Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

He was philosophical. Sometimes a long shot pays off, sometimes it doesn’t. That’s why they called it a long shot.

  Oh well, can’t win ‘em all.

  Brennan’s Catch

  Two men walked along the crest of a great wave. Like the kind of wave that swelled and broke against the Pacific seaboard. Leastways an observer may have likened the formation to a wave: a gradually rising mass, then an abrupt drop curving almost inwards, finally leveling to the flat below.

  But there were two things wrong with these flights of fancy. Firstly the thing was not a wave. The huge breaker-like formation had been carved out of sand by the wind. And secondly there was not, nor likely to be, a witness to the labors of the figures trudging the high line. For this was the Sonoran Desert.

  Moreover, had a third person been there to watch the scene, the matter of survival would have taken precedence over leisured fantasizing about sand formations. That is, provided he was in his right mind––and had not been affected by the heat already. They do say the mind puts strange interpretations on surroundings when the sun gets a man.

  The sun was blinding if eyes accidentally moved skyward, the heat sickeningly oppressive. No one with a say in his own destiny chose to be in the Sonoran Desert––a formidable prospect to cross on horseback, foolhardy on foot. But neither of the two men had seen himself as having a choice. With the army on the look-out for him and civilian law in pursuit the one had fled into the desert’s inhospitability with vague hope of crossing to the border. Out of an unquestioning duty the other had followed his prey into the wilderness.

  The man up front cut a sorry looking figure with several days of stubble on his chin, his clothes tattered, his top half was encircled by coils of rope, pinning his arms. A long dried blood stain on his temple attested to his unwillingness at being captured.

  He was having difficulty moving through the soft sand. As never before he was learning the importance of freely swinging arms in walking. He seemed more impatient with his slow progress than did his captor. The latter paused, took out a handkerchief and dabbed it to his brow, surveying the terrain as though out for a casual stroll. He was clean shaven. A marshal’s badge on his front flashed in the searing sun. Beneath the long jacket were two hand guns. One and holstered; the other taken from his prisoner and shoved into his belt.

  Suddenly the bound man tripped. His legs juddered as he fought to regain his foothold but he tottered over the edge of the sea-shaped dune and rolled down. Sprawling at the bottom he writhed to his knees, coughing and spitting out sand. The man with the badge ploughed his way down. He shook his head. ‘Now what you wanna go an’ do that fer? That’s what I call wastin’ time an’ energy.’

  The man on his knees overcame his bout of coughing and keeled over on his side. ‘You know we’re gonna make better headway if I’m untied.’

  ‘Gee, won’t you just listen to him now. Seems like he’s got a real yen to get back to civilization.’

  ‘Well, you gonna untie me or not? You got my word I won’t make a run for it.’

  The other laughed. ‘Run for it? Where? And me with the hardware:’ He gestured to the prostrate man to turn over. ‘Sure. I’ll untie you. But don’t get botherin’ to give me your word ‘cos I ain’t takin’ it. Your word ain’t currency I recognize.’ Then he smiled. ‘You won’t cause me any trouble ‘cos you know what’ll happen.’ He picked at the knots, deciding against using his knife, aware that he might need the full length of rope again. ‘Up you get and keep your distance.’

  He slowly coiled the rope around his chest bandolero-fashion. The fallen man remained on his knees. Knotting the rope the other unstoppered a canteen and held it to his own lips. Finished, he looked at the man below him. ‘You want some?’

  ‘I ain’t gonna beg.’

  ‘Reckon you wouldn’t at that.’ He paused as though looking for something in the other’s eyes. He waited for a long time, smiling, taunting, then handed down the canteen. ‘One sip.’

  They continued their trek. The ball of fire hung poised above them interminably before it began a slow, agonizing descent. By the time it had fallen to their left, mellowing in the process, they had been reduced to a stagger and their canteen empty.

  It was near to dusk as they made the foothills marking the perimeter of the desert hell-bowl. Despite the relative coolness, exposed flesh on face and hands still burned in memory of searing rays.

