Golden Riders

by Ralph Cotton

At the water hole the gaunt mule stood alone in front of the wagon, staring straight ahead, his ears twitching a little as the Ranger eased up to him and placed a hand on his muzzle. In the rocks above the water hole the snarling and growling of wolves had settled a bit, but was still going on. Sam could tell the animal was frightened, but managing to hold his ground pretty well.

  “Easy, boy, I’m not a wolf,” he whispered. “See?” He rubbed the animal’s muzzle all over, giving him his scent. “Looks like somebody left you in a tight spot here,” he whispered.

  Looking all around again, seeing shoe prints and boot prints in the rocky ground and the signs of an abandoned campsite, he leaned his Winchester against the wagon and freed the mule from its hitching. He dropped its bridle on the ground.

  “I’ve never seen anybody forget their mule,” he said quietly, sensing the calming effect his voice was having on the nervous animal. “A wagon either for that matter.” He still searched all around. In the distant east, a glow of silver morning spread upward across the purple sky. Up the path where the wolves fed, the snarling seemed to fall away with the coming light.

  “All right, get on out of here,” he said to the mule. “Sounds like that bunch has gotten their bellies full.” He shoved the mule around with a firm hand and slapped its rump. The mule sprang forward at a gangly trot. But at more than fifteen feet the animal stiffened to a stop and stood with its hooves spread as if determined to not go an inch farther.

  “Suit yourself,” Sam said, “I know better than to argue with a mule.” He turned, picked up his Winchester and walked all around the campsite. He saw spent rifle shells in the dirt. Six pistol shells lay where they had been dropped in a tight pattern nearby. Here’s where the gunshots had come from, he told himself, stopping, picking up one of the rifle shells, inspecting it. When he tossed it aside, he saw the short length of rope lying on the ground where the boy had untied his sister. Sam studied it. The twist of the rope told him it had been used to bind something, or someone, he reminded himself. But he wasn’t sure what.

  He stood and started to walk forward to the blackened campfire. Behind him he felt something shove him hard in the middle of his back. He swung the rifle around quickly, tensed, only to look into the mule’s face as it blew out a breath and twitched its ears.

  “You might want to warn a fellow before doing that,” he whispered. He stepped away and looked back over his shoulder. The mule stepped forward with him.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “I can’t blame you. Just stay back some, don’t get yourself shot.”

  He walked forward and all around the campsite. When he’d circled wide around the campsite, the mule right behind him, he spotted the place where the horses had been tied. He spotted a set of boot prints and shoe prints running off away in the opposite direction. Stopping where he’d dropped the mule’s bridle, he stooped and picked it up. The mule stood perfectly still and let him slip the bridle back onto its muzzle.

  “Come on then,” Sam said, “let’s see who’s running away.”

  He followed the prints in the grainy morning light, seeing them lead to the game path at the far end of the water hole, opposite the path where the wolves had fed in the night. Fifty yards up the meandering path he saw the first smear of blood dried on a waist-high rock. He touched the smear, making sure it was dry, then moved on, looking for more, the gaunt mule picking its way steadily along the rocky path.

  Here we go, he told himself, seeing the next streak of blood fifteen yards farther up. The blood was dry, but now there were several drops in the dirt at his feet—somebody bleeding bad, he told himself, walking forward with caution.

  He stopped a few feet farther along and made the mule stop behind him. Listening close he heard the sound of labored breathing coming from among a stand of brush off the side of the trail. Looking down he saw more dried blood in the dirt.

  “Hello, the brush,” he said calmly. Not knowing who was lying in there bleeding, he kept his rifle half raised, cocked and ready for anything. “This is Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack. I can see you’re wounded. Step out with your hands where I can see them.”

  After a tense silence, a weak, broken voice rose from the brush.

  “I can’t . . . I’m shot too bad . . . ,” the voice replied.

  Sam didn’t bother saying any more. Instead he took three steps forward and walked quietly into the brush from a different angle. The mule lagged back and stood with its muzzle tipped forward toward the Ranger.

