“It’s northeast of here,” muttered Clay. “That’s as much as I know.”
“On my way north to Lewisburg, after we forded the river,” Jim recalled, “we stopped by a relay station of the Guthrie Stage Line to water our animals. The manager was friendly, and he talked a lot about this territory. It’s likely he knows every mile of it. So …” Abruptly, he got to his feet, “we’d better pay him another visit.”
“We go now, eh?” suggested Benito.
“We go now,” nodded Jim, “and quietly, savvy? You fetch Hank. Leave the burro at the livery and hire a good saddle horse for yourself.” He flipped a coin which Benito deftly caught. “No need to advertise. Bring the horses around back of the hotel. I’ll be with you in ten minutes or so.” The Mex donned his sombrero, slung his guitar to his back and strapped his gunbelt about his loins. After the door closed behind him, Jim looked at Clay again and told him, “You’ll have to go through with it—up to a point.”
“You mean …” Clay fidgeted nervously, “ride with them in the morning?”
“All the way to the pass,” nodded Jim.
“I was hoping you could figure a way out for me.” Clay wasn’t ashamed to put it that bluntly. “Can’t we stop Trantor and his pards rightaway—here in Durrance?”
“It’s your word against theirs,” Jim pointed out. “You could tell it from the rooftops, and Trantor would claim you’re out of your mind—raving. They haven’t made a wrong move yet, so all they have to do is deny whatever you say. A man can’t be jailed for planning a hold-up—’specially if nobody can prove he planned it. Of course Trantor would have to abandon the notion of grabbing that payroll. You’d achieve that much—but I don’t think it’s enough.” He stared hard at the younger man. “Do you?”
“I guess not,” frowned Clay.
“Trantor has already proved that he’ll kill any man who gets in his way,” growled Jim, “or pay to have him killed— or trick somebody into handling it, the way he tricked me into riding north to tangle with Curtis. He’s done it before. He’d do it again. Even back in Ellistown, you’d never feel safe.”
Clay stood up, rubbed at his jowls, nodded morosely.
“Sure. You’re one hundred percent right, Mr. Rand.”
“And now I’ll tell you what I want you to do,” said Jim. “Heed it. Remember it.”
“Go ahead,” offered Clay.
“When you stake out in Warsmoke Pass,” said Jim, “make sure you’re in a position to defend yourself—and I don’t mean against the army. There’s a strong chance Trantor or one of his sidekicks will take a shot at you, when they realize you’re double-crossing them. I saw you gun that Burch hombre. I know you didn’t enjoy it, but at least it proves you’ll fight when you have to—when you’re forced into it.”
“How—uh—how will they know I’m double-crossing them?” asked Clay.
“You’re going to fire the first shot,” Jim told him, “a warning shot. When Trantor starts cussing, you could claim your gun discharged accidentally. Anyway, that first shot will be the wagon driver’s warning. It’ll give him a chance to take cover behind the seat.”
“And the escort?” frowned Clay.
“If I have my way,” said Jim, “that escort will be sitting on the payroll—hidden snug in a clump of brush or a cottonwood copse, somewhere far from the pass. I’ll be in back of the driver.”
“Maybe Trantor will get suspicious,” suggested Clay. “I mean—he’ll expect to see an escort.”
“By then,” Jim predicted, “he’ll be spending his share of the loot—in his mind. He won’t turn back, Morrow. He’ll be itching to see what’s in that wagon. You have to remember this hold-up took a lot of planning. Would he turn and run from the Pass, because there’s no escort party? I don’t think so.”
“All right, you’re the boss,” said Clay. “Just tell me exactly when I’m to fire that warning shot.”
“Do it as soon as Trantor or any of his men start taking aim,” said Jim. He donned his Stetson, drew his Colt and checked its loading, then strode to the corner where his gear was stowed. As he picked up his sheathed Winchester, he eyed Clay and asked, “Any more questions?”
“No more questions,” muttered Clay.
“So long then,” grunted Jim, “until mañana.”
“I’m beholden to you,” said Clay, fervently.
“Time enough later for gratitude,” said Jim.
