Jonas breathed in the cool air from a light eastern breeze that was laced with the pungent smells of sage and juniper. He looked forward to getting out of town into the back country and doing what he loved most, the challenge of tracking a quarry. Too bad Nate has to guard a prisoner. Although he’s fast and deadly with a six gun, he’s doesn’t have the patience for serious tracking so it’s probably better I ride this one alone, he mused trotting past Seth’s livery stable. He followed a rutted wagon road south for another mile before turning his mount east through sage and yellow-topped rabbit brush toward snow-covered peaks.
Jonas’ big Morgan with its ambling gait quickly ate up miles. They neared the foothills just as the sun topped the highest peak bathing the sage covered valley floor in early morning light.
Scattered juniper trees became more numerous as the land started to slope upward in transition to foothills and canyons. With increasing altitude, clumps of oak brush and heavy stands of junipers slowed down Jonas’ progress forcing him to find routes through and around them.
Coming upon a rock ledge about four feet high with a small hat-sized seep and ample spring grass, Jonas stopped to give the horses a breather. He especially needed to give the pack horse a rest because it was forced to maintain a fast trot to keep up with the Morgan’s longer stride. He slipped off both horses’ bridles, fed them a handful of oats and staked them close so they could graze.
Jonas broke up a few dry cedar branches and started a nearly smoke-free fire just big enough to boil a couple of cups of water in a blackened and battered tin coffeepot. He threw a couple of pinches of Arbuckles’ coffee into the boiling water, fixed a sandwich of bread and sliced beef from his first-day grub bundle and relaxed for a few moments. The transition from town living to wilderness thinking started as his senses sharpened and tracking instincts kicked in.
Half an hour later, Jonas was back in the saddle working his way south in a broad zigzag pattern hoping to cut sign of anyone riding parallel to the foothills. He focused on where the slope was less steep but high enough to see anyone moving below…a route that an experienced horseman would likely choose. It was not long before Jonas crossed shod tracks pointing south. He slipped out the saddle and examined them noting that they were a couple of days old.
Most likely these are Walsh’s tracks. Looks like he’s traveling slow and easy this close to Circle C range. I can shortcut through Chicken Creek and pick up his trail on the other side of the mountains and save time and a few miles. If he’s still in this part of the territory, I should be able to catch up, Jonas thought following the tracks at a fast clip.
Once Jonas was sure the tracks headed south, he dropped down to flatter terrain and urged his horses into a cantor toward Chicken Creek canyon.
Chapter 9
Walsh picked his way cautiously through pinons and oak brush trying to avoid skylining or crossing clearings. This playing mule deer is slowing me way down. At this rate I won’t make the southern hills until tomorrow. But beyond that I should be able to make better time and be rid of this territory forever. Maybe California would be a good place to go. No more snow and heavy winter kill offs that wipe out cattle herds. I’ll bet there’s some big ranches that could use a top hand, Walsh thought wistfully as he guided his horse around a large patch of thick oak brush and started down a shallow ravine.
Walsh hadn’t gone far before he heard a clatter of sliding rocks behind him. He wheeled his horse around and saw Steed about 300 yards away charging toward him standing in the stirrups rifle raised and puffs of smoke spitting out the barrel. Bullets kicked up small geysers of dirt where they hit short while others clipped branches from nearby trees and ricochets whined overhead.
Steed, in his excitement, started shooting wildly out of accurate range hoping to get in a quick lucky shot. He emptied his rifle and slowed down slightly as he tried to remove .44-40s from his cartridge belt, but found it difficult when riding a running horse over uneven ground. Those he didn’t drop, he managed to shove into his Winchester’s loading gate.
Spurring his horse, Walsh crashed through brush and over large rocks down to the bottom of a shallow ravine trying to put distance and cover between him and his attacker.
After a couple of hundred yards, the ravine widened out and lost most of its cover. Steed closed the distance between them still shooting as fast as he could reload. Suddenly Walsh felt his horse shudder then stumble as its legs gave out. He kicked his boots out of the stirrups just as the horse went down and skidded several feet in the loose gravel. Walsh was thrown forward, hit the ground hard and rolled a couple of times stunned.
