by Ralph Cotton
“I’ve seen enough of this,” Bonsell said, taking a step back from the edge.
“Me too,” Sam said.
The two turned from the grisly scene below. Sam led the horses with him as he looked all around on the ground. He stopped and looked at the long, red smear of dark blood in the dirt. All around he saw horses’ hooves leading off along the trail, the drag marks wiping some of them out.
Someone badly wounded, following riders on horseback . . . ?
“Come on, Teddy,” he said, “we’ve got one crawling away.” He handed Bonsell the reins to his horse; the two led their animals less than a half mile along the rugged trail when the dragging marks and the dried blood came to a halt among boot prints and horse tracks. Sam noted some of the horse tracks were not as recent as others. Two separate sets of riders, he decided.
“Looks like you’ve reached a dead end, Ranger,” Bonsell said smugly, watching the Ranger stoop down over the dark dried spots of blood in the dirt. Sam touched a gloved finger to one of the heavier drops. He stood up and studied a smear on his fingertip.
Still a little wet . . .
“We’ve got tracks to follow now, Teddy,” he replied finally, wiping his gloved fingertips together. “When we run out of tracks to follow, I’m counting on you telling me which way to go.”
“Count all you want, Ranger,” Bonsell said. “When you’re through counting, you still won’t hear me tell you a damned thing.”
“I hope you don’t say much now that you’ll be embarrassed when the time comes to change your mind, Teddy,” Sam said.
“Keep watching, Ranger,” Bonsell said with a crooked determined grin. “Tell me when you see I’m about to change my mind. You have no idea where Braxton Kane and the men hide out. If you did it would only get you killed.”
“In the saddle, Teddy,” the Ranger said. “You’ll tell me when the time’s right.” He paused, then said, “I’m counting on you.”
“Like hell I’ll tell you,” Bonsell sneered. As he spoke the two swung up into their saddles. The Ranger turned his horse back along the trail they’d come, away from the tracks in the dirt. Bonsell nudged his horse over beside him.
“Wait, Ranger. Which way we going?” he asked.
“Back through the campsite to the main trail,” Sam said.
“These prints will lead us back to the main trail, just at a different place,” Bonsell offered.
“I know,” said Sam, “but it’s a higher trail we were on. I like being up where I can see everything. We’ll pick up these tracks again where the trails connect.”
Bonsell shook his head.
“I can’t see backtracking, even if it’s just a half mile,” he said.
“You don’t have to see it, Teddy,” Sam replied. “I see it for you. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
They rode on in silence through the campsite toward the main trail. As they passed the place where Sam had freed the buzzard from the tin can, they saw no sign of the big bird, only a small, dark feather where the bird had lifted up and batted away after regaining the strength to do so.
“Looks like your feathered pal is gone, Ranger,” Bonsell said. He gave a cruel grin. “I hope the two of you meet again somewhere, real soon.”
“If I don’t meet him, maybe you will,” Sam replied, his coppery dun moving along at a walk. “If you see him first tell him I said hello.”
• • •
Dayton Short, Earl Faraday and Hank Woods sat their horses atop a ridge overlooking the main trail. Short didn’t like the way Woods kept himself back a few feet from him and Faraday, as if to keep an eye on them. But this wasn’t the time or place to say anything. Bringing these three along with them had been a mistake, he’d decided. But it was a mistake he’d have to live with until they got back to Kane’s hideout.
“Here they come,” Faraday said beside him beneath his big swollen nose. He nodded out toward the trail, his voice sounding thick and nasal. On the trail, they saw Bolten and Jimmy Quince riding along toward them at a brisk gait. Faraday adjusted himself in his saddle and nodded back over his shoulder. “When is somebody else going to do this?”
Behind Faraday’s saddle sat Lester Stevens, the man they’d found crawling along the trail. Stevens was still unconscious, lying against Faraday’s back, his wrists tied around Faraday’s waist to keep him from falling off.
“I don’t know,” said Short, a little testily. “You lost the card draw. You’re stuck with him for now.”