Clay retreated to the door, opened it and scanned the corridor. Without a backward glance, he passed through and walked along to his own room. He had lit his lamp and was building another smoke, when he heard the sounds of Big Jim’s departure. The ex-sergeant and his small shadow left Durrance quietly but, to Clay, those muffled sounds were as demanding as thunder, as compelling as an outburst of gunfire. Just the thudding of hooves in the alley behind the hotel indicating that the Mex had fetched the horses. They were on their way now. He had begged help from a man who hardly knew him, a man who owed him nothing, but had not been refused.
Would he sleep tonight? It didn’t seem likely—not with his nerves a’clamor. He lay on his bed, smoking, staring up at the fly-specked ceiling, thinking. Could he hope to come through this ordeal alive? Yes. If his luck held. If his nerve did not fail him. And, by then, he would have had his fill of wandering, of adventuring, of yearning to travel beyond the next mountain.
Ellistown would seem as a haven now. He wouldn’t mind the monotony; he would welcome it. And, by glory, his homecoming would be different this time.
Always the same quiet homecoming. Oh, he was welcome, but in a restrained, undemonstrative way. Well, not this time, by glory. Was it entirely Nell’s fault that their life together had become so monotonous? Maybe not. Maybe he was partly to blame—entirely to blame, more likely. He had accepted the gradual cooling of their old need for each other. He should have fought against that transition from the warm and earnest to the cool and perfunctory, but he hadn’t. He had accepted it, and thus done Nell an injustice. What right had he to presume that Nell no longer wanted him? She had gotten caught up in the routine of keeping house, caring for two fractious kids and helping to run the store. Did this mean that she had lost her desire for him, become frigid?
“Well …” He rolled over, scowled at his half-smoked cigarette. “Only one way to find out.”
He could no longer hear the receding hoofbeats. Big Jim and the Mex had left Durrance far to their rear and were soon fording the Cimarron River, their third fording of that waterway in five days. They had an immediate destination, one that Jim could relocate with ease in this bright moonlight.
It was between eleven-thirty p.m. and midnight when they began their descent of the south slope of Green Hollow. In the center of this grassy basin had been established a switch station of the Guthrie Stage Line, a small but efficient and highly essential outpost. It consisted of the log and clapboard homestead occupied by the gregarious Pat Saunders and his womenfolk, those womenfolk being his spouse, sister-in-law and two bovine daughters, all of whom were more than capable of taking their turn at switching teams of the north and southbound coaches, dishing up meals to passengers, cleaning out the barn, pitching hay or any of the other chores so necessary to the operation of a relay station. When not thus engaged, Pat Saunders was tending his ploughed fields along the northern slopes of the basin.
His eyesight was exceptionally keen, as acute as his hearing, and the same applied to his women. When he rolled out of bed to don robe and slippers, his wife was already crouched at the window, staring southward and hefting a rifle. He joined her there, his gnarled right fist full of Colt .45.
“Comin’ down the slope right now,” she informed him.
“Yep, I see ’em,” he grunted. “And you can put up that rifle and go back to bed, Hattie.”
“You know ’em?” she demanded, squinting.
“Take a closer look,” he suggested, as he got rid of the Colt and tied the cord of his robe. “They were here a few days back. The b
ig feller and the half-pint Mex? You’ll recall the big feller was plumb sociable. The little feller, too—except he kept singin’ to Ella May and made the sorrel mare foal three days ahead of schedule. I swear I never heard such gosh-awful singin’. Sure can’t blame the mare for …”
“You better go see what they want,” she shrugged, as she trudged back to bed.
When his visitors dismounted in the front yard, Saunders was in the parlor, getting a lamp working, then breaking out a quart of whisky; it was nice to have an excuse. He hurried through to the kitchen to admit Jim and the Mex, led them back to the parlor and gestured them to chairs.
“A mite late for visitin’,” he remarked, as he uncorked the bottle, “but you’re welcome anyway.”
“It’s more than just a visit, Pat,” said Jim. “I need directions.”
“You sure do a heap of travelling,” observed Saunders. He filled three glasses, passed one to Jim, another to Benito, raised the third in a toast. “Mud in your eye, amigos.” They satisfied their thirsts, and then, “Where you headed this time?”
