by R. W. Stone
“That true?” the sheriff asked suspiciously.
“No, you fool. If there was paper out on me, do you think I’d show up here?”
He scratched his chin. “No, I guess not. So what’s this all about?”
“I don’t want anybody on my back trail, that’s all,” I said. “I’m heading back south, and I don’t want to run into any of his friends.” It was a lie, but a necessary one.
“Seems like a man like you wouldn’t worry much about that.”
I leaned right up into his face. “Even Pecos Bill could get dry-gulched or back shot. I’m gonna ask this just once. Am I gonna have to come back here and check on things? Because, know this, Sheriff, I got a real nasty disposition when it comes to being forced to go out of my way.”
The lawman gulped and answered quickly: “No, sir. That son of a bitch is gonna stay there till hell freezes over.”
As I was walking out the door, I added: “And no visitors!”
Chapter Twenty
After a half day out on the trail, I stopped to look at the map again. I had drawn two lines. One ran east to west, from the train robbery site to the Hole-in-the-Wall pass. The other ran north from the fort to a point halfway along the first line. I hoped to reach that point late the next day. I started for my canteen and changed my mind. I picked up the one Corporal Daniels had given me. I took a swig and coughed. It was as strong as I’d tasted in quite a while.
For the most part, the weather was pleasant this time of year, but it was beginning to turn chilly a mite early. I took another drink to ward off the cold, or so I justified it, and recapped the canteen. Before riding on, I reconsidered what I was getting myself into.
I realized that once I found the women, I would still have to find a way to get them out alive and all in one piece. I could ride with two or three of them doubled up on my horse and mule, but there were supposedly four women. I also knew that we wouldn’t get very far riding that way if we were pursued, and no matter how I figured it, I knew we would be.
If I were to ride through the pass with a string of saddled but riderless horses, I might have too much explaining to do. Besides, I didn’t have a string of horses. That’s why I had decided back in Bighorn Gulch that it would be necessary to improvise once I found the women. I also knew that would mean either grabbing some fresh horses or stealing a wagon and team. I shook my head in frustration. Nothing I could come up with seemed to work in my favor.
“Go on, Lobo, hunt,” I said, sending the dog off to the woods. “At least someone should have some fun once in a while!” I yelled after him. I patted the Appaloosa on the neck. “Come on, son,” I said. “We’ve dawdled enough.” I tugged at the lead rope to the jack mule and rode on.
Late in the afternoon of the following day, I came upon an old abandoned mining shack. The countryside was loaded with these old cabins, from here all the way to Bannock. I dismounted and arched my back to ease the stiffness. Lobo hadn’t returned yet, but I wasn’t worried. Like I said, he had his own way of doing things.
There was a lean-to out back of the shack where I could unsaddle and stable the horse and mule. It wasn’t much, just a few upright poles and some planks thrown over as a roof, but it also had a thin manger nailed to the crossbeams.
I filled the trough with some oats and corn from a sack I carried on the pack mule, and then I slid in a rear plank that would keep the animals inside the makeshift stall. There was an old bucket lying on the ground near the well, so I filled it with water and hung it on a peg I found in the lean-to.
I was tired and hungry myself, but if there’s one thing a man learns living out on the trail, it’s that his horse’s needs always come first. I pulled out my new pair of army binoculars from my saddlebags and had a look around. I saw nothing unusual, so I hung them around my neck, took my rifle and its scabbard from the saddle, put the saddlebags over my shoulder, and walked over to the cabin.
“Anyone to home?” I shouted before kicking in the front door. If you ignored the hoofprints all around the cabin, the amount of dust on the cabin might have led me to believe that it had been vacant for a long time, but when I went inside, it was clearly too tidy to have been unoccupied for very long.
I set my tack down and began to study the surroundings. I went back outside and walked all around the place. I headed to the well, and that’s when I noticed a small piece of torn fabric stuck to a splinter near the bottom. I couldn’t tell if it was from a man’s or a woman’s clothing, but one thing was sure, it was clean enough to have been torn off recently.
