Dead Trouble

by Jake Douglas

  Deke stared hard at Spain but neither man would lower his gaze.

  ‘I’m supposed to be your pardner, Durango.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, Deke.’ Spain glanced at Karen who was now gathering up the bandages and bloody rags she had been using. He frowned and flicked his gaze back and forth between Karen and Deke, trying to give him some silent message.

  Cutler didn’t know what it was but he forced himself to calm down.

  ‘I don’t savvy why you’d do it, specially with a snake like Danton.’

  Spain chuckled without mirth.

  ‘You mean my Ranger background and so on? Well, I thought I could point out that Flash was supposed to be dead and that he could be in all kinds of strife if the law found out he was still alive …’ His words faded briefly and any suggestion of a smile or banter dropped from him suddenly. ‘Know what he said? He said he’d make sure I was in strife, too. But what I should remember was that I wasn’t a Ranger any more but I had a wife and a ranch. And way out here, far from law, a lot of bad things could happen to both. If ever he was turned in, he meant. Without his control, he claims the outlaws, and even the Indians, would jump the river and wipe out every settler along it, then run back to the Territory, safe from all but Federal marshals.’

  Deke nodded gently.

  ‘And we all know how few of those there are. So, you’re saying you had no choice?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Then how about Salty Shaw and Twist? You were supposed to have killed them both down on the Rio—’

  ‘No, you got that wrong. I was with the troop that claimed to have nailed those two, but Dal Beattie was commander.’

  Spain’s gaze was steady on Cutler’s face and the latter said nothing for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Yeah – Dal. He wiped out Red Flats just after Kid McKittrick shot me and died. But I recollect he had a couple of close scrapes with being accused of taking bribes from outlaws down along the Rio.’

  ‘Rangers’ own fault for not paying well enough. Yeah, Dal was a mite bent, I reckon. Must’ve been if that was Salty and Twist you and the black man nailed. That night on the Rio, when I rode in with my section of the troop, the fight was over. There were dead men everywhere, two of them their own mothers couldn’t’ve recognized. Shotgun work. Dal and a couple of his sidekicks swore it was Salty Shaw and Twist. I had no beef with it. I’m as surprised as you are that they turned up up here still alive.’

  ‘The Red River seems to be a favourite spot for Border hellions to run to,’ Deke opined.

  ‘Over in The Nations it does, leastways … I’ve thought I recognized one or two from down on the Rio. That’s why it was so easy for Flash Danton to get a gang together up here.’

  ‘Breakfast will be ready in a minute.’

  Both men looked up, surprised that the kitchen was filled with the aroma of frying bacon and brewing coffee. They had been so intent on their conversation they weren’t even aware of Karen preparing the meal.

  ‘Be right there, Karen,’ Spain said and turned a sober gaze on Cutler. ‘Well, you satisfied now?’

  ‘Not by a damn sight.’

  Durango jumped up. ‘What? You calling me a liar?’

  ‘Durango!’ snapped Karen recognizing the hot anger in her husband’s voice. She hefted the heavy skillet by the handle and the warning was plain enough.

  Spain sat down slowly, still glaring at Deke.

  ‘I’m not calling you a liar, Durango. I just think you haven’t told me everything.’

  Spain looked uncomfortable and toyed with his fork.

  ‘Look, you know more than you should right now, I’m doing my best to keep you out of this, Deke. No, don’t start griping! I don’t want you mixed up in anything! That’s what it comes down to. I don’t like to pull rank but I’m senior partner and what I say goes …’ He gave a quick on-off grin, adding: ‘For the moment leastways. OK?’

  ‘No, it’s not OK. But I know you of old and I guess I’m not going to get any more out of you right now. Just have to say, I’ll be keeping my eyes open, wider than usual, from now on.’

  Durango’s lips tightened and his eyes flared but he bit back whatever he was going to say as Karen slammed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

  ‘Eat!’ she said flatly, hands on hips, her flashing gaze sweeping from one man to the other.

  They ate.

