“Well, I don’t know what to do either. It’s too bad that Walsh fellow killed two of our cow punchers. Maybe we do need to get more riders out there and bring him in. I hoped he had high-tailed it out of the territory by now, but it looks like he’s still around.”
Ruddy slid out of his saddle in front of the Drover’s Saloon and flipped the reins around the hitching rail. It was late afternoon and men were starting to mosey in looking for liquor, an early supper or both.
“It’s been awhile, Ruddy,” the bartender said reaching under the bar for some of his better brandy.
“Likewise, Lewis. Looking for some cow punchers to hire.”
Lewis leaned over the bar. “Well, that may be tough. The ones you’d want to hire are already working. Those that aren’t, you probably don’t want.”
“Don’t doubt it. Silvia sent me in to find some hands to replace two that got shot hunting for that Walsh fellow,” Ruddy said taking a sip of brandy from his shot glass.
“No kidding. What happened?”
“Three of our riders, tangled with Walsh trying to escape south and Goat and Steed got themselves killed in a shootout.”
Ruddy took another sip and felt a hand on his shoulder. He swiveled to find Williams giving him a grin. “What brings you into our fair city?”
“Howdy, Sheriff. Silvia sent me in. As I was telling Lewis here, three of our punchers tangled with Walsh and two, Goat and Steed got themselves killed. Irish brought ‘em in and said he shot Walsh’s horse so he’s on foot south of Squaw canyon.”
“Better give me a brandy too, Lewis,” Williams said with a troubled look. He gulped down the drink and felt the burn all the way down this throat. He thought of getting another, but decided not to. He was still on duty.
Ruddy took another sip and looked over at Williams. “What can ya do to help us out, Sheriff? We’re short of riders and getting two of ‘em killed is sending Silvia into a tizzy.”
“I sent Jonas out yesterday to find Walsh and bring him in. So it won’t take him long to pick up his trail and track him down. You say Irish brought ‘em in?”
“Yep, they was deader than a month old lion kill...and I’m relieved to hear that Jonas is on his trail; he’ll have him treed in no time,” Ruddy said swirling his brandy around in the shot glass.
Williams leaned against the bar a troubled feeling gnawing away at him. Irish, huh? Something doesn’t smell right here. “Do ya know what happened?”
“Irish said Walsh ambushed them just south of Squaw Canyon and shot Goat and Steed. Irish got nicked in the arm, but nothing serious. Although, he said he did shoot Walsh’s horse out from under him so he’s now on foot. Anyway, Irish managed to bring in Steed and Goat’s bodies.”
“Too bad, wish I could help you find some cowhands. But with the roundup going full steam, I doubt you’ll be able to find any reliable hands available.”
Ruddy looked down at the scarred and tobacco stained plank floor. “I don’t think it was cow savvy that Mrs. Crawley had in mind when she ordered me to come in and find some hired help...”
Chapter 10
Jonas’ horses skidded and slid down a steep slope of loose shale the last couple of hundred feet into the bottom of Chicken Creek canyon. Once in the canyon he made good time splashing down the gravel creek bed that in places was running one to two feet deep. But that wouldn’t last, spring runoff from snow high on the peaks would fill the canyon in a few days with a raging, frothing current that wouldn’t subside until later on in the summer.
At the mouth of the canyon, Jonas climbed out of a widening creek bed and up a low gravel bank onto foothills covered with junipers and sage. He found an open spot, dismounted and sat down with his field glasses and scanned the terrain in an east to south arc.
About ten miles out in the valley to the southwest, he spotted the Circle C ranch buildings shimmering in the distance. Swinging his glasses toward the foothills, he saw a few mule deer, an old bull elk and a fleeting glimpse of an ambitious mountain lion shadowing the bull, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Jonas slipped the glasses back into a beaded elk leather pouch and started to mount up when he heard gunshots faint and far off. He pulled his boot out the stirrup, moved a few paces away from his horses, cocked his head slightly and listened. He heard another shot and was able to estimate its direction…all he needed. Not wanting his pack horse to slow him down, he staked it in patch of grass, mounted up and headed in the direction of the shooting at a fast gallop.
