The Hell Bent Kid

by Charles O Locke

  Blacky was cut with a sharp rock just above the foreleg. Nelson had some revenge. It is a bad muscular place to wound a horse. He was bleeding.

  Starting to get off, I thought of myself and my own worries. There might be others in the vicinity besides the man I had shot and his friend back with the Bawbeens, by now not in the best of shape with a chest full of burned places. I had seen many more men since leaving the Bradleys than I honestly thought the Boyds would send against me.

  I threw out the spent shell and wiped the stock. I wanted to throw the rifle away for just a minute. I sat looking at the gun. That gun I knew I could never throw away. I remembered then how I had come by it. Nevin, before his death, had owned a Winchester and had taken me on a chuck wagon circuit to find a man he was supposed to arrest, working with the O Bar Y outfit.

  At night we caught up with the wagon and the man had vamoosed. But we spent the night with the cowpokers. Nevin’s Winchester was bright-new then and he cared for it like a little baby. He had it in a heavy, fringed rifle-boot, but some careless person had nudged it up to the fire so that the muzzle heated up close to red hot. Nevin found the gun in this condition and almost went crazy, throwing the rifle in the brush.

  He would never look at the gun again and I got it and hid it from him. Then I took it to a man who knew guns and he sawed the muzzle down, losing less than a half inch, and now it was my gun. All this came over me, as I looked at my gun, thinking what I should do about fixing the trigger. I drew in the pine smell to steady myself like a man will take a whiskey shot. Blacky stomped in the fresh manure around him and kept turning his head to see his wound.

  Nelson was lying there face up. He sure had been a damn fool.

  I turned down the rock slope and when I saw the back of the Bawbeen place I swerved left and came out from the jackpines a half mile below the house. Maybe further but I could see what was going on.

  There was a gully further down and I ducked into this, threw the lines over the horse’s head and found him some grass to let him chew and slaver. I got some slaver and rubbed it on the wound and he slavered it some more with his mouth while I shinned a tree to see the Bawbeens.

  Bawbeen had the scrawny man on his back in the buckboard and seemed to be larding his chest out of a can. I would of done the same. The missus was at the door watching.

  I clomb down and walked Blacky south across the meadow, keeping a little ways up the slope under the pines, till I was away. Then mounted and rode south. I decided there would be no more fooling. There would be no more skulking around and I would hit for Socorro fast.

  At near noon rested the horse, got out Amos’s map and studied her. I had troubled the Bawbeens and now decided I would not hook up or bed with anyone, at least no man with wife and house. The map was sweaty and dirty but still readable. I thought I would ride fast to the north pass which was T Harris Canyon, cross through the gap and head down straight for Socorro. Before me I had the Sandios range and that put me near the edge of the Estacia Valley. The valley was broad and dry, mostly dry grass, horse-belly high in places. Amos had told me the Apaches had burnt it off some further down from where I was.

  Though open country, I decided to cross the valley right from where I was, and hug the Sandios on the way down, watching for hill trickles to the east. I figured on pushing Blacky—push him a half hour and five minutes rest, then a longer rest every two hours, possibly at water. I shortened the work periods and stretched the rest periods some.

  The map I folded up and pushed in the grain sack to dry a little, got on my horse and pushed. Once or twice Blacky favored his cut leg, but I watched that carefully. In a young horse the heat of travel sometimes speeds up the healing. To my impatient mind seemed I could cross the valley in one big drive, but it seemed long, because of many rests. Also I watched the back trail. I was sure it would be one man or two men, as usual.

  About sundown the mountains got really close. I stopped for rest, then saw a hill trickle I went for, one of those I had been seeking. Then I saw two men top a rise, see me, stop and start to backtrack. It was coming on gray then with a higher wind, thick dust in bare spots and the prettiness of twilight in the dividing line of foothills. I started a trash fire to show I did not care, but watching close.

