Dead Warrior (4 page)

“Like driving stages?”

“I didn’t mean that.” It was the first time I had seen any crack in her self-confidence. Then she laughed. “Yes, maybe I did, too. It does seem a waste of time when there are so many important things to be done in a new country.”

“Possibly I’ll sneak up on the blind side of some marvelous opportunity by and by,” I said. “Meanwhile driving stage is a step up for me. Before that I was impersonating a city police officer.”

She could evidently think of no comment, and a minute later I noticed that fatigue had at length caught up with her. After I had waked her up a couple of times I insisted that she ride inside.

Chuckwalla was only a two hours’ drive from that stopping point, though it seemed longer. I was tired and stiff myself when I reined in at the general store which was the community’s only place of business. There were rooms upstairs which the proprietor rented to anybody unfortunate enough to have to use them, while the stable in the rear had served Tom Cary as a stage depot.

“Hank Quinby’s asleep,” I said, when my passengers had dismounted, “but he’ll find beds for you and fix you something to eat, too, if you feel like it. You know him, don’t you, Jennie?”

“I guess I do know the old squeezenickel,” she said. “It’ll be fun to pull the covers off him. What do I owe you?”

“Not a cent,” I replied. “The Three Deuces-Chuckwalla line is now out of business and can’t take any money.”

“Well, thanks, Judge,” Pete exclaimed. “I done been run out of town by John Law, but he never give me a ride on the house before.”

The girl looked first at him and then at me, when Pete used the judicial title. It was her father who spoke, though.

“That’s very good of you, but we can’t accept. What would your employer say, if he knew you were offering free service to passengers?”

“I don’t think we should argue with people until we know what’s going on in this part of the country,” Faith silenced him. “We’re not in Hartford, Father, so the best thing we can do is to thank him for his help and friendliness.”

She set the example, but we were all too tired to make further conversation a pleasure. “Well, so long, Baltimore,”
Jennie summed up the situation, “I’ll be seein’ you in some damned joint or other, if neither one cashes in his chips first.”

They were off on the train before I was up and about the next morning, including Pete, who had slept beside me on the bed made by putting back rests between the coach seats. My own departure wasn’t long delayed. Chuckwalla was of the old world, while I was ready for the new. After breakfast I hurried through the business of stocking up with camping equipment and staples, or rather I hurried as much as was possible in the teeth of Hank Quinby’s desire to pass the time of day while he was cheating me.

“Where are you headin’ for?” he demanded at one point.

“I don’t know exactly. Some place in the Panhandle for a starter.”

“I’ll likely be movin’ myself,” he said. “Three Deuces was the main reason for the station, and I dunno as I’ll have much trade left.” He deftly weighed his pudgy hand along with the slab of bacon I had ordered. “That’s a little bigger piece than what you asked for, but not much,” he reported. “The Panhandle, you say. I’d never go there at this time of the year myself.”

That struck me as a good seasonal recommendation for Texas, but I was none the less curious as to his reasons. “Why not, Hank?”

“The buffalo feed north in the spring, and the Injuns’ll be riding out to pick ’em off.”

“A half pound of tobacco, a box of cigars, two quarts of whiskey and — er — oh, yes, an ax and an extra set of tinware, in case I have company,” I said. “I thought the tribes thereabouts had all been put on reservations in the Indian Territory.”

“I guess they’re all there on payday,” he said, “but as long
as there’s buffalo left, there’ll be redskins huntin’ ’em, and if they can get a few paleface scalps into the bargain they really enjoy themselves.”

His words gave me something to think about as I drove my team across the railroad tracks and into the forest once more, but they did not cause me to change my plans. It was still possible to encounter war parties of Indians here and there in the West, but the chances of being killed by the white inhabitants of any lively town were much greater.

The succeeding few days were not bad, because I was treated to the sight of constantly changing scenery; and I had always found my own company adequate when none better was to be had. The nights were not so good, but my consciousness of them was brief. Bunked in the stage, I would hear the hunting calls of wolves for only a little while before I drifted off to sleep.

For diversion I learned the fine points of stage driving over roads which grew worse the farther south I went. From the mountains and the trees the way led down into high mesa country, then into a grass and scrub tree land broken by outcroppings of rock. By that time I was doing no more than following a set of wheel tracks.

I enjoyed the hunting, too. Game was especially abundant as I drew near and passed the point where Colorado, Kansas, New Mexico and that westward reach of the Indian Territory called No Man’s Land made a zigzag upon the map. Yet though I lived well in consequence, it took me longer to get through the region than it should have.