  Their shadows long they stopped when an adobe became discernible in the distance. ‘Maybe food and water,’ the man with the badge grunted, uncoiling his rope. ‘I’m gonna have to tie you up again.’

  ‘Anything you say,’ the other croaked, standing passively as he was roped once more. ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Yeah, I am, ain’t I?’ the captor smiled, as he applied a final knot. ‘I like that.’

  A quarter of an hour later the man with the badge was thumping on the wooden door. They knew it was occupied by the lights that they’d homed in on. The door opened as if by itself to reveal an old man standing well back with a vicious-looking shot gun.

  ‘No need for that, friend, ‘ the man with the badge countered.

  The old man kept his gun trained. ‘Soldiers warned us there was an outlaw headed this way.’

  ‘You needn’t worry on that score. I caught the hombre. Got him in back of me.’ He stepped to one side so the light from the door could fall on his prisoner. He touched his badge. ‘Name’s Brennan. Marshal Brennan. I’m taking the son-of-a-bitch in.’

  An old woman came from behind the door to look.

  ‘Oh, sorry for the cuss-word, ma’am,’ the man with the badge said, touching his hat. ‘Didn’t see you there.’ He should have known someone was there. Doors don’t open themselves. But fatigue had clouded his brain.

  ‘You been in the desert?’ she faltered.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. Ain’t the most hospitable of places, is it?’

  ‘There’s not many come out of there alive.’

  ‘Well, ma’am, it’s not that I’m brave––just that I gave that no mind when I headed in. Sign was Tully here,’ he nodded to his prisoner, ‘was trying to get to the border. I just followed.’

  There was silence. He’d started a story and his two listeners were waiting for the ending.

  ‘Caught up with the critter,’ he continued. ‘Downed his hoss, roped him up. Then my own boss broke a leg in the sand. It’s treacherous stuff when you ain’t used to it. So, as you can see, we came out on foot.’

  The man with the gun didn’t relax. ‘What’s your immediate intention?’

  ‘We’re in dire need of water and food, A bed, leastways for me. In the morning, horses if you’ve got any. I can pay a fair price. Then we continue our journey.’

  The old man waited for a moment, weighing up the situation, concluded there was no danger and lowered his gun. ‘You understand we gotta be careful,’ he said, patting the stock of his gun. ‘Guess we can accommodate you. As long as you keep your man under control.’

  The woman heated some stew while the two men doused themselves in water out back. Then, with the prisoner roped but such that one hand was free, they took their supper. The old man showed them his small livery and they settled down for the night. They went to sleep very quickly, even the prisoner who was fully roped once more and fixed to a stanchion.

  Morning, they breakfasted on hash.

  ‘You like to see the horses, Mr. Brennan?’ the old man proffered when they’d finished. The two men went outside. ‘I can let you have those if the price is right,’ There were four in the corral and he pointed at two. ‘Shame I ain’t got no bridles or saddles though;’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, sir. Ropes and blankets will do if’n you got ‘em.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Sometime later the travelers were preparing to leave,

  ‘Now you tell me how much I owe you, old timer,’ the man with the badge said.

  ‘Well, I ain’t charging for the food and lodging…’
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br />   ‘Oh, yes you are!’ the man called Brennan interrupted. He winked. ‘This is all legitimate expenses for me. Don’t come out of my pocket. As long as I have a receipt, the County Office foots the bill. You work the money out and I’ll pay it. I go by the book. And don’t do yourself down. You been very kind.’

  The old man made some calculations on his fingers and voiced the results.

  ‘You sure that’s all?’

  The old man nodded. The man called Brennan counted out some bills and handed them to him. While the two men mounted up, the old man disappeared onto his adobe, returning with a piece of paper.

  The man with the badge took the slip and stuffed it into his vest pocket. ‘You been mighty kind. By the way, if the soldiers come by again, you tell ‘em not to worry their heads about Tully no more. Tell ‘em he’s been caught and he’s on his way back to Yuma.’

  They’d ridden a mile. The man with the badge took the paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and cast his eyes over the wording.