  Sun had about an inch to fall behind the Sandios when I boiled the coffee and got it down to keep me awake all night. Blacky was grassed light and had another sip. I stomped out my fire and turned south in the near dark. The cold wind started blowing north to south on my tail, which helped after the afternoon cooking of me and my horse in the broad places. Now in the rest periods I thought I heard hoofs.

  Amos had said: “They’ll cheat, so watch out. They don’t want none of that rifle.”

  One of the men following me could have been the one with Nelson but I doubted that with his chest hurts. Could not be Carmody. Must be two new men. It looked as though by now the Boyds were building a big hunt across states. Easy for the Boyds to do this, with these cattle clubs being formed. All were fighting rustlers, some even the sheep-herders, which was why I thought Bawbeen had been smart to protect himself by killing wolves for cattlemen.

  Blacky started to slow and worry the bit. Two hours after sundown I grassed and grained him light. At a trickle in the rock wall I watered him under the shelter of a ledge. Was there too long, for I heard a rock slide start above, and then a rock hit me on the head and nearly knocked me down. I heard a laugh.

  Quick as I could I hauled Blacky under the ledge and sat under him while a cylinder full of hand-gun fire chipped off bits of the ledge. It was more calculated to work on my nerves as they knew they had as much chance of hitting me in the blowy dark as a centipede or a plains lizard. Still it was a try.

  I knew better than to move. So sat still and worked it out. The other man was possibly back with their horses, or out near me waiting for me to be scared out by the pistol. But they were stupid, for I listened and could hear the one above going back among the rocks. So mounted quietly and rode ahead.

  Decided they now wanted me in the canyon. We made T Harris Canyon an hour before midnight and did its 22 miles as the final dash to the Grande Valley in about two hours prior to sunup.

  Now Blacky was plain fagged. I took off my shirt and hand rubbed him in the most soothing places. I led-walked him a little. Waited and rested a long time.

  Just as the dawn began to get its dim light, I walked up a rise and gave the country a careful view. Blacky was not going good. The men were not to be seen, but there was a movement to the south and I could make out very dim a Mex and a burro coming up in that direction.

  I turned west then, and as we came out of the canyon and topped the rise where the land began to tilt the other way, it grew dark again in the shadow of the mountain. Found a little water further down. Heaviest flow was shoulder-high, so I filled the can, then filled my hat with my finger through the peak hole and Blacky spilled some of this but got most of it.

  14

  The Trail South

  On ahead of me in the dark, with the mountains now behind me, I could almost feel the Grande. The trail divided at the end of the canyon. One went north for a little, stopped and ended in nothing, which I found out. The other piece went south along the base of the hills. I was taking my time about planning and finally headed south slow along this trail. I thought I would rest till light, even though I had been going slow a long time. After light, I thought, I would make the crossing of the mesa that lay between me and the river in early gray. Was unsure of the country from here on and wanted to know.

  We ambled slow ahead in the dark. I kept listening for sounds of mounts behind. We came to a spring and I offered water to the horse but he refused. Then I heard sounds behind and pulled back fast and turned into a clove place in the rise. Blacky did not make a sound. We waited and soon it proved to be the Mex with the burro, going along slow and easy in the dark.

  We stayed there till he was out of sight, then come up behind him. A side trail back i
nto the rise opened up. I decided to stay here till light. I hobbled the horse and sat down and watched for what I had heard about—these New Mexico sunrises. The sun now must be near the mountain-tops behind me. I had been fooling around too long at the head of T Harris Canyon.

  When it got brighter there was a sound behind and above me on the trail. I looked up there and there was the burro munching grass, with the Mex sleeping against a tree trunk, with the lead rope noosed over one of his feet. I could see his shoe soles. Both had holes in them and his serape was muffled up so high you could hardly see his head. I paid him no mind.

  Now it got light enough so that I could see if I rode straight ahead I would surely strike the Grande, and the north-south road from Santa Fe to Socorro.