“Damn it.” Faraday spit. “I was hoping these two would’ve killed somebody and brought back a horse for this one.” Stevens lay against him as limp as a dead man. Quince had donated the dirty shirt that they’d tied around Steven’s gunshot wound as a bandage.
They sat watching as Bolten and Quince rode up around a large boulder and joined them.
“Nobody back there, hunh?” Short asked Bolten.
“Oh, there’s somebody back there—two of them in fact,” said Bolten. “But whoever they are, they turned back before they got down under our gun sights.”
“Lawmen . . . ,” Short deduced, studying the trail in dark contemplation. “A posse, maybe?”
“Lawmen’s a possibility,” Bolten said. “But it’s not a posse. Two men out front of a posse wouldn’t have turned back. Finding prints that fresh, they would sit still, waited for the others and come on like bloodhounds.” He looked around the rugged hill country. “These two might be why your pals haven’t been showing up. Nothing like a shiny badge to send a squirrel up a tree.”
“Golden Riders ain’t squirrels, Bolten. We eat lawmen for breakfast,” Faraday said in a thick nasal twang.
“Run on back there and eat them, then, if you’re hungry,” Bolten challenged. He turned his horse back down toward the trail. “We’re going to follow the other horse tracks we found.”
“Wait up,” said Short. “We’re going when and where I say,” he said stiffly.
“Suit yourself,” said Bolten, still moving his horse toward the trail, Woods and Quince falling in beside him. “Show us a better direction and we’ll take it.”
“Damn it . . . ,” Short growled under his breath, knowing Bolten was right. He booted his horse forward almost at a run and quickly moved around in front of the other three on the trail. Faraday stayed at the rear of the riders, the wounded gunman leaning heavily on his back.
Chapter 19
Prew Garlet and the Bluebird had ridden a full day and made it as far as a dry creek bed at the edge of the sand flats. With the mescal still boiling in his head, and the memory of his brothers’ deaths becoming more clear and real in his fevered brain, Prew flung himself from his saddle and grabbed on to a stand of brush. For over an hour he’d wretched and gagged like a poisoned dog. The Bluebird sat off to the side on the slope of the dry creek bed and watched with a stoic expression.
When Prew had finished and slumped over onto his side, the Bluebird stood up, walked over and dragged him out of the sun. He washed Prew’s face with canteen water and left him lying faceup, staring at the blue, distant sky. Prew watched the world twist out of shape and swirl and spin. He pictured Foz landing on the rocks below the campsite. He pictured Tillman with his throat sliced open, falling to the ground.
“Just . . . shoot me,” he murmured to the Bluebird, out of his head. But the Bluebird only saw his lips moving. He had no idea what he was saying. He only nodded in reply, rose up and walked to the horses. He took down their saddlebags, saddles and bedrolls. Then he made a camp where they stayed for over two days and a night, until Prew appeared over his bout with the loaded mescal.
On the third morning, after three cups of strong coffee and a modest breakfast of warmed elk jerky and hard soda crackers, the two gathered their gear and supplies, and prepared their horses for the trail.
“I’ll tell you something, Bird,” Prew said as he tightened his horse’s cinch
and tested his saddle with both hands. “I have never in my life drank anything like that.” He stepped back from his horse and dropped a stirrup down its side. “And I’ll tell you something else, I’ll never drink nothing like it again.”
Standing a few feet away, not seeing Prew’s face, the Bluebird had no idea he was even being spoken to. He stood staring at a single rider who had slipped in close without being seen and stepped down from his saddle and stood facing the two from across the creek bed.
“Hello, the camp,” Luke Bolten called out, now that he realized the Indian saw him.
Prew spun around in the direction of the voice, his hand going to his holstered Colt. The Bluebird only continued staring.
“Easy now, ole pard,” Bolten said to Prew. “I’m betting you and me are on the same trail.” He eyed the Mex-Indian, already supposing him to be the Bluebird.
Prew held his hand firm on his gun butt.
“Oh? And what trail might that be, pilgrim?” he asked, a suspicious look on his drawn face.
