Chaparral Range War (9781101619049) Page 5

  Guthrey’s horse went to the top of a pass between two mountains, then started stiff legged down the other side. He reined up and dismounted to relieve his bladder. The desert spread out beyond him in the silvery light. Some saguaros stood out like fingers pointing at the stars. The strong creosote aroma of greasewood brush filled his nose. The temperature had dropped since he’d left the ranch, he noticed as he climbed back in the saddle.

  “Get up, Buck,” he said to the horse, giving him a name.

  A coyote’s howl set off a chorus of them as the pack searched about for a jackrabbit or small deer for their meal. Owls hooted, and the sound of Guthrey’s shod horse crushing gravel accompanied him.

  Then he reined in his horse to stop. Had he heard another horse nicker? His own mount made a sound deep in his throat that shook him in the saddle. He’d obviously recognized the other animal. Where was he?

  The dark form of the other horse came uphill toward him. Guthrey slipped from the saddle and spoke to him. The horse looked sound enough in the starlight. Then he found the tail of the reata still dallied on the saddle horn and broken off about ten feet long. Dan must have had a wreck. But where was he?

  With his hands cupped around his mouth, Guthrey called out, “Dan. Dan, where are you?”

  He could hear his own voice trying to penetrate the vast desert night. No answer. He fired his pistol next. The resounding report rolled off across the land and then more silence. Nothing but some distant coyotes howling.

  Well, he was closer than before. He might have to wait until daylight to find the boy, or what was left of him. Damn, where could he be? The night’s shroud over the land did not answer Guthrey’s silent question.

  Before he remounted, Guthrey caught Dan’s horse by his reins. Later on he might need him. Had this horse strayed from his rider for a long time and traveled a great distance? No way for the cow pony to tell him. He had half the mystery of why Dan hadn’t came home. Maybe tracks in the daylight would tell him more. He’d best get himself a place to hang out until sunrise. Dan might be lying somewhere nearby.

  Guthrey rode on about a half mile and found some large cottonwoods and cattails—tules was what the Mexicans called them. His horse took a drink from the water hole, but Guthrey used the canteen hanging on the saddle horn. The canteen water tasted tinny and warm but it was liquid. Guthrey sure wasn’t interested in drinking from some mud hole the roving javelinas might have bathed in.

  With both horses’ cinches loosened, he hobbled them. With the side of his boot, he scraped a place free of sticks and rocks, then unfurled his bedroll to sleep a few hours until daybreak. Damn, he sure hoped that boy was all right.

  * * *

  THE FIRST SPEARS of sunshine peeked over the far-off range of sawtooth mountains, and Guthrey was awake. His bedroll tied back on the saddle, he walked around trying to read signs. Dan’s horse had ordinary shoes, so Guthrey could hardly tell it from his own mount. But a horse had come and gone on the cattle trail, so Dan must be farther northwest up the wide basin.

  Some cows and calves were coming cautiously toward the water when he mounted up, leaving Dan’s horse hobbled by the water hole. Half longhorns crossed with shorthorns, the cows still had a wariness about him he expected. Then he saw a calf following behind with a piece of reata around its neck and the length trailing him. The critter would likely hang that rawhide-plaited rope up on something and starve to death. Guthrey shook loose the rope on the saddle and, standing in the stirrups, fed out a loop.

  The cows quickly started to retreat. He put his spurs to the pony’s sides and took off after the calf. His mount cleared a rotting cottonwood log and he was grateful the calf had taken to the grassy open ground near the water hole. When he was close enough, he threw the loop and the pony sat down. Guthrey upended the calf and ran to hold it down.

  Its momma stopped and bellowed for the calf to come on as Guthrey sat on top of the critter, looking at the fresh V Bar 6 brand on the calf. Whitmore’s mark was on this three-month-old calf. Then before he jerked loose the extra rope, he looked up and read the cow’s brand as she cried for her baby to come to her. She wore the 87T brand on her left side. The Bridges brand. She was their cow, but her calf had a fresh Whitmore brand on it.