Steed closed to about a hundred feet as Walsh groggily pushed himself his knees. He drew his Colt, holding it with both hands, thumbed off four rounds...all misses. Bullets from Steed’s rifle buzzed by his ear and kicked up small geysers of dirt around him.
With his mind clearing, Walsh eased back the hammer, steadied his aim and fired his last round. Steed let out a scream, dropped his rifle and clung to the saddle horn as his horse galloped by Walsh nearly knocking him down.
Steed, badly wounded with a bullet in his side managed to hang on and guide his horse down the ravine and through a thick stand of junipers. He slowed his horse to a walk, turned south and let the horse pick its way down the valley while he struggled to stay in the saddle and staunch the bleeding with his bandana.
Walsh heard his horse struggling to get up and pivoted around to see blood and froth coming out of its nostrils. From long habit, Walsh pushed the empty shells from his Colt’s cylinder and reloaded six cartridges as he limped over to check on his horse.
He kneeled down beside the animal and found where a bullet had impacted behind the front shoulder creating a fatal lung wound. The horse was dying and in pain. Grief welled up in Walsh followed by blind anger that tore into him. He fought to gain control of his emotions. Even though he hadn’t had this horse long, he had the cowboy’s love of good horses.
Walsh knew he couldn’t let the animal suffer further. He pulled back the hammer of his .45, closed his eyes for a moment then squeezed the trigger. He stripped the saddle, saddle bags and bridle off his dead horse and carried them a few hundred feet to where the ravine ended and slumped down under a juniper.
Walsh’s hands started to shake, his head throbbed and he felt nauseous as his body fought to throw off excess adrenaline. Pain shot through his leg, bruised when his horse went down and he was thrown.
Doubts and panic took over Walsh’s thoughts as the reality of his situation started to sink in. Where am I going now with no horse and only a six-gun? I’m probably inside or close to Crawley range with one of their wounded hands heading back to warn the rest of ‘em. He looked down and checked the cartridges in his gun belt and counted eight. Add the five in my Colt and I’ve got thirteen left. That’s an unlucky number but it sure fits in with the luck I’ve had the past few days, he thought struggling to contain a fresh wave of dark fatalistic thoughts that griped his mind and threatened to paralyze his will to continue.
Steed passed in and out of consciousness slumped in the saddle. Without guidance from its rider, the gelding turned south towards his home coral. It traveled only a few hundred yards before Steed slipped out of the saddle and fell to the ground. Too weak to climb back, he laid where he fell while his horse started nibbling tufts of spring grass. It grazed a few minutes, looked over at its rider and slowly moved off seeking more grass. After grazing a few more minutes, the horse raised its head again and, forgetting Steed, took off on a trot for home.
Steed’s companions, neared the northern end of their search area were just about ready to circle back south when they heard faint gunfire from a couple of miles away. One of the riders, a scruffy heavy-set man called Goat exclaimed, “That’s Steed, I’ll bet he’s treed that Walsh fellow...let’s go help.” Not waiting for his partner to answer, he spurred his horse into a gallop.
The two riders had covered just over a mile when they spotted a riderless horse
trotting in their direction stirrups flapping. They slowed to walk and the runaway horse recognized them and whinnied. Goat intercepted the horse and grabbed the bridle bringing it to a stop.
“Look Goat, there’s blood all over the saddle,” said his companion nicknamed Irish because of his flaming red hair.
“Ya, a lot of it, we better backtrack and find out what happened.” Leading Steed’s horse, they followed an easy trail north at a fast trot. “There he is,” Goat stood up in the stirrups and pointed to Steed’s crumpled form on the ground about 50 yards away.
“He’s still alive, but barely,” exclaimed Goat tearing open Steeds coat and shirt. “It’s bad; he’s been gut-shot and lost a lot of blood. I saw a lot of gut-shot soldiers in the war and few survived. But, we can’t leave him here to die. We gotta try and get him back to the ranch.”
Steed came to and attempted to talk. Goat kneeled over him and tried to make out the words. “Shot Walsh’s horse...he’s on foot. Ya gotta go back and get him. He can’t get far...” Steed slipped back into unconsciousness.
