Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch

by Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch (retail) (epub)

  Jenny smiled. “Good idea. If he won’t cooperate I know a trick that worked with getting calves to drink.”

  “Glad I ain’t your patient. Well, don’t kill him then and keep that new rifle handy,” Jonas said buckling his empty saddle bags. He threw them over his shoulder and strolled out of the shack to the corrals. Moments later he let his mount settle into a comfortable gait toward Crawley’s ranch.

  After dire threats and cajoling, Jenny got Walsh to gulp down a cup of Jonas’ willow bark tea.

  He soon fell into a fevered sleep, and Jenny found a spot out on the sagging porch. She brought with her Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island that she borrowed from her step-father’s library, a book she knew her mother wouldn’t approve of her reading.

  Jenny unrolled her bedroll on the porch and planned on spending the night keeping an eye on her patient. To her relief, Walsh stirred fitfully but slept through the night and woke up as daylight lit up the eastern sky behind the shack.

  Jenny helped him sit up and he gulped down a battered tin cup full of cold spring water. “You’re starting to look a little perkier, cowboy, now that the fever’s broken.”

  “Thanks...I still can’t believe you’re Randal Crawley’s daughter. This is the damnest thing I’ve ever got mixed up in,” Walsh said looking into the prettiest green eyes he had ever encountered. Not that he had encountered that many attractive gals. And those he did were usually off limits. No father wanted his daughter to get involved with a drifting cowboy. And they weren’t shy about letting them know their daughters were off limits.

  “Well, he’s...was...my step-dad. And if you don’t mind, I would very much like to hear all about your side of what happened up in Dry Bone. I know it’s painful for you, but I want to hear the lowdown from you...every little detail.”

  For the next half hour, Walsh related what happened since he left Wyoming riding south to find work because a tough winter had put so many cowboys out of work.

  Uncomfortably, he detailed the ambush in Dry Bone Gulch not holding anything back. Jenny listened, sometimes a shocked expression crossed her attractive face, but mostly she stared at him wide-eyed and rarely interrupted.

  When he finally stopped talking exhausted, they sat in silence for a few moments both lost in their thoughts; both struggled to get a handle on how and why all this happened.

  Jenny finally stood up and walked to the door. She leaned against the gray weathered door jam and stared out at the range, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her world was collapsing, and she fought to make sense of what it all meant. After a few minutes she put emotion aside and looked at Walsh. “I believe you. Jonas certainly believes you’re square. I think you’re right; my stepfather was there waiting to kill someone who could do him some harm. We can’t refute the evidence Uncle Nate presented at the inquest. But who could possibly want or be able to hurt my stepdad enough for him to try and dry gulch him?”

  “I don’t know, but I think your mother may know. Maybe that’s why she’s so set on having my hide. She thinks I’m that someone from their past who can cause her a lot of grief.”

  “I’ve never thought about it, but I don’t remember them talking much about their life before they bought the ranch, and I barely remember my real father who was killed when I was four.” Jenny slumped down in the doorway and drew her knees up under her chin her eyes tearing up. For several moments she sat with her eyes closed tight trying to remember anything that would shed some light on what was happening.

  Jenny took deep breath as she snapped back to reality and looked around the shack. She stood up and moved over to the rough-hewn table. “I don’t think we have much food left. The last cowhands here ate all the air-tights,” she said inventorying the few supplies Jonas left and noticed an interesting looking knife lying on the table. She picked it up. “Is this your knife, the one you had to use to...?”

  Walsh winced feeling a knot form in the pit of his stomach. “Unfortunately yes. Thought I’d lost it, but Jonas must have picked it up back where I was wounded.”

  “I’ve never seen one like this – it’s a beautiful knife,” Jenny said running her finger along the slightly curved clip pointed blade.

  “Have always liked knives. Used to practice throwing ‘em by the hour. Got pretty good at it. Cowpunchers I used to work with joshed me all the time about what would happen if I went to a gunfight packin’ a knife. Careful, don’t cut yourself. I try to keep it razor sharp. There’s quite a story behind that Bowie.”

