by Jake Douglas
And when he rode in half an hour later and saw the man sitting on the porch, nursing a cup of coffee, Durango knew his old sidekick was truly alive and kicking. Cutler stood, grinning as he extended his right hand.
Durango tried to seem pleased to see Deke, said all the right words, but there was a stiffness about his manner that Deke couldn’t help but notice.
After a little good-natured badgering Spain sat down beside Cutler and Karen brought a tray of fresh coffee and biscuits. She was a small woman, no more than five-two, three, maybe, wheat-coloured hair piled up to make her look a little taller. Her eyes were clear blue and steady, focusing on the face of whomever she was talking to. She wore a plain grey dress, pinched in at the waist, showing a good figure, and she moved easily.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw him riding in,’ she told her husband, but looking at Cutler now. ‘Not after the news we’d had three or four months ago.’
‘Three or four months ago I was more dead than alive,’ Cutler said, taking another cup of coffee.
‘Its true then?’ Spain asked. ‘Some kid backshot you, Deke?’
Cutler sipped his coffee and nodded soberly.
‘Kel McKittrick’s kid brother.’
‘Never knew he had one.’
‘Wish I’d known.’ Cutler briefly told about the gunfight with Kel McKittrick and his men. ‘The Kid and his wife are both dead. Bandidos took ’em at Sabinas. As for me, some old drunk living with the outlaws patched me up enough for them to take me into Big Hat and a proper doctor. They didn’t want my body found in Red Flats.’ He coughed for a minute, hand covering his mouth. ‘Sorry. Lung still catches me now and again. Was a damn long six months pulling through, Durango. Then the Rangers told me they didn’t want me.’
Spain looked at him sharply.
‘They must be loco!’
Cutler shook his head.
‘Dunno about that. But the troop medic wouldn’t pass me for active duty. Said I’d have to take a desk job for six months and then they’d review “my situation”.’
‘Oh, Deke, that’s terrible,’ Karen sympathized. ‘After all the years you gave them! The men you brought to justice!’
Spain was watching him carefully.
‘I know you, you didn’t take any desk job,’ he said slowly.
‘Not me. I quit.’
‘You quit! Man, you only had a few months to go to qualify for a pension. Ten full years of service!’ When Cutler said nothing, Spain added, quietly: ‘I was sort of counting on you to help out here, with your pension, Deke. When we thought you was alive, I mean.’
‘Sorry, Durango, but there’s no pension,’ Cutler told him gently. ‘New rules, now. They only pay for one month’s doctoring if a Ranger’s wounded in line of duty.’
‘But that’s – it’s unfair!’ said Karen with feeling.
‘Pinching pennies, Karen. Politicians now have a say in how the Rangers are run. So much money’s set aside for ’em to operate on and they have to account for every cent to the State Senate. Everyone’s swamped in paperwork. Thing is, it means Doc Farraday, feller who nursed me through, is out of pocket. I sent him what I had but there’s more owing …’
Spain frowned.
‘You mean – you’re coming here nigh on a year before we figured on, and not bringing any money for the ranch? In fact, you owe money!’
‘Durango! Please!’
But Spain ignored his wife, hard grey gaze on his old sidekick.
Cutler met and held the stare.
‘That’s about the size of it, Durango,’ Deke said flatly. ‘I’m happy to pay Doc Farraday out of my share of the profits. That’d be OK, wouldn’t it?’
‘Of course Deke … Durango just means we’re – surprised, and pleased, of course, to see you, but—’
‘But the spread ain’t doing all that good,’ cut in Spain.
‘Your last letter said—’
‘My last letter, Deke, was writ months ago, and since then I was told you were dead. No, the ranch is fighting it hard, amigo – near-drought, Indians, occasional raids by fellers cutting across from the Territory.’
Karen was frowning at her husband but he turned a little so he didn’t have to look at her. Cutler frowned, too.
‘There’s talk of a big Indian uprising,’ Spain said slowly. ‘Comanches are s’posed to be behind it … Territory’s also called “The Indian Nations”, you know. Or just “The Nations”.’