“What did he say, Goat”
Goat stood up and squinted toward the foothills. “Said he shot Walsh’s horse.”
“That means he’s on foot. But what are we gonna do with Steed? We can’t leave him here.”
“Well, we can make a travois, but I don’t think he’ll survive more than a mile or two. Look, there’s nothing we can do. Steed got himself into this mess. Let’s go find Walsh while the trail is still hot and get that reward. We’ll come back after we’re through and if Steed’s still alive we’ll take him back to the ranch.”
Both men looked down at Steed with expressions devoid of any compassion. At the moment, he was nothing more than a pain or a hindrance to them getting a bounty. His past brutality and indifference toward others earned him no loyalty from those he rode with. If the roles were reversed, he would do as they did and they knew it.
Steed appeared to regain consciousness for a moment, but his groans turned into gurgling sounds deep in his throat. He attempted to rise up but fell back as the spasms of death ran their course.
“That solves that problem,” Goat said looking down at the now dead man. “You take him back to the ranch and bring back all the hands you can find and I’ll see if I can keep Walsh from getting away.”
Of course, Goat hoped that would give him enough time to track Walsh, shoot him down and claim the reward from an appreciative Widow Crawley.
Irish started to protest but backed down under Goat’s cold stare. He untied Steed’s bedroll from the back of his saddle and unrolled the canvas covering. The two them grabbed the body and swung it onto the canvas, folded it over and tied each end and the middle with leather strings. Goat held the horse steady while his companion heaved the body over the saddle and secured it with a lasso.
“Take yer time getting back, ‘cause you’ll meet me on the way leading a horse with another one of these over the saddle,” Goat said with an ugly grin pointing his thumb at Steed’s body. Irish turned away from the horse and faced Goat. His face turned red, pulsing veins popped out on his neck and his eyes narrowed. Anger built up in him like a dark billowing thunder cloud. Goat’s verbal abuse and bullying the past few months and now his blatant attempt to hog the reward caused Irish’s resentment to boil over. His coat hung open and a Smith & Wesson – butt forward in a cross draw holster – within easy reach. “Not this time, Goat. I have as much right to get that reward as you do. I ain’t gonna be left behind or lose out this time.”
Goat sneered, “What are ya gonna do...draw on me? You don’t have the guts to do anything on yer own. You’re just a sniveling coward.”
That was too much for Irish, he clawed for his revolver. His draw was clumsy. His first shot went wide and kicked up dirt. Goat growled in surprise, whipped back his coat, drew and fanned off two rounds.
One missed, the other nicked Irish above the elbow throwing him off balance. Irish recovered and got off another shot that drilled Goat dead center as he brought his pistol level for another shot.
Irish thumbed back his six shooter’s hammer for another shot but didn’t pull the trigger. The impact of the heavy 246 grain bullet knocked Goat to his knees. He looked up at Irish his eyes protruding and mouth curled into a disbelieving expression. He attempted to raise his Colt but couldn’t summon enough energy and pitched forward on his face dead.
Irish stood there in shock at what he had just done. He eased the hammer down on his pistol and with shaking hands ejected and replaced the fired .44 round.
Feeling queasy, Irish sat down on the ground and stared at Goats’ body. The reality of what just happened slowly started to sink in. He had just killed someone in a gunfight. Rather than remorse, Irish felt elation. Maybe he could stand up to bullies. Maybe he could stand toe-to-toe and shoot it out with those that gave him a bad time. A smile crossed his face but quickly faded as he realized that he had a big problem. What am I going to do with two bodies? How am I going to explain how Goat got shot? Irish mulled this over and tried to figure out what to do next.
An idea came to him and he considered it for several minutes. A pretty bold plan if I say so myself, Irish thought as a faint smile crossed his red, scraggly-bearded face. He went to work and loaded both bodies on their horses, secured them with lassos and attached lead ropes. With the horses and their grisly burdens in tow, Irish set off for the Circle C.