  Jenny sat down balancing on a broken three-legged stool. “I’m listening.”

  Walsh reluctantly related the family stories about the Bowie’s origin and its curse by an old Creole witch doctor. “So far that curse has held true. I don’t know how many more people are going to die because of it.”

  Jenny looked at Walsh, a skeptical expression in her eyes. “You really believe that something can be cursed?”

  “Well, you know cowpunchers are a superstitious bunch. I can only go on what’s happened.”

  Jenny shivered. “That’s a scary tale. If you hadn’t told me what happened in Dry Bone, I’d say you’re joshin’ me with a typical cowboy tale.” She stared at Walsh for a moment then her mouth curved up into a mischievous smile, “Talking about razor sharp, you look like a bear crawling out of hibernation. Jonas left a razor and some soap; I’d like to see what you look like under all that scraggly hair. Luckily, you got shot in the left shoulder. I’ll heat some water for you, and here’s a clean flour sack you can use for a towel”

  Walsh looked at her realizing that she was quite attractive with her up-turned nose and auburn hair tied back into a ponytail. Wonder what her mother would do if she knew her daughter was in the same room as the man she’s dead set on stringing up. He forced the thought from his mind not wanting to go down that dark trail.

  While Walsh tackled his scraggly beard, Jenny checked on the horses and threw a few pitchforks of hay in the corral then plopped down on an old weathered stump nearby. I’ve sure got myself in neck deep in pickle juice, stuck with a wounded man every cowpuncher in the territory is looking for and a mother who may be in trouble over who knows what, she pondered dejectedly looking out over a meadow dotted with cows with many new calves.

  It dawned on Jenny that Jonas didn’t say how long he would be gone. She decided she would have to go back to the ranch for more supplies and reluctantly walked back to the shack to tell Walsh her plan. He was just finishing up with the razor and Jenny stopped and stared. “There’s someone under all that scrub brush after all,” she said breaking into a smile, aware that he wasn’t bad looking after all. “Let’s see what we can do about a hair cut. I’ve got some scissors and a curry comb in my saddlebag, and I’m quite good at trimming my horses’ tails and manes.”

  Walsh gave her a grin. “Just remember: I’m not a horse’s tail.”

  Jenny let Walsh hold a piece of broken mirror to observe her progress while she started cutting. Hair clippings quickly piled up on the floor, and after a while she stood back to observe her handiwork. “Not bad,” she quipped tilting his head to one side and trimming an area she missed.

  As she worked, Jenny became aware of an unfamiliar warmth spreading through her body, a sense of attraction for this cowpoke down on his luck. She had known many cowpunchers and none had aroused feelings like this. She became self-conscious, then panicky but managed to get her emotions under control. “There, how does that look?” she asked a little shaky.

  “I’ll admit it does feel better...a lot better,” Walsh said admiring the stranger in the mirror.

  Get him some new duds and he could be quite a dashing cowboy, Jenny thought standing back admiring her handiwork. She swept the pile of clipped hair into an old rusty coal bucket and set it outside the door. “Jays and chipmunks are gonna love making a nest out of this stuff.”

  Walsh looked away from the mirror and gave her a where-you-been-all-my-life look. “Wow, I’d forgotten what I really look like. Obliged.�
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  “Now that’s done, I need to get going back to the ranch and bring back supplies, and I think I can round up some duds that may fit you. I’ll make it back as soon as I can.”

  After Jenny left, Walsh looked around the shack taking stock of what was there. Jonas left a couple of gun belts hanging from pegs stuck in the wall and two Winchester Yellow-boys leaning against the wall. Three boxes of rimfire .44-40s for the rifles and a half box of .45 cartridges were stacked on the table.

  A few strips of jerky, some Arbuckles' coffee and a small onion were about all the food left. Until I can recover enough to hunt, it could get mighty skinny if she doesn’t come back...he thought hoping that wouldn’t happen.