“Northeast,” Jim told him. “Do you know that area, Pat? What I need to know are the short cuts to the trail between Brent City and Fort Gearey.”
“That’ll be the Drago trail,” frowned Saunders. “Sure. I know it. Hey—you got a long way to go.”
“Could we make it by morning?” demanded Jim.
“Is muy importante,” Benito assured him.
“I can show you many a short cut,” said Saunders, “but you couldn’t make Brent City before eleven o’clock— likely not before noon—unless your horses sprouted wings.”
“Warsmoke Pass?” prodded Jim.
“That’s not so far,” said Saunders.
“Could we get between Brent City and the pass by mid-morning?” asked Jim.
“Oh, sure,” shrugged Saunders. He finished his drink, got to his feet. “Just you wait. I’ll fetch pencil and paper and draw you a map.”
A quarter hour later, with that roughly-sketched map in his pocket and Pat Saunders’ directions clear in his mind, Jim quit Green Hollow with Benito and rode fast towards a belt of timber to the east. By one-thirty a.m. they were emerging from a high-walled canyon and fording a shallow creek, then veering northward past a landmark that matched perfectly the description offered by Saunders—Pyramid Butte.
And by five-fifteen, at which time Clay Morrow was keeping his appointment with Trantor and Company behind the Cimarron Saloon, Jim and the Mex had ridden many a long mile and were descending the north side of a wooded ridge; in the far distance they could see a winding ribbon of dull yellow—the Drago-Brent City trail.
Ten – To Wander No More
For an hour, they had rested the horses in a clearing within a mesquite clump to the left of the trail. The brush dotted the sides and summit of a small rise, affording temporary concealment, and the slightly elevated position gave Jim a fair view of the terrain to the north. According to Pat Saunders’ directions, and if the gold watch presented to him by the grateful citizenry of Libertad was functioning properly, they were now somewhere to the north of Warsmoke Pass and could hope to sight the southbound supply wagon within the next hour.
Now, waiting for the showdown, the Mex’s instinct for self-preservation came to the fore.
“There will be much shootin’, no?” he nervously enquired.
“Let me put it this way,” was Jim’s dry retort. “I can’t see Trantor surrendering without a fight.”
“Four of them …”
“Three. You’re forgetting young Morrow won’t be shooting at the wagon—or at us.”
“Even so, amigo, in such a situation, one could be hurt.”
“One sure as hell could.”
“Amigo Jim, I must honor the traditions of my family. As well as being great thieves, all the Espinas are cowards.”
“As if you need to tell me.” Jim shrugged philosophically. “Well, don’t let it fret you. You can stay with the soldados, or hide in back of the wagon. It makes no difference to me.”
“So much dinero,” the Mex wistfully remarked. “Fifty thousand Americano dollars.”
“Soldiers’ pay,” growled Jim. “If I sight your itchy fingers within three feet of that cash shipment, I'll bend a gun barrel over your no-good head, so help me I will.” He glanced northward again. On the horizon something pale and wispy spiraled to the hot sky: it could have been a far-off dust cloud. After another quick consultation of his watch, he decided, “We’ll move down to the trail now. This could be them.”
He flicked his cigarette butt away, unhobbled the charcoal and swung astride. Benito followed his example, straddling the rangy sorrel hired from a Durrance livery stable. They rode down to the trail, followed it northward for sixty yards to where clusters of lava rock littered the flat ground to the right side. Here they concealed themselves, awaiting the approach of the wagon.
It came on steadily, a heavy, lumbering vehicle drawn by a four-horse team. Jim observed that the old timer handling the reins looked plenty durable, leather-tough, and that the smooth-faced lieutenant in charge of the escort party was very young indeed; they were passing them out of West Point faster nowadays, he supposed. Chris had looked as young at the time of his graduation. The other four riders were privates. The veteran on the driver’s seat wore the stripes of a corporal.
When the rig and the riders were about twenty yards away, Jim walked the black out into clear view of them, with Benito tagging him. The wagon immediately came to a halt and, in response to the lieutenant’s gasped command, the troopers lined their rifles on Jim and the Mex. Jim could have triggered three bullets at the lieutenant while that youthful officer was still fumbling with the flap of his holster; nevertheless he was favorably impressed. The young fellow was startled, but no coward.