“Allow me to be as blunt as a missing thumb,” said Bolten, a flat smile on his face. “I’m betting you’re a couple of Golden Riders.” He held up a hand in a show of peace. “If that be the case, we’re sent to see what’s taking you so long.”
Prew let his hand fall from his gun butt, but didn’t answer, not just yet.
“All right then. . . .” Bolten gestured his raised hand toward the other riders just out of sight in a stand of rock and brush, and waved them in.
Seeing Dayton Short and Earl Faraday riding ahead of the other two riders, Prew relaxed and watched the riders come in closer and start down the far side of the creek bed. Then he tensed as he saw Lester Stevens flopping unconscious against Faraday’s back. As they crossed the creek bed, he watched closely, knowing he’d have to determine quickly what they might know about how Stevens got the bullet hole in him.
“Prew Garlet!” Dayton Short called out as he slid his horse to a halt in a sidelong spray of dust. The others reined down all around him. “I am damn glad to lay eyes on you.” He looked around, saw the Bluebird and touched his hat brim toward him. “I was getting concerned the same thing happened to you that happened to this poor sumbitch.” He gestured toward Stevens.
Prew looked at the wounded outlaw flopping against Earl Faraday.
“That’s Lester,” said Prew, looking surprised. “What happened to him anyway?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” Bolten cut in, leading his horse up the side of the creek bank in the dust the others had raised with their horses. “I’m Luke Bolten, this is Hank Woods and Jimmy Quince.” He motioned at the other two gunmen, then said, “Do you know there’re two riders back there tracking you along this trail?”
“No, I don’t,” said Prew. “Obliged you telling us about them. I’d hate to make it this close to Kane’s place and get ambushed.” He gestured at the Mex-Indian. “This is the Bluebird. Kane sent me to escort him back.”
“Howdy, Bird,” said Bolten.
“He don’t speak English so good sometimes,” said Prew.
“Sometimes, hunh?” said Bolten. “You mean other times he speaks it all right?”
“That’s right,” said Prew. “I don’t know if he speaks Spanish any better. I’ve tried both.”
Bolten turned to the Bluebird and rattled a few curse words at him in Spanish.
“Whoa,” said Prew taking a step back in case the Bluebird jerked up his gun and started firing.
“Stay out of this, Garlet,” said Bolten. He laughed as the Bluebird nodded his head in agreement. Then he said in English, “You are one stinking flea-bitten bastard, Mr. Bluebird.” He sat grinning. The Bluebird returned his grin and nodded vigorously.
Prew looked puzzled.
“This Mex-Injun couldn’t hear a bear fart if it aimed at his face,” Bolten laughed.
“What?” said Prew, looking around at the Bluebird.
“He’s deaf, damn it,” Bolten said in a louder voice.
“You don’t know that,” Short said in a sharp tone.
“Yes, I do,” Bolten said confidently. “If he could hear what I said, we’d be shooting holes into each other right now.”
“It makes sense, now that I think about it,” Prew said. “He used to handle explosives for the mining companies.”
“There you have it,” said Bolten. “His hearing got blasted away a long time ago.” He grinned at Prew and Short and said, “I’m going to check my horse’s hooves now. If there’s anything else you need me to figure out for you, maybe we could do it over some coffee?”
The outlaws watched him walk away leading his horse. Woods and Quince stepped down from their horses and followed.
“Pay him no mind,” Faraday said to Prew under his breath. “We don’t know if they’ll be riding with us or not.” He looked at Short and said, “Can we get Stevens off me for a while.”
Prew and Short helped untie Stevens’ wrists and lowered him from behind Faraday’s saddle. They carried him into the thin shade of a twisted ironwood tree and laid him in the dirt under its branches.
“Where’s your brothers anyway?” Short asked, leaning down beside Stevens with a canteen.
“I don’t know,” said Prew. “We’ve had lots of trouble getting up here. I don’t mind saying, I’m a little concerned. My brothers are always up for a big job like the one we’ve got coming.”
“It’s not just your brothers, Prew,” Short said. “I can name a half dozen men or more shoulda been here by now. Something’s afoot. I’m thinking a lawman is dogging us.”