  Later, sitting on the porch, both stiff and sore, but now sharing a linen bag of Bull Durham mix and Wheatstraw papers as they built cigarettes and lit up, Durango took one deep draw, then exhaled slowly. He looked down at the burning cigarette between his fingers, turning it this way and that.

  As Deke exhaled, frowning, Spain said:

  ‘You’re gonna be a pain in the butt, I can see that.’

  Deke shrugged.

  ‘Told you before – you’re my pardner, Durango. You’ve got troubles, then I want to share ’em with you.’

  Spain shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘Knew I damn well taught you too blamed well!’ With a jerky motion he took only one more deep draw from the cigarette, then flicked it out into the yard, leaning his arms on the porch rail. He watched a chickenhawk hovering over Karen’s hen-coop, swallows swooping to snatch balls of mud for their nests from the damp spot under the dripping pump, before flying swiftly back into the big barn.

  Without turning he said very quietly,

  ‘I tied up with Danton and his bunch because I can make easy money – fast. And I need to make it fast, Deke, for Karen’s sake.’ He turned slowly, leaning with his elbows on the rail now as he turned haunted eyes to Cutler’s rugged face. ‘I’m a dying man, Deke. Got maybe six months to live – at most.’

  CHAPTER 9

  TRACKS

  It wasn’t until mid-morning, during a session with the blacksmith on the anvil – Deke was determined to pack some muscle back on that wasted arm even if it cost him dearly in pain, and it did – that he thought of something he should have brought up with Durango.

  But he was still reeling from Durango’s revelation about being a dying man and what should have been an obvious question slipped away and got lost – temporarily at least.

  Deke had been truly stunned by the news, was unable to speak for some time. Durango leaned his hips against the porch rail, folded his arms, tapping his fingers against his elbows. His jawline was knotted as he ground his teeth, his eyes lowered, thoughts obviously miles away.

  Eventually Cutler stood and went to stand beside him, dropped a hand gently to his shoulder.

  ‘What’s the trouble, pard?’

  Spain didn’t raise his eyes, teeth chewing briefly at his bottom lip.

  ‘Some kind of cancer – in the stomach.’

  ‘Jesus, Durango! Can’t they operate or something?’

  Spain was shaking his head before Deke had finished speaking.

  ‘Too late. Too far gone.’

  ‘Well, hell almighty! There’s got to be something you can do!’

  He looked at Deke at last, eyes haunted.

  ‘There is – wait until the pain gets too bad to bear and then …’ He slapped his hand against his gun butt.

  ‘Damn! I won’t accept that! I mean, even if it got to that stage … well, there’s laudanum. You could take an overdose …’ He paused, looking shocked. ‘Christ! What the hell’m I doing! Helping you find a way to kill yourself!’

  Spain turned and Deke let his hand drop from his friend’s shoulder. They stood looking into each other’s faces.

  ‘Deke, when the time comes – no, no, it will, there’s nothing can be done about it. It’ll come and – well, I might have to call on you to – help me out. I dunno if I could – do – anything to myself …’

  Cutler swore, feeling totally helpless.

  ‘Damnit, Durango!’ He sighed heavily. ‘ ’Course I’d – help – you. But there just has to be something we can do!’

  ‘There’s nothing, Deke. Accept it. It took me s
ome time and when I did – well, I thought about Karen. Sorry, old pard, I have to admit I didn’t think of you much …’

  ‘Hell, nor d’you need to! No, you’ve got to make sure Karen’s taken care of …’ Cutler stiffened. ‘That’s what’s been missing! I couldn’t quite accept that you’d deal with these outlaws just to make a quick buck! There had to be a damn good reason for you to do that. Now, of course, I know what it was….’

  Spain grabbed him by the forearm, the good one, his fingers digging in, bringing Deke’s head up sharply.

  ‘Deke – Karen doesn’t know.’

  Cutler blinked. ‘She – doesn’t know…? You haven’t told her about the cancer?’

  ‘Judas, keep your voice down! No, I haven’t. When the pains troubled me I rode down to Dallas on a pretext of looking for a herd of better cattle and saw an Army doctor I know there. You know him, too: Randy Lansing.’ Deke nodded: a good man, the only truly caring medic he had ever seen in the Army. The Rangers used his services at times: their funds didn’t run to employing a full-time medical officer.