  What was he into? What in the hell had happened? He straightened up after releasing the calf. He looked all around but saw nothing but chaparral and a handful of cows sounding upset by their bawling. The subject holding his interest ran over to his momma, ducked his head under her flank, and went for some hot milk.

  Where was Dan at? He had to be somewhere out here. Guthrey coiled his reata up and tied it on his saddle. His stomach churned around sour-like and he had a gagging feeling behind his tongue as he sat back on the polished leather seat and gave the horse his head. He still needed to find that boy.

  FIVE

  MIDMORNING, HAVING FOUND no sign of Dan, Guthrey crossed a rise into another great grassy swale, and he spotted some buzzards circling. Shocked at sighting those birds of carrion and their interest in a certain piece of ground, he sent Buck off in a hard lope for the place they were focused on. The closer he drew to the object the more certain he was he’d found his boy. Then the figure sat up and shot at a low swooping buzzard with his pistol. The shot dropped the huge black bird out of the sky in a cloud of feathers to flop around in the bunch grass.

  “Hold your fire,” Guthrey shouted in time to see the haggard-looking Dan fall down on his back. What was wrong? In a sliding stop, Guthrey was off the horse and rushing over to the boy. “You all right?”

  “Yesterday.” Dan clamped his hands on his injured right leg and winced in pain. “I roped one of our calves that had Whitmore’s damn brand on it. My reata broke in the process, my horse tripped, and he fell over on my leg. I must have busted it, and then I kept passing out.”

  “No problem, I’m just happy I found you. Cally was beside herself last night. I discovered your horse after midnight at some tule water hole. Wasn’t much I could do, so I slept till daylight. Saw that calf while I was looking for you, roped him, and got the loop off his neck. Someone had damn sure put Whitmore’s brand on him.”

  “What did you learn from the sheriff?”

  “He was too busy counting cattle, they said. His deputy Lamar Dawes tried to start a fight with me. I put the wind out of him and then busted him over the head when he tried to go for his gun.”

  “Holy shit, they’ll swear out a warrant for you.”

  “So?’

  “They may really work you over next time. Boy, they did that to poor Theo Ward. Poor guy was laid up for weeks after the deputy was done with him.”

  “I’ll go plead guilty to stopping a deputy from trying to beat me up. If I can get a judge to accept that, they can’t do a damn thing more to me.”

  Dan frowned hard at him. “How did you figure that deal out?”

  “I once had that happen to me down in Caldwell County, Texas. Now, how are we getting you out of here? No way to ever get a buckboard up here. Can you ride, do you think?”

  “If I don’t pass out again.”

  Guthrey agreed, then went for his canteen to give Dan a drink. “If you can ride, maybe we can get you home today.”

  Dan nodded as he swallowed, then he said, “I think you better cut my boot off. It’s swollen too tight on that foot. I tried and couldn’t do it.”

  No doubt about it, the sight of Dan’s swollen leg shocked him. Guthrey took his skinning knife and began to slice away the boot’s vamp first. The flesh ballooned out from the leather incision. Guthrey worried about cutting the boy with his knife, but the boot was finally peeled off his enlarged foot and leg.

  “Damn, sorry. You think your leg is broken?”

  “I’m pretty certain.” Dan’s face looked near white.

  “Of course we can’t see inside you. I don’t want to brea
k anything else.”

  Dan nodded. “I understand. Help me into the saddle.”

  “All right, we’ll get you on my horse. I’ll lead you back to yours. He’s hobbled back a few miles. It gets too bad, you tell me. I’ve got a pint of snakebite whiskey in my saddlebags.”

  “That might be the best thing I can think of.”

  It was not easy to lift Dan to his feet, and getting the swollen limb across the cantle and in the seat was even harder. But once he was in the saddle, Dan grasped the saddle horn with white knuckles and his jaw locked hard. They moved at a slow pace.

  “You making it?” Guthrey asked time and again when Dan moaned or cried out.

  Getting Dan back to the ranch promised to be a living hell for the kid. Step by step Guthrey led the cow pony down the broad grassy swale.

