Before midday, I’d found an ideal spot where I was able to watch the cattle pens and set up to shoot. It was a large, reddish-brown boulder sticking up out of the ground at about a thirty-degree angle in the middle of a good stand of grass and a few small mesquites. When I crawled up on that boulder and looked over the top, I was just below the top of the grass.
I studied the area for a way to hide or get out of there quick. There was a large, dark, green thicket of piñon trees growing back toward the pass. I thought that might give me the best opportunity to hide or escape if I had to run. I lay down across the hot top of the boulder and felt like my belly was frying in a hot skillet as I balanced the Sharps in a prone position to feel how steady the sight picture was. I picked out a corral fence post about six hundred yards away and held on it steady as the rock. I nodded with satisfaction. Perfect. I was sure I could hit a target at six hundred yards or more if that was what fortune brought me. My spot was about four hundred yards from the cattle pen fence. If Stone showed up, I knew I had a real opportunity to kill him. I pulled the old brass telescope out, wrapped it in my shirt so glints wouldn’t give me away, and surveyed the cattle pens. The Dripping Springs herd had arrived early that morning.
There must have been a couple of hundred head squeezed inside the fence. There were five or six cowboys lounging around as if they were waiting on somebody. I took that to mean Stone and his partners hadn’t come yet to look over the final herd. This was going to be my lucky day. I crabbed down the boulder backwards and sat with my back to it to eat some parched corn and jerky and drink from the canteen while I figured out how I’d get away after I’d killed Jack Stone. I thought, God has delivered my enemies into my hands. There’s gonna be justice this day.
As I looked back the way I’d come, I decided that I’d use the piñon thicket as my rabbit hole for escape after I shot Stone. I knew there was a good chance of being caught if I went back along the Baylor Pass route without first hiding in the piñons, and it was far too dangerous to try to go straight up the spires and over to the handholds in the canyon cliffs at Rufus’s ranch. From the piñon thicket, I’d make my way back up to the same trail I had come down to get back to Rufus’s place. I felt sure I was strong enough to outrun anyone who came after me.
It was getting hot, and I was restless just sitting and waiting. I decided to ease back up the boulder. I gritted my teeth against its heat when I put my belly to it, stretching out to survey the cattle pens and cowboys with the telescope. Buck Greer and a couple of the hands from the Dripping Springs Ranch were familiar, but I didn’t know any of the others. Swinging the telescope towards Cox’s ranch house, I saw several horses tied to the hitching post in a shady spot. A couple of Mexican women worked in the plants around the front patio, but still no one to hold my attention. I waited.
Just past midday, five men walked out of the ranch house. They were rubbing their bellies, engaging in jovial conversation, and smoking cigars. One of them stood out in a brilliant white shirt, a vest, and a string tie. I remembered Rufus had told me about how peculiar W. W. Cox was about wearing clean clothes and a string tie. These had to be the men putting the herd together. When I studied them through the old brass telescope, my whole body twitched. A wave of fright and hate rolled through me, making my heart pound as sweat rolled off my forehead in rivulets.
Jack Stone was swinging into his saddle. Laughing and joking with the others, he didn’t appear to have a care or any sense of how close to death he was. There was no sign of Red Tally.
Hearing the rapid thump, thump, thump of my heart, I eased the rifle forward to a shooting position. Pulling the hammer to half cock, I dropped the breechblock, slowly slid a shell in, closed the block, and laid out three more shells within easy reach, just in case I needed them.
W. W. and the others climbed on their horses, and they all rode toward the cattle pens together. Apparently, they wanted to look over the stock before they started the drive toward Fort Bliss in El Paso.
