Dead Trouble

by Jake Douglas

  He struck the ground heavily, losing the rifle, bounced and rolled. Then the night exploded in a fountain of stars as his head struck the same tree that had sent his horse floundering.

  He fell into spinning darkness.

  ‘Goddammit, I told you he wasn’t to be killed! Or even shot at!’

  The familiar angry voice filtered through Cutler’s returning consciousness and he lay wherever he was, trying to recover his senses fully.

  ‘Thing is, Durango, you don’t have as much to say around here as you think you do.’

  Cutler didn’t recognize that voice at first: it was tough and cold and menacing.

  ‘You could be wrong, Flash.’ That could be Flash Bill Danton! An outlaw long supposed dead along the Rio … ‘That trail across my land is the best one available to you.’

  A harsh, wet-sounding laugh. By hell! It was Flash Bill! He was always troubled by a cough!

  ‘Now you wouldn’t be threatenin’ me, Durango, ol’ hoss, would you?’

  ‘Me? Hell, no. But if the trail was closed to you, you’d have to run the gauntlet of crossing the Red in the open and the Federals are getting more and more patrols along the unsettled stretches – using the army, too, I hear.’

  The wet cough came, followed by some hawking, then a brief silence.

  ‘Durango, when you gonna admit you’re no longer a Ranger, no longer the boss, and you don’t get your own way just because of a couple of stupid threats?’

  ‘Flash, I don’t want Cutler hurt. He’s had it rough and I can ease him along, but not if someone’s trying to blow his head off every time he leaves Shoestring’s pastures. You’re the one ought to be learning a lesson. You counted your dead men lately? And that one he just shot down in the timber. He’ll be lucky if he’s walking without crutches a month from now. You oughta realize just who it is you’re dealing with.’

  Cutler opened his eyes and took in his situation. It did little to make him feel any better and it sure didn’t help his throbbing head.

  There was some kind of a temporary camp, a small fire burning, and he could smell coffee and beans. He could recognize Durango and Hal Tripp and there were three other dark shapes, all bearded as far as he could tell. At first he thought his hands were bound but it was just that he had been lying on them. His right arm was painful but nothing he couldn’t bear. He fought to sit up and the movement got the attention of the men around the fire.

  They said nothing, let him struggle up, holding one side of his head which was swollen. He felt a crust of dried blood where the skin had broken. Cutler swayed, surprised that he was still wearing his own six-gun. His rifle lay only a couple of feet away, scratched and stone-dented on the butt-stock from its fall. He started to stoop – carefully – to pick it up, but Flash Bill spat and shook his head.

  ‘Nope. Just leave it, Cutler.’

  ‘You’re about the healthiest looking ghost I’ve ever seen, Flash,’ Deke grated, but he was looking at Durango who kept his face carefully blank.

  ‘What the hell’re you doing here, Deke?’ Spain asked and there was an edge of concern in his voice. ‘D’you have to poke your nose into every blamed thing?’

  ‘That’s the way you taught me, Durango.’ Cutler’s words were short and cutting, his eyes bleak. ‘Anyway, if my pardner keeps sending our men on night rides, or goes himself, I reckon I’ve a right to know what’s going on.’

  There was more silence, broken only by the crackle of wood on the fire. Cutler walked forward, hunkered down and poured himself a tin cup half-full from the blackened and battered pot resting on stones at the edge of the flames. It tasted like carbolic but it was hot and he felt it coursing through him.

  ‘Could be dangerous knowledge, Cutler,’ growled Danton. The other two outlaws were watching Deke closely, hands on their guns.

  ‘I’m not a Ranger now,’ Deke told them. ‘I’m going into the cattle-ranching business and I need to know the situation. Looks to me, Durango, like we’re dealing with a bunch of owlhoots.’

  Spain poked idly at the fire with a twig.

  ‘I’m making the deals. You’re not involved.’

  Deke snorted. ‘You’re my pardner, for Chris’sakes! How can I not be involved?’

  ‘Because I say you’re not. You’ve a lot to learn about making a living in this country, Deke. You think it was easy for me to start dealing with … something like this?’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Spain!’ growled Flash Bill. His six-gun came up with the flashing speed that had earned him his nickname.