  The land this side of the mountains seemed bigger than the other side. As the sun got higher up, the flat, dry slope to the west down to the river looked like a gold country in the early, soft shadows. In the first light you could see every grass blade distinct. From where I sat I could even see insects lightering up and down the grass blades.

  The early wind would blow down the little gulches and make the grass wave in places like Mex women dancing. Now that the sun was rimming up behind me, there were streaks of light and dark that were pretty as could be. The small winds kept blowing, then bigger, general winds would come. The whole grassland bowed to the wind and came back with a salute.

  Still I was waiting for those men. Still they did not show. I was not anxious to be a plain target for them on that flat mesa grass to the river, with them spotting me from the high up. Yet I wanted no more travel in the dark now till I hit the river. The river would be reliable. So for half hour or so I rode short pieces down the road edge of the slope, due south, rifle out, waiting.

  I found a dry that was deep but passable, hightailed down there due west for several miles and come out on the level where I thought I saw the Grande shining in the distance. But was wrong. This was just a small lake, half dry, just a dip in the land filled with water.

  There was poor cottonwoods there and poor pines. But I got up one of them and scanned around and could see a bigger strip of cottonwoods north to south along the east bank and also could actually see the river.

  Then back from the tree I scanned and there they were. They were leached onto me all right. They had stopped for a breakfast fire right near where I had stopped mile and a half east of the lake. I had started to fire up there, then decided against it, and they saw my tracks and brush. I could even see in the early clear the glint of the metal above the holsters, and the shine of their wore-handled frying pan and the horsehair smoke. I got hungry watching, so watered Blacky at the lake, got a drink for myself, chewed dry bacon and was ready for them. I swung up. Blacky now felt rested and good and we made the river in less than expected time. They were out of sight then.

  Now I hit the trail to Socorro right along the river. It was good plain road, heavy tracked. There was a gully down the stream which was the outflow point of the same arroyo I had used for cover miles back, showing how I had ridden a near straight line to the river. I pulled the horse halfway down the arroyo, careful for sudden water though there was no sign of a drench as far as I could see to east. I also wanted to be careful not to get dry-gulched. Here it would be the real thing.

  Just was getting ready to lift river water in my can, to pour into my hat, when saw this dust cloud to the north and heard the wheel-creak. The creak was loud enough signal for anybody. I believe you could of heard it for miles like an owl scritch. I moved to the middle of the road carefully, then saw a two-mule, four-horse team with a freighter and a smaller wagon hooked behind. The mules were wheelers.

  I saw who was driving and raised my hand. He pulled up with a lot of heavy cursing at the off lead which was shying at a dead gopher snake.

  It was Jake Leffertfinger, the freighter man I had talked to in Twist about my father. He asked where I was going. I said I was acting on his advice in the saloon that day.

  He said: “Bub, turn back, they is a big drive on for you. I heard it twice up the road a piece. Turn back.”

  I told him I could not do that.

  For a long time he said nothing, just looked at me. Then he said: “Won’t go back, huh. Positive?”

  I said yes.

  Then he sat looking at me a long time again. “Very well,” he said, “then if you wish to have it that way, we will arrange for some protection for you.” I told him quickly about the men behind me, saying I did not want to tangle him.

  “Oh you don’t,” he said. He looked at me while he got down from the wagon and began to fumble in behind under the canvas. He kept glancing my way and fumbling. He found what he wanted evidently, then turned.

  “You skeered?”

  I said no.

  “Do I look skeered?”

  I said no.

  “Are you implying that you are not skeered but I am skeered?”

  I said no.

  “All right,” he said then, “we will arrange for your protection.” He brought out a shotgun, a carbine, two Colt pistols and a couple of boxes of shell and laid them prominent on the wagon seat. “There,” he said, “that will surely astonish them. That will warn them good. My God I was the cause of all this my God. Tie your horse to the tailpiece and sit up here with me. We will proceed to Socorro, having, with your gun, four others to work in possible need.”