I was making early camp, in preparation for going in search of my evening meal, when a horseman appeared in the notch between two knobs, riding toward me from the west. Busy looking back, he did not see me until one of my horses whinnied a welcome to his mount. At that he swerved to
ride uphill of the water hole near which I had backed the stage.

Twenty yards away he halted, eying me alertly. I on my part had been giving him my full attention from the first. His handsome face, having skin of the type that doesn’t show weathering, looked paper-white in contrast to the black mustache which made an island of his chin. The other thing I noticed was that his hand hung near the revolver snugged to his thigh.

On general principles I had pulled my rifle out of the coach, but I was careful to show no interest in it until I found out whether that would be necessary. The rider looked me over where I leaned against the right forewheel. Glancing about, he assured himself that I was alone. Next he read the lettering on the stage, and his mustache twitched with his grin.

“Three Deuces-Chuckwalla,” he said. “If I wasn’t pretty sure you know your business better than I do, I’d say you were off the road.”

By then I had had time to make further observations. From broad-brimmed hat to the boots into which his pants were tucked, he was dressed for rough riding, whereas I had been accustomed to seeing him in broadcloth and linen, as black and white as his whiskers and skin.

“Well,” I said, “I may be on the wrong road, but you don’t seem to be following any at all, Mr. McQuinn.”

Blackfoot Terry didn’t like being recognized by someone he didn’t know. I wasn’t sure he would remember me, even with prompting, for I had been in camp but a few weeks at the time of his departure from Three Deuces. After a moment of hard staring, though, his face relaxed. So did the hand by his gun.

“I’ve seen you. You’d rather copper than bet, but when you
do, you like to back sixes and tens.” Having recalled my faro idiosyncrasies, he turned over his recollections in silence. “Why, of course. Carruthers, isn’t it?”

“Judge Carruthers,” I said. “It would probably be contrary to the best judicial tradition to thank you for shooting Cad Brown, but anyhow I got his place.”

“I heard about that.” McQuinn’s mustache twitched again. “You also got Tom Cary’s stage.”

“He thought three kings would beat that many aces.” I was tired of holding my rifle and leaned it against the wheel beside me. “There’s at least part of a quart in the stage.”

“There should be,” he said. In place of drawing nearer, however, he resumed looking back whence he had ridden. “Have you heard any shots?”

It seemed to me that a man who expected to hear shooting had better push on, but I kept that thought to myself. Seeing me shake my head, he rode near enough to let his horse drink sparingly from the water hole. While it was doing so he looked at me as though he was trying to make up his mind what to say next.

“You may know this,” he said after a minute, “but just for something to say, I’ll tell you anyhow. There are Indians out buffalo hunting, and not too far from here. I nearly ran into a band lying in wait for a herd to drift close. Cheyennes, by the look of them.”

It didn’t make any difference to me just what kind of redskin might be ready to lift my scalp, but McQuinn’s particularity didn’t astonish me. His nickname was owing to the fact that he had been a captive of the Blackfeet as a boy.

“I’ll be scrambling out of here, then, thanks.” Prepared to disbelieve him if he answered in the affirmative, I nodded at the rifle in his saddle boot. “Were you out hunting buffalo yourself?”

“I’m out being hunted.” He looked to see how I would take that, but when I succeeded in keeping my expression one of polite interest, he continued. “There’s a posse after me, and what I’m afraid of is that I may have led the boys right into that nest of Cheyennes.”

Although I tried to withhold comment, such concern for his pursuers on the part of a fugitive from justice was too much for me. “Well, it would keep them out of mischief, wouldn’t it?”

The gambler frowned. “A man shouldn’t want to save his neck that badly. Besides, the sheriff is a friend of mine.”

He was talking to himself rather than to me. Yet I felt the rebuke, even though I found the reasoning obscure.

“He doesn’t seem to be worrying about it,” I pointed out. “Or at least he’s apparently absent-minded enough to be trying to drag you back to jail.”

“That’s what he’s paid for,” Blackfoot Terry said. He paused to listen again, then amplified that statement. “I had a pistol discussion with somebody whose friends swore to charges against me. What else could he do?”

Before I could think of any comment, McQuinn suddenly slapped his thigh. “Rifle fire!” he cried. “I’ve got to go back.”

I HADN’T HEARD ANY SHOTS myself, but that wasn’t what worried me. What did give me concern was the feeling that if a wanted outlaw could show interest in the welfare of a pursuing posse, an ex-magistrate could do no less. Finding I could not shrug it away, I unharnessed my off-leader, hustled him over to where my rifle leaned against the wheel, put a foot on the hub and climbed aboard.