  ‘Well, if Lansing told you there was no hope, I guess I’d have to take his word for it.’

  Spain nodded, seeming a little distracted.

  ‘You might’ve noticed I don’t eat chilli like I used to, don’t use pepper or Karen’s homemade mustard, them sorts of things. You might’ve even seen me sneaking a glass of cow’s milk, for Chris’sake! It’s just to help put a lining on the stomach and my gullet, Randy says …’ He sobered abruptly. ‘But it’ll start to spread and I won’t be able to keep anything down and then …’

  Deke held up a hand.’By that time, Karen’ll have to know, Durango.’

  Spain nodded jerkily, mouth tight.

  ‘I – might show my yaller streak and kinda – ask you to help out there, Deke, too.’

  That shook Cutler some. He didn’t fancy having to tell Karen that her husband was dying of cancer and she would soon be a widow. But – that was the kind of chore pardners did for each other…. He offered his hand and Spain gripped firmly.

  ‘I sure won’t enjoy it, but – I’ll do whatever you want, Durango.’

  Spain grinned widely, clasped Deke’s hand in both of his. ‘Gracias, amigo, muchas gracias! Let’s hope it’s a long time off, huh…?’

  ‘A damn long time,’ Deke said fervently.

  It was something he couldn’t shake, even while he was making new shoes for the grey and the blacksmith was showing him how to twist red-hot bar-iron into fancy designs for fireplace and wall ornaments, candlesticks and firetongs. Deke wondered how he would take the news that he had incurable cancer of the stomach … well, at least he wouldn’t have any wife or family to worry about. It must be sheer hell for Spain to live with that kind of secret.

  He savvied now why the man had thrown out all his ethics: Deke would likely have done the same if he had had Karen for a wife – or any wife. Bending the law a little, even a lot, didn’t matter a damn under such circumstances. There was no other way that she could survive after Spain died: this was a quick way to get some money for her, enough, anyway, to see her through the funeral and maybe pay off the debts so she wouldn’t have to sell Shoestring. Deke sure wouldn’t stand in her way. Or, maybe she would be glad to get rid of it.

  Then what? Maybe she would go back to Denver and her family, start to live how she used to before she married Durango.

  Maybe she would be glad of any help he could offer. Maybe whatever might have been between them once would have a chance to blossom and …

  ‘Hey, Deke! What you makin’, man? A goddamn broadsword…?’

  The smith’s rough voice startled Deke out of his thoughts and he saw that instead of just adding a barley sugar twist to the squared bar-iron he had been forging, he had hammered it out into the semblance of a knife blade, or even the beginning of a broadsword or spear point …

  ‘Sorry, Mitch. Daydreaming.’

  ‘Ah, it don’t matter. Can always turn it into a knife, wrap rawhide round the tang and sell it to Ringo for an Injun blade – he’s dumb enough to believe it, bein’ kinda partial to knives.’

  Deke was only half-listening. He could have kicked himself: where did he get off even thinking about Karen in that way when Durango would have to die before anything in that line even began…?

  You’re a lousy, two-timing son of a bitch, Deacon Cutler! Durango don’t deserve a conniving pardner like you – and you sure as hell don’t deserve him! Now take a hitch in that hackamore and rein down, you hear? You’ve got a ranch to run, you and Durango….

  Cutler and Jimmy Taggart went out to gather in some mustangs, which the wrangler would break in enough to work brush cattle. They rode up into ridge country above the river and Jimmy surprised Deke with his knowledge of horses.

  ‘Grew up in Wyomin’,’ the kid explained when they stopped for a smoke on a projecting rocky ledge. The river wound away into the mysterious land to the north, though Deke knew the ‘mystery’ part was all in a man’s mind: it looked little different from any other part of the country around here except maybe it was a little greener and the timber was a little thicker. Still, there were arid sections, too, which would make the Staked Plains look like a public garden.