Deciding that sitting around feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to get him out this mess, Walsh limped painfully up the ravine looking for the rifle Steed dropped. He followed the horse tracks and soon spotted a glint of metal among some rocks. Unfortunately, the stock was cracked and the Henry’s brass receiver was damaged making the rifle useless. Nor would the three .44 caliber rimfire cartridges in the rifle’s magazine fit his .45 Colt. Walsh tossed the Henry into the brush in disgust and hiked back to where he left his saddle.
I’ve sure got myself in a pickle this time. Walsh thought taking stock of his situation. Crawleys want me dead in the worst way. Well, I’ve been in tight spots before, blizzards, floods, rogue horses, stampedes and I’m still here...though I sometimes wonder if I don’t have a black cloud following me around.
In spite of his attempt to find a bright side, Walsh felt a fresh wave of discouragement rolling over him like a dark thick fog. He had food for only a couple of days, few rounds for his six-shooter and on foot with a bunch of cow punchers after him willing to shoot on sight. Still, he knew he couldn’t hang around and bawl like calf that lost its mammy. He had to do something fast or this was one tight spot he wouldn’t get out of.
His best course of action, he reasoned, was move higher up into the heavy cover of oak brush, mountain mahogany and pines. He could then work his way south along the upper foothills out of Circle C range and eventually run into the east-west Transcontinental Railroad track. From what Nellie and Williams told him of the lay-of-the-land, that should be about a hundred and twenty-five miles south as the crow flies.
Walsh cached his saddle in a small depression behind a thick stand of sagebrush and set out with his saddle bags slung over his shoulder.
He climbed steadily for about a half hour gaining nearly a thousand feet in altitude before he stopped gasping for air, his lungs burning. His legs felt like they were encased in heavy mud and sweat ran down his neck and back. This is what mules are for, Walsh thought dropping down on the ground and gazing over the valley spread out below.
Far out in the valley Walsh spied a dust cloud. At first, it looked like a dust devil kicked up by heated air and cross currents, but as he studied it he realized that it was a group of riders moving fast in his direction.
Jonas slowed his horse down to a fast cantor and rode in the direction of the gunshots. He topped a low rise and noticed a lone rider with two pack horses about a half mile away heading southwest toward the Crawley ranch. He slid out the saddle and let his horse cool down while he sat down, drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them to get a steady view with his field glasses.
He located the rider in his glasses’ field of view and focused trying to make out his identity. When the rider took off his hat to wipe he forehead, Jonas caught a flash of red hair.
“Irish,” Jonas exclaimed out loud. He swung his glasses to the other two horses and focused on what looked like bodies lashed to the saddles. “What the hell is this?”
Jonas spun around and sprinted to his horse. Grabbing the reins, he leaped into the saddle and spurred his horse to a gallop while he flipped the thong off his Colt’s hammer and loosened it in the holster.
Irish saw Jonas galloping toward him. The redhead stopped and dismounted holding the reins in his left hand while keeping his right hand close to his holster.
Jonas reined in about twelve feet way and stayed in the saddle. “Howdy, Irish. Looks like you’ve had some trouble there. Who are the dead men...what hap
pened?”
“Me and Steed and Goat was trying to find Walsh and take him in. Mrs. Crawley was paying us handsome to track him down. He ambushed us and shot Steed and Goat. I got winged but hit his horse so he’s on foot. I thought I better get these two back to the ranch for proper burying and come back with more help.”
“Nice of you, Irish. Where did this ambush happen?” Jonas asked walking his horse over to the bodies. He reached down and checked each one.
“Straight east of here at the mouth of a small ravine that’s to the right of that big rocky outcropping.” Irish nervously jerks his thumb east towards the foothills.
“Well, that’s too bad. Ya better get moving and get that arm fixed and those two planted. Tell Silvia I’ll drop by in a few days on my way back to town.”
“I’ll do that,” Irish said nervously.
Jonas watched Irish mount up and move out leading the other two horses. Something just isn’t right about this. Nothing I can draw a bead on – just a nagging feeling, he reasoned turning his mount and heading back to pick up his pack horse.
