"Not hardly," Tilghman agreed dryly. "I don't reckon you were able to find out any more about that fella who tried to kill me last night."
Rainey's expression grew sober as he shrugged and said, "I asked around in some of the saloons. Nobody wanted to admit to knowing anything about it. Once it was light this morning I went down that alley where you said the bushwhacker ran off, looking for tracks. Thought he might have had a horse tied behind the building or something like that. But there weren't any hoofprints, and too many people had walked along there for any footprints to mean anything. I don't think an Apache could've trailed that fella with the shotgun. Sorry, Marshal."
That was just the sort of answer Tilghman had been expecting from Rainey.
"No need to be sorry," he said. "It sounds like you did everything you could. Anyway, I'll be out of here soon, and it won't be your worry anymore."
"I could ride with you for a ways," Rainey suggested. "Just to make sure nobody tries anything else."
Casey came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of food. Tilghman saw her coming and told Rainey, "That won't be necessary. I'll be careful."
"Suit yourself. Just keep your eyes open."
Tilghman took another sip of his coffee, nodded, and said, "I always do."
Rainey got up and left as Tilghman dug into the food. When he was finished with breakfast, he left a half-dollar on the table for Casey and walked out of the dining room without looking at her. He went upstairs to get his rifle and gear from his room so that it would look like he was really checking out of the hotel and leaving town.
When Tilghman reached the livery stable, Raoul Gonzalez had his horse saddled and ready to ride.
"This is a fine mount you have, Señor Marshal Tilghman," the liveryman said as he patted the animal on the shoulder. "Thank you for entrusting me with his care."
Tilghman handed Gonzalez a five-dollar gold piece. He took the reins, then paused and asked, "Do you know an area called the Devil's Hand?"
A worried frown creased Gonzalez's forehead.
"Why do you want to know about that place?" he asked. "It is no good to anybody. And even worse . . . there is talk that it is haunted by evil spirits."
That revelation took Tilghman by surprise, which wasn't easy to do.
"Haunted?" he repeated. "Why in the world would anybody think that?"
"It is said that strange lights appear there at times, in the dark of the night, and there is a rumble of thunder even though the sky is completely clear overhead!"
"Well, that does sound a little unusual," Tilghman admitted. "How did you come to hear about this?"
"My cousin, he keeps a herd of sheep on the prairie at the edge of the Gypsum Hills. But he has grown frightened and now looks for another place to graze his sheep. You are not going out there, are you, Señor Marshal?"
"I'm on my way back to Guthrie," Tilghman said. "I just heard somebody talking about the Devil's Hand and was curious."
Gonzalez made the sign of the cross and said, "Best not to be curious about evil places, my friend. They can lure you in . . . and never let you out!"
Tilghman wasn't worried about that. He had never seen a place he could get into that he couldn't get out of. But he didn't explain that to Gonzalez, just swung up into the saddle, waved farewell, and rode out of Burnt Creek heading east.
He felt eyes on him as he left and without appearing to do so, he flicked a glance at the hotel as he rode past. A curtain on a third-floor window twitched. Tilghman couldn't help but wonder if that was Mayor Martin Rainey's room.
He left the settlement behind him. It wouldn't have surprised him if Dave Rainey followed him, just to make sure he was going where he said he was. Tilghman didn't see anybody on his back trail when he looked behind him, though.
To be certain, he rode about three miles, then reined in as soon as he topped a small rise. He dismounted quickly, took a telescope from his saddlebags, and hurried back to the top of the slope, taking off his hat and dropping to hands and knees before he got there.
Tilghman bellied down in the grass and raised up just enough to scan the countryside behind him with the spyglass. He searched for any sign of someone trailing him but didn't see anything like that. The only things moving were birds soaring through the morning sky and a family of prairie dogs hunting for food. Tilghman grunted and closed the telescope.
The Rainey brothers thought he had given up and was going home, just because they told him there wasn't a rustling problem in these parts. It was sort of annoying that they believed they could fool him so easily.
