by Jake Douglas
Deke felt more uneasy than ever when he went back to bed.
He tossed and turned most of the night, got up and stoked the fire in the kitchen, heated water, soaked his arm in a bowl and it gave him relief. But after only an hour’s sleep it woke him again and he got up, dressed and went out to the tool shed attached to the barn.
There was a bench vice there with wooden jaws. He cut a piece of a harness strap and placed the leather between his teeth. Deke put his hand in the vice’s jaws which he padded with old rags and slowly tightened them. When they gripped firmly, sweat now squeezing out of his face, he gingerly turned the arm first to the left, then to the right, the wrist joint creaking. Movement was restricted but moving the forearm to the right increased the burning pain and he knew this was where the nerves had pinched.
It was drastic but he knew what he had to do – the Old Indian had done it twice for him out at Big Hat but here he had to prepare himself and then give the short, sharp twist at just the right moment. He balked twice, the pain making him sweat and nauseous, then bit deep into the leather strap and gave the short, snapping wrench as the Indian had shown him. Something went click in his wrist.
His left hand instinctively released the pressure of the jaws as he slumped, out cold, knocking over the candle stub and extinguishing it. He floated in limbo for a time and when he started to come round, heard voices, coming from the barn. It was still dark but there was a greyness that told him sun-up wasn’t far off. Through the pounding in his head, he recognized Hal Tripp’s voice speaking in a hoarse whisper.
‘Jimmy.’ That would be Jimmy Taggart, the friendly young wrangler. ‘Put the mounts away and make sure you rub ’em down first. Don’t want no one to know they been ridden hard tonight.’
‘Jeepers, Hal, I know what to do!’
‘Just makin’ sure. And when you got time, bring in some of that hoss liniment. Ringo got … hurt.’
‘Was he shot?’ Jimmy asked, fear in his voice.
‘Just a nick – nighthawk a mite trigger-happy. Now you be quick, kid … We gotta turn in and grab a little shut-eye, be in our bunks when everyone wakes up.’
Deke must have passed out again for a time, for it was all quiet when he came to. He felt so lousy, he wasn’t sure whether he had overheard Tripp and Jimmy Taggart or if he had dreamt it.
He didn’t see anyone when he eventually made his way back to his room and fell on to his bed, nursing his still throbbing arm.
‘What you aim to do today?’ Spain asked Cutler as they had their after-breakfast smokes on the porch. There was activity in the yard as men saddled horses, ready for their chores.
‘Gonna start getting myself back into shape,’ Deke answered the rancher. ‘I’m improving but not fast enough.’ He rubbed his right arm. He was bruised around the wrist joint and on the back of his hand. ‘Gonna start running along the river, force it a little more each day. Do some work on my gun arm, too, lifting bags of sand, squeezing rubber balls.’
Spain looked at him sharply.
‘Expecting trouble?’
‘Not looking for it, but if I have to use my six-gun again like I did on Lyall, I don’t want to feel crippled afterwards. I couldn’t’ve fired that gun a second time, Durango. I’d’ve been dead if Leach and Hoss had decided to take me on.’
Spain nodded sympathetically.
‘That backshot nearly finished you, didn’t it, pard?’
‘Came close.’
‘Too close, sounds like.’ Spain heaved to his feet. ‘OK. You get yourself back in good shape and then we’ll put you to work.’ He grinned. ‘Make you earn your keep.’
Then, in case that sounded a little unfriendly, he dug his hand into his pocket and brought out a roll of bills.
‘Here. Been meaning to give you this.’
Cutler frowned, not taking the money.
‘What is it?’
‘I know it bothers you that you ain’t paid that sawbones in Big Hat, the one who saved your life. Believe you said you still owed two-hundred fifty bucks. Well, here it is. Take it and send it to him.’
Cutler took it slowly, watching his partner’s face. ‘I’m obliged, Durango, but I can’t take this if things’re as tight as you say with the ranch.’
Spain waved it aside.
‘You know me. Worrier type. Tend to exaggerate.’
‘You … sure?’
