by H. H. Knibbs
Hazing the four head of horses up the narrow trail above the bench, Pecos and Pete hobbled them and turned them to graze. Sheltered from the wind by a huge pine near the middle of the mountain meadow, Pecos sat reading his almanac. Young Pete walked over to the edge of the meadow and stood gazing out across the tops of the hillside trees. It was big, savage country, though a Mexican might make a go of it with sheep or goats. Almost dead for sleep, Pete was too proud to admit it. He turned and glanced at the grazing horses. His own mount, the big iron-gray, made him think of Tonto Charley, of Hemenway and Claybourne. The old gang was wiped out, and he, not much more than a boy, the only survivor. And this outfit he was with now? Outlaws of some kind, or he was much mistaken.
Toward noon the hill breeze died down. The air grew hot. Fearing that he would fall asleep, Pete walked over to Pecos Jim, intending to ask him some questions about the cattle outfits in that country. But all he could get out of Pecos was, “Talk to you when I finish readin’.”
Pete had no recollection of walking back to the rim of the meadow and falling asleep with his back against a sun-warmed rock. Waking in the chill shadows of late afternoon he saw that Pecos and the horses were gone. Without reasoning that anything serious had happened, Pete felt that something was wrong. Otherwise Pecos would have wakened him.
Half-way down the narrow trail Pete came within sight of the stone corral. It was empty.
His saddle and bridle were missing from the stone house, the fire was out. Early dusk made the windowless house dark. Pete made a fire and got himself something to eat.
Afoot, in a strange country, there was nothing to do but take it easy and work out of it the best he could. Against the loss of his horse, he at least had food and shelter and a chance to get some much-needed sleep. Then he would strike for the low country and hunt for work.
Lee and Kimball had said they would stay at the stone house a couple of days. Pete wondered why they should waste a bluff like than on him. If they had wanted his horse they could have taken it without pretending to be friendly. But even so, Pete could not believe that Charley Lee was a mere single-barreled horse thief. It was a queer deal.
Plate and cup in hand, Pete stepped to the doorway. Out of the cañon dusk, on either side of him a figure advanced soundlessly. A voice told him what to do. The tin plate and cup clattered on the rock. Unable to distinguish the figures, he made the best of a risky situation and put up his hands. His gun was twitched from its holster. “Anybody else in there?”
“No!”
One of the men stepped past Pete and into the house. “Fetch him in,” he said to his companion. Pete surmised that they were peace officers.
Handcuffed, Pete sat by the fire. One of the deputies went out and returned with their boots. They seemed anxious to be out of Horse Thief Cañon. “Where’s the rest of the bunch?” they asked.
“I dunno. Mebby in Vegas.” And Pete laughed.
“You’re a tough kid, now, ain’t you?”
“Hell yes! What do I look like?”
The questioner stared at Pete for a moment. “You look a whole lot like Charley Lee’s young brother, only—”
“Shut up!” said the other deputy. “Let’s drift.”
At the foot of the ledge trail the officers untied and mounted their horses. His arms roped to his sides and a deputy on the long end of the rope, Pete was forced to lead the way down the cañon.
Time and again he stumbled and fell, but made no complaint. He didn’t blame them for making him go ahead. It was their best bet in case of an ambush. Only once he spoke, asking them where they were taking him. “Vegas,” they said. “To the rest of your outfit.”
Pete told them they had made a mistake. To that his captors had nothing to say. It occurred to Young Pete that their presence in Horse Thief Hollow might have something to do with the flight of Pecos Jim and Lee and Kimball. He began to whistle a tune. He was told to stop whistling and walk faster. “Give me some slack,” said Pete. “Do you expect me to drag you all the way to Vegas?” The edge of the moon pushed up above the southern rim of the cañon. Pete saw that they had arrived at the fan-shaped spread of gravel and boulders near the cañon’s mouth. The deputies cursed the moonlight and urged their horses into a fast walk.
Thus far Pete had not thought of trying to escape. But with hands manacled and a thirty-foot rope attaching him to a saddle-horn, he realized that nothing but the sheerest accident of luck could make an escape possible.
“Well, we got down out of there all right,” said one of the deputies, apparently much relieved.