Tilghman wasn't going to turn down good luck, though, anywhere he found it.
Satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he got back onto his horse and began working his way north. Gradually, he swung around to the west. On this vast, mostly featureless grassland, it was difficult to judge distances, but eventually, a little past midday, he came in sight of some low, flat-topped hills and ridges on the western horizon.
Those were the Gypsum Hills, he knew, so called because of the layer of gypsum that crowned each of those flat tops, sparkling like glass in the sun.
Tilghman stopped at a creek to let his horse drink and rest a little. He always carried jerky in his saddlebags, so a couple of strips of the tough, savory stuff served as his lunch. Tilghman was of the old breed, much like the Indians, who could ride all day if he had to and survive on water and jerky.
While he was halted he checked his back trail again, out of habit, and still didn't see any pursuit.
Tilghman pushed on. It was late in the afternoon before he reached the hills. He didn't know exactly where the region known as the Devil's Hand was located. He would just have to search until he found it.
That search might extend well into the next day. This range of hills was pretty wide and ran far north, all the way to Kansas.
He didn't think he would have to go anywhere near that far, however. If the rustlers were using the Devil's Hand as their stronghold, it had to be somewhere reasonably close to Burnt Creek, which was half a day's ride to the southeast from where Tilghman was now.
He spent the rest of the day casting back and forth through the hills and along the shallow valleys that twisted between them. As Casey had told him, this range wouldn't be good for much of anything. It was too rugged and rocky for farming, and although some hardy grass grew in the valleys, it wasn't sufficient to provide permanent grazing for cattle.
There was enough that the area could be used as a temporary holding ground for a herd, though. Now that he had laid eyes on the place, Tilghman still believed that was a reasonable theory.
His search didn't yield any results, and as night quickly approached, he found a place to camp. A spring bubbled out of some rocks at the base of one of the hills, forming a tiny pool where his horse could drink. Tilghman would have enjoyed some coffee, but he decided not to build a fire. He could put up with a cold camp for one night, rather than risking being spotted.
He picketed his horse where the animal could graze on the scrubby grass, then after a meager supper of more jerky washed down with water from the spring, he spread his bedroll on the least rocky stretch of ground he could find and stretched out.
Tilghman had the true frontiersman's ability to sleep whenever and wherever he could, but he didn't doze off right away. Instead he thought about his home and his wife Flora. She was a good woman and seldom complained, but he knew she would have liked it if he gave up packing a badge and was content to stay home on their ranch.
He had tried to live that sort of settled life, he truly had, but something inside him made that difficult, if not impossible, for him to do. When he stayed too long in one place, he began to yearn for the feel of a saddle underneath him and the wind in his face. Some men just had to stay on the move, to be out and about, doing things, and Bill Tilghman was one of them.
He still hadn't gone to sleep when he heard what sounded like thunder. He was lying on his back, so he could see the whole sweep of the s
ky above him, and no clouds obscured the millions of stars in that vaulting black arch. That couldn't be thunder, Tilghman thought as he sat up and instinctively reached for the rifle beside him.
And then suddenly he knew what was making that sound.
Hooves. Thousands of hooves.
Somewhere not too far away, somebody was moving a herd of cattle in the night.
Chapter 9
Tilghman had his hat and boots on and was in the saddle in a hurry, not wanting to waste this chance. He followed the rumble of hooves, and as he came closer, he heard cattle bawling as well and even the click of horns against horns as close-packed animals jockeyed for position.
The moon hadn't risen yet, so he had only starlight to show him the way. The hills cast ebony shadows as he wound among them.
This was like a gunfight in a way. He couldn't afford to waste any time, but if he rushed, he ran the risk of his horse stumbling over something in the dark, falling, and breaking a leg. If that happened and he was set a-foot, it would ruin everything and might even cost him his life.
So he had to be careful and hope the cattle would be on the move long enough for him to catch up to them.