  As I did as was bid, I felt for the first time I need not jump at every shadow. We looked for the men behind, but saw no one. We were about to start when the wheel gave a yell which reminded Jake. He wiped the short gray hairs all over his red face with a big blue handkerchief, took off his hat, put it on. He wiped his face again and gave his throat a good wipe where his Adam’s apple kept twitching up and down. He seemed embarrassed.

  “This war-whoop wheel of mine—this turkey caller. Mind if I ask you to help me grease her before we start.”

  I said no, of course, and we jacked the wagon with a hinged brace which is two short thick planks hinged together. You set them on the ground wide under the axle and tap their bases toward each other with a sledge. We took off the wheel and greased the axle and she ran fine from there on.

  Twice I saw dust blowing up toward us from behind through the long grass, but did not heed much. Jake gave me some cold bacon and bread and I ate as we ambled on. We did not talk much except now and then Jake would say he was disappointed in my friends. I referred to the wagons being empty. Jake said: “I did not wish to slouch around for a load. They’s been another silver strike at Magdalena. Fetch and carry for a while down there. I would like for you to admire my mules. They are scarce and dear, smarter than a horse and work on anything. These ones this morning had a handful of cactus pods and some leather shoelaces I don’t need any more.”

  Once in a while he would mention my father and counsel me against going on. He told me he had thought of something which might mean that the Boyds would hit at my father to spite me. He used this as an argument, but I said I thought it was all the more reason I should join my father. But he seemed to hate the Boyds. “The family think they are made of special clay.”

  We joked a lot. I spoke once about Jake being red-haired and his name which did not seem to jibe. He just laughed. “I’ve wore hats that never fit, also. This name of mine was the one lying around loose, so I put her on to keep the sun off.” My father had often spoke to me about the country being full of men with changed names.

  Toward midafternoon I looked back and there they were and told Jake. He looked around the top-frame quick and looked long, with the mules still ambling along behind the horses. Then he pulled up fast, jammed the brake and twisted up the lines on the brake bar. He stood up in the seat, and first shot off the shotgun and reloaded her, then the rifle, then a couple shots each from the pistols. The men behind had stopped, when the wagons stopped. It was strange to watch Jake.

  He sat down again, reloaded where need was, and started the team again. The wagon moved and the
men came on slow. “You understand,” Jake said, “I want them to know we have what-for to shoot with. You understand these hired men are likely to be a little bit stupid, so it is just as well to make it plain as pie. Some of them don’t even understand clear English.”

  We kept on going. Now the men caught up with us. They took their time passing us, acting as if we were not there. Not even a howdy. But they took in everything and seemed a little nervous. One of them twitched a little when Jake asked me in a loud voice if I would please keep him from shooting people. Said he was an alligator and ate people. He said he was a terror on wheels and had a crazy itch to shoot any human thing he saw. He said he hoped I would not let him shoot anybody, as he was terrible when he got started. “I’m a heller,” he said.

  The men heard, of course, but paid no mind. They kept their faces straight ahead. One was an ordinary Texas type, smooth-faced, about ten years older than me. The other was a tough-looking man with a left leg cut off at the knee, so that he bore down rather heavy on the off stirrup. His gun sheath was cut off like his leg and had a shotgun in it.

  At a notch in the Grande shore when Jake hauled up the team for a drink, he said: “First time I ever been followed by people in front of me.”

  The sun got hotter towards noon. It seemed even hotter in middle afternoon. At dark the land seemed to have trouble cooling off.

  Jake saw my sunburned hands, and the left with the slight hole in it from my long dry walk up north. He told me some stories on himself about sunburn. Then one to laugh at about the man who got his bald head so burned that when he put on his wig it caught fire.

  We camped early and took sleeping turns. When it got light the men ahead were getting their breakfast fire started. They then grained their mounts after instead of before, showing they were no good.

  “They will never do a thing to us,” Jake said. “They haven’t the guts. No sir.”