  “Guthrey? How are—we—we ever going to stop them from branding our calves?”

  “The law.”

  “But with that damn Killion working for Whitmore, he ain’t taking our word for it. Where is the damn whiskey? I need some bad.”

  Guthrey stopped the horse and looked in his saddlebags for the firewater. In the right side, he found the short brown bottle and removed the cork. “Here. Don’t drink it too fast. You aren’t halfway safe now on his back. Drink too much and you may fall off.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Dan was breathing like he’d run a mile.

  With Dan holding the pint bottle on his good leg, they went on. In a while, Guthrey figured Dan was feeling nothing and they were almost to the tule-crowded water hole. He spotted the hobbled horse, who lifted his head and whined at Buck.

  “Stay in the saddle,” he told Dan and went for the other horse, which was still busy grazing. Thirsty as he was, Guthrey felt grateful for the canteen on Dan’s horse. He watered his man down first, who was drunk enough to be singing, “. . . ah, sweet Bessy from Pike.”

  In a short while Guthrey was on Dan’s horse and they were heading into the pass. If the boy could stay in the saddle, they’d be back to the ranch in a few hours. Guthrey could hardly wait.

  When the ranch outfit was in sight, he noticed three riders coming off the far slope to their right. Who were they? Friend or foe? He turned his horse back. “I think we’ve got troubles, Dan. Can you see those riders making that dust coming from the south toward us?”

  Dan said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Grab that saddle horn. We’re going to the house, where we have some cover. Hang on, pard.”

  “I—can—do that.”

  Gun smoke and the pop of pistol shots came from the three riders. The range was too far, but the strangers intended to kill both of them. Guthrey hoped Dan could stay in the saddle. The ranch headquarters were still a half mile away

  Guthrey charged his mount using spurs and reins. Buck acted like he knew what was coming and broke into a run beside him. They flat raced for the house and some cover. Dan held on to the saddle horn with an iron grip.

  The two on their hard-breathing horses covered lots of ground and still the pursuit followed them. Guthrey’s back itched, waiting for the first slug of hot lead to strike him. The distance to the headquarters soon became shorter. He could see the windmill.

  “Hang tight, son. We’re almost there.”

  Like a wooden Indian, the grim-faced Dan nodded. They swept under the crossover bar, grateful the yard gate was open. Cally came outside armed with a double-barrel shotgun and tossed it to Guthrey when he dismounted. “It’s loaded. I could hear cussing and shooting. I knew something was bad wrong.”

  “Dan’s got a bad broken leg. Get him inside. He’s drunk on some whiskey.”

  She nodded, sober faced, and shouted after Guthrey, “I can handle him.”

  “Good.” He checked the chambers. As she said, it was loaded. With the shotgun in his hands, he started for the corner of the house to stop the incoming riders.

  He went on the run around the house to greet them. At the sight of the three riders heading through the gate, he stuck the stock in his shoulder, aimed, and fired. The report of the shotgun hurt his ears. The three horses split, and one went down on his nose and threw his rider. The other two rode in opposite directions. The riders emptied their pistols at him with no results. He was grateful they never stopped moving. At a dead run trying to shoot their empty pistols sideways, they’d be lucky to hit a barn if they had any more ammo in them. The rider on his left went out a small open gate and rode off like the devil was on his coattails. The other shooter jumped off his horse too far away for Guthrey to hit the outlaw with the scattergun. With wire cutters in his hand, the man sliced through barbed wire, remounted, and he too left through the hole he made.

  The man facedown on the ground began to moan as Guthrey approached him. His paint horse had gotten up, shaking out a cloud of dust, rattling the stirrups. He looked all right. The cow pony started to drift away but was obviously ground-tie broke and stopped.

  “Who in the hell are you?” Guthrey asked the groaning man. Grabbing a handful of the man’s shirt collar, he jerked him up on his knees.