I noticed that the hoofprints had been made by several different horses and saw what appeared to be wagon wheel tracks. There were also droppings all around. The consistency of the manure fit what I believed to be the right time frame for when the train robbers would have passed this way. Although I don’t believe in coincidences, there was an outside chance they could have been made by another group of men. I wanted more evidence to go on.
Once I was back in the cabin, I opened the shutters and aired the place out. I started a fire in the fireplace and dug out a pot and some coffee from my gear. While it was simmering, I found an old broomstick fashioned from some twigs and cleaned up some. I’m not all that neat; it’s just that I really hate spider webs.
It was when I was sweeping out the corner where I planned to bed down that I noticed something shiny in the dust pile. I bent down and picked up a small sparkling piece of glass bead. I knew immediately it had fallen or been torn off a woman’s dress.
I began slowly walking around the whole cabin, step by step, looking for other clues. Up on a shelf behind an old opened can filled with fat drippings, I found a small, hard ribbon tied into a bow. It was the kind often found on top of a woman’s shoe. There was no way that was left accidentally. No, it was clearly a message. We’ve been here. Help! It wasn’t a written note, but I could read it plain as day, regardless.
So the women had been held here. That meant that I had been right in my assumptions. Given the direction from the water station where the train had been hit to here, a continuing straight line would lead that gang right to that accursed pass in the Big Horn Mountains.
After making the place a little more livable for the night, I washed up with some of the water I had fetched from the well. I used my old skillet to fry up some beans and bacon and washed it down with some of Corporal Daniels’ Irish rheumatism remedy.
Lobo hadn’t returned yet, so I had little to distract or entertain me in the twilight. I sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, smoking a cigar. As I sat there, watching the flames flicker, it occurred to me that before there was even history, this is probably how most folks passed the time at night before they went to sleep. After all, what else was there to do? Watching a fire can be most distracting, since no two burn the same. Ever since I can remember, I have enjoyed watching fires, although I learned early on it isn’t wise to do so on the trail.
I got jumped once some years back precisely because I was watching the flickering campfire and had lost my night vision. I was preoccupied with my thoughts instead of paying attention to my surroundings. As it turned out, the outlaw I was pursuing had doubled back on me. When I heard twigs snapping, I knew something was up, but when I turned to look around, all I could see for several seconds was the campfire’s image still blurring my vision.
I was temporarily blind. Had it not been for Lobo, I’d surely have been a goner. That wolf started growling at the same time I heard another branch break, so I shouted, “Lobo, gun!” and rolled out of the way as he attacked.
Fortunately, the gunshot was aimed at where I had been sitting rather than at Lobo. Or rather, I should say it was lucky for Lobo and me. The other feller wasn’t quite so lucky. He was a stagecoach robber named Jefferson Banks, and I had been after him for almost a month. Lobo took him down and perforated him repeatedly until I was finally able to pull him off the man. As
bad as it might sound, I will admit to taking my own sweet time about calling off my dog. You see, I’ve never been too particularly fond of people who try to bushwhack me.
Banks survived, but barely.
That’s why now, whenever I’m out on the trail, I tend to sit with my back to the campfire, or at least off to one side of it. I stare at the flames only on occasion. Trust me, it’s real easy to get mesmerized by fire. Here in the cabin, I didn’t think it mattered quite as much. The men I was chasing had already passed through and were long gone. The room’s single window didn’t offer a good-enough view of the fireplace to be a problem for me should anyone peer in. That also meant there was no clear line of fire. Furthermore, the only door to the cabin was bolted shut with a solid sliding plank. For now I was as safe as I would be anywhere.
As I watched the flames jump in the hearth and as the ashes grew long on my cigar, I thought about what was ahead of me. I still had no clue as to how I would get four women away from a gang of fifteen or more cutthroats. Or even get myself back out alive, for that matter.
