The Cimarron Kid (A Sam Spur Western Book 5)

by Matt Chisholm

Carmody said: “You boys would be wise to let us go. There’s a posse in the hills lookin’ for you.”

  They didn’t reply. Ben didn’t even look at him. Spur came forward and mounted the bay. He seemed to have just enough strength to stay upright in the saddle. Ben mounted and said: “Walk to your hosses.”

  Art cast a nervous glance at Carmody. He was thinking of Burt with the horses, seeing himself in the middle of a gun-battle with his hands tied behind his back. At that moment, he wasn’t a very happy deputy. And Carmody didn’t blame him. He wasn’t a very happy sheriff himself. He started planning what he would do.

  He walked slowly ahead. Art followed him. Carmody didn’t look back, but he heard the horses following. He walked through the rocks. His bonds were hurting his wrists. Spur might look like a breath of wind would blow him away, but he had sure bound those wrists tight.

  He walked out of the rocks and reached the open. Without turning his head, he looked around. He could see no sign of Burt or the horses. His hopes started to rise a little. He asked himself if Burt was smart enough to out-smart these two and he wasn’t too sure of the answer to that now. If Burt was watching them, would he have the sense to come in at the right angle. Everything depended on the angle. If he came at them from the front a man like Cuzie Ben would gun him down. Carmody ruled Spur out of the fight.

  Slowly, he crossed the open space and, if it had seemed an eternity on his walk in, it seemed even further now. Every pace he took, he expected to hear the sound of Burt’s attack, expected to find himself in a hail of bullets. His flesh crept. He came to the timber and stopped, looked back at the two mounted men.

  “Git on,” said Ben.

  Carmody reckoned he was beaten.

  He entered the timber.

  He stooped under a low-hanging bough. He could hear the crunch-crunch of the horses’ hoofs behind him. He glanced back at Art and saw he looked like a man going to the slaughter.

  Then came the gunshot.

  Carmody ducked down in sudden fear.

  He saw that Art had thrown himself to the ground. The stud was rearing and Cuzie Ben was diving out of the saddle. As he hit the ground and rolled, his six-gun went off. There was another shot. Spur had his gun out, but the bay he rode was pitching and it was all be could do to stay in the saddle.

  Burt’s voice came—

  “Throw up your hands.”

  Spur raised his hands and the bay quietened. Cuzie Ben was lying on the ground, clutching his left arm. His face looked grey.

  Carmody scrambled to his feet and Burt walked out from behind a tree with a smoking rifle in his hands. He was laughing nervously.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Aw, Jesus.”

  Art got up and said: “Cut our hands free, man.”

  Burt drew his knife and cut Art free. Art took the knife from him and freed Carmody. The sheriff looked at his wrists and started chafing them. The thongs had cut deep. He pushed his way past his deputies and looked up at Spur.

  “Get down offn that horse,” he said. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were deadly.

  Spur stepped down.

  Carmody said, still with his teeth clenched: “Spur, you run me too hard. You done this to me once too often.”

  Spur leaned against the horse. He looked like he was going to pass out. Carmody took him by the front of his shirt and dragged him upright. He hit him across the face with the palm of his hand, then back with the other side of it. Then he smashed his fist into Spur’s face and released his shirt. Spur fell back against the horse, his lips split and with blood on his face. The horse jumped away and Spur fell to the ground.

  Ben raised his head from the ground and said: “You yaller bastard.”

  Carmody turned in a fury, took one pace and kicked the Negro in the ribs.

  The force of the kick rolled Ben over on his face. He made a great effort to rise and got no further than his hands and knees. His face was contorted with hate for the man above him.

  Burt said: “For God’s sake, sheriff, hold hard.”

  Carmody looked like he could weep with rage.

  “I’ve taken all I can from them,” he shouted. “I don’t have to take any more.”

  Burt said: “We’ve got ’em good this time. They won’t get away again.”