It wasn't long before Tilghman was able to sniff the air and smell the dust raised by that multitude of hooves. That told him he was closing in.
He reined to a stop beside one of the flat-topped ridges. He swung down from the saddle and dropped the reins, knowing the well-trained horse wouldn't wander off. With the Winchester gripped in his hand, Tilghman climbed the slope, which wasn't so steep that he couldn't manage by putting a hand down now and then to balance himself. He was careful not to step on rocks that might roll or slide under his feet and cause him to fall.
When he reached the crest, he saw that the ridge was about fifty yards wide. From the sound of it, the herd was right on the other side. Crouching as low as he could and still stay on his feet, so that he wouldn't be silhouetted against the stars, Tilghman ran across the mesa-like ridge top.
As he neared the edge he dropped to his knees and crawled forward. The rumble of hoofbeats and the bawling of cattle were loud now. He could see how someone might mistake the sounds for thunder. He had done so himself for a second when he first heard them.
Edging forward, Tilghman looked into the valley on the far side of the ridge. The herd was a dark mass stretching all the way to another ridge that was probably part of the formation known as the Devil's Hand. The dust rising from their hooves formed a gauzy veil in the sky that dimmed without completely obscuring the stars.
A man shouted somewhere close by. Tilghman looked down the slope to see a rider moving along the edge of the herd. His hands tightened on the rifle as he thought for a second that he had been spotted.
Then he saw the rider was trying to catch up to another man on horseback who reined in and turned back slightly to meet the one who had hailed him. They sat there for a moment on their horses, talking. The first man Tilghman had spotted waved an arm and pointed, like he was giving orders. The other one hauled his horse around and rode off quickly.
The first man stayed where he was. After a few seconds, the flare of a match told Tilghman the man had rolled a quirly. He set fire to the gasper, inhaling to get it going. The glare from the match flame revealed a hard-planed face, although Tilghman couldn't really make out many details.
From where he was, he could have shot the man out of the saddle. It was possible that the gunshot wouldn't be noticed because of all the noise the cattle were making.
But Tilghman was a lawman, not a cold-blooded killer.
Besides, the rustler would be a lot more helpful if Tilghman could take him alive.
The man hooked a leg around his saddle horn as he smoked. From the looks of that, he intended to stay here for a while and let the herd move on to wherever it was going.
Tilghman figured the outlaws had to move the cattle fairly often because the grazing was so poor in this area. Once they had eaten all the grass in one of these isolated valleys, they would have to be driven to another one.
Now that he knew where the rustlers were holed up, he could come back later with a posse and clean them out. For now he wanted to get his hands on Cal Rainey, the gang's ringleader. If he could force Cal to talk and admit that his brothers were part of the gang, too, Tilghman could arrest all three of them and take them back to Guthrie. The rest of the outlaws probably wouldn't be that dangerous without their leaders.
That was Tilghman's plan, anyway. He put it into motion by sliding over the edge of the hilltop and descending carefully toward the man who sat there on his horse, smoking.
While the noise of the cattle might not have been enough to mask a gunshot, it concealed any small sounds Tilghman made as he approached the rider. He was almost close enough to throw down on the man and order him to dismount when something went wrong. Some instinct must have warned the rustler. With the quirly still dangling from his lips, he yanked his horse around, grated a curse, and reached for the gun on his hip.
Tilghman lunged forward and swung the Winchester like a club. The barrel smashed into the man's right shoulder and drove him to one side on the horse's back. Tilghman dropped the rifle, grabbed the man's leg, and heaved, toppling him out of the saddle. As the man crashed to the ground, Tilghman drew his Colt and slapped the horse on the rump with his other hand, causing it to leap out of the way.
He hoped that the fall had stunned the rustler, but that wasn't the case. The man kicked up from the ground, the toe of his boot striking Tilghman's wrist and sending the Colt flying. Tilghman didn't have time to retrieve the Winchester. The rustler was already clawing out his own revolver.