  Deeper into the brush, Sam saw the young man on his back, leaning against a rock, his belly covered with thick, pasty blood.

  “I’ve got . . . no gun,” Toby said, looking relieved at the sight of the badge on the Ranger’s chest. He raised his bloody hands a little but hadn’t the strength to keep them up.

  “Lie still then,” Sam said. He looked at the belly wound as he stepped in and stooped beside the young man. “I heard shooting in the night,” he said, seeing the questioning look on Toby’s face.

  Toby looked him up and down. He coughed and swallowed and clenched his teeth against the pain in his lower belly.

  “I’ve never had . . . nothing hurt like this,” he said in a pained voice. “This is . . . gut-shot?”

  “Yep, I’m afraid so,” said Sam. He reached in and tore open the bloody shirt at the bullet hole for a better look. Black, pasty blood had partly firmed up around a half-moon-shaped ricochet wound, but still there was bleeding that had to be stopped.

  “Am I . . . dying?” Toby asked, his voice carrying a shiver.

  “I hope not,” Sam said flatly. “Looks like you caught a ricochet.” He reached up and untied his dusty bandanna from around his neck and shook it out. “Who shot you?” He wadded the bandanna as he spoke, and waited for the young man’s answer, knowing it would be too painful for him to speak when he pressed the bandanna down on his belly.

  “Three men . . .” Toby said. “They had my sister. I . . . got her away, but they shot me. . . .” He eyed the Ranger, seeing the raised wadded bandanna. “I heard them . . . talking. They were . . . waiting to ambush somebody.”

  “That would be me most likely,” Sam said. “This is going to hurt.” He lowered the wadded bandanna and pressed it against the wound.

  Toby winced and clenched his teeth but keep himself from yelling out loud.

  “God . . . it does,” he rasped.

  Sam took the young man’s bloody right hand and laid it on the bandanna.

  “Keep it pressed here,” he said, “the hurting will ease some. We’ve got to stop this bleeding.” He patted Toby’s shoulder. “Now, what about your sister?”

  Toby managed to keep talking as the pain in his belly lessened beneath the wadded bandanna. Sam turned him slightly onto his side and looked at the bleeding exit wound. The ricochet had flattened even more on its way through the flesh and sliced out wide, like a knife wound. Fortunately, the flat exit wound was drying over better than the bullet hole in front.

  “My sister . . . Lindsey, got away . . . but I’ve got to get to her,” Toby said, his voice sounding stronger as he thought of his sister out there alone, three gunmen stalking her. He tried to raise himself. He was too weak, not to mention the searing pain in his belly.

  “This ricochet is going to cost you a shirtsleeve,” Sam said. He reached up from his boot with his boot knife and cut Toby’s shirtsleeve at the upper seam. He ripped the seam all around and pulled the sleeve down off of his arm. Toby watched him split the sleeve down its middle into two strips and tied their ends together into one long strip. As he started to reach the strip under Toby’s back, the mule stepped forward into the brush noisily. Sam almost swung around toward it.

  “That’s your mule from the wagon, I take it?” he asked, having been once again surprised by the animal’s sudden appearance.

  “Yes . . . that’s Dan,” Toby said. The mule stopped three feet away
and stood peering at the two of them.

  “Is he always so curious?” Sam asked.

  “He’s part prospector’s mule . . . and part pet.” Toby’s voice grew stronger, finding renewed hope for him and his sister now the Ranger was here.

  Sam finished reaching the strip of cloth under him and tied it around his waist, holding the bandanna in place and putting some pressure on the exit wound.

  “Can you ride that mule?” he asked. “If you can’t I’ve got three horses near here. I’ll bring you one.”

  “Is it quicker . . . me riding a horse?” Toby said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Sam. “You can’t keep up with me with this wound. I want you to keep slow and follow my tracks. I can’t wait up for you, not if we’re going to find your sister.”

  “I can ride Dan,” said Toby. “The main thing is we get to Lindsey.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.” Sam reached down and helped Toby rise to his feet. The young man gasped in pain but overcame it and kept himself standing.