“Didn’t you expect to?” said the other.
A rifle shot answered him—a shot fired from within a few feet of the trail. The rope that held Young Pete went slack. He flung himself face down. Around and over him surged the fight—the crash of shots, the crunching of gravel as the horses wheeled under the spur. Someone on the left was firing a Winchester with machine-like regularity. Dazed by the shock and sound, Pete was still conscious that the officers were putting up a hard fight. He rolled to one side and squirmed behind a boulder. With startling suddenness the sound of shooting ceased.
Young Pete heard the voices of Charley Lee and Pecos Jim as they struck matches and identified the bodies of the two officers. “Queer,” said Pecos Jim in a complaining tone, “we go to all this trouble to get that kid away from these coyotes, and now he ain’t anywhere in sight. Mebby he got hurt bad.”
“What are you goin’ to do with these horses?” It was Kimball’s voice. He had caught up and was holding the mounts of the two deputies.
“We’ll take ’em back up the cañon,” said Charley Lee.
“Too bad about that boy,” whined Pecos Jim.
“What’s too bad about him?” Lee’s voice was sharp. “We cleaned up, all right, didn’t we?”
“That’s all right, Charley,” said Pecos conciliatingly.
“Get a couple of ropes,” said Lee.
Young Pete knew that they were roping the bodies of the officers on the horses. He didn’t care to be left there, handcuffed and all but helpless. Yet he feared that Lee might put him out of the way because he had witnessed the fight. Before he could make up his mind to call out, Pete heard the horses move off. Then came Pecos Jim’s voice. “Are you around here anywhere, kid?”
“I don’t know,” said Pete. “What happened, anyhow?”
Pecos felt his way to the boulder and sat down beside Pete. “Shootin’. Somebody is always shootin’, or gettin’ shot, up this way. By the almanac I knowed it was goin’ to happen. I can always tell. It’s dog eat dog in this country. Someday there’s goin’ to be only one dog left.”
“Can your almanac tell where to find the keys to these handcuffs?”
“Now wait, kid. Charley will get them keys. He’ll be back pretty soon.”
“Did those deputies get away?”
“Yes, they’re gone.”
“I heard a shot, and then somethin’ hit me on the back of the head. Feel that lump. Moss, most likely. Glad it’s dark so I can’t see how dizzy I am.”
“It ain’t so awful dark, but not light enough to read the almanac.”
“Light enough to see my horse anywhere?” asked Pete.
“Sure! He’s tied back up the cañon a piece. Charley fetched him along figurin’ you could use him.”
“What kind of a joke do you call that?”
“It ain’t no joke, kid.” Pecos lowered his voice. “Them deputies mighty near got us. It was just luck that Charley woke up and stepped out of the stone house and saw ’em headin’ into the Hollow. Charley and Tom packed their saddles up to the meadow and we lit out over the top. Couldn’t see you nowhere. Tom said he thought you was a decoy to kind of keep us interested till the deputies jumped us.”
“Sure! And you invited me up—”
“Now wait, kid! Tom Kimball ain’t go
t no brains. All he does is guess at things. Charley told him you wasn’t no decoy. Charley said you looked too much like a Lee to be a squealer. You see, kid, Charley’s young brother was just a boy, like you. He was killed in a gunfight in Las Vegas.”
“Meanin”?
“Charley didn’t like the idea of them deputies pokin’ up into Horse Thief Hollow. He could have bush-whacked ’em easy. But he was willin’ to let ’em look around as long as they kept their hands off. So he pulls his freight. But when we dropped back to the meadow that evenin’ and saw ’em hazin’ you down the cañon, Charley boils over. He didn’t say nothin’, which is a bad sign.”
“One of them deputies killed his brother?”
“Now I didn’t say that, kid. You got to be careful what you say around Charley.”
“All right. You do the talkin’.”
But Pecos said no more. He sat thumbing his almanac and complaining because he couldn’t read by moonlight. Hoofs crunched across the gravel. Charley Lee rode up alone. He didn’t seem surprised to see Pete, nor to consider it anything unusual when Pecos lighted a match and asked him for the key to the handcuffs.
“First time I ever had those things on,” said Pete.