Tilghman dived forward and landed on top of the man. He clamped his left hand around the wrist of the rustler's gun hand and drove his right fist into the man's face. It was a good, solid punch, but it wasn't enough to knock the man out. He bucked up from the ground and threw Tilghman to the side. They wound up rolling over and over as they wrestled for control of the rustler's gun.
Tilghman wound up on the bottom. His opponent drove a knee at his groin. Tilghman twisted to the side to take the vicious blow on his thigh. It hurt, but it wasn't incapacitating as it would have been if it had landed on its target.
Tilghman's fingers were like bands of iron around the other man's wrist. He knew that if he ever allowed the rustler to bring the gun into line, the roar of a shot at point-blank range would be the last thing he ever heard.
He hooked a punch into the man's midsection, jerked his head aside to dodge a blow aimed at his face. His right hand shot straight up and closed around the rustler's throat. The man hadn't yelled for help yet, and Tilghman didn't want him getting the chance to do so. With his grip on the man's throat, he forced the rustler to the side. Tilghman couldn't afford a shout or a shot, because he didn't know how close any of the other rustlers might be.
The two of them were evenly matched, both lean but with pantherish strength. A lucky break might well decide this fight. That break seemed to have come when the rustler snatched up a rock a little bigger than a man's fist and tried to bash Tilghman's brains out with it.
Tilghman twisted aside just in time to avoid the deadly blow. The rock smashed into the ground beside his head. Thrown off balance by the miss, the rustler wasn't able to brace himself when Tilghman suddenly jerked him closer. Tilghman lowered his head and drove the top of it into the man's face with smashing force. Blood spurted as the rustler's nose flattened under the impact. He went limp, stunned for the moment, anyway.
Tilghman wrenched the gun away from the man and slapped it hard against the side of his head. That knocked him cold. Tilghman shoved him aside and climbed out from under him.
There was no time to waste. He used the man's own bandanna to tie his hands, then ripped a piece of cloth from the man's shirt and shoved it into his mouth to serve as a gag.
Quickly, Tilghman found his Colt and holstered it. He tucked the rustler's gun behind his belt.
The man
's horse hadn't gone far. Tilghman approached it carefully, one hand extended, speaking in a soothing tone. The horse was skittish and danced around a little, but after a moment it allowed him to get close enough to grab the reins. Tilghman led it back over to the unconscious rustler.
Grunting with the effort, he hoisted the man across the back of the horse. A coiled lariat hung on the saddle. Tilghman used it to lash the rustler into place. Then he led the horse back around the ridge to where he had left his own mount.
A short time later, Tilghman rode away from the place, leading his captive's horse. He wasn't sure he could find the spot where he had camped earlier, but that didn't matter. He just wanted to put some distance between himself and the rest of the gang, along with his prisoner.
When he finally stopped, he couldn't hear the noise of the herd moving anymore. Either the cattle had moved on out of earshot, or else they had stopped as well after reaching their new temporary bedground.
The captured rustler had regained consciousness during the ride. He was making angry, muffled noises through the gag and squirming a little in his awkward position draped over the horse's back, although he couldn't move much the way Tilghman had him tied down.
Although the sound of a shot might still travel far enough to be noticed, Tilghman figured the man couldn't yell loud enough for his friends to hear him. He dismounted and stepped over beside the prisoner, who lifted his head and stared wild-eyed at him.
"Take it easy," Tilghman said. "If you cooperate with me, you won't be hurt any more than you already are, and you'll be treated fairly. I give you my word on that. I'll take this gag out so you can breathe a little easier."
He pulled the wad of wet cloth from the man's mouth and tossed it aside. As he did so, a stream of profanity erupted from the prisoner. Tilghman let the rustler cuss, figuring he would run out of steam sooner or later.
He did. Panting in anger and outraged breathlessness, the man said, "I don't know who you are, mister . . . but you're gonna be sorry . . . you stuck your nose in where it ain't wanted. I'm gonna string you up by your heels . . . and roast your head over an open fire, the way the Apaches do."
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 5