It was late afternoon when Silvia Crawley looked up from planting hollyhocks and pruning rose bushes in her garden and saw three riders about a mile out riding in from the northeast. She stood up for a better view and watched them. When they get within a few hundred yards, she saw that it was one rider with two horses carrying large bundles.
“Jenny,” Silvia called to her daughter who was leading a colt from the corral. “Find Ruddy. We have some company.”
Silvia stood watching them puzzled over the rider’s identity and what the bundles were. As they got closer, she gasped as it suddenly dawned on her when she saw a flash of red hair that it was Irish and the two bundles were bodies lashed over saddles.
She ran towards Irish with Jenny and Ruddy not far behind. The women stopped a dozen feet from the horses uncertain about going closer. Ruddy trotted up and grabbed the lead ropes as Irish slipped from the saddle and removed his hat.
“S-s-sorry, ma’am,” Irish stammered. “Walsh ambushed us, and we had to shoot our way out. He shot Steed and Goat. I was lucky and only got winged.” Irish showed his arm that he wrapped in a bloody bandana.
Silvia stared at him, “Did you get Walsh?”
“I don’t think so. He hit us when we was not expecting it and we was all shooting and then he disappeared and Steed and Goat was on the ground dead. But, I shot his horse so he’s on foot and trying to escape south,” Irish blurted out looking down and not meeting her gaze as sweat trickled down his brow.
Silvia shifted her gaze, “Ruddy, take Irish up to the bunk house and see if you can patch him up...and see if there’s any ranch hands around who can bury these two.”
Silva covered her face with her hands, brushed past Jenny and bolted into the house. Inside, she collapsed on a divan trembling and fighting to keep from throwing up. After a few minutes, she managed to bring her emotions under control. But anger soon replaced nausea. The idea that Walsh killed two of her hands and was still out there, stoked her anger to an even higher level.
Moments later, Jenny entered the room, pale and shaken. Silvia looked up, her anger building to the red hot temperature of a blacksmith’s forge. “Why can’t we find this Walsh and put an end to this? He keeps getting away. We need to get as many hands on his trail as we can and put a noose around this bushwhacker’s neck once and for all,” her eyes flaming and voice becoming shrill.
Ruddy rapped on the door, entered and doffed his high-crowned Stetson. “Irish got lucky. It’s a just a flesh wound and should heal up in a few days. Too bad about Steed and Goat. That leaves us short two good hands.”
>
“I want you to go to Drover’s Saloon in Henryville in the morning and hire as many riders as you can to tide us over. If they’re good with a Colt or rifle, that’s even better. Meanwhile, round up all our cowhands that are spread out, and let’s get them out to where Irish shot Walsh’s horse and track down this outlaw. I’m upping the reward to whoever kills him to $200. I want to see him brought in over a saddle fast.”
“I’ll get on it now, ma’am.” Ruddy said putting his Stetson back on and quickly backing out the door in an attempt to put distance between him and Silvia’s wrath.
Silvia looked at Jenny, “I need you to ride out and tell our riders at the line shacks and those combing the south range to high-tail it in as quick as they can, We’re not going to let him get away again.”
“Mother, you can’t be serious. You’re letting the ranch go downhill. We can’t let everything come to standstill so you can send all our riders out to get revenge. How many more people have to get killed before this all ends?”
“I don’t want you arguing with me. I’m not going to let my husband’s killer get away scot free. Now he has gunned down two of our hands. I want to see him swing. Now you either do as I ask or I’ll get someone else to ride out.” And if I have to bring in professional bounty hunters, I’ll do it. That bastard is not getting away. He’s not, Silvia thought to herself not feeling the pain of her fingernails digging into her palms.
Jenny spun around and stomped out the door letting it slam behind her. Anger built in her like a dark thunder cloud as she stalked across the yard toward the corrals.
Ruddy intercepted her. “Your mother is sure on the prod today, meaner than cornered badger. Still we have to go along for now. I understand why she’s upset about losing her husband, but she’s acting like a coondog on a fresh scent and won’t give up till she trees this Walsh fellow or dies trying.”
Jenny leaned against the corral poles and took a deep breath. “I don’t understand this either, Ruddy. I don’t think she wants him captured...she wants him dead!”
Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch Page 9