  ‘Real good touch, eh ?–– asking for a receipt: All that shit about getting reimbursed by County Office. He chuckled, screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it aside. ‘Pea-brained hayseeds! There ain’t no way they’re gonna be suspicious.’

  The other man said nothing. He adjusted his seat on the blanketed horse and breathed deeply. He had nothing to gay. His captor held all the cards, the best, drawn from the bottom of the deck.

  Tully, the man now masquerading as a peace officer, was anything but a man of the law. He’d crossed Brennan’s path a month ago. Already wanted for a string of robberies and murders, Tully had ridden into a small mid-western town and put up discreetly at the hotel for a couple of days, watching, listening. He got to know about the two things important to him: the bank and the law. Of the bank he learned the layout and what it was likely to hold––enough of the law, he learned there was only one representative: Marshal Brennan. The man had a wife and kid, and was respected by the townsfolk. He was nothing special.

  On the third day, Tully had walked into the County Farmers’ Association Bank during a quiet spell and made a forced withdrawal totaling several grand. Apart from gunning down the teller in the process, it was so easy he couldn’t believe it, leaving town unhindered.

  Brennan had been out of town refereeing a water rights dispute. That was typical of the run of his business––misdemeanors, drunkenness. He’d never been put to the test like big city marshals, he was no pistolero, no better than the next man with his fists. But he was more than saddened when he returned to town. He knew by name most of the farmers who had kept their small savings in the bank’s keeping; and he had played checkers regular with the now-dead bank clerk. Coupled with strong resentment about a big-time out-of-town desperado causing mayhem on his patch he had one significant quality––tenacity. Like a bulldog once he’d got his teeth into something. Ignoring advice from the town council to leave the matter to the federal authorities he’d lit out. Tracked Tully across two states, finally catching up and confronting him in a settlement on the edge of the vast Sonoran.

  But the more experienced Tully had turned the tables, knocking Brennan out. When Brennan came to, Tully had made his escape into the desert. Brennan had figured he was making for the border and had followed him.

  It isn’t difficult to follow a man across the desert when there is no wind to shift the sand. Brennan had sighted his quarry at noon on the second day, bringing down his horse with one shot. Then the unexpected. Tully had dropped his belt and raised his hands. When Brennan had closed in enough for words he realized why. Horseless there had been little chance of making it to the border; so Tully was playing his ace.

  He had thrown a question at the approaching lawman. Had Brennan seen the telegraph back in the hick town where they’d had their encounter?

  He had. It had been the only significant thing about the non-descript huddle of shacks. Then Tully had revealed how, after downing Brennan, he had used the telegraph office before heading into the desert. As insurance, he’d sent a message to his brother Joshua Tully. If Tully didn’t contact Joshua in a week’s time his brother was to kill Brennan’s wife and kid. Of course, Tully had explained, he hadn’t used those precise words in the message, but his brother was a cut off the old block and would get the drift.

  Brennan had been stymied. Could he take a chance on Tully lying, a last-ditch bluff? Not while the stake was the lives of his family. So, in the light of the threat, he had allowed Tully to take his gun and horse. Then Tully had swung up into the saddle, but the exhausted horse had collapsed into the soft sand, breaking a leg. Tully had vented his frustration on Brennan by smashing him to the ground with his gun butt, causing a nasty gash in his forehead.

  "What happens now?’ Brennan had asked, examining the tacky ooze on his hand that had instinctively dabbed to his head.

  It was then that Tully had had the idea. He and Brennan would change places. They were not exactly twins but they were roughly of the same build and height. The bleaching action of the desert sun had rendered much of Brennan’s-light brown hair similar to Tully’s blond mass. Tully knew the army had been alerted with regard to a man on the run. And he had had to return now that he couldn’t make it to the border. Cleaned-up and with a lawman’s papers he could bluff his way through if challenged. Even better he had figured, if he had a prisoner in tow.

  ‘You’re gonna play along with that, ain’t ya?’ Tully had said ominously when he had explained his plan.