About an hour later, I was about to doze off when I heard a short howl followed by a series of scratching noises at the door. I recognized the sounds from the countless times I’d heard them before, so I got up and opened the door to let Lobo in.
The wolf mix bounded into the room and spun around three times before jumping up on me. I chuckled and patted him on the side. “It’s good to see you, too, boy, but I’m tired. Get down.”
I went over to my bedroll and stretched out. I whistled softly, and the big animal walked over and curled down next to me.
“Damn, Lobo, you stink,” I said, shaking my head. “You need a bath.” He looked up at me and yawned. It was the last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep that night.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, after I’d fed and watered the livestock, I went back to the well, washed up, and filled my canteen. Lobo was acting his usual self, barking and running playfully around in circles. I imagine he must have spotted a squirrel or some other small critter, because he suddenly took off toward the woodshed that was out back of the cabin.
I laughed and then followed him, mostly out of curiosity. There I found him scratching at the bottom of a large crate. He never did find whatever it was he was chasing, but I found something very interesting written on that old wooden box. Big bold lettering indicating the contents: TNT.
I had used enough of the stuff clearing tree stumps back at the ranch to know what I was doing, so I checked the dynamite sticks for signs of sweating. When TNT is bad, it will ooze nitroglycerin. Even a finger full of that liquid nightmare will explode. Maybe the dynamite hadn’t been left long, or maybe the shed’s protection or the crate’s packing helped preserve these particular sticks, because they still looked good to me.
I didn’t know what I would find when I crossed through the Hole-in-the-Wall pass, but I did know I’d have a lot of company once I was on the other side and none of it good. There was no doubt in my mind that the contents of that crate would give me a definite advantage. Honestly, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before.
I saddled up the horse and mule and stuffed as much TNT as I could into my pack. I took a final look around, tied off the mule’s lead rope, and mounted the big Appaloosa. After whistling to Lobo, I rode out to the northwest.
While it’s true that horses leave distinct marks on the ground, I had learned long ago that tracking isn’t as simple as just riding behind someone, looking for hoofprints. Sure, sometimes you’re lucky enough to find an exaggerated horseshoe that leaves a signature, but just as often there are the times you ride over hard rock and can’t find a single solitary print.
To be a good tracker, you must learn to think like your prey. If the person being pursued is thirsty enough, he might make for the nearest water hole. Maybe you’ll have a chance to cut him off there? If the outlaw is in a big hurry to escape, or inexperienced, he might ride straight, fast, and true, but if he is the clever type, he could decide to backtrack, zigzag, or maybe he’ll take time to wipe his trail clean.
You learn to judge time and distance by how dry a horse’s droppings are, or by noticing if there is any rainwater in hoofprints that would otherwise be dry. You look to see if the print is dusty with its sides all caved in or if it’s still fresh.
A good tracker asks himself if grass was trampled by the man’s boots or by his horse’s shoes. Is it still bent, and if so, in what direction? Has it started straightening up? Same thing for twigs or branches. To the right eyes, the distance between hoofprints can indicate size and speed of the horse and rider.
You quickly learn that outlaws on the run almost always watch their backs and occasionally will lay waiting in ambush. Sometimes they’ll set up traps, such as digging holes in the trail with sharpened sticks inside them to cripple your horse. They then cover the holes up so they look like solid ground. You learn quickly or you die young.
That’s why a tracker or bounty man seldom travels in straight lines. If he feels sure about where his prey is ultimately headed, he may veer off the trail and try to cut him off somewhere farther up ahead.
It was about a three days’ ride to that pass in Johnson County, and fortunately, I had lots of sign to follow. When I arrived at the gang’s final destination, I stopped under a somewhat scrappy cottonwood tree and surveyed the area with my new binoculars. I could see immediately why this area was considered impregnable.
The narrow pass had a V-shaped notch that ran through an eroded red rock wall mesa that rose high up over the rolling plains and canyons. There were huge red boulders that must have originally fallen from the rock wall and were now scattered around almost everywhere in the valley below.