I tried to steady my nerves by breathing in long, even breaths and by focusing on the spot by the pens that would give me the best shot to kill Stone. I guessed he and the others would ride over to the ranch-house side of the pens and sit in their saddles while they did a final look-see and head count, so I picked a spot about the middle of the fence line and at about the height Stone should be on his horse. At that range, it was an easy shot. Trying to focus and calm myself, I waited. I knew I had him. At least Daddy was going to get a partial payback that day. All those days of practice staring through the sights on the long Sharps barrel and feeling the now familiar punch in my shoulder from its recoil, all those days of carrying rocks, all those days of running, all those days were finally going to help give justice to Daddy.
The cowboys gathered around their bosses as they rode over to the pens. Stone was the middle rider in the group of five. They all rode up to the spot I had picked. I took a deep breath and felt as steady as the big rock under me. I sighted down the long, octagonal barrel and thought, God is with me this day. Vengeance is mine. This is for you, Daddy.
Cox climbed off his horse and started to climb up to the top rail of the cattle-pen fence. The man riding next to him started swinging off his horse, too. Stone paused. I remember his image as if it were frozen in a photograph. He turned to say something to one of his men. God is with me this day. I pulled the hammer back to full cock. The smell of gun oil was strong and intoxicating in the hot, bright light. I sat the Sharps’ double trigger, took a deep breath, and aimed for Stone’s head. It was just like shooting bottles back in Rufus’s canyon. Oh, joyful God! This day is mine. Die, you son of a bitch. I let half my breath out and carefully laid my finger on the hair trigger. Stone moved, starting to dismount. I tried to relax my finger. Too late. The trigger setting was too sensitive, and the Sharps roared my rage. Stone’s hat went flying, but his head stayed on. The bullet thunked into a big fence post on the far end of the pens and sent big splinters flying. Thunder from the shot snapped across Cox’s cattle pens, making men and animals show the whites of their eyes. Stone continued his dismount as a flying belly flop onto the ground in front of him.
The cowboys around the pens hit the ground, their revolvers instantly out, cocked, and pointing in every direction as they jerked about under whatever cover was available, desperately trying to find their attacker and defend themselves. The roll of thunder from my rifle echoed off the mountains, apparently confusing them about my location. Cox had jumped off the fence into the cattle pens, finding protection behind its rails. Horses bucked and jumped around until they jerked free of their bridle ties then ran off down the wide trail to the ranch house.
CHAPTER 28
LONG RUN HOME
I was frozen in disbelief, suspended in time, as my brain tried to digest the situation. I had missed. It was an easy shot, and I had missed. Wasn’t God supposed to help me? A murderer was supposed to get justice. I had failed Daddy again.
The yelling men below finally penetrated my daze. Cox’s arm was through the fence, pointing to my left. I looked up and saw a little cloud of smoke from the Sharps drifting on a whisper of breeze about ten yards from where I lay. Some of the men began firing toward the cloud, but it was much too far for a revolver to hit anything. The shots fell far short, kicking up dust and sand.
One cowboy with hair so gray it was nearly white rose up on one knee and held his revolver in both hands. He fired a long arching shot that struck the boulder about five feet below my spot and ricocheted away with a sound like a broken guitar string. That shot jolted me.
The old cowboy was on his feet, bent over, and running side-to-side, headed in my direction. I scooped up my extra cartridges, scrambled back down the boulder, collapsed the telescope, threw it in the possibles bag, and, grabbing the canteen, ran in a crouch below the top of the grass toward the piñon thicket two hundred yards away. I stepped on as many exposed rocks as I could. Yellow Boy’s lessons taught me to leave no trail wherever I went, and there
was very little sign around the boulder that I had been there.
Reaching the thicket, I was sucking wind, and the disappointment I felt made my legs feel as though they were wooden posts with no bounce at all. I passed the first of the bushes, and, stopping, crawled up under one to scan my shooting place. I was shaking with rage and fear as I levered the empty shell out of the Sharps and put a new cartridge in the chamber. In a couple of minutes, I saw several hats floating above the grass near the boulder as they looked for signs that could point them toward the shooter.