“You’ll get used to ’em,” said Lee as he unlocked the handcuffs.
Falling in behind Pecos Jim and Lee, Pete followed them up the cañon. Occasionally he caught the sound of shod hoofs far ahead, and knew it must be Kimball as the others made no remark about it. Farther along Lee left the trail and returned with Pete’s horse. The three rode in silence from there on up to the stone house on the ledge.
About daybreak Tom Kimball arrived, heavy-eyed and surly. Pecos Jim was making breakfast. Charley Lee was still asleep. Kimball, evidently willing to start a row, demanded a cup of coffee.
“I just put it on,” said Pecos Jim.
Pushing him aside, Kimball reached for the coffee-pot.
“Here, you leave that alone!” said Pecos.
Charley Lee rose on his elbow. “Who’s doing the cooking this morning?” he asked, yawning.
“Me,” said Pecos Jim.
Kimball backed away from the fire and walked to the doorway, muttering. He threw a hard look at Young Pete as he passed him. Pete grinned. Funny, that grown men like Kimball and Pecos should wrangle about a cup of coffee. Now if he had reached for the coffee-pot, Pete reflected, he could have got his cup of coffee or Pecos Jim, and it wouldn’t have mattered which. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish,” Tonto Charley had told him. That was all right. But the idea was, don’t start anything that isn’t worth finishing.
Pete sauntered out to the spring. He was washing his hands and face when Charley Lee stepped up briskly. “Hello, dude!” Lee knelt and soused his head vigorously. Rising, he shook the water from his black, curly hair and stood looking out across the distant valley. Pete glanced at Lee’s keen, high-colored face. Not over twenty five, he thought. Looked like a Southerner. But his talk was crisp. No drawl about him.
“Come on, dude!” said Lee, smiling. “According to Pecos’ almanac, this is another day!”
Complaining of stomach trouble, Pecos Jim would not eat, but sat outside reading his almanac while the others had breakfast.
Pete gathered up the dishes and took them to the spring. He was trying to figure out what Lee’s game was, and when he himself would get a chance to break away. He had told Pecos he was looking for a white outfit. And now, against his own choice, he was again running with outlaws. Especially he wondered if either Lee or Kimball knew who he was. He was pretty sure Pecos Jim didn’t.
When he returned to the house Kimball was stretched out on the blankets, asleep. Charley Lee stood by the fire, smoking and staring into the embers. Pete stacked the cups and plates on the hearth and then sat down and curled a cigarette. Kimball snored. Outside in the sun sat Pecos submerged in his almanac.
Pete wondered how long Charley Lee would stand there staring into the fire. He surmised that Kimball had taken care of the horses of the two deputies. What had become of their bodies was a question that did not concern him.
Lee stretched. “I’d like to trade you out of a good horse, this morning.”
“You might do that—if I owned one worth trading for.”
“The iron-gray. I don’t care whether you own him or not.”
“Well, I do.”
Charley Lee smiled. “You’re light. You don’t need so much horse. Now that buckskin I’m riding—what do you think of him?”
“I don’t care whether you own him or not—I don’t want him.” Pete grinned.
“Or that horse Pecos is riding?”
“You ain’t takin’ me serious,” said Pete.
“No?” Lee produced a money belt and counted out ten ten-dollar gold pieces. “A hundred for the iron-gray, and no questions asked.”
A hundred dollars gold! Pete was sorely tempted. Twenty dollars would buy some kind of mount. When he got a job he’d have a string of his own to ride. A hundred dollars was a fair offer, even a generous offer, under the circumstances. Pete didn’t want to appear ungrateful. Lee and Pecos had treated him mighty well. But the big iron-gray had been Tonto Charley’s horse, a gift from Tonto Charley, who had shot himself to death that Pete might take the horse and escape from Benavides’ men. Pete swallowed hard. “The iron-gray,” he told Charley Lee, “he wouldn’t be no use to you. He’s gun-shy. And he’s like to leave you any time you step off him.” Pete lied valiantly. “He goes tender easy, too. Any time he throws a shoe, you’re afoot.”