“Get ’em up, mister!” called the elderly corporal. “Get ’em up high!”
Jim nodded calmly, raided his hands and drawled an order for Benito to imitate him. The Mex’s arms shot skyward. Then, eyeing the freckled, bright-eyed young officer, Jim conceded:
“That was good enough, Lieutenant. If this had been a hold up, you and your men would’ve given a good account of yourselves.” Unhurriedly, he lowered his hands, folded them over his saddlehorn. “And now you can tell your men to quit pointing those guns at us.”
“Just a minute now, damn-it-all …!” began the lieutenant.
“Time’s a’wasting,” Jim chided him. “I’m here to warn you about a real hold up.”
“Just who in tarnation are you?” demanded the driver.
“I'll interrogate this man, Corporal Judd!” blustered the lieutenant.
“Well, all right. Go ahead and interrogate him, son,” growled the corporal. “I mean, Lieutenant.”
Despite the tension of the situation, Jim could not suppress a grin. These two were typical of their kind—the case-hardened old veteran from the ranks—the tyro officer fresh out of West Point, still a mite unsure of himself. His expression became wistful, as he subjected the lieutenant to a searching scrutiny. Reddening, the young officer began saying his piece.
“That wasn’t a very wise move—riding out and challenging us that way …”
“So far, I haven’t challenged anybody,” countered Jim, “and I hope I don’t have to. The corporal asked my name. It’s Rand—ex-Sergeant James Carey Rand, late of the Eleventh Cavalry.” He dug out his discharge document, nudged the black to movement again, letting it walk up to the lieutenant’s horse. “You’re welcome to examine this— just so you’ll know I’m no deserter.” As the young officer made to take the paper from him, he drew back his hand and said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Lieutenant Orin Clyburne.” The freckled face became even more serious. “If you’re an experienced army man …”
“In the cavalry,” said Jim, “we don’t get to be sergeants by the shine on our boots.”
“It ain’t that way in the infantry neither,” grunted Corporal Judd.
“I was about to say,” frowned Clyburne, “you ought to know better than to take such a foolish risk. If I’d given my men the command to fire …”
“You’d have made me good and mad, son.” Jim stopped grinning. “I’d have turned you over my knee—even with three bullets in my hide.”
Instead of trying to compose a rejoinder to that harsh assertion, Lieutenant Clyburne unfolded and examined the document of discharge.
“This—ahem—appears to be in order …”
“You just know it, boy. Now hand it back—and then listen to me.”
The corporal remarked, as Clyburne hastily surrendered the document, “I guess all sergeants were born ornery.”
“You mentioned a hold up, Mr. Rand,” prodded Clyburne.
“And I’m not fooling,” growled Jim. “Four men are waiting to ambush you at Warsmoke Pass.”
“Is this some kind of practical joke?” challenged Clyburne. “Four men ambushing an army supply wagon? What can they hope to gain? We carry nothing but provisions—”
“And a fifty thousand dollar payroll,” said Jim.
Clyburne’s jaw sagged. The corporal gave vent to a lusty oath. The four troopers exchanged wondering frowns.
“How in blazes …?” began Clyburne.
“Let’s not waste time arguing about it,” Jim suggested. “Your commanding officer should have known that, sooner or later, somebody would make a smart guess about these supply runs to Brent City. Always on the nineteenth of the third month. It’s a pattern, Lieutenant. Anybody could learn of it. Anybody could add two and two.”
“How did you learn of the plan to ambush us?” Clyburne wanted to know. “What’s your connection with this affair?”
Jim was impatient to be on his way, but sufficiently realistic to concede the lieutenant’s right to ask questions. As briefly as possible, but concisely, he described the circumstances under which he had learned of the proposed attack on the supply wagon. Also, he emphasized Clay Morrow’s invidious position.
“I wouldn’t want to see that storekeeper stop a wild bullet, Lieutenant, and that’s why I want to handle this deal in my own way. With all four of your men blazing away, there’s a better than even chance Morrow could be killed.”
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