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Two hours later, Whelihan and Zippy sat on their horses overlooking a lush valley with timber climbing up the hillsides. The grade began to slope lower with outcroppings of dark rock and sandstone topped out with a flat mesa. At the far end sat an old blackened stone farmhouse with empty windows and an overgrown yard. Ravaged by fire, the stone house sat still in the air with no hint of the family who had lived there was long gone.
A tall two story weathered barn with its doors open stood about two hundred yards from the house with a fair sized corral on the north side. Some of the corral posts had fallen over in disuse and part of an old cottonwood had crashed down destroying part of the south fence. To the north of the house was an over grown orchard of apples, pears and plums.
“I’ve seen old stone houses like this all over the West. Lives lived here in happiness and safety. Families raised.” Whelihan gestured to the south.
“Yeah. Marianna’s father’s house is like this. Big stone house. You’ve probably seen it up at Flint Hills Ranch?” Stolter looked at Whelihan.
“Yes, I’ve been there. I did some work for Glenn Richardson in the year before he died. Good man,” Whelihan shook his head.
Whelihan got Zippy’s attention and gestured towards the valley. “I’ve often thought about some day when I decide to hang up my guns, I’ll find a place just like this and raise horses. I don’t want to the get to point where I’ve been hurt and injured so badly that I can’t ride or shoot. I just want to walk away from it all one day and raise and train horses. Maybe those mustangs like you run,” Whelihan said.
Zippy nodded and looked at the land he had seen a few times in the past. “Twice before when we had rode in, there were squatters camped out in the barn and once in the house. Most times it was quiet and abandoned like it was now.” The Mexican reined over his mustang and trotted along the old path along the rim.
Down through a pass and then out onto another mesa they trotted. When they came down out of the trees before them was a secluded valley surrounded by stands of fir, cottonwoods and birch. A large herd, more than fifty horses grazed in the warm sunlight in knee deep grass.
Blacks, chestnuts, dun and a couple of palominos lifted their heads pricking their ears to look at the men. Two muscled mustang stallions nickered. After a few moments of swishing their long tails, they lowered back down and went back to grazing.
“I don’t see any of your stock wanting to go home, Mr. Zippy. Maybe someone came along and talked them in to staying here,” Whelihan said as he wiggled his eyebrows.
“Just hold on now, Mr. Two Guns. Mexican horses tend to relax and enjoy themselves. You watch this,” Zippy said with a grin.
Putting his two fingers into his mouth, Zippy stood up in the stirrups and gave out three quick loud whistles. All the horses jerked up and watched with rapt attention. Nothing moved for a few minutes.
Whelihan’s horse made a low nicker and stepped sideways. The gunman frowned and patted his neck to comfort the big roan. That was when he began to hear the pounding hooves of running horses. Zippy swung his horse around and pushed out another set of three whistles.
From the opposite mesa on the other side of the valley came a stream of Mexican mustangs racing down the path into the valley. Stolter counted twenty two reddish spotted with black blazes over a white forequarter horses of the traditional mustang paint. Zippy clapped his hands as he stood up grinning with enthusiasm at the racing horses.
“There’s my horses!” Zippy grinned. In a swarm, the three men were surrounded by the neighing and nickering herd. Zippy ripped apples in half and hand fed each one noting the markings and health. It was like a litter of big puppies trying to nuzzle against the Mexican and he spent a few minutes patting each one and talking to them, calling them by name.
Stolter had dismounted and taken the saddle off so the roan could graze. Near the sandstone rim he gathered stones and built a fire for coffee. It was a clear blue sky overhead with not a cloud in sight.
“It’s like each one knows you, Zippy.” He watched the Mexican lift the hooves and check their feet.
“I do know each one. I was there when they were born. I helped train them to ride and wear a saddle. I helped them all learn how to swim in the ocean and how to cross big streams.” Zippy slapped the rump of the last mustang sending it out into the valley.
“Three of the mares are pregnant and will foal in about six months. I’ll take those south with me when I go. I like for the newborns to spend time around the family for the first year. It makes the training easier and the kids like the small horses.” Zippy knelt down and poured himself a tin cup of coffee.