I pulled out the telescope and watched them stomping around in the grass, looking in every direction. The gray-haired cowboy found my boulder and climbed up on it. He lay down on top of it as I had and yelled something at the others. He turned around and, squatting on his heels, looked back toward the mountains and slowly surveyed the near rocks and bushes where I might be. He stared toward the piñon thicket where I was hiding for a good while before turning his attention to other spots.
Stone and the other ranchers rode up to the boulder, their men right with them, and every one of them had a rifle set on full cock. There was a nice, round, ventilation hole on both sides of Stone’s big, flat-brimmed Stetson, just above the top of his scalp line. His face, even under the shadow of his hat, was pale, grimacing, and filled with rage. His partners and the men continued to swing their heads, scanning the mountains in front of them for some sign of the shooter.
From where I sat, I heard Stone screaming, “Find him! Find that son of a bitch! A hundred dollars to anybody that finds him! Just don’t kill him. I got to talk to him before he’s hung!” He pointed his rifle toward Baylor Pass and said, “Damn it, you’re lettin’ him get away! Come on, boys, if we ride hard, we can catch him before he gets to Cruces.”
They thundered off in a cloud of dust. Cox rode up to the boulder and said something to the old-timer. He just shook his head and stayed where he was before pointing toward my stand of piñon. Cox nodded then rode off to join the posse heading toward Baylor Pass.
I knew I was in trouble. The old-timer was coming my way, and he knew what he was doing. I had to find a place to hide and fast. He’d come slow, looking for signs. That was to be my only advantage. I could try and outrun him, or I could hide and get behind him and take my time to get home. Either way, I wasn’t about to shoot him. He just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
I decided to put some distance between us, then hide and let him get past me. I grabbed up my gear and took off, trying to keep a stand of juniper between us. After about half a mile, I stopped, and, looking back, saw that he had his revolver drawn and was studying the ground around the piñon thicket where I’d stopped. I ran on.
The weight of the rifle was tiring me out faster than I had expected. I was a mile or so from Baylor Pass and breathing hard when I found a good place to hide under a shelf of rock fronted by some piñons growing a few feet below it. I crawled up under the shelf so I could watch back down the trail. I had just managed to get organized and lie comfortably along the crevice formed by the shelf when I saw the old-timer slowly riding up the trail.
I eased the Sharps up alongside me until it was in front of me and I could reach the triggers if I had to. I glanced toward the end of the shelf, back in the direction of the old-timer, and saw the biggest rattlesnake I had ever seen. It was a foot or two longer than I was tall and must have been four or five inches in diameter. There was a big lump in its middle section, so I figured it had made a kill earlier in the day. It stared at me, but it didn’t rattle. I stayed perfectly still while it raised its head a few inches and flicked its tongue at me trying to figure out what I was. I didn’t move. I tried not even to breathe.
Soon, the old-timer stopped on the trail just in front of my hiding place. He stared at the bushes in front of the shelf crevice for a long time. Finally, he threw one leg over the saddle and slid off. I heard the hammer of his revolver click back, cocked, and ready to fire. My mouth was dry, but my heart had stopped pounding, and my nerves were steady. He started moving toward the shelf.
The snake turned its attention from me to the new creature advancing on its sanctuary. In the dim shadowy light in the crevice, I could see its forked tongue flicking faster as it sampled the confusing smells we created. It was cool there under the shelf, but I could feel the sweat running off the end of my nose. The snake refused to give itself away with a warning rattle.
The old-timer slowly moved closer. It was obvious he wanted to look behind the brush directly into the shelf crevice. When the old-timer was about fifteen feet from the piñon in front of the shelf, I picked up a handful of dirt and gently threw it at the snake, hitting it about where its lunch was digesting. It didn’t do anything except continue to flick its tongue toward the old-timer, who had stopped and cocked his head, listening. He swept the revolver back and forth toward the shelf, trying to see through the bushes and the dark, shadowy underbelly of the crevice.