  It didn’t seem to bother Durango and Cutler looked relaxed but there was a tension across his shoulders and a new alertness in his eyes as he sipped the coffee.

  Spain waved away Danton’s threatening words.

  ‘Just talking, Flash. No offence.’ He suddenly heaved to his feet and Danton and his two men scrambled up quickly. Hal Tripp got up more slowly, looking mighty uneasy. ‘Relax. Deke, we better head on back. I’ve done my business here. Nothing for you to do – unless you want to tell that feller you shot you’re sorry.’

  ‘Sorry I didn’t nail him dead centre,’ Cutler said easily, tossing the dregs of coffee into the fire. It hissed and steam rose. Still getting up, lifting his rifle, Cutler clanged the barrel against the battered pot. It fell, the ill-fitting lid flew off and the liquid and grounds still in it all but extinguished the fire which hissed like a couple of maddened snakes.

  The sudden sharp drop in light and the roiling steam confused the others and Cutler moved swiftly, his rifle barrel swinging in a tight arc. It knocked Danton’s gun from his grasp, then lifted to slam the man across the side of the head. Flash stumbled into the bearded outlaw next to him and Cutler smashed the butt into this man’s forehead. The third outlaw was only now bringing up his six-gun and Spain instinctively kicked it from his hand. Cutler drove the rifle barrel into his midriff and he collapsed to his knees, doubled-up, gagging.

  Hal Tripp was looking round bewilderedly, gun half-drawn, waiting for a cue from Spain. Durango turned angrily towards Cutler.

  ‘Goddammit, Deke! What the hell…!’

  Cutler ignored him, strode across to Flash Bill and hooked a boot-toe under the dazed man’s shoulder. He heaved him on to his back and Danton glared up through pain-dulled eyes. Deke planted a boot in the middle of the outlaw’s chest and leaned his weight on it. Danton began to cough painfully.

  ‘I see you or anyone riding for you on Shoestring land, I’ll kill you, Flash. We never did get along and from what I recollect, I ought to damn well put a bullet in you right now and save everyone a lot of trouble. You just mind my words – all deals are off!’

  ‘Now wait just one goddamn minute!’ snapped Spain, stepping forward. ‘You don’t speak for me, Deke! This is something you know nothing about and we better get it straightened out between us. Right now!’

  ‘No, not right now. We can sit down and you can tell me just what the hell’s been going on, Durango, back at the ranch. But for now, all bets are off. And I meant what I said about shooting on sight.’

  ‘Best sleep with a gun under your pillow, Cutler!’ gritted Danton, wheezing and coughing.

  ‘Aw, shut up, Flash!’ Cutler said tiredly and kicked the outlaw in the temple. The others were still dazed and groggy and no threat. The man he had wounded down in the trees was lying under a shallow overhang of rock, moaning, not interested in anything but Cutler’s bullet which had shattered the bone in his lower left leg.

  ‘Get the horses and let’s ride, Durango.’

  Spain’s face was pale and bleak.

  ‘You holding that gun on me?’

  ‘I am.’

  Spain sighed, let his six-gun fall back into its holster and Hal Tripp lifted his hands out from his sides.

  ‘You’re gonna regret this, Deke.’

  ‘Well, let’s go regret it down at Shoestring. Hal, you bring my grey over here, then both you and Durango lie face down on the ground until I’m mounted.’

  Spain’
s look of hatred was an almost tangible thing.

  Deke Cutler remained deadpan.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE REAL REASON

  Cutler didn’t see any signal pass between Spain and Tripp but they made a concerted efforted to jump him during the river crossing.

  He was ready for it – he’d already figured this was the best place to try something if they wanted to.

  They both made out that their mounts were shying after they plunged down the broken bank, and although they were behind Cutler, they were one each side of him. He heard the grunt and a smothered ya-ha! as they spurred their mounts forward, hoping to catch his grey between them.

  Cutler rowelled, too, and the grey, one of the best fast-response horses he had ever owned, and well used to rounding up cattle under all conditions, whinnied slightly and jumped. The result was that Spain and Tripp cannoned into each other. Deke wheeled the grey in a tearing surge of muddy water and it sprang into the pair of whinnying, protesting mounts, knocking both men out of the saddles. Cutler leaned down in the pale light of pre-sun-up, scooped up the trailing reins, turned the grey and kept going across the river, swimming all three horses in the deep middle.