“Your kids train horses?” Stolter was in awe that children worked the horses.
“Sure they do. The best trained horses start out with the kids. They learn what to do and what not to do. The kids teach them the rules and have fun getting to know each foal,” Zippy said with a big smile.
Whelihan stood up and stared out at the grazing horses. He commented, “I only see about six yearlings out there. You think there are more?”
“There are two other valleys we have to check. We’ll go over to the other mesa and down that side. There should be more in the next valley over.” Zippy gestured up to the opposite mesa with a broad swing of his arm.
By sundown the two men had found nineteen yearlings. Underneath a copse of saplings they also found the carcass of a horse that looked like coyotes had been feeding on it.
Whelihan pointed at the carcass. “On the other side near a path was another dead horse that had been dead for over a month. It’s right front leg was broken and it seemed it had been shot in the head to put it out of its pain.”
He said with a stern tone, “That is evidence that others know of this valley.” Stolter watched the men and women of the family walk in amongst the herd, patting, talking and calming the animals. Zippy had said all of them would be riding the horses back to Mexico using their experienced eyes as they were picking out the horses they would ride.
Twice now, Stolter had felt a small nudge against his side. He had turned to find a child laughing as he ran away. Whelihan chuckled, “Nick, you gotta watch that. They’re using you as part of their game now.” Stolter shook his head and sat down. Several kids who had been creeping up on the horseman stopped and their shoulders slumped. Their game came to an end. Stolter grinned.
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It was in the afternoon a few minutes after two o’clock and five miles to the southwest where Stolter and Whelihan met up with another Mexican. It was a clearing of hard packed dirt, some cacti bordered by a jutting outcrop of black lava rock probably about an acre in size. Whelihan talked with the Mexican man, Arturo, for a few minutes.
With quiet care, the gunman leaned closer to Stolter and said, “In case anything happens to you, where do you want these fifteen head to go to? I don’t think the kids will take ‘em all the way to Yucca Valley so you know of any place west of here where you want them corralled?”
Stolter frowned. “What do you mean? If something happens to me? Nothing is gonna happen to me!” Stolter felt the first tingling indignation of a fear. Whelihan looked off in the distance and waited.
Stolter let out a deep breath. “Just this side of Tucson is a tiny place called Rio Mesa. There should be a blacksmith and a stables there and a couple of saloons. Put ‘em in that corral and I’ll pay for their feed and keep when I get there.” Whelihan walked his horse over to Arturo and they talked for few more minutes. Stolter became somewhat more uneasy as he watched the Mexicans shared ammunition as they loaded revolvers, pistols, and rifles.
Whelihan gripped the reins. “Okay, here are some ground rules. We’re gonna go get those unbranded horses and run them as quietly as possible into that secluded valley where Arturo’s family is waiting. Arturo’s men dropped in six bottles of whiskey last night but we don’t know how liquored up the men in the house will be right now. We’re thinking that most of them will be sleeping it o
ff.” Stolter nodded and waited for the rest of the story.
That look came over Whelihan’s face. The look where he appeared to be a stranger to Stolter. The gunman was all business now. “Don’t get off your horse. No matter what. I am usually the last one out of the valley. I’ll make sure everyone gets out. You need my help, you better be bleeding and riding. Got it?” Stolter nodded and felt for his Colt in its holster.
Whelihan gestured to the Mexican. “Arturo’s kids will throw bridles onto all the horses when the herd runs in here except yours. Make sure none of those horses have brands or markings. You’ll need a trail rope to put on them. I’ll settle up anything with you when I get back here. After that, it’s important that you get out of here with them horses. Nobody will wait around to help you and you’ll be on your own after that.” Stolter nodded and could feel the excitement course through him.
Whelihan reached over and gripped Stolter’s jacket. “There’s one more thing. When you go through Red Oaks Pass station, there will be a telegram there for you and some papers. I’ll set up a receipt for the horses. You’ll need it in case any peace officer decides to check. Tell the bartender who you are and they direct you to the right person. Got it?” Whelihan’s eyes were more gray than green.
Stolter said, “Red Oaks Pass station. Got it.” Whelihan reached to shake Stolter’s hand.