McQuinn was out of sight by then, but I saw him when I reached the saddle between the two low hills through which he had first come loping my way. From there the ground dipped and swept up again toward another rocky outcropping. Blackfoot Terry was making for this skyline, having dropped off his horse, which was evidently trained to stand fast unhitched. Not relying on my own mount for such constancy, I used the long team reins to anchor him to a gnarled shrub.

Having heard our approach, the gambler was looking back at me from his post on the ridge, signaling for extreme caution. Belly-crawling, I moved abreast of him and peered through a screen of weeds. In the fashion of the district, the land fell away from the knob we were on into a big hollow framed by
other ridges. Most of the flooring was prairie dotted with bushes of one sort or another. Off to our left, though, there was a scrub-oak thicket.

“The boys are holed up in the woods,” my companion murmured.

While I was wondering how he knew, a shot and the rising smoke from black powder showed that somebody was certainly in the cover indicated. “Where are the Indians?” I asked.

“Look down my sights,” he suggested.

When I had twisted my head into the necessary position, I could see a patch of brown behind a low shrub. Even as I squinted, it moved, and I lost sight of it.

Up to that moment the business had not seemed real, but awareness of the silent menace which was enveloping the posse then swooped down to grip me. “I’m afraid I lost your shot for you,” I told McQuinn. At the same time I didn’t like the idea of drawing attention to our presence until we had worked out a plan for getting out of trouble as well as jumping into it. “How many are there, would you say?”

“There’s no sense in shooting now.” There was a pause before he answered my question. “I’ve spotted six — no, seven, and they’ll be sneaking in from all sides. There’s probably twenty or thirty of them.”

I still hadn’t been able to locate any of the attackers unaided. “Do you know how many there are in the posse?”

“There
were
six, but I wouldn’t want to bet on the count now.” He started to work away from the ridge, and once again I followed him. “Now,” he went on, when we had reached a point where we could stand with safety, “there’s only one way to break this up. These Cheyennes have naturally left their ponies where they’d be safe from gunfire. The game is to stampede the nags and let the redskins know
they’d better start horse hunting, if they don’t want to be stuck out here afoot.”

His analysis was clear to me, and so were the hazards. “The ponies will be guarded, naturally.”

“I’ll have to kill the horse wrangler,” he agreed. “Then I’ve got to ride back within shouting range, to let the bucks know they’re up against it.”

“Shouting range is closer then shooting range,” I said.

“Yes, but I’ll be moving fast, and any Indian who squares around for a quick shot at me will have a hard time doing that and hiding from the posse boys, too. Would you like to scrooch up to the ridge again and help out?”

My one comfort as I managed a nod was that I would have a sure means of retreat. As Blackfoot Terry strode toward his horse, however, he snatched this consolation away from me.

“When the braves have worked all the way around the hollow, one of them may try to find out if he can spot the boys from this knob. If one of them does, he might notice your horse, so watch out for that.”

It was of less concern to me that my horse might be seen by a lurking brave than that I myself might be the object of such discovery. It would not be true to say that I felt lonesome after McQuinn rode out of sight around the base of the hill. My trouble, as I worked my way back to the skyline, was that the area seemed overcrowded with stealthy, invisible men, all bent on lifting my scalp.

The sense of danger sharpened my perceptions. Twice I caught fleeting glimpses of an Indian, as he edged nearer to the beleaguered posse. As alert as I felt myself to be, though, I was slow to react when something finally happened.

Over the ridge on the far side of the prairie bowl a horse came running. My first thought was that it was one of the
ponies which McQuinn had stampeded, but going the wrong way. Then a man’s head showed over the withers of the wildly racing horse. I caught only a glimpse of it before it ducked down, but the sight was enough to warn me that the moment of action had arrived.

Yet in spite of the pressure of urgency, I had nothing to do but to try to look everywhere at once. Searching all points of the prairie for Indians who might pop up to risk a shot, I also found it impossible to keep from following the progress of the invisible rider, careering around the rim of the hollow behind the line of attack.

Halfway to me his head showed once more. So did his fist, which shook something formless and dangling. And while making this gesture of defiance Blackfoot Terry shouted words of which I could make nothing, though I understood them. He was telling the Indians of the scattered ponies and of their dead warden.

As McQuinn had foreseen, his advantage was that cover and concealment rarely work well from two directions at once. A safe spot from which to fire down upon the white men in the thicket was not apt to offer hiding for a brave who wished to wheel around for a snap shot uphill at the running horse. Several must have attempted the maneuver, for I heard rifle fire from the direction of the trees, but I myself saw only one Indian. He turned away from his post behind a clump of weeds just as I was swinging my gun to bear toward the spot where he crouched.