Returning back to where he had met Irish, it didn’t take long for Jonas to find Irish’s back-trail and follow it toward the foothills. He found bloodstains in the dirt where Irish shot Goat and an empty .44 Russian cartridge. A few feet away he found more blood stains where Steed fell off his horse and probably died from loss of blood.
Jonas circled the area and puzzled out the different horse tracks. Within a short time the pieces came together and he felt he had an accurate picture of what had happened. The only thing left was backtrack Steed’s route to where he encountered Walsh. That lying sun-of-a-bitch, Irish and Goat didn’t tangle with Walsh. They found Steed wounded and dying likely from a shootout with Walsh. They probably drew on each other over the reward. That’s all those two low-life varmints would fight for, Jonas mused with disgust.
Jonas followed Steed’s tracks observing that they tended to meander and the horse would stop occasionally and nibble an enticing tuft of spring grass. Obviously its rider was not in control. Eventually the tracks led toward a shallow ravine where the spacing of the hoof prints indicated the horse was running.
Tying his horses at the mouth of the ravine, Jonas followed the tracks on foot. A midafternoon sun beat down making it hot and uncomfortable. He wished he had brought along a canteen, but didn’t want to waste time going back so he pressed on. Fortunately, about two hundred yards further he came upon a small spring at the base of a rocky outcropping fed from snow melt higher up. He scooped out sand and gravel to make a small basin that slowly filled with ice cold water.
Jonas sat down in the shade of the outcropping, mopped his face and neck with a soaked bandana and tried to think through what was happening. If Walsh is on foot he’ll try to hoof it southward but will be hard put to avoid Circle C hands looking for him. And Silvia keeps stirring the pot by sending more riders out and offering bigger rewards. This may end up a tug-of-war between the law and Circle C...we don’t want vigilante justice to prevail on our watch. But if the other ranchers side with Silvia, it could get real ugly fast. We may have to send for U.S, Marshals or the army.
The warmth of the sun reflected off the ravine’s sides and lack of sleep caused Jonas to relax and nod off. About a half hour later he suddenly jerked awake. A couple of crows sailed overhead cawing to each other loudly. Soon more joined them. Something appeared to interest them further up the dry creek bed.
Jonas took a long drink from the seep and resumed his climb. He covered a quarter of a mile and came upon what was getting the crows excited, a dead horse. Several were hopping around the carcass while a coyote slipped into the brush at his approach.
The horse was likely Walsh’s, Jonas figured and started circling reading the signs. He found another set of hoof prints made by a galloping horse and backtracked those across a side hill. Every so often he found spent .44 Henry brass along with some unfired cartridges. He returned to the carcass and found five fired .45 cartridges along with footprints going downhill. Following the tracks, Jonas came upon Walsh’s abandoned saddle and boot tracks pointing uphill angling southeast.
Shadows lengthened and the canyons and ravines grew dark. In the fading light Jonas decided to break off his search and go back to the canyon’s entrance where he left his horses. He would camp there for the night and get an early start, confident he could catch up with Walsh the next morning.
Walsh climbed a couple of hundred feet higher into dense oak and pinions. Above him large patches of snow still lingered on the north slopes and in the shade of tall pines and outcroppings. If they’re going to find me they’re going to have to climb up here to do it, he thought as he worked his way south keeping to as much cover as he could between him and the valley below.
It was slow going skirting around dense stands of scrub oak and mountain mahogany. Walsh tried to stay in the late afternoon shadows to avoid highlighting himself against the sky and other background that would make him easy to spot. He covered about half a mile zigzagging from cover to cover when a horse whinny far below caught his attention. A half-dozen Circle C riders were spread out in the junipers and sagebrush looking for tracks. He knew he couldn’t go much higher without getting bogged down in a melting snow pack. Best option was to keep moving forward, avoiding open spaces and covering as much distance as possible.