From a fugitive’s point of view, it was a perfect set-up. Anyone on the top of that mesa would have a 360-degree view and plenty of time to warn others of an approaching posse.
The area was desolate and far enough away from civilization to provide a safe haven for outlaws on the run. Here and there, scattered among the sage, were Douglas firs and other pine trees, but not enough to provide any kind of deep cover. Mule deer tracks were evident, and I had noticed a black bear paw print when I first rode in. Off in the distance, a hawk soared. The Cheyennes considered these mountains sacred, but I knew that what I was planning to do would hardly be considered honoring their spirit ancestors.
“No time like the present,” I said out loud. There was no one to listen but the wind. I looked at the dog-wolf that was resting in the shade of that tree.
“I’m not taking you with me, Lobo,” I said. “There’s just too many of them, and I’m afraid I might not make it out this time. I don’t want anything happening to you.” The dog-wolf looked at me with his tail wagging. I’m sure he didn’t understand anything I said, so I persisted: “Sorry, boy, but you don’t get to go along with me, so go hunt!” I pointed away from the pass. Lobo seemed to hesitate longer than usual and actually whimpered once. Then he trotted off in the direction I’d indicated. Away from the pass. “And stay away!” I yelled once he was out of sight.
I walked over to the Appaloosa and removed my bandanna. I tied it to the horse’s bridle as instructed. “As good a time as any to get shot at, I guess,” I said as I mounted up. I checked on the mule’s lead rope. “Hope Baldy knew what he was talking about. I don’t hanker for no .30-30 slug in my gut.” The horse turned his head to look at me, as if to say: “Me, neither.”
An hour later we were at the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall pass. I recognized some hoofprints at the entrance as the same as those I had seen back at that miner’s shack. I pulled the Springfield from its scabbard and held it up in my right hand. I spurred the horse on and kept looking straight ahead the whole way down the pass.
They say that sometimes as a man is about to die, he sees visions. White men talk about their lives flashing in front of them, whi
le the Indians hear the voices of their ancestors or envision a shaman. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I swear I knew that a rifle was being cocked and leveled at me, even though I couldn’t see or hear it. I just knew.
The events of the last few days raced through my mind, and suddenly I remembered: Left arm. Baldy Jones said to hold the rifle in the left arm! I quickly switched my grip on the Springfield, held it up, and shook it a couple of times. That’s about when a sentry hidden in the rock face stood up.
“Mister, ya almost made it,” he said, chuckling. “To the other side.” I didn’t know if he was referring to heaven, hell, or the valley beyond, but at that point I didn’t care. “You cut it awful close. I even had my finger on the trigger and was starting to squeeze,” he said.
“The only side I want to reach is the other side of this pass,” I replied nervously. “Can I ride on?”
“Ride on, stranger,” he answered, waving his Henry rifle. “Oh, and ’less you want to get shot offen that horse, remember to keep your rifle pointed straight up.”
I rode on ahead, scanning the rock face for anything that might indicate another sentry. Twice I thought I saw the sun reflecting down off something metallic, but my long-distance eyesight wasn’t good enough for me to be positive, and I didn’t want to use binoculars with armed men watching me from the rocks above.
When I finally made it out of the pass, I was met by another guard. “Hold up there!” he ordered, pointing a Winchester at me.
“What’s your problem?” I asked angrily.
He levered a shell. “Just checkin’,” he replied calmly. “Where you headed? Which group?” he asked firmly. I stared at him with a blank look on my face.
I noticed that the pass behind him opened into small valleys with several paths leading into them. Apparently there were multiple outlaw gangs using this place for their hideouts. I had no idea how to answer the man, but I remembered a name one of the passengers on the train had overheard the robbers use. I knew that at this range, even with the Springfield already in my left hand, I couldn’t drop it level and fire in time to avoid his pointblank shot. Besides, if I shot my way in, I’d never get out.