  There were shouts of alarm behind him, interspersed with curses, and he instinctively ducked as a gun went off. Looking back, he saw Spain floundering while Hal Tripp had moved back into the shallows and was trying to fire his six-gun again. But it was an old cap-and-ball: he had been lucky to get off that single shot after the drenching in the river.

  By then Cutler was climbing the grey up the far bank. The other two mounts, whose reins he had released now, clambered out of their own accord. He unsheathed his rifle, levered in a shell, and raised it to his shoulder.

  ‘Start swimming, boys!’

  ‘Goddamn you to hell, Deke!’ shouted Spain, spluttering, his hat all askew and droopy after its ducking. ‘I wish that McKittrick kid had killed you!’

  ‘If wishes were horses, Durango. Come on. You brought it on yourselves. Or would you rather stay put, on the wrong side of the river, with drowned six-guns – and likely Flash Bill and his cronies already looking for you?’

  Swearing, they waded out as far as they could, muddy water up to their necks, and then floundered their way across. Tripp panicked in the deep water and Deke threw him a rope. In the end, he pulled them both ashore by rope. They sagged on the bank, panting, spewing river water, too weary to even work up their hatred for him.

  But they weren’t finished with him. When they dismounted at the corrals in the ranch yard, they waited until he off-saddled and threw his rig over the top rail, then they jumped him, co-ordinating their movements. Tripp drove his weight against Cutler and slammed him into the rails. At the same time, Spain hit him in the kidneys and, as Deke sagged, hit him again in the middle of the back.

  Cutler’s legs gave way and he slid to his knees. Hal Tripp, dander up now, moved in and lifted a knee towards Cutler’s face. Deke twisted aside, took the knee on the right shoulder. It hurt and it spun him halfway around, slamming him back into the lower rails of the corral. Tripp moved in with boots swinging but Spain thrust him back, yelling,

  ‘No boots! No boots!’

  ‘Hell with you!’ Tripp growled and started to swing a kick.

  Spain hooked him in the ribs and, as the man doubled over, grabbed his lank, wet hair and ran him head first into a corral post. Tripp fell, unconscious.

  Meantime, Deke had gotten his breath back and he saw that Spain was ready for him again, fists lifted as he stepped in over Hal’s prone body. Deke hurled a handful of gravel into the rancher’s face and Durango staggered, clawing at his eyes. Cutler pulled himself properly to his feet by the rails, lifted a knee into his partner’s chest. Spain flew back, hitting the rails. His boots skidded and he slipped, the back of his head rapping hard.

  Cutler closed, fists hammering, arms working, turning his shoulders behind the blows, using his weight. Early risers amongst the crew came out of the bunkhouse, shouting at the others still crawling out of their bunks.

  ‘Fight! Fight!’

  The men crowded outside, yelling, some swinging punches at the air as they ducked and weaved in time with the two men who seemed intent on knocking each other’s head off. Both men were bleeding from facial cuts and their shirts were ripped. Deke fended a clubbing blow aimed at his nose, twisted his lean body and used all his weight as he slammed a hard fist into Spain’s ribs. Durango grunted and looked grey and sick as he jack-knifed, clutching at his midriff. He was hurt and he back-pedalled, covering his head with his arms as Cutler stalked him, watching for an opening, ripping in blows with the speed of a striking diamondback. Spain lurched as each blow landed. He wobbled unsteadily, fighting back by pure instinct, sometimes seeming only to try to push away the knotted fists that were reducing him to a battered wreck.

  Deke was surprised: he had seen Durango in dozens of fist fights over their years in the Rangers, and Spain had had the stamina of an elephant, knocking down man after man and hardly breathing more heavily than if he had been playing poker, standing with his victims piled up around him, knee-deep.

  Now, a few minutes of hard slogging, a couple of haymakers, and a faceful of straight lefts, and Durango Spain was about ready to give up. No! No, he wouldn’t give up, no matter how bad he was hurt. He would take all the punishment that was thrown at him and finally go down, maybe, but no man would ever hear him cry ’Nough!