“Thank you, my friend. You’ll never know how much this means to me.” Whelihan touched the brim of his hat and smiled a grim smile. Stolter felt there was a deeper, more serious tale in the background, but no time to tell it.
As Stolter followed the galloping group he considered the mechanics of this venture. It was apparent that the Mexicans were old hands at this grab and run. Whelihan seemed to be an old hand and had done this before now. It dawned on him that he, Stolter, was the rookie or the unknown link at this. Several times he had caught the Mexicans glancing sideways at him and it dawned on him now why. He was the unknown in this venture.
The narrow trail was just wide enough for two horses side by side. It was a longer stretched out traveling group making its way to the small ranch to the northwest. Fluffy clouds drifted by in no hurry overhead on the faint breeze. Black crows cackled and argued in the grass. The screech of a hunting hawk overhead warned small critters crawling along the dirt. The plodding hooves of the horses puffed up little clouds of dust in the heat.
Stolter wiped the sweat from his forehead with his bandanna. He could feel his sweaty hands inside the light leather gloves. He must have checked his Colt five times. In the small stream they let the horses have water. Nobody said anything, nobody chattered. The easy familiarity had been replaced with cold seriousness.
The shaded parts of the valley still dripped dew from the grass blades. Some of the horses lifted their heads as men on foot moved in around urging them in a certain direction. Five moved, ten moved, and then most of them walked on in the same direction. Stolter and Whelihan sat on their horses up under the trees watching the horses walk to the south end of the valley and disappear in the trees. Whelihan nudged Stolter and gestured to the east side.
Men’s voices were getting louder. Two men carrying rifles ran out into the valley after the horses shouting an alarm. Whelihan drew his Colt and spurred his horse into a run out into the grass with Stolter close behind him. Whelihan took a shot at a dead run and hit the rifle barrel tearing it from the man’s hands. Stolter saw another man farther back in the trees lift a rifle and Stolter’s shot knocked him down.
Whelihan turned his horse left to come back around while the last five loose horses ran out the south end. Bullets flew past the gunman and he fired off three separate shots into the trees. Stolter wheeled around behind him and trotted back up the east side near the trees. There was no movement, no voices and all the horses were gone now. A short whistle from Whelihan meant head for the trail and he reined around and spurred his horse hard.
Chapter 6
Just as he rounded the slight bend around the Douglas fir he caught a movement and Stolter was knocked from his horse. A man rolled over him dragging him down the clay hillside into the brush. Stolter kicked out and stomped his boots and landed on his feet. In front of him a scruffy bearded man with an ugly slash scar from his eyebrow to his cheek struggled to his feet. Stolter’s hand slapped empty leather for the Colt. He swore.
Stolter felt something drip down his chest under his shirt and looked down to find a red stain spreading over the cloth. There was an oozing stab wound on his chest and the strands of shirt were soaked. The other man held in one bloody hand a knife made with a savage curve and the back edge serrated. Stolter looked up just in time to see a slender silver stiletto hiss by his face and he jerked away from the sound.
Stolter picked up a handful of dirt and rocks and threw it hard at the man, blinding him for a few seconds. His gun was still out of reach down the hill with the bloody outlaw between him and it. The man reeked of stale sweat, an unwashed body and bad booze. Chances were this was one of the men who had stolen the horses out from under Whelihan. By the way that his man swung the knife, he had nothing to lose.
The man grunted when he stabbed with a wild swing and Stolter jerked backwards. Stolter kicked a heavy boot out and caught an ankle making the attacking man stumble. Stolter rolled to his left and came up on a knee and the tip of the knife tore his denim jeans slicing into the thigh.
When the man gained his balance and sneered at Stolter, it was a mouth missing many teeth. What was left was broken, blackened and yellowed. A bloody hand wiped his mouth and he lunged at Stolter with his eyes wide. Stolter tried to pivot away but his boot heal caught in the brush and he tumbled ten feet down the hill. The man jumped at him and brought the knife over his head and Stolter saw it coming. The gun was here somewhere but still out of sight. A bright sting of pain laced along Stolter’s jaw.