  Ben sat and took a look at his arm. The black flesh had been torn open by a glancing bullet. Another inch and the lead would have lodged in the bone. Ben reckoned he would live. But he would have to stop the bleeding. With his right hand, he loosened the bandanna from around his neck and bound it tightly around the upper part of his left arm. Art went over and knotted it for him.

  Ben said: “Thanks,” quietly. The rage seemed to have gone from him as suddenly as it had come. He got to his feet and stood there watching Carmody.

  The sheriff said: “Get ’em on their horses. Burt, our animals around?”

  Spur was coming around. He looked terrible. He sat up and looked dazed.

  Ben asked: “You all right, boy?”

  “Sure,” said Spur, “I’m all right.”

  In a moment, Burt came back with the horses. Spur and Ben were forced to mount. Then their hands were tied to their saddle horns. Spur thought: Both of us hurt. This is the end, this time.

  The sheriff and his two deputies stepped into the saddle.

  Carmody said: “The Kid’s still around. I won’t rest easy till we have him too. Watch out for him. An’ you shoot him if you see him. Kill him if you have to.

  They nodded and got their horses on the move.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Kid waited for them and they came. They came in a straggling line across the valley, armed men and they wanted his hide.

  He reckoned he was crazy, risking his skin for two other men. Maybe he owed them, but he didn’t owe them this much. He reckoned he had saved Cuzie Ben’s life once and that was enough for any man. But he didn’t change his mind. He stayed where he was and awaited the oncoming posse. He couldn’t make it out. A change had come over him without his being properly aware of it and he couldn’t make it out.

  When they were a mile or less away, he went and caught up the mare, saddled her and tied her close at hand. He might need her in a hurry. Then he built a smoke, sat comfortably and watched them.

  A bit closer, he thought, and it will be like shooting at a target.

  They came steadily on. They were crossing open grassland and when he started shooting, they wouldn’t find much cover. If they dismounted and got down in the grass, he could see them plainly from up here. He had them dead to rights.

  At last he thought them close enough. He levered a round into the breech of his carbine and checked his loads. He didn’t have enough ammunition for a full-scale fight, but then that wasn’t what he intended. He’d frighten them off and then light out. Maybe Spur was strong enough to move now. He could rejoin them after this, they’d ride south, maybe they’d have some fun. He would be in the company of other men. He wondered how much of a loner he really was.

  He got himself comfortable, elbows on the rock in front of him. Behind him, the mare showed that she was aware of the oncoming riders. She whinnied softly.

  The Kid laughed to himself. The posse didn’t hear her.

  He sighted on the man furthest away from him. It was always a mistake to go for the man nearest to you. He aimed a little high, but even so when he fired, he missed.

  He felt a little ashamed of himself. The range wasn’t all that long. The posse was showing their alarm. Men were scattering, looking around for cover. He sighted the same man again. The fellow was sideways onto him now, spurring his horse to get out of range. He hit the horse this time. The animal went head over heels, throwing its rider out of the saddle. The man hit the ground and lay still. Maybe he thought he was safer down there.

  One or two men had dismounted hurriedly and were throwing themselves down, apparently trying to burrow into the ground. He opened up on them. One or two started firing back. A man panicked and ran. The Kid k
nocked him over. One of the men who had dismounted ran for his horse and piled into the saddle. The Kid sent a shot close over his head and kept him on the move. The fellow crouched over the neck of his horse and raced away.

  Two of the riders had run their horses to either side of the Kid and had now reached the rocks. In a minute, they would be working their way up toward him. He sighted the head of one of them and drove him back with some close shooting. He decided not to wait on the other one. It was time he got going. He walked back to the mare, put the rifle away and got into the saddle. He rode over the brow of the hill and kept on going. He didn’t doubt that would hold them back for some time. It had happened to them twice now and that was twice more than it should happen to any man. Their enthusiasm would be surely damped. If they continued their pursuit, it would surprise him.

  He headed on west all day and, though he watched his back trail, there was no sign of pursuit. He reckoned he had seen the last of them. Now he would rejoin the others.

  Night overtook him in the hills.