  There was something wrong! Deke, breathing plenty hard from his exertions, slowed down as the thought struck him, startled, unable to believe what he was seeing. Spain had always seemed a certainty to win any fight that might have started between them while they were in the Rangers but it had never happened, out of mutual respect for one another.

  Now …

  Both men jumped as a rifle crashed and one of the corral rails shuddered as a bullet slashed a foot-long sliver from it. As they crouched, turning towards the house, the rifle fired again and the bullet exploded gravel from the ground between them.

  ‘Hey!’ gasped Spain, lifting a hand towards the porch where Karen stood with the smoking gun – already levering a third shell into the breech. ‘Karen! What – the – hell – you think – you’re – doing?’

  ‘Stopping you two fools from killing each other!’ The rifle was at her shoulder now, aiming between them, ready to shift to one or the other. ‘Now, back away. Get at least three feet between you – and keep your hands down at your sides! Do it!’

  They did it. She nodded in satisfaction, glanced towards the bunched crew outside the bunkhouse. ‘You men get your breakfast and go about your chores.’

  Mumbling, the ranch hands moved away, most starting to grin, some pantomiming the fight; there would be plenty of talk over breakfast this morning.

  ‘Now you two – wash up in the horse trough and then come into the kitchen. There’ll be no breakfast for either of you until we settle this thing … whatever it is!’

  She turned back into the house and Deke glanced at the bloody Spain who was still fighting for breath, holding his ribs. If he looked as bad, it was no wonder he felt as if he had been caught up in a stampede, Deke allowed silently.

  ‘You might’ve told me you’d taught her how to shoot!’

  ‘Just as – well I – did – or she’d have – blown our – damn heads – off!’

  They linked arms and staggered across to the horse trough.

  Breakfast was mainly silent and both Deke and Durango had a little trouble eating the meal because of swollen jaws and tender gums. Karen had treated their cuts and scrapes – and given them a tongue-lashing while she was doing it.

  ‘A pair of fools!’ she began, making Spain wince and suck in his breath as she dabbed at a deep cut above his left eye. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen two grown men act so like dirty-faced school boys as much as you two!’

  ‘Now, listen, Karen,’ slurred Spain indignantly, but an extra dab of iodine into the cut choked off his words and she started
in again.

  ‘You haven’t seen each other in over a year. You, Durango, didn’t get the small but steady income you were hoping for so you pushed Deke off to one side – as if he wasn’t here! Not just like another hired hand: that would’ve been bad enough, but just to virtually ignore him, pretend he wasn’t around …’

  ‘Aw, it wasn’t that bad,’ Cutler said and withered a little at the look she tossed at him.

  ‘And you! Half-dead, weak, desperate to know what was going on, couldn’t forget you were no longer a Ranger and started poking your nose into Durango’s business and got his back up even more! Didn’t you know him well enough when you spent all those years together in the Rangers to see that he was only trying to keep you out of … things – so you wouldn’t get into trouble?’

  Spain brightened briefly. ‘Yeah! That’s why I tried to keep him out of it, love—’

  ‘You be quiet! I haven’t finished with you yet but right now I’m talking to Deke.’

  Durango fell silent although his lips moved as if he was mouthing some secret protest.

  ‘Deke! You’re not a fool. You must know what’s going on by now …’

  Cutler nodded gently.

  ‘Pretty obvious. Durango’s done some kinda deal with Flash Danton and his bunch to let ’em drive rustled stock across Shoestring and into those hidden canyons. I know enough about this country to figure out that Shoestring is closest to the Badman’s Territory and offers the most cover for anyone wanting to get stolen cattle across the Red River.’

  He was staring straight at Spain now and the battered man nodded.

  ‘All right. I had to do something. Told you the drought had given us a beating and I spent a lot of money on that windmill and it’s not producing enough water. I’d already been approached by Flash Bill and was considering his offer – hating myself for it, too – when you arrived and told me you wouldn’t be getting a pension.’ He paused, sighed. ‘That did it. I told him OK. He could use the trail across our land and we’d drive our own cows over his tracks so no one could find ’em.’