Walsh stayed in the pinions hoping to blend into their shadows as he topped a ridge. Before he started down the other side, he hunkered down behind a wagon-sized rock for a breather and studied his back trail. A quarter hour passed and he saw nothing. Hopefully they’ll waste their time looking lower down while I slip out of here, he thought trying to give himself some hope. Further up the mountain from Walsh, a setting sun enveloped the eastern foothills with a reddish glow as it sank below the horizon. With darkness fast approaching, Walsh decided it was suicide to try and navigate down a steep slope in the dark, so staying put until first light appeared his best option. He pulled his coat out of a saddle bag and prepared an insulating bed of dried grass and pine needles. It was going to be a cold night without a fire, but he didn’t dare light one. A supper of jerky and water from his canteen would have to do.
Dawn was just beginning to create a glow in the eastern sky when Walsh awakened cold and shivering. “I’d give just about anything for a fire and some hot coffee right now,” he muttered flexing his fingers and stomping his feet trying to get circulation going. First the mountain peaks took shape dark against the early morning light followed by ghostly images of tall firs and spruces. When there was enough light to see where he was going, Walsh gathered his saddlebags and picked his way slipping and sliding along the rocky ridge trying to stay as high as possible.
A morning sun soon cleared the eastern peaks and bathed the valley below in light. Walsh, warmed up and breathing heavily from climbing, slipped into a stand of tall firs to remove his coat and catch his breath. As he studied his back trail, he caught a flicker of movement on top of a ridge about five hundred yards away. He froze then slowly sank down keeping his eyes trained on the spot. Nothing moved. Could it have been a deer or bird? He asked himself barely breathing. Panic threatened to take over and he fought to control it while sweat dripped down his back. He licked his dry lips but didn’t dare dig out his canteen. He felt his heart beating rapidly from exertion in the high altitude.
Several minutes passed. Again Walsh saw a flicker of movement. Then three men led their horses slowly out of a dense stand of spruce. They were not cowboys, but professional trackers and they had found his trail and were gaining on him. Slowly Walsh backed away and used the trees for cover. He scrambled and slid down the steep ridge trying to put distance between him and those tracking him.
Walsh felt like a hunted animal. He couldn’t climb higher; those tracking him were closing in from above. He couldn’t drop down much lower because Circle C riders were scouring the foothills below.
Chapter 11
It was early morning and a do
zen riders heavily armed and ready to ride milled around in front of the bunk house smoking and joshin’ each other. Silvia, looking natty in dark blue split riding skirt and white lace shawl walked purposefully from the house to where a group of riders waited. Upon her approach, they quieted down and removed their hats all eyes on her.
“Thank you for your help, gentlemen. As you know, my husband’s killer and the one who gunned down Steed and Goat has been spotted trying to escape south and out of the territory. Irish says he shot Walsh’s horse, so he’s on foot. I want this low down bushwhacker brought to justice. I’ll pay a $200 bonus to the man who brings him back on or over a saddle...it doesn’t matter.” Silvia ended her speech with a dazzling smile.
Silvia put a little mince in her walk back to the porch and watched the cowhands mount up. They whooped and hollered as they galloped out of the compound kicking up dust clouds that drifted slowly out over the sage.
Jenny slid off the porch railing from where she was sitting watching her mother’s performance, “I really don’t trust Irish. Do you think he’s telling the truth about what happened? Uncle Nate said he would ride out in the next day or two after he finishes up with a cow rustling ring he and Jonas broke up and see what he can find out.”
“Does it matter?” Silvia said flippantly “And you need to ride out to the line shacks and tell any cowhands left out there to come in,” she added as she walked into the house letting the screen door bang behind her. Jenny stomped down the porch steps and kicked a few dirt clods on her way to saddle her horse.
She had a bad feeling about all that had happened the past few days. Spending her time among the cowhands since she was ten had taught her a lot about ranching. She helped out on roundups, branding and docking calves, cutting and stacking Timothy hay. Even tried to shoe her own horse, although she was on the light side to do it alone. The hands once delighted in teaching her how to shoot until she could outshoot them all with a rifle. Then their enthusiasm waned and the ones she had trounced came up with all sorts of lame excuses why they wouldn’t compete with her.
Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch Page 10