  “It’s turning daylight. Let’s get down to water and take it from there,” said Sam. He raised the young man’s arm across his shoulders and led him out of the brush, the mule right behind them.

  Chapter 11

  Lindsey Delmar had spent the night running blindly in the maze of boulder, rock, capstone and brush. When she’d begun to realize how disoriented she was, she’d stopped searching for a way out. Like a frightened rabbit she’d simply taken cover and conserved her energy until the next sound behind her sent her darting from one spot to the next, and taking cover again. With the butcher knife in hand, she’d made up her mind that she would fight for her life if it came to that. But for now—keep moving, she commanded herself.

  At each new hiding place she lay in the dirt listening closely, wondering if her brother was coming; wondering how she would know it was him if she did hear anything. She had seen a shadowy silhouette in the moonlight at one point; but just as she’d started to call out, she saw that it wasn’t Toby. It was the gunman, the one the other two called Chris.

  As dawn had begun to rise in the east, she’d taken cover on a cliff and waited for daylight to reveal a path down to the sand flats. Lying there she heard the sound of hooves clicking softly on the rocky trail below. She had started to rise up and look down toward the trail when she was startled by a voice near her calling out in the darkness.

  “Roy, up here,” she heard the voice say. “I’m coming down.”

  In the grainy light she saw Chris Weidel step into sight less than twenty feet away and look all around. His face appeared to stop and look straight at her for a moment. Then he turned away and walked down the path toward the main trail. She went weak in her chest for a moment and lowered her face to the dirt. But she collected herself quickly and forced herself to rise enough to gaze down over the edge of a rock and watch Mangett and Rose ride forward at a walk, Rose leading Weidel’s horse by its reins.

  “They’re lying down somewhere, the both of them,” she heard Weidel say, the three of them talking only a few yards below her. “One of them’s hit, I saw some blood. But I’ve beat this blasted hillside to death.” He stopped and coughed and hacked for a moment. “They ain’t coming up,” he added in a choking voice. He held a wadded bandanna to his mouth.

  “Damn it,” said Mangett as Weidel took his horse’s reins from Rose. “I want those two. I want them bad.” He stared at Weidel.

  “I’m done with it, Roy,” Weidel said, half speaking into the bandanna. “Far as I know they might have circled back to their wagon. They ain’t got very far if they did.”

  “Damn it,” Mangett said again. “We can’t keep running back and forth. This whole ambush idea has turned into a damned mess. We’re going on to Kane’s hideout.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Still . . . I hate giving up twins, knowing what they’re worth, knowing they’re up there somewhere. We can give it one more try.”

  “I’ll hang back and get them,” Rose volunteered. He’d already decided, even if he found the twins, he wasn’t bringing them to Mangett. He would send them on their way, maybe even apologize. Things had gotten out of hand, but he could make them right. This whole thing had happened because of that fool Arnold Pulty—the son of a bitch.

  Mangett chuffed at him and looked all around in the gloom. “I mean it, Roy,” Rose said. “I’ll duck into the rock up there and watch for them come morning light. They can’t make it long without heading down to the water.”

  “Yeah? What if they’re already gone like Chris says,” Mangett replied.

  “Then I’ll find out, and I’ll catch back up to you along the trail,” said Rose.

  “You couldn’t find horseshit with both hands up a mustang’s ass,” Weidel said.

  In the brush and rocks above them, the young woman lay listening as silent as death.

  Rose let Weidel’s insult go unchallenged; Mangett gave a short scornful laugh and sat considering it for a moment.

  “If you could find them as easily as you let them get away, we’d do well leaving you to look,” he said.

  “I’ll find them, Roy,” said Rose. “Find them, or see where they went back in the night and slipped away from here.”

  “Find them, goddamn it,” said Mangett, jerking his horse around onto the trail. “Since you came up with the idea, either find them or don’t come back.”

  Weidel chuckled and turned his horse beside Mangett.

  “How’s that for a bargain?” he said to Rose. “Roy and me win either way.”