‘Yeah. Seems I arrived at the wrong time …’
‘Aaah – hell! You’re here now and this kinda living will help you recover completely and with what both of us know about ranching – we’ll have the profits up in no time.’
‘Then there are some profits now?’
‘Sure. Pretty damn few, but I guess we don’t need to buy a bottle of red ink just yet.’ He sounded reluctant to admit things weren’t all that bad when you got right down to it. They were difficult but – manageable. For now, leastways.
Karen lifted to her toes and kissed Cutler on the cheek.
‘It’ll be so good to have you with us, Deke!’
He grinned.
‘You dunno how good it feels to be here.’
‘Well, let’s go have a drink to celebrate, huh?’ Spain said and the others followed him into the coolness of the ranch house.
Deke wondered why he felt heavy with disappointment. He had expected to feel way happier than this on his arrival. Maybe it was Durango’s cool ‘welcome.’…
Although he hated every minute of it, Deke Cutler spent the first few days mooching around the ranch house or walking quietly down by the river. He mounted his horse daily, rode it around the yard and out to the nearest pasture, doing things easy; that long ride up from San Antone had taken a lot out of him and he needed time to recover.
There weren’t a lot of cattle but what there were showed the effects of poor graze in lack of weight, bony bodies and dull coats. The grass was brown and browsed way down to stubble. Durango had men up in the high meadows cutting hay and this was transported down to the main pastures and distributed from buckboards. A costly method.
The river still flowed well enough but the water level was down and ribbons of cracked mud showed on each bank. Beyond to the north was the Indian Territory and he could see green trees and slopes of high, waving grass.
He suggested to Spain that they send a team over to bring down some of that more succulent fodder.
Durango looked at him, thumbing back his hat.
‘I send six men, I’ll be lucky to get three back – and they’re likely to be toting gunshot wounds.’
Deke frowned, stiffening.
‘The outlaws are that close? Thought they holed up deeper in the hills, amongst all those hidden canyons and valleys?’
‘Most of ’em do, I guess, but there’re some keep an eye on the river spreads, see what they can lift, sell cheap to Kansas – Sunflower State my foot! Claim they don’t like longhorns because they carry tick fever but them Kansans’ll buy Texas beef if they can get it cheap from the rustlers.’
‘That why the spread’s not doing so good? Rustlers?’
Durango nodded.
‘Back-shooting bastards. Can’t risk sending our men over there when they’re a cinch to get shot at – maybe killed, Deke.’
‘You got men riding patrol over here, don’t you?’
Spain exhibited a trace of exasperation but made it disappear almost as soon as it showed.
‘When I can spare ’em. I keep telling you, we’re working tight here, Deke.’
Cutler’s stare was level and questioning. ‘Still – surely we can protect our herds!’
‘Look, Deke. We both worked spreads before we met in the Rangers. I rode with the early trail herds as well and we agreed that I had the most experience with cows. So, I found this place – my ten years were up just over a year ago now. I got my pittance of a pension after dodging lead and arrows and Christ knows what else for the goddamn Rangers. You put in wh
at money you had and we put down a deposit on this place, aiming to pay off the rest from the profits.’ He paused to stare back coldly at Deke. ‘And the profits just ain’t all that good. That’s the plain truth, Deke.’
Cutler thought for a moment.
‘You’re not telling me that … we’re behind in the bank repayments?’
Spain nodded.
‘A ways. Not too bad. But every spread along the river has fallen behind because of the drought. We ain’t alone.’
‘I don’t care how much company we’ve got, we shouldn’t be behind at all! I sent you half my pay regular.’
‘And damn glad of every cent – till it stopped after you were shot and we thought you were dead.’ Spain sighed. ‘That’s it, Deke. Bringing in feed for the cows, setting up that windmill you see … all takes dollars.’