  Chapter 15

  Thaxton climbed to his feet stiff and sore. For the past hour he had laid on the ridge top watching the line shack through binoculars. Jonas he recognized from their encounter on the mountain, but was puzzled by Jenny’s presence. Who she was and why she was there he had no idea. But, the important thing to him was that Walsh was inside the shack wounded. I’m going to need some more men to better the odds. If I can find a couple of drifters good with guns, I should be able to put together a winning hand, Though we’ll have to be careful not to shoot that little sage hen...that would be bad for business, he thought. A faint smile crossed his thin face as a plan started to take shape in his mind.

  Thaxton half-ran, half-slid down the slope to where his horse was tethered, cased his binoculars and mounted up. He whipped his horse around and spurred it into a gallop heading west into the valley toward Henryville.

  In about any western town, Thaxton knew he could find men who were handy with a six gun or rifle and willing to hire out for some quick and easy money. Successful in the past finding and hiring such hard-cases to do his dirty work, he was confident he wouldn’t have too much trouble in the town ahead.

  A couple of hours later, Thaxton’s horse shuffled down Henryville’s main street kicking up a small cloud of fine dust. He observed the saloons on both sides of the street and looked for one that was more ramshackle and likely to cater to a coarser type of clientele.

  He spotted the Black Widow saloon, a squat adobe building on the west side of the street. Grey weathered rough-cut boards, some curling and splitting, created a false front to a log framed structure. An eight foot overhang nailed to the front was sagging on one end from a splintered support. Clearly the place attracted down-at-the-heel types and the owner was not overly concerned about upkeep or image.

  There’s one these in every town, without fail, Thaxton observed smugly giving his reins a couple of flips around the hitching rail. He strolled through the entrance — noticing that one of the swinging doors was missing — and stood off to the side for a few moments letting his eyes adjust to low light. Dirty and brown stained windows added to the gloom inside along with a thick layer of tobacco smoke that hovered near the ceiling. The usual smell of cheap liquor, unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke common in most saloons assailed his nostrils.

  Thaxton scanned the room looking for a particular type of drifter. One who looked down-at-the-heel but wore his gun easily and kept it in top condition. He spotted two possibilities lounging against a twelve foot long worn plank bar nailed to the top of large empty oak barrels. He strode confidently across the dirty sawdust floor and bellied up to an empty spot near the middle of the bar.

  A small heavy set man in a dirty multi-colored shirt leaned with his elbows on the bar. He gave Thaxton a wary look and in a raspy voice asked, “What’s yer poison?”

  “What’s the best you got?”

  “I treat everybody alike, serve only premium distilled spirits.”

  “Two fingers to start.”

  The barkeep poured a couple of ounces of clear liquid from a quart jar into a dirty shot glass and set it on the bar. “Two bits.”

  Thaxton tossed a three dollar coin on the bar and said, “Keep it open.” He unobtrusively sniffed the contents of the shot glass and from the smell figured it was 100 percent grain alcohol cut with kerosene. Turning his back to the bar, he surveyed the room. Five rough looking cowhands played intently at a small stakes Faro table. At the other table, three poker players studied their cards while joking among themselves trying to decide whether to bluff, fold or ask for a hit.

  At the end of the bar, two dusty men looking like they had just ridden in watched the Faro game obviously too broke to join in. Thaxton sized them up and decided his initial impression was a good one. They were the type he was looking for, down-at-the-heel drifters who would jump at any chance to earn a gold eagle. He glanced at their worn and scuffed gun leather but noted their well-cared for hog-legs: no cracked, abused or missing grips nor obvious rust.

  Thaxton strolled over. “Buy you gents a drink?”

  “What would you want to do that fer?” the taller one asked scowling with suspicion.

  “Lookin’ for a couple of helpers for a few days. Pays five dollars a day...that is if you’re good with a six gun or rifle.

  Looks of suspicion quickly changed to broad smiles.

  “What do we have to do?” the other one asked.

  “Need a couple of deputies to help me bring in a wanted man. I know where he’s holed up, just need some help smoking him out.”