  He stopped and put the mare on grass. She was starting to show signs of wear now. A good bait of oats would have solved her problem. He slept lightly and seemed to wake often to check that the mare was still there and all was well. In the morning, he saddled with first light and chewed hard tack in the saddle. He wondered when he would next get a good hot meal. He had been too long on hard tack and jerky. He thought of sizzling steaks and long schooners of beer. He spent the day working his way through the hills heading for the spot where he could start looking for Ben’s sign. Ben hadn’t told him exactly where he would be, but he had given the Kid a rough idea. When the Kid found the trail he wanted he saw almost at once that it had been ridden over by another rider.

  The discovery worried him. He cut a circle and found the sign of three men working their way up the mountain. He cut through the timber and found sign coming and going. By now his worry was serious. He could make neither head nor tail of it. He thought he found the hoof-prints of the stallion going down the mountain. He worked his way along them, coming out of the trees and onto the open bench. Here there was a profusion of sign still, men coming and going from up ahead in the rocks. It looked like five men had come from the rocks while only three had gone in. Maybe the other two men’s tracks going in were to left or right of him, but he couldn’t see them.

  He lost the sign in the rocks, picked up the marks of the stud on some soft soil and dismounted. It looked to him as if Spur and Ben had left there, but he had to make sure. He left the mare with dragging line and went forward with his gun in his hand. He didn’t think he would meet anything, but you never could tell.

  He found the camp in the rocks. There was nobody there. He stood around for a while, not knowing quite what to do. He suspected that three men had come, got the drop on Spur and Ben and taken them off. The damn fools, he thought, to be caught that way. He wouldn’t ever be caught that way, he was too smart.

  He went and took a hard look at the sign, picked up the mare’s line and led her back into the timber. Here he found where the men had stopped. He couldn’t quite make out what had happened—the sign was a jumble, but he found blood on the grass. He wondered who’d been hit.

  Maybe, Sam and Ben had shot their way out. Maybe one of them had been shot.

  Did it concern him? he asked himself.

  The answer was plain. It didn’t matter one solitary damn to him what happened to Sam and Ben. They meant nothing in his young life. He’d paid back what he owed them. The record was straight. He had the mare, the finest horse he had ever cocked a leg over. He could get on her and ride.

  That made sense. Only a fool would look for more trouble.

  He mounted Jenny and sat still in the saddle for a while. Kind called to kind. The law was the enemy. It wasn’t law at all. It was a man named Carmody and that same man had tried to kill him, the Kid. He’d wanted to put a rope around the Kid’s neck. For a moment, the Kid saw himself there on the end of a rope, strangling. He reckoned he hated Carmody as much as he had hated any man in his life—and he’d hated plenty in his time.

  He nudged the mare into movement. He found that she was walking along the line of the sign. Maybe she could smell that stud. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should go. Even the score with that Goddam sheriff. He smiled to himself. He’d maybe kill him and pay the full score off as a man should.

  Carmody was saying to himself: These two will go back to Texas. The federal men’ll most likely take them back there. I’ll be left with a lot of kudos and these horses. The stud’s mine. I never saw so much horse in one pack.

  They were making their way down a long valley that could have been called an earthly paradise. It was wild in parts, but there was endless good grass and water aplenty. Carmody was a man of vision. He could see this country filling up and not just with cattle outfits. The farmers and the miners would come in. There were more of them and they were all votes. He was here first. Already he counted for something. One foot on the ladder and he would soon be climbing. It made good election reading, a man being a hero. The man who captured Sam Spur and Cuzie Ben, two of the most hardened criminals in the history of the territory. Men would look up to him. The time would come when guns could be put away. Then the weapons would be power and money. He would have both. Maybe he would marry him a rich wife, one with influence. Michael Carmody would be powerful and sought after. Yes, he had already come a long way from the owl-hoot trail rider, living hand-to-mouth, never knowing when there would be a shot in the dark and an eager bounty-hunter had you in his sights.