Cutler started to speak but held back. He had seen the new-looking piano in the parlour – he knew Karen played a little. There were the Eastern rugs covering half the parlour floor. A damn good dining-table with upholstered chairs with what Karen had told him were ‘spade’ backs. He had seen furniture stores in the bigger towns and cities, some of the Gulf ports, and he’d seen over-stuffed sofas and matching chairs like Spain had, and rolltop desks, too, and knew they cost plenty – especially if they had to be shipped out here with enough care to avoid damage. And there was glass in all the windows – practically unheard of on the frontier – which were trimmed with good quality curtains….
He didn’t grudge Karen some comfort: hell, most frontier marriages foundered because of lack of everyday comfort, but when repayments of the bank loan were falling behind …
‘We better go over the books when you have time, Durango.’
Spain didn’t like that. His face looked very handsome and strong, but it was plain he was riled.
‘Maybe Karen can show me if you’re too busy,’ Deke suggested.
‘We’ll sort something out,’ Spain told him gruffly. ‘Look, Deke, I’ve worked a butt and a half off keeping this place running, looking forward to your arrival – with your pension or without. Too bad it’s without, but we’ll figure something. But what I’m saying is: I been out here a long time now, watching Karen do without all the things she was used to before she married me, and I know the river now and how things are here – it’s no good you riding in figuring to be a new broom and start sweeping out things you don’t like or understand. Just leave it be a spell longer and we’ll be squared away with the bank – and everyone else.’
Everyone else! Judas, Cutler wondered, who the hell else do we owe!
At least it would give him something to think about until he was strong enough to add some real weight to running this place.
Maybe the name they had chosen for the spread was just a little too appropriate.
The Shoestring spread …
He was feeling pretty good one bright morning ten days later, where the sun blazed in a cloudless blue sky, and he figured to ride out along the river and look at the boundaries.
He was forking a grey these days, a good strong horse, with an easy-going nature, but packed with muscle and knowing when to use it without waiting for the urging of rowelling spurs. He had his rifle and his six-gun. He hadn’t yet done any practice with this latter. He felt kind of ashamed to admit to Spain that he had lost a good deal of his old gun speed and accuracy. But the guns were a comfort to him and he watched the country across the Red River, looking for shadows that would tell him some of the men who rode the Territory were keeping an eye on him.
He thought he saw riders topping-out on a rise but the trees were moving too much with a strong breeze over there to allow him a clear view. Could be Indians – Spain had warned they were often hostile lately. He would need to stay alert. After he’d watered the grey at the river and then ridden back south-east, following the bank, he stopped suddenly, sliding the rifle clear of leather. Deke listened, patting the horse’s neck to keep it still and quiet. Yeah! He had heard right – a human voice, calling something, then running footsteps and a sudden snarling and squealing that set the hairs standing on the back of his neck.
He slipped out of the saddle, leaving the grey with trailing reins, crouched a little and made his way up the slope, gasping some at a sharp pain in the lung that had been nicked by Kid McKittrick’s bullet.
The squealing was high-pitched now, followed by snuffling snarls and, heart pounding, still crouching, he went down full length, using the rifle barrel to part the bushes in front of him. Cutler stiffened, felt his eyes fly wide in surprise.
Below him in a draw where water had lain long enough to make a mire and a slushy pool, a huge man stripped to the waist was knee-deep in mud, lunging at a trapped and bleeding wild boar with a … Deke wasn’t sure what it was. At first he thought it was a sword, then he saw that it had a long-bladed spearhead, about fifteen inches of blued steel on a short handle no more than two feet in length.
The man was jabbing at the boar that had several wounds in its hide. The curving tusks slashed at the tormentor and the man leapt back, swearing in some language Cutler didn’t recognize. Wounded and likely dying, the boar made a last desperate attempt to escape past the prodding spear. Mud flew in a fanning spray and water geysered as the huge animal lunged through the mud and slush, the lowered head forcing a brown bow wave as the raking tusks sought the big man.
He leapt clear of the slush, let out a roar and while still airborne, took the slippery handle of the spear in both hands and drove the glinting blade down between the boar’s heaving shoulders. The snarling squeal of pain hurt Deke’s ears and the animal lunged and bucked in its final spasms, blood gushing from its mouth, as the man leaned all his weight on the spear, driving it completely through the hairy body and pinning the boar to the ground.