‘Hell, yeah!’ Spain sounded impatient now. ‘I sold a few cows over the last few days to some fellers just getting started on the river. Pay off the sawbones and you can start pulling your weight here with an easy mind.’
‘Well, it sure is a surprise.’ Then Cutler said, without even planning it: ‘Hal Tripp and Ringo handle the deal?’
Durango Spain frowned, his eyes sweeping across Deke’s rugged face.
‘What the hell makes you say that?’
Deke shrugged.
‘Dunno, really. Just got the impression those two were rounding up some cows when I saw them yesterday afternoon. Foothills pasture.’
‘Well, they would’ve been, but no – I handled the deal myself. Feller paid me yesterday afternoon.’
Cutler put the money away.
‘Well, thanks again, Durango – I’ll make up for this.’
‘Take a ride into town and send it off by wire. Then you can relax – and work at your exercises.’
He went down into the yard, calling to some men before they rode out. Deke watched, smoking slowly.
It was a nice gesture. So why did he get the feeling that Spain was kind of mad at him over something?
The running showed him just how much out of shape he really was. After only half a mile he was sweating enough to soak his clothes and breathing like a locomotive with a leaky boiler. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, careful not to put too much pressure on his gun-arm wrist, fighting for breath.
Swinging the arm when he ran made it ache and the wrist was burning again. He hoped the damaged nerves were not going to pinch up on him. Then he got the notion that if he could give the wrist some support, just like when it was sprained from roping or bull-dogging, it might help. So he made a rawhide cuff and laced it tight, having to try several times before he got the pressure and tension just right. Too much and it cut off the blood’s circulation. Too little and it didn’t give the wrist the support it needed.
But it seemed to work and he changed the rawhide for some stiffer, still pliable leather, cut from an old saddle flap. He made it longer, like an archer’s arm-guard. This was better: he was pleasantly surprised at how much easier it was for him to use his right hand. It helped the arm, the support keeping the nerve ends properly aligned so they didn’t pinch and cause numbness and pain. The swelling went down rapidly.
That fixed to his liking, he concentrated on running, forcing himself on for another hundred yards even when he was ready to drop. He overdid it sometimes but after a week he was running two miles without undue distress. At the end of the second week he was doing five and he knew this distance would increase as the weeks went by.
Twice he saw van Rensberg and the Samburu. This was where he learned that Sam’s big knife was called a panga in Africa and it was used for many things: cutting grass for hut roofs, kindling, wood for fences, defence against wild animals – or wild people.
‘Could make a mess of a man,’ Deke opined and he caught Pete and Sam exchanging a strange look.
‘Could easily take his head off,’ van Rensberg allowed. ‘Thought I saw some bear tracks.’ He gestured up into the hills. They were standing on neutral ground, just beyond where their fences met in a point. ‘Not very familiar with the local wildlife. Possible there’s a grizzly around here?’
‘Never heard of any. Want me to take a look at the tracks?’
‘Eh, man, that would be fine!’
Sam never rode anywhere. He trotted alongside his master’s big sorrel, sometimes holding to the stirrup strap. They rode up into the hills. When they stopped at the place where Pete had found the tracks, they loo
ked out over a deep bend of the river to slopes and dark-green timber beyond.
‘That’s the Territory yonder,’ Deke said thoughtfully. ‘Our line comes closer to it than I thought.’
‘Nice country. Here. What do you think?’
Cutler dismounted and went down on to one knee, examining the tracks. They were the size of a saucer. He sat back on his heels and thumbed back his hat.
‘He’s a big’n, a black, I suspect, and heading for the Territory.’
Excitement glinted in van Rensberg’s eyes.
‘Hear that, Sam. A big one! A worthy trophy, Deke?’
‘Can’t say. He might have a coat all tore-up from fighting. He’s got a limp, anyway.’
Pete frowned swiftly.
‘He’s hurt?’
‘Might have a thorn in his foot or a stone’s worked into his pad. Won’t improve his temper.’ He squinted at the man. ‘You’re not going after him with that short spear?’