  “Now wait a minute, Roy,” said Rose, hedging a little. “I’m trying to help out here. But now I either have to find them or I’m cast out?”

  “Like Adam out of Eden,” Weidel laughed over his shoulder as the two booted their horses up into a gallop.

  “Damn it, Roy,” Rose called out as they rode away. “Oh, I’ll find her—find them both, that is,” he corrected himself. “Just you wait and see.” There it was, he’d said plenty. When he caught up with Mangett later, who could say he hadn’t done his best.

  Listening, Lindsey watched the young gunman turn his horse and nudge it over onto the steep, narrow path. She ducked again and lay stonelike until she heard the horse’s hooves pawing, scraping, struggling up the path only a few feet away. She wasn’t sure where Toby was back there, but she wasn’t about to let the gunman ride back and find him. She took a deep breath to clear her head and crawled over to the edge of a low cliff and waited while the rider drew closer. She gripped the butcher knife in her hand.

  As Joey Rose rode by unsuspecting, she lunged out from the cliff, four feet down and landed atop him, slashing, stabbing and screaming. Rose’s terrified horse reared and bolted from under him, sending him and Lindsey crashing to the rocky ground. Rose felt the burn of the knife blade across his face, his side; he felt the sharp stab of steel into his shoulder, his ribs. The two rolled and fought, Lindsey putting all her entire strength and effort into killing the gunman, for her sake, for her brother’s. She knew she was fighting for their lives. She knew Toby would be doing the same thing were the tables turned.

  But instead of dying right away as the young woman somehow felt he would, Rose fought back hard, realizing that he too was fighting for his life. As soon as she had lunged down on him, he’d realized it was her. As they fought, he tried at first to grab her wrist, grapple with her and get the knife out of her hand. Yet, feeling the blade cut him time after time, he instinctively abandoned any notion of grabbing the knife. Instead he shoved himself away from her, struggled to his feet, drawing and cocking his gun.

  Seeing the gun aimed at her, Lindsey jumped aside. Rose, his face and eyes covered with blood, tried to focus on her and get off a shot. But before he could, Lindsey leaped off the path into the maze of rocks and ran down and away toward the flatlands below.

  “You’ve killed me; damn you, gi
rl!” Rose shouted and sobbed. “I never done nothing to you!” Holding his sliced face together with a bloody hand, his Colt hanging down his side, he staggered back and forth in the path, still stunned by the attack. The girl had swept down, caught him off guard, cut and stabbed him viciously, and disappeared, screaming as she went. Now the path was silent, except for the sound of him panting, catching his breath.

  And now he stood staggering in the silence, bleeding all over, looking along the path through a veil of blood at his horse standing twenty yards away. The animal had settled quickly. It looked back at him curiously, as if wondering what strange circumstance had brought on the young woman’s sudden outburst of wild behavior.

  “Damn it, girl . . .” Rose said in a broken voice, stooping, picking up the butcher knife, seeing drops of his blood splatter into the dirt at his feet. “I was only trying to help. . . .”

  • • •

  Lindsey ran hard and fast down the winding game path, through tangles of brush. She leaped over rock, ducked around stands of spiky barrel cactus and never slowed until she collapsed at the edge of the desert floor. Then she lay gasping for breath for only a moment. Looking back over her shoulder, she shoved herself to her feet and staggered to a rock and leaned back against it, keeping watch on the path behind her. She knew she had stabbed and sliced the young gunman many times. But she didn’t trust the outcome, not after finding out firsthand how hard it was to kill a man.

  She’d thought at the outset that a butcher knife would make short work of him. But she’d been wrong. Her hope now was that he would bleed to death up there along the path. Or, at least be badly enough wounded that he wouldn’t bother coming after her, or going on after her brother.

  Her brother . . .

  She gazed upward along the hill line behind her in the direction of Dutchman’s Tanks, as if hoping Toby would appear up there, wave at her, and soon come bounding down to her, fit as ever. The whole thing had been nothing but a nightmare—a bad dream that had vanished with the passing night. Now that daylight shined bright and clear . . .