As I was lining up my sights, I heard a rifle bark from the other side of the knob’s rocky crest. It was the very thing I had been fearing, but I didn’t have time to worry about the Indian somewhere abreast of me. The one trying to shoot McQuinn was uppermost in my mind.

In my hurry to get off my shot first I missed, but the
bullet struck near enough to make him drop down. Shots were being loosed from other points in the hollow, however, and I groaned as the gambler’s horse stumbled in response to one of them. A bullet kicked rock splinters in my own face then, and when I looked again the horse was down with McQuinn trying to jerk him to his feet.

The sight of their man brought to earth was too much for the Cheyennes, who rose, whooped, and fired. Equally forgetful of caution, the posse members broke from the woods to shoot at the Indians, at last making fair targets. Everybody was firing but everybody was in such furious haste that I don’t believe any damage was done. I know I emptied my gun at a warrior running toward McQuinn without doing better than clip shrub leaves just behind him.

My shots made him remember where he was, though, and he dropped down in the tall grass out of sight. All the rest, on both sides, regained their senses and took cover also. As for McQuinn’s mount, it was up and running again, spouting blood from two wounds. A moment later it was out of my line of vision, over the rim of the hollow.

Remembering that I was not alone on the ridge, I put speed ahead of caution. My getaway wasn’t as rapid as I wanted to make it, though. It was only when I was dashing toward my big brute of a coach horse that I realized I could not mount it without something to give me a boost. When I had untied the animal, therefore, my only recourse was to leg it, urging my confused and balking steed to follow. A bullet from the warrior on the knob zinged past me before I had gone very far, however, and at the crack of the rifle I lost my position in the lead. Springing forward, the horse started dragging me.

Barely managing to keep my feet, I was lurching forward when I heard McQuinn rushing toward me. There was blood
smeared over him as well as his mount, but whether it all came from the latter was something I didn’t take time to find out. Instead I looked back at the Indian on the ridge, who was getting ready to fire again. He missed when I swerved, and sighted once more.

I saw the puff of smoke, but I was in the air before the sound of the explosion reached me. “Short,” the gambler said, as he bore me along by an arm hooked under my shoulders. “Put your foot on mine.”

We were abreast of my horse by the time I had managed to do that. I wasn’t at all sure of my ability to climb on the taller animal, but it was either that or be trampled underfoot after Blackfoot Terry let go. For a moment I sprawled on the broad back, unable to catch hold of anything and jolting painfully. Then my straining left hand got a grip on the horse collar, and I hoisted myself out of chaos.

Sitting up, I saw McQuinn ahead of me, albeit on a steed which was beginning to slow down. Nevertheless, the gambler spurred him past my camp at the water hole, over the so-called road and into the grass beyond. It appeared that I would be losing the man’s company as abruptly as I had gained it until I saw him throw himself off. Next I heard the shot, and a few minutes later he joined me, carrying his rifle.

“I’d like to look at that bottle you were talking about,” he said.

I needed that drink and the two that finished the quart. “Do you do things like that often?” I asked, when I had located my few remaining cigars.

“There are some advantages in having lived with the Indians.” He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift upward. “Otherwise I’d never have known the Blackfoot for son of a bitch.”

It took me a moment to phrase my next remark so that I wouldn’t sound critical. “I didn’t know you were going to scalp the fellow.”

“I just remembered that in time,” he told me. “Those Cheyennes might not have known what I was saying — though probably most of them know enough Blackfoot for cussing purposes — but they could guess what happened when they saw me waving Indian hair.”

After nodding assent, I remembered the other thing which had puzzled me. “Why did you bother to ride your horse beyond the trace?”

“It won’t do much good,” he replied, “but it may take them a little while to decide just where I’m heading.”

“But I thought we’d shaken the Indians.”

“I’m not worrying about the Cheyennes; that is if we scat out of here as soon as your off-leader has rested a little. I’m thinking of the posse.”

“What!” I looked to see if he was serious. He was. “They couldn’t possibly bother you after what you did.”

“Nobody asked me to horn in,” McQuinn said, “and it’s a cinch that nothing I did here in No Man’s Land will reverse my outlaw standing in Borro County, New Mexico.” His eyes narrowed just a trifle. “Maybe I should have asked earlier, but does this stage carry passengers?”

Although I didn’t take to the idea of a posse crawling up my back, we were in alliance. “Your horse carried double for a ways,” I