‘The assegai? Only way to do it to my way of thinking. My strength and cunning pitted against his.’
‘You prick him with that and he’ll tear your head off, then rip up the whole damn county in a bad mood.’
Van Rensberg drew himself up, taller than Deke by a few inches.
‘Eh, man, I don’t let wounded game slink away to die in agony. I have my pride and honour. If I happen to wound something, I chase it down until I can put it out of its misery. No matter how long it takes or how dangerous it is to me!’
Cutler stared at him as he straightened and reached for tobacco and papers.
‘Take my advice. Take along a shotgun loaded with solid slugs.’
The South African didn’t seem to think there was any cause for humour. The way his thick lips clamped, Deke figured the man was mighty mad, fighting to control it. He realized then that Pete had taken his words as a criticism of his courage and dedication to his singular way of hunting and it had stung him.
‘I’ve been fighting and killing wild game for many years, Deke. I’m willing to listen to warnings about how dangerous a certain animal can be, but I will not change my main style. If I get into trouble, Sam will use his spear.’
‘Judas, Pete. You don’t know what bears are like! This is only a black but they can be plenty mean. If you should happen to run into a grizzly, say around eight feet tall …’
He let the words trail off: van Rensberg was becoming even more excited at the prospect of meeting such a formidable animal.
Deke Cutler left them and rode back to Shoestring land. He hipped in the saddle once and saw they were climbing through the timber across the river in Badman’s Territory – or The Nations as a lot of men called the place up here.
Shaking his head, he rode back to the dry wash he had been using for practice with his six-gun.
He was almost back to his old form, fast fluent actions that placed the bullets where he aimed. And he was able to manage it without more than a dull ache in his wrist and arm.
He figured he was now about ready to tackle the worst that this Red River country could throw at him. And that included the wild men who inhabited the Territory.
It was time to go to work and really pull his weight around here.
After shooting six egg-sized stones off the top of a rock at the end of the dry wash, the Colt empty and smoking, feeling comfortable in his hand now, he heard the horses coming.
It was too late to reload and he had the notion that this trio of beard-shagged, dirty-looking riders had waited until this moment to make their appearance.
Thev had guns out, two with rifles, one with a six-shooter. They stopped their mounts a few yards from where he stood, his grey nearby with trailing reins. He had been working on the animal so that it didn’t shy or spook at gunfire, bringing it a little closer to his gun each day. Now he reckoned he could shoot from the saddle and the animal wouldn’t flinch. His own rifle was in its scabbard but on the far side of the horse.
He allowed he had been in less dangerous situations than this one.
Deke nodded curtly.
‘Howdy, gents. Don’t b’lieve I’ve seen you round before. Which spread you with?’
The one with the six-gun was slightly ahead of the others. He was big and dirty and his hat had a floppy brim with ragged edges. His clothes, like the others, were patched roughly, worn through in places. Deke knew these were men who lived wild – and wouldn’t work for a ranch under any circumstance.
They would rather toss a wide loop over someone else’s cattle. These were men from the outlaw territory across the river.
‘We work for ourselves, mister,’ the man in the ragged hat said, jerking the Colt. ‘Might’s well drop that empty gun. It ain’t gonna do you no good.’
Instead of dropping it, Deke replaced it in his holster. They didn’t like that: they wanted to be obeyed.
Ragged Hat heeled his mount forward. ‘Like the look of your hoss, mister,’ he said, ‘and likely I’ll take it with me when I go, but we’ll give you a choice. Been watchin’ you shoot. Like to have you with us, join our bunch and help us hit the ranches along the river. You could get rich.’
‘Or dead,’ Deke said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll pass, friend.’
The man stopped his horse a couple of feet short of Cutler, glanced at his companions.
‘Now how’d I know all along he was gonna say some-thin’ just like that?’
‘Reckon he’s just got that kinda look, Salty,’ chuckled one man, short but solidly built. The third man, small in every way and older, spat on Deke’s saddle.
‘Uh-huh. You boys’re out for trouble, eh?’