The man turned around and climbed back up the hill, his face distorted with rage. Stolter looked around fast and then threw a broken limb down at the man but he kept coming. Stolter’s left leg screamed in pain but it wasn’t soaking through his jeans yet. The grunting man jumped and tried to slice at Stolter’s belly and caught a boot heel to the thigh. Stolter felt the knife tug at his shirt and a fine line of blood appeared in the tear. Stolter came off his feet in a leap with both heels at the man and caught him full in the chest that sent him tumbling into the brush twenty feet down.
Stolter looked up the hill and saw the Colt handle gleam in the streaming sunshine. He started climbing through the brush with small branches breaking and dry leaves crackling as he scrambled up. When he looked back down the hill, he saw that the scruffy man had gained his footing and was coming back up. Five feet from the Colt he felt the sharp pain and reached down to find a slender stiletto in the back of his right thigh. He grimaced and pulled it out and felt the rush of blood slide down his leg. Stolter took a deep breath and leaped up grabbing the Colt and rolling to his left just as the man grabbed Stolter’s boot. Stolter fired the shot.
The man flailed as he shouted something and went face down into the crumbling dirt hillside and slid about three feet down. Stolter laid back in the mud and grimaced as his fingers explored the wound to his belly. The slice on his cheek would leave a scar. The chest wound felt sore and stung a bit as he eased himself down to the man’s body and rolled him over to take the knife. In one of the man’s pockets was twenty dollars and a scrap of paper with something scrawled. Stolter rubbed his eyes, “Rancho del Oro”.
Stolter dragged the body down to the bottom of the hill and covered it in rocks, tree limbs and brush. The fight had been brutal and thorough and he’d feel the effects for days to come. He could feel the trickle of blood down the back of his leg. He whistled for his horse, mounted up and raced down to the trail.
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Nobody was there. No men, no horses, no Whelihan. Stolter rode around the perimeter and saw where dozens of horse tracks had moved out South. The narrow trail to the West had been chewed up by hooves.
His horses were headed west. Again, Stolter rode the perimeter to look for any signs, messages, and directions but to no avail. Inside his shirt his hand came away bloody and his jaw stung from the cut. He rode west following his horses.
Ten miles farther all the tracks made a hard veer off into thick brush to the north. After working his way around the tangled thorns, a quarter mile up the old path broaden out to a springs in amongst boulders. The horses had stopped for water. The rocks were scuffed and the tracks ended at the boulders. Stolter studied the rocks and then laughed to himself for thinking that horses could climb the rocks.
Stolter scrambled up to the top boulder and shaded his eyes from the sun. To the untrained eye, it was rough, uneven desert in the wild with clumps of sage, twisted cacti and big rocks thrown in to make the going tough. A single-file snake trail meandered northwest twisting and turning around boulders, down the side of a wash and then straight into an expanse of cacti. Stolter climbed back down and went back to his horse.
He cleaned up the slice in his thigh using his dampened bandana. He cut the tip off of the short, fat cacti and squeezed out the cool, creamy juice into the wound. The clean white cloth bandage that Kelly had packed for him was wrapped around it for protection. His horse had started to graze on the short grass under the scrub pine. When he knelt to drink, he caught a reflection of an ugly, red slash along his cheek. He squirmed a bit as he cleaned it up and slathered more of the slippery cacti onto it.
He had known the dangers when he started out. Every slice and stab wound stung. At the very least he still had everything he had started out with, including his horse and his own life. His hopes were now dashed that there might be some gold in the venture for him and at the very least, some more stock for the ranch. He had his food and water and ammunition still so he wasn’t defenseless.
Stolter led his horse around the rocks and down the wash. The ground was chewed up from hooves climbing up the other side. The rocks were marred and scraped where several hooves had scrambled up. As Stolter stood there studying the tracks, his own horse nickered and he turned around to see his horse looking due south. He mounted up and let his horse pick his way through the cacti and rocks to the south and the track came out back on the main trail about a half mile farther west from the waterhole track. Someone was being very sly and cagey, wanting to avoid anyone seeing their horse’s tracks.
Nick Stolter Page 5