  ‘The grip you’ve got on me,’ Brennan had answered, ‘I ain’t gonna cause you no trouble.’ From that point on Brennan had done as he was bid, true to his word. Tully had taken his better clothes, papers and badge. Using Brennan’s razor he had cleaned off the beard that had made his visage on posters distinctive. Himself, not having shaved for days and in Tully’s clothes, Brennan had looked more the villain of the two.

  Ignoring Brennan’s pleas that he should shoot the suffering horse, Tully had roped up the lawman. With the pained whinnying growing fainter in their ears they had begun to re-trace their steps. Ponderously, slowly

  And now they were some distance on, the old folks’ adobe far behind them.

  When the rolled up paper ball that had been a receipt hit the sand it was caught by the slight suggestion of a wind and rolled like a tumbleweed.

  Under the heat of the sun Brennan made no conversation. His mental focus staggered from one thing to another. But he gave no mind to the incompetence folks might ascribe to his dealing with Tully. The welfare of his wife and boy was paramount.

  It was he who was first to see the soldiers. Three on horseback, limned against the horizon.

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ Tully grunted when he saw them.

  Brennan nodded.

  They halted as the blue figures neared. ‘You there!’ one shouted. He had a sergeant’s marking on his arm. The guns of his underlings came out. Close up, he continued. ‘State your names and business.’

  He was clearly directing his words at Tully the more distinguished looking of the pair. ‘Name’s Brennan,’ the outlaw said confidently. ‘I’m a peace officer. This here’s Tully. You may have heard of the hombre. I’m taking him in.’

  The sergeant leaned on his saddlehorn. ‘It’s on standing orders that we keep a lookout for an outlaw in these parts. That’s the critter, is it?’

  Tully nodded.

  ‘Any papers?’ the sergeant asked, sticking out a chunky-fingered hand.

  ‘Sure,’ Tully took Brennan’s documents out of his jacket pocket and handed them over. The sergeant scanned and returned them, indicating to the other soldiers to holster their weapons. ‘All in order. You want any help, sir?’

  Tully enjoyed the ‘sir’, ‘No, thanks, sergeant. I can handle him. Look, he’s as docile as a roped heifer.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll pass the word to the captain that he’s been caught when we get back to quarters.’

  Tully touched his hat. ‘Much obliged.’

  Tul
ly was cock-a-hoop. The authorities were on the look-out for a lone rider. Two riders lessened suspicion and, with the two being a marshal taking in the wanted man, there was none––as the encounter with the soldiers had shown.

  The terrain changed. The flatness hemmed by arid mountains had long surrendered to rocky hills. With changing physical structure came changing flora. The saguaro gave way to the flowering flames of the ocotillo, cholla to bear grass. And the disconcerting signs of desert death––bleached bones, maggot-riddled carcasses––lessened.

  They journeyed for two more days without being challenged. Tully tended to his own appearance with regular washing and shaving. Brennan’s forehead wound became an ugly black scab. He looked progressively unkempt. Worthy of any jail.

  Tully figured now he was safe. He would still maintain his disguise but there was no longer need to keep his ‘prisoner’.

  Their horses plumb tuckered, they had been walking for some time.

  ‘What kinda man are you, Brennan?’ Tully asked.

  Brennan was quiet while he mulled the question. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been might close for a few days now and I can’t say I know you at al. You don’t say much.’

  ‘You got me by the short ones, Tully. There ain’t much I can say,’ Then he remained silent as though to illustrate the point.

  Tully tried digging at another vein, ‘What do you believe in, lawman?’

  No answer,

  Tully put forward some suggestions, ‘Marriage, family, religion, stuff like that?’

  ‘Stuff like that yeah, those are the things I value.’ Brennan paused then added, ‘And justice.

  Tully grunted. ‘You ever break any rules?’

  Brennan carried on trudging. ‘Maybe I have but I can’t remember.’

  ‘Ain’t you ever broke the law?’

  ‘Nope, not intentionally.’

  ‘You joshin’?’

  ‘Nope.’