Salty grinned, showing gapped, yellow teeth. ‘Well, you sure ain’t gonna give us any!’
And he jumped his mount forward, swinging with his gun at Deke’s head. Except Cutler was no longer standing where he had been. He spun between Salty’s horse and the grey, grabbed the outlaw’s leg and heaved him out of the saddle. The man yelled and the ragged hat rolled away down slope, revealing Salty’s bald dome.
As he slid and skidded, the other two worked their mounts, trying to get a shot at Deke who dived under his horse and came up on the other side, reaching for his rifle. They triggered and dirt exploded around Cutler’s boots but he had the rifle now, jumped back from the grey and thrust the gun over the saddle, levering and triggering. The older, short man was standing in his stirrups, looking for a clear shot at Cutler. The first bullet snapped his head back and hurled him from the saddle. The solid built man was hanging over the side of his horse in the Indian fighting position, levering and shooting under the racing animal’s arched neck.
Cutler’s lead cut him down and dropped the horse, too, and man and animal skidded and rolled down-slope.
Salty, dazed, was on his feet and shooting wildly as he started to run up the slope. One bullet struck Deke’s saddle horn and he reared back, stung by pieces of flying, torn leather. His boots slipped in the gravel and the grey twitched and moved away a couple of feet, exposing him.
Salty stopped, baring his teeth as he drew bead on the helplessly floundering Cutler.
Deke put down a hand to push off the slope, still gripping the rifle in his right hand – and then froze as Salty gave a blood-chilling cry.
When Cutler looked in the outlaw’s direction, he saw Salty’s dirty body sagging forward over the long glittering spear-shaft that pinned him to a pine tree, the oval blade right through the centre of his chest.
CHAPTER 6
DEAD MEN RIDING
Spain was working with Jimmy Taggart and the big, surly cowhand called Jno, branding maverick calves in the yard, when Cutler rode in. He was weary despite his improved stamina and it showed in the deep vertical channels drawn in his flesh around his mouth.
Spain looked up, coughing a little in the burnt-hair smoke as yet another bawling calf staggered to its feet and joined its protesting companions in the smallest corral.
‘You been gone a long time.’
‘Almost didn’t make i
t back.’ Those words got the attention of all three men as Deke dismounted stiffly. ‘Doing some shooting with the six-gun in a draw when three hardcases from the Territory set on me.’
He was watching Spain closely but it was Jno who asked harshly:
‘How you know they was from the Territory? There’s lots of riders use them hills.’
‘It was at the sharp bend of the river. Didn’t realize how close to the Territory line our land comes.’
‘No? Thought I showed you on the map. Nothing to worry about. Ringo was a little unlucky but usually they keep to themselves, the men over there.’
‘Didn’t this time. Heard my shooting and came on down. Were aiming to take my horse and everything else, I guess.’
Spain’s eyes narrowed.
‘Were? You kill ’em all?’
‘Got two.’
‘What happened to the third one?’
‘He got himself speared, pinned to a white pine, right through the heart.’
The three men were silent. ‘Injuns!’ said Jimmy Taggart after a pause. ‘They reckon the tribes are all gettin’ together an’ there’s gonna be hell to pay once they get guns …’
Deke shook his head.
‘No, Jimmy. Dutch Pete’s sidekick. The Samburu.’
‘That lanky devil?’ asked Jno. ‘Goddamn, I knew that son of a bitch’d end up killin’ someone.’
‘Glad he did. I slipped and the outlaw would’ve nailed me if Sam hadn’t speared him.’
‘What the hell was he doing on Shoestring?’ Spain asked quietly, looking hard at Deke.
‘Saw him and Pete earlier down by the river at the point where our fences meet. They’d found a bear’s tracks and crossed into the Territory. Pete wanted to run it down and fight it with his assegai.’
‘Christ! Man must have a death wish,’ opined Jno.
‘Maybe. Anyway they lost the tracks and crossed the river a little higher than they meant to. Put them on our land. They heard the shooting and came on down. Like I said, I’m mighty glad they did.’