  “Well, that’s something me and Parley can handle,” the taller one said. “By the way, I’m Wilson and this here is Parley. When do we start?”

  Thaxton motioned the barkeep to serve his new hires. “Till the coin runs out,” he told him and turned to his new hires, “Meet me at sunup...south end of town at the livery.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Leaving his shot glass untouched on the bar, Thaxton strolled out of the saloon into fresh air. He breathed in deeply and exhaled as if trying to expunge the saloon’s smell and tobacco smoke from his lungs. Two things he considered more evil than killing were smoking the Devil’s Weed and drinking saloon whiskey.

  Jonas stepped down out of the saddle in front of the main house. Less than a dozen remounts remained in the corrals. It was too quiet for this time of day. Cowboys should have been cutting out and bringing in bunches of calves for branding and docking in the back corrals. A blacksmith should have been set up with his forge glowing red hot. The loud pinging cadence of his hammer shaping iron horseshoes on an anvil resonating above bawling calves and cussing cowboys. Along with the noise there should have been the stench of burning flesh and hair from red hot branding irons drifting and swirling in dusty air currents.

  But there was none of that going on. It appeared that all the cowhands that could ride were out looking for Walsh. Only the melody of several competing meadow larks broke the silence coupled with the smells of sage and uncut hay.

  Jonas stood for a moment shocked and saddened at what was happening to what should have been the busiest and most successful ranch in the valley. He walked up the porch steps, unbuckled his spurs and kicked them off. The door stood ajar and Jonas pushed it open with his boot and entered hand resting on his Colt.

  In the house too there should have been a bustle of activity, but only silence greeted his entrance. He moved to the parlor and found Silvia sitting in a rocking chair wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes closed, face pale and thin. Blond hair that had turned many a man’s head, unbrushed and disheveled. “Silvia, are you all right?” Jonas strode over and shook her shoulder.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she struggled to focus on him. “Jonas, what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you for days.” Her voice was weak and slurred.

  Jonas smelled alcohol on her and spotted an empty bottle of Rebel Yell on the floor. He pressed on trying to get her to talk. “Where did all your help go?’

  “They quit and Donita, my most loyal one— I thought—left me this morning.”

  “From the looks of things, you sent all the hired hands out to track down Walsh.

  “Yes I did. Told ‘em to bring that son-of-a-bitch bushwacker back over a saddle,” she slurred her eyes unfocused.r />
  Jonas moved a leather ottoman over and sat down. He stared at her uncertain what to say or do next. Stress from the past week had taken its toll. Obviously, something weighed heavily on her in addition to Randal’s death...something that was causing her to act erratically and drink too much.

  They both sat in silence for a few moments. Jonas tried to get a conversation going. “I ran into Jenny at the foothills line shack. She asked me to tell you she plans on spending a couple of days cleaning and fixing it up.”

  Silvia stared off into space for a few moments and then tried to focus her red-rimmed eyes on Jonas. “It appears my husband’s killer is getting away because you and my loyal hands aren’t diligent in tracking him down. A few cowhands quit on me, so we’ll have to find others who can replace them. Hopefully, they’ll be more loyal,” she said sarcastically.

  “I know it’s been rough, Silvia, but you need to wipe off the war paint and move on. You have a large ranch to run and decisions need making,” Jonas said looking intently at Silvia. She didn’t answer and appeared to withdraw even more. Realizing he isn’t getting anywhere, he walked out onto the porch and stood there fishing through his vest pockets for some Bull Durham and makings. He wanted to ask her a lot more questions, especially why she hired a bounty hunter, but knew he wouldn’t get much out of her right now. It would have to wait.

  Jonas slumped down in a wooden porch rocker and lit his smoke. As he rocked back and forth, a chilling thought suddenly intruded. What happened to Thaxton? Did he keep on riding out of the country or is he hanging around still trying to collect? If he’s a professional, he can’t afford to go back to Silvia empty handed. Chances are I‘ll still have to deal with him...I should ride back to the foothills and look for his trail first thing in the morning. He took a couple more drags on his smoke and flipped the butt over the railing.