  That trash Spur was keeling over in the saddle again. Damn him, he’d told him to … Carmody urged his horse forward, came up alongside Spur and bellowed at him not to play his fool games with him. Spur seemed to be hanging from his wrists that were tied to the saddle horn. The whole hull seemed to be trying to slip sideways.

  “Get up,” Carmody yelled. “Goddam you, get up.”

  Burt came forward from the rear.

  “He’s plumb played out sheriff,” he said. “Let’s rest awhile.”

  “We’re not wastin’ time,” Carmody said. “Get on.”

  “We could have a dead man on our hands,” Burt said.

  Ben cut in. “Maybe that what he want. Maybe he want a dead man.”

  Carmody swung on him.

  “Shut your black mouth.”

  Ben glared at him with hatred. Spur slipped from the saddle and hung by his hands.

  Carmody made a sound of rage and impatience.

  “Aw, untie him,” he said. “Throw him over the saddle an’ let’s get on.”

  Burt started to untie Spur’s wrists. It was difficult because he had to contend with Spur’s full weight. He called to Art and the other deputy came to give a hand.

  Ben said: “You mighty tough right now, Carmody. You weren’t so Goddam tough when I put my gun on you. You was jest the yaller coyote you natcherly is.”

  Amazement and rage showed on the sheriff’s face. He swore and rushed at Ben with his quirt raised. The Negro kicked his foot free of the stirrup-iron and planted his heel in Carmody’s chest, hard.

  Carmody staggered back and went into Burt. Burt swore and turned.

  “What the hell—”

  Ben turned the stallion with his knees and kicked him with his spurred heels.

  The animal jumped forward. Carmody’s hands came up to protect himself as he lay on the ground. His face was engraven with a grimace of fear. Art left Spur and swung around. He got the stallion by the bridle and forced him to one side. Ben turned the horse with his knees and kicked Art in the face. Art howled and went over.

  Burt slapped a hand down for the butt of his gun and found it gone. He exclaimed and searched the ground with his eyes.

  He heard a gun cocked and turned his head.

  His gun was in Spur’s right hand. He scrambled away from it, believing that the outlaw meant to blow his brains out. Carmody moved his hand toward his own gun-butt and thought better
of it.

  Art sat up. He had lost four front teeth and his face was all bloody.

  “Waal, I be damned,” he said in a mushy sort of way.

  “Nicely did, Sam,” said Ben. “What was you sayin’ about my black mouth, Carmody?”

  Carmody didn’t say anything. He was scared and he showed it. His eyes belonged to a man who had fallen into the clutches of two merciless animals.

  Sam said: “On your feet, boys. Quickly now.”

  They climbed to their feet. They looked like three badly disillusioned men.

  “Boys,” said Spur, “you look like I been actin’. Beat.”

  “Spur,” said Carmody, “Spur, I—”

  “You want to say somethin’, sheriff?”

  But Carmody had changed his mind. He thought if he walked carefully, he just might be allowed to live.

  “Burt,” said Spur, “go untie Ben’s hands.” Spur walked around relieving the three of their weapons. He made a good haul, revolvers, hideaways, knives. They were walking arsenals. Ben’s hands were free. He threw a leg over the cantle and stepped down from the stud.

  “What you reckon, Sam,” he asked.

  “Cut their throats and save ammunition or have us some target practice?”

  “I got somethin’ worse in store for ’em than that,” Spur told him.

  The Negro’s eyes widened in wonder.

  “You have?” he said. “You allus was the boy for idees.”

  Carmody swallowed so hard, they heard him.

  “What you goin’ to do to us, Spur?” he asked. His voice shook.

  “I been plannin’ this all the way along the trail,” Spur said. “I been sayin’ to myself what is worse for Carmody than dyin’? Dyin’s too good for him. It’s all over and finished. I want him to remember me good.”

  Ben looked at him with respect.

  “You mean Injun torture. I ain’t never seen that.”

  “Worse.”

  “You don’t mean hit. You got me real puzzled.”

  Carmody said: “For God’s sake, Spur.”

  “I’m goin’ to make him wish he’d never been born.”