I grabbed another small handful of dirt and threw it again. This time bits of gravel hit the snake on its head. That made it angry. It raised its head almost to the top of the crevice, rapidly flicking its tongue toward the man outside and furiously shaking its rattle.
The old-timer’s eyes got wide. He kept his revolver pointed at the crevice but slowly backed toward his horse. I heard him mutter, “No thanks, brother. Don’t think I want to poke my nose in yore house today.” The horse was nervous and ready to run, but the old-timer grabbed the reins, holstered his revolver, and swung into the saddle in one smooth motion. He trotted away from the crevice smartly, following the trail up through Baylor Pass that Stone’s posse had taken.
After the old-timer rode on, the snake finally stopped rattling and lay there quietly staring at me with cold unblinking eyes. I waited a bit and wiggled back out from under the shelf, took a long swallow from the canteen, and started running up the little path that paralleled the Baylor Pass trail. I wanted to catch up with the old-timer and keep him in sight so he wouldn’t wind up behind me. I still hadn’t found him when I topped Baylor Pass, but I found fresh horse apples that told me he was no more than a few minutes ahead of me down the trail.
I’d been running with that heavy rifle and possibles bag up the steep path to the pass for nearly two hours. Despite my conditioning, I was leg-weary and needed a rest. I drank the canteen almost dry, ate the rest of the corn and jerky, and lay back against a boulder for a little while, watching the western sun casting long shadows on the Mesilla Valley. I forced myself to start moving again. I had four or five more miles to go to get back to Rufus’s shack.
I stayed high up on the Organ ridges and followed the path that cut past the southern wall of Baylor Canyon, expecting the old-timer to keep on into Las Cruces with the rest of Stone’s posse. I followed the path all the way around to the western side of the Organs. I found the dry wash the drovers used to push the herd over to Cox’s ranch and followed it all the way down to the road that ran in front of Dripping Springs Ranch. Then I followed that trail back toward Dripping Springs until I recognized a spot where I could get back on the trail I had run along going to Cox’s ranch. I ran easily, thinking that I might still even beat Rufus back home.
I stopped to rest and was about to start on when I heard a horse snort on the trail below and behind me. Looking for the horse, I blinked in surprise when I saw the old-timer standing off the south side of the trail with his back to me, watering some bushes. Easing down behind a thicket of cactus and creosotes, I waited for him to get in front of me again so I could keep an eye on him. For some reason, he had decided to turn down the road that ran past Dripping Springs rather than head toward Las Cruces. I realized how lucky I was he hadn’t caught me. He was trail-smart and relentless.
The old-timer got back on his horse and continued to ride along. He rode slowly, studying the ground in front of him for signs and stopping often to look back over his shoulder like he thought someone was following or watching him. I ground my teeth in frus
tration that I couldn’t go any faster and get around him. It occurred to me that I needed to go a mile or so past Rufus’s place, and cross the trail again to make him think I was headed for El Paso.
I saw him turn from the southern trail that ran parallel to the Organs and follow the one toward the Van Patten place. I ran past Van Patten’s on my path then moved down the slopes and crossed the trail toward Rufus’s place, making sure I left a little sign that I was still on the trail south. Then I got back on the path above the main trail and followed it past Rufus’s place for another mile, crossed it again, and backtracked toward Rufus’s house. I found a place to rest and drank the last drops of water in the canteen. I was worn out. The sun was nearly down, and the breezes off the Organs were cool and sweet after that long run across the mountains.
It was a good two hours after the sun dropped behind the Floridas when I finally got back to Rufus’s place. Coming up the trail, I saw Sally watching me from the corral. I knew Rufus would likely be mad that I had taken his rifle and tried to shoot Jack Stone. After all, I had promised I’d wait until we were ready. I didn’t have any idea what he’d do. Sitting on the porch step, watching me come up the trail, he rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together between them, and he had a big wad of tobacco in his cheek. Cody, stretched out on the far end of the porch, woofed at me and beat a thump-thump hello with his tail.
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