safe to assume that it was the posse. He reckoned their enthusiasm wouldn’t be very high now. Only Carmody’s will kept them going. Pretty soon, he’d whittle them down a mite more. He had warmed to his work and was enjoying himself.

  He saddled Jenny and rode along the crest of the ridge on which he had rested. This took him in a southerly direction. He covered about two miles, then cut aside into the hills again, dismounted and waited for the posse to appear.

  This time, however, his timing was at fault and the posse did not appear. He waited until long after dark and they did not come. No mind, he thought, he’d catch them in the dawn. The only trouble was that he didn’t know where they were camped. However, he’d look for them and wake them cheerfully with gunshots in the dawn. One thing he’d wager—they wouldn’t be lighting fires tonight.

  He slept again and woke a couple of hours before dawn, saddled and got on his way, working back along the trail he had made the previous day, not an easy thing in the starlight, but one which he was confident he could do. In spite of his confidence, he nearly rode down on to the camp unawares and it was the mare that saved him. She whinnied and received a reply from a horse up ahead. In a flash, he was out of the saddle and holding the animal’s soft nose. He took her back and hid her, then worked his way forward, hoping that she had not alarmed the camp. He took up a high position in the rocks which he hoped was immediately above the camp. However, when dawn broke he found that he was too far north and had to work his way back again. This gave the men below time to have their horses saddled. And men with horses ready constituted a danger. He debated whether to slip away quietly without firing a shot, but decided to give it a whirl.

  This was almost his undoing.

  The country was very different from that in which he had made the previous attack on their camp. For a start he had a much poorer view of the camp itself this time. From the position he took up, he could see little more than three men. One was mounted and two were standing at the head of their horses. He could hear their voices as they talked. Just the same, he thought, he could make life very uncomfortable for the men down there.

  He sighted on the mounted man, thought for one tempting moment of killing him and rejected it. This surprised him again and he decided to show what a superlative shot he was by taking off the man’s hat for him. It was not an easy shot from the high position in which he was lying.

  He fired and the hat was whisked from the man’s head. The fellow immediately dropped from the saddle and the Kid thought for a moment that he had made a bad shot and killed him. But a second later, he saw the man haring for cover as fast as he could go. He had a good view of him and placed a bullet neatly in the rear of his right calf. He went down with a howl of pain and fright.

  A man was yelling orders.

  The Kid knew in the next moment that he was in trouble. So convinced was he that he would panic the posse that he was taken off balance when the two men he had seen standing by their horses, piled into the saddle and came heaving up the hillside. Other men were firing up at him from the rocks. He turned and got out of there, fast. He ran along the ridge toward the mare and heard the riders pounding up toward him. For one frightening moment, he thought that he would be cut off from his horse. The leading rider seemed to sense where he was headed and raced ahead at an angle, the horse scrambling and straining up the rough incline. The second man was jumping his horse up in the Kid’s direction. Bullets cut the air around him. He’d been too damned smart by far.

  He fired at the leading horseman as he ran, but it was bad shooting. No man could shoot accurately running. The fellow gigged his horse around. The Kid saw he held a belt-gun in his hand. He ducked to the left as the gun went off. His instinct bade him take cover, but he needed to get to the mare and the man was within twenty paces of her. The Kid ran on half-knowing that he was running to his death.

  A little panic hit the horseman now, seeing the Kid coming at him. He cocked and fired, but his horse was dancing about with excitement and the shots went wide. The Kid went straight at him, swinging the rifle by its barrel. The butt caught the man on the left arm as the horse reared. The blow and the movement of the horse lost the man his seat and he went over the far side of the animal. The Kid heard him hit the ground hard; he batted the horse’s head out of his way, heard the other rider coming on fast, turned and reversed his carbine. He fired a couple of shots and the man veered hastily to one side. As the Kid turned away the man was piling out of the saddle, hunting cover. There were more men coming up from below. The Kid headed for the mare.

  She started dancing as he came near. Hastily, he untied her and vaulted into the saddle. She turned and jumped when he hit her with the spurs. As he broke from cover, shots searched him out. He ducked low over the mare’s neck and let her run. She knew w
hat was wanted from her and gave what she had.

  The going was rough up here; there was no trail and he feared that she might lose her footing and fall, but she showed herself to be as sure-footed as a goat. She knew what pace she could best make and she made it.

  The Kid looked back. Both riders were heaving themselves into the saddle and were coming after him. Behind them, more riders appeared. He reckoned he had cut this a little fine.

  He went along the ridge, hit terrain too bad for the mare and turned down an incline. She went down on her haunches with her forelegs stiff, hopping and lunging forward. When they hit the bottom of the slope, he swung her right along a gully and she ran. Shots came from above. The Kid kept on going.

  He heard the men coming down the slope behind him. There was some yelling. He’d show them what the mare was made of. He had to get back into the valley and show them a clean pair of heels.

  They thundered out of the gully. There was a ridge in front of them and the mare took it at a run, straining up it. They reached the top of the ridge and ran along the top of it. The Kid reined in a moment to see that the way down was clear on the other side. When he saw that it was, he urged the animal on.

  She launched herself forward. Only then did he see that he had made another mistake.

  Along the base of the ridge, three riders raced. If he carried on the course he was taking, he would run smack into them.