  ‘My old man never had much, no education, used his fists to settle most arguments, his gun once or twice. But he knew hosses. Folk rode in from three States away for his advice.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘Anyway, he taught me plenty and I guess it’s took, because I reckon I get along better with hosses than I do with people at times.’

  Deke smiled.

  ‘Plenty of times I prefer old Grey’s company to other folk, too, kid. You gonna be a wrangler all your life?’

  ‘Not if I can help it – want my own hoss ranch eventually. Meantime, thought I might try some rodeo work after I leave here. Lot of money to be made there.’ He paused as if making some sort of decision about Cutler, then said, quietly: ‘If you don’t mind losin’ once in a while.’

  Deke frowned.

  ‘You mean, throw a ride, just like throwing a prize fight?’

  Jimmy flushed but nodded eagerly enough.

  ‘Yeah. Wouldn’t hurt now and again. Earn some quick money to get my spread.’

  ‘Well, you could lose one reputation – as a top rider – and gain another – as a man who doesn’t mind selling out.’

  Taggart paled, mouth tightening.

  ‘I don’t see it that way!’

  ‘Well, most other folk would. ’Course, if you don’t care a damn about what folk think of you, you might last a couple years on the rodeo circuit – before you find you can’t get a decent job anywhere because no one’ll trust you.’

  ‘Aw! It don’t work like that. Anyways, how about you and Durango? You two’re doin’ deals with them outlaws across the river.’

  Deke butted out his cigarette stub against the saddle horn before dropping it to the ground.

  ‘Kid, you could be right. But Durango has a real solid reason for making those deals.’

  ‘I would have, too – to make a fast buck!’

  ‘Your Old Man teach you that it was OK to sell out like that?’

  ‘No-o. But I kinda picked up on it after he died and I took off and seen how most men made extra dinero.’

  ‘You get your share now, don’t you?’ Deke asked softly.

  Jimmy tossed his head.

  ‘Few dollars, sure, just for lookin’ the other way. But I ain’t in a position to earn real money, like Ringo and Hal Tripp and Jno. They can use their guns …’

  ‘How many others in the crew are in this deal?’

  Jimmy frowned deeper.

  ‘You’d best ask Durango. C’mon, if we’re gonna catch them broncs down at the waterhole …’

  The kid wheeled away and Deke smiled to himself as he followed slowly; Jimmy was either pretty loyal or just plain dumb.

  Either way, he could get himself into a lot of trouble.

  They were bringing down a bunch of wild-ey
ed, mane-flying mustangs in the afternoon, following a narrow, ragged trail through a series of dry washes that Deke hadn’t seen before. But the kid knew that trail and it was narrow and twisting enough to keep the still wild horses in Indian file. The kid told Cutler that it ended in a small blind draw which would hold the horses overnight. He had already prepared sliding rails that could be pulled swiftly into place after the last animal thundered in.

  It worked well and then, after making sure the rails were all tight in their niches, they turned to walk back to their mounts.

  ‘Judas goddamn priest!’ exclaimed Jimmy Taggart.

  It was such an exclamation of surprise that Deke started to draw his six-gun even as he turned. Then he froze.

  The Samburu was standing there, only three yards away, his red robe bright against the drab earth-colour of the dry wash, the blade of his long spear flashing in the westering sun. Jimmy glanced quickly at Deke.

  ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘Guess we’ll have to ask. Howdy, Sam.’ Deke had an urge to lift a hand, palm out, the way whitemen greeted Indians but something told him that it wasn’t appropriate here. ‘Dutch Pete around?’ he asked instead.

  The Samburu warrior, he noted now, was wearing what he thought was a wig, a huge mass of russet-coloured coarse hair, swept back, adding at least a foot to his height, held in place with a band that had been worked with strange angular designs and some beads. Later, he learned that the ‘wig’ was the mane of a lion.

  ‘Sam has earned the right to wear it,’ Dutch Pete told him when they met up on the slopes overlooking the sharp bend of the Red River within spitting distance of outlaw territory. ‘Like the Masai, a tribe they’re distantly related to, the Samburu warriors prove themselves by hunting lions on foot, armed only with a single spear. No knife, no panga.’