Deke hadn’t been conscious of holding a breath but now he let it out slowly, hissing between his teeth. He had never seen anything like it, not even when Indians, a dozen at a time, cornered a bear and ran it through with stone-headed lances while others shot arrow after arrow into the hairy body.
But this had been man against beast, one on one.
The big man below tossed his head, long muddy hair flying up out of his eyes as he lifted his face skywards and let out a great roar of triumph, brandishing the bloody spear.
Cutler began to slide back but suddenly froze as something cold and very sharp sliced through the loose folds of his shirt and pricked his skin. He felt a thread of warm blood crawl across his flesh as he turned his head slowly.
He thought he had had his share of shocks for the day but here was another one.
A totally bald black man, slim and tall as a tree, he seemed from Cutler’s angle, and wearing some sort of red robe over one shoulder, belted about the middle, stood over him, prodding him with a long, slim-handled spear which had an oval metal blade about six inches long, now only a hair’s breadth from his flesh.
‘Stay!’ the man said in a deep voice and even that single word seemed to have a lilt of music in it.
Deke Cutler stayed put. He had never seen a man like this before – and he had never seen a spear like the man held ready to drive deep into his body if he so much as twitched a finger.
CHAPTER 4
SPEARMAN
Cutler didn’t move. The black man, well over six feet tall, and his spear an extra six inches above that, didn’t move, either. He called out to the mud-and-blood-spattered spearman below in a sing-song language. The big white man looked up sharply, wiping mud and grit from the wooden handle of his strange weapon and then started up the slope.
When he arrived he looked down at Cutler, saw his puzzlement. He grinned through the layer of grime. He gestured to the black man and the man stepped back.
‘He’s Samburu. You’d never pronounce his real name so you can call him Sam.’ He attempted to wipe his large right hand on his filthy trousers and extended it. ‘I’m Piet van Rensberg’ – he pronounced it ‘von’. ‘You can call me either Pete or V
an.’
Cutler sat up, wincing involuntarily, seeing that van Rensberg noted the expression. Piet took Cutler’s right arm and helped him to his feet. The strength in the man surprised Deke who shook hands and introduced himself.
‘I see my name and accent have you fooled. I’m from Africa, born in the south, but the family moved to Kenya many years ago. We had a cattle farm there – we call them farms but they’re very much like your ranches.’
‘I’ve heard of Africa, but not this other place.’
‘Kenya. Very beautiful country. A rich land. Sam’s people have lived there for centuries. He was kind of a foster-father to me, brought me up while my own father ran the farm and went hunting big game.’
Cutler frowned. Van Rensberg appeared to be about forty. ‘He doesn’t look that old …’
Sam remained impassive, one bare foot resting behind the knee of his other leg, leaning his weight on the slim, upright spear. Piet laughed.
‘You’d be surprised at how old he is. But he doesn’t know himself, only roughly. Haven’t seen you around here before.’
‘Just arrived. Durango Spain’s partner.’
Van Rensberg squinted. ‘Ah …’ was all he said.
Cutler pointed to the short-handled spear.
‘I’ve never seen one like that. Thought at first you’d broken it.’
Piet held up the spear, turning it slowly so that the sun glinted as it ran down the honed edges.
‘Assegai. A spear developed by a Zulu king named Shaka in the early 1800s for close in-fighting. Revolutionized war at the time for the Zulus. Very effective weapon once you’ve mastered it.’
‘So I saw.’ Deke gestured to the swamp and the dead boar below. ‘You do that for sport?’
‘Suppose I do. Nothing so honorable as giving the animals a sporting chance or anything like that. I just enjoy the fight and the danger. Got myself a cougar a little while back. Killed several boars, a stag in rut, which I may tell you is not at all an experience I wish to repeat. Not with those antlers raking at my innards! In Florida I once fought a couple of alligators, and a Cape buffalo in the Transvaal. Biggest ambition, though, is to tangle with a grizzly. Looking for something new, you know.’