Prew ventured, “You figure that’s what happened to ole Lester here?”
“I don’t know,” said Short. “But we’ll damn sure find out if we can keep him alive long enough to tell us.”
“I think we should ride back and shoot whoever it is back there,” said Faraday. He held Stevens’ head up enough for Short to pour water onto the wounded man’s parched lips. “Wait a minute,” he added, looking at Stevens’ face, wobbling his head back and forth in his hands. “We’re wasting water on a dead man.” He dropped Stevens’ head and stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I’ve been toting a stinking corpse all this time.”
Prew breathed a sigh of relief.
Short stood up. “We’re going back to Kane as fast as we can. See what he’s got in mind.” He capped the canteen and looked around at Prew. “What do you think, Prew? Want to ride back and look for your brothers, or get on up to Kane, head out for this big job he’s got?”
“Let’s get on to Braxton Kane’s,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling I can’t do much for my brothers.” He glanced up at the Bluebird who stood watching them with caged eyes.
• • •
The Ranger spotted the new flock of buzzards circling in the sky as he and his prisoner rode the last mile down onto the edge of the sand flats. They stopped for a minute and Sam looked up at the big birds, then back over his shoulder in the direction of the last grizzly feast they’d discovered over the edge of the high trail.
“I could have left you behind, Teddy, if all I had to do was follow the buzzards,” he said to Bonsell.
Bonsell didn’t answer. He sat watching the buzzards circling high up and ahead of them for a moment, then nudged his horse forward beside the Ranger and the two men rode on.
A half an hour later they had reached the dry creek bank and saw the body of the dead outlaw dragged to the side and left for the scavengers. Two big birds already stood atop the dead man’s belly. Three more stood lined along the other side of the creek bed.
“Look at them, Ranger,” said Bonsell, the two of them stepping their horses down into the dry bed and across to where the body lay spread-eagle in the afternoon sun. The two buzzards on Stevens’ chest stopped their pecking and stood red-beaked, looking at the two approaching horsemen. “They’re so u
sed to you, they don’t even bother to move when you ride up. Must be they know a good friend when they see one.”
“That’s enough out of you,” Sam said.
But Bonsell wasn’t finished. He gave an ugly grin.
“Must be you and them are all one big happy family,” he said.
Sam didn’t answer. He stepped his dun closer until finally the two big birds rose up reluctantly and batted their big wings skyward. The other three held their ground on the creek bed edge and stared curiously.
“You know him?” Sam asked.
“Never seen him before in my—” Bonsell’s words stopped as Sam’s Colt came sidelong and rapped him on the side of his head hard enough to make him wobble in his saddle. “Jesus, Ranger,” Bonsell said in pain, yanking his hat off and cupping a hand on the whelp the gun barrel raised. “There was no call for that.”
“I told you I’m counting on you, Teddy,” Sam said evenly to the pained outlaw, sliding his Colt back into its leather. “Imagine how disappointed I am when you let me down that way.”
“It don’t seem fair, a lawman gets to rough a man around this way,” Bonsell said.
“I sympathize with you,” Sam said. “But it makes up some for having to chase you curs down, hear all your sharp-mouthing. Now, let’s try again, see if you’ve just learned anything. Do you know this man, Teddy?” he repeated.
“Ranger, I told you, I never seen this—” His words stopped short again, this time when he saw Sam’s hand go back to his holstered Colt. “Okay, yes! I do know him,” he said quickly. “His name is Lester Stevens.”
“One of your Golden regulars, is he?” Sam asked, letting his hand drop away from his Colt.
“I wouldn’t say he’s a regular, so much as I’d say he rides with us sometimes when—” He saw the Ranger’s hand go back to the gun butt. “All right, yes! I suppose you could say he’s a regular. Damn, why are you asking if you already know?”
Sam’s hand slipped away from the Colt again.
“I don’t already know the answer, Teddy,” he said. “But I do know when you’re lying. See how that works? See why it’s important that you not lie to me, just the two of us out here . . . us and the buzzards that is.” He gave Bonsell a flat, sidelong stare.