  “My arm’s broken.” The injured rider held on to his right forearm, crying out in pain as Guthrey stood him up. Then, seeing that the man’s holster was empty, Guthrey shoved him toward the house. His prisoner half stumbled, and Guthrey used the shotgun’s muzzle to prod him on.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bud Jones.”

  “I mean your real name.”

  “Jack Nelson.”

  “Who hired you to do this?”

  “No one.”

  “I’m going to wrench that damn broken arm off at the shoulder if you don’t give me answers I want to hear.”

  He drew back. “Some guy named Hampton. I don’t know any more.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “I don’t know who he was. Big guy.”

  “Your memory will get a damn sight better when I get done with you.”

  “Who is he?” Cally asked from the doorway, looking ashen faced and staring at the dust-coated intruder.

  “Jack Nelson, he said. You know him?”

  She shook her head. “Dan’s on my bed. I never saw him that drunk before.”

  “His leg’s broken. There may be more wrong. He roped a calf, his reata broke, and his horse lost his footing, fell, and must have rolled on top of him.”

  With a grim, set face, she nodded. “When did you find him?”

  “Midmorning. I’ve been coming back ever since.”

  Nelson sat down on the floor. Guthrey pointed his finger at his prisoner. “You try one thing, I’ll tie that broken arm to the other one until I can get you to the sheriff.”

  He obeyed.

  “I’ll fix some food. You must be famished,” Cally said.

  “Thanks. I’m going to hitch up the buckboard. I’ll take this one along with me. And after we eat, we can drive him over to the sheriff and take Dan to a doctor.”

  “Won’t Killion try to arrest you?”

  “He better not try.”

  “I can take them. Someone needs to see about the cow and stock here.”

  “We’ll talk later about that.” He motioned for Nelson to get up.

  “All right,” she agreed. “But I know Judge Collier. He lives in Soda Springs. He’ll listen to me.”

  “That might work. Let me hitch up and we can talk more later.” He pointed to the open door for his prisoner to move that way.

  Outside, the two headed for the corral. Guthrey sat Nelson down on the ground and went about catching the team. With a currycomb and brush, he cleaned them up, routinely checking on the silent outlaw. When the harness was on, he drove the horses over and hitched them to the rig. His job done, he told his man to walk back to the house ahead of him. The man had no choice. It was obvious the impaire
d arm had him in a great deal of pain.

  Inside the ranch house, Guthrey sat him on a chair. Cally had the food out, and before she took a seat, she gave each of them a plate of fried eggs and pancakes. Their coffee cups full, she swept her dress under her and sat down.

  “How’s Dan?” Guthrey asked her.

  “Sleeping so hard that I let him alone.”

  “That’s all right. He needs sleep more than food. Maybe pack some sandwiches for him to eat later. Can we hire a neighbor to watch the stock? And, since you know the judge, you should be with me. I don’t trust Nelson here or his buddies who ran off.”

  “Noble McCoy is an old cowboy. His place is on the way to town. I think we could hire him. He’s dependable.”

  “Good. We’ll do that, then.”

  They loaded a pallet for Dan to ride on. Guthrey tied the moaning outlaw’s arms to his body and put him in back too. Then he hitched the saddled Lobo, his bay gelding, to the tailgate in case they needed a mount.

  With Cally’s basket of food and water in the back, they set out for Soda Springs.

  When Cally pointed out a homestead on the way to town, Guthrey stopped at the rickety-looking place beside the road. A rumpled old man came out and took off his hat to wave at her with a smile.

  “What brings you and this hombre by here?” he asked, coming over in a rambling walk.

  Cally introduced Guthrey to the older cowboy, Noble. “Dan had a horse wreck yesterday. This is Guthrey, who’s helping us. He found him. We’re taking Dan to Doc’s at Soda Springs. That other rascal in back is one of the three people who raided the ranch this morning.”

  “Raided the ranch? Who were those scoundrels?”

  “He ain’t saying much,” Guthrey said.

  “Can you go up and milk my cows, feed the chickens until I can get back?” Cally asked.

  “Miss Cally, I’d love to. I’ll stay up there. You don’t worry about a thing. I can handle it.”