“Meaning he’s steady, will stand to rein, and can travel unshod longer than most,” said Lee, laughing. He slipped the gold back into his belt. “Still thinking of working for a white outfit, eh?”
“If my horse holds out till I find one.”
Lee stepped over to his blankets, and returning gave Pete his gun. “You’ll find Old Man Butterfield, over near Vegas, as near a white man as there is in this country. Anybody can tell you where his ranch is. He runs a small outfit. Mebby he’ll give you a job. You needn’t tell him where you slept last night.”
“Thanks.”
“But you better leave your horse here and ride one of mine.”
So that was it? Took him for a kid, did they? Young Pete’s hand scarcely moved and his elbow not at all. Yet he held Charley Lee’s immediate future between his thumb and crooked finger.
“You look as if you meant it,” said Lee, watching Pete’s eyes.
“Just call Pecos or Kimball, and see! Do I get my horse?”
Lee hesitated a few seconds. “Yes, take him. You’ll have plenty time later to call yourself a fool.”
“I know you can stop me, any time,” said Pete, slipping the gun back into his waistband. “But just recollec’ I could ’a’ plugged you and Kimball before Pecos could get to the door, which means—I’d ’a’ got him too.”
“Yes,” said Lee quietly. “Shove along. But don’t blame me if you find ’em waiting for you.”
Pete was too proud to ask what Lee meant. Somebody would be waiting for him? Where? And for what? Pete stepped out into the sunlight.
An expression of wonder glowed in Pecos Jim’s faded eyes. He had heard the conversation between Charley Lee and the kid. Pecos didn’t know why Lee wanted the kid’s horse. But the fact that he wanted it and didn’t get it was hard to believe. Perhaps because the kid looked so much like Charley’s young brother. “Now just suppose,” said Pecos Jim, “you had turned loose and sp’iled Charley and Tom. Would you sp’iled me, likewise?”
“I don’t aim to start anything I can’t finish,” said Pete.
“I’ll go along up on top and help you get your horse,” offered Pecos. “That all right, Charley?”
Lee, who stood in the doorway, nodded.
For an instant Pete was tempted to give up looking for a white outfit and throw in
with Charley Lee and his friends. A word from Lee would have held him. But Lee didn’t say that word.
On his way to Horse Thief Hollow, Lee had heard that the notorious Tonto Charley had been killed north of Socorro and that his partner, known as Young Pete, had escaped on a big iron-gray neck-branded CC and with the tip of one ear missing.
Pete was surprised that Lee had let him go, unless Lee was already in so deep it didn’t matter what was said about him. Pete didn’t feel any too secure until he was well beyond rifle-shot of the stone house. And then he was worried about Lee’s remark. Who would be waiting, and where? Did Lee mean that news of the fight in Socorro had already reached Las Vegas?
CHAPTER 4
The hot noon sunlight poured into Horse Thief Hollow. Pete caught a whiff of sun-warmed juniper. He thought of Tonto Charley. “We’re the last of the Hemenway gang,” Charley had said. “Every time we hit a town word will go back along the trail that Tonto Charley and the kid, Pete, are hangin’ together, when they ought to be hangin’ separate. Folks we used to drink with and carouse with will be the first to carry a bone to the sheriff. It always works that way when a gang busts up.”
Arriving at the spot where the officers had been ambushed the night before, Pete tried to visualize from the hoof-tracks just how the battle had been fought. The trail passed among huge scattered boulders. Slowly circling these Pete cut some fresh tracks leading away from the main trail. Following these he came suddenly upon a sumidero, or mud spring, as treacherous as quicksand and more dangerous because masked by a leprous white sheet of alkali. Here the horse tracks ceased. And here were the tracks of two men on foot, two men who had again mounted and had ridden back toward the main trail. Two men and four horses. Pete shrugged. The bodies of the deputies would never be found. A sumidero never gives up its secret.
Riding back to the scene of the fight Pete noticed, near a boulder on the left of the trail, eight or ten empty shells from an old-fashioned black-powder Winchester. Mighty simple of Pecos Jim to advertise himself by leaving those 45-70 shells scattered around. Lee and Kimball used high-power rifles. Almost everyone used high-power rifles these days. Pecos used a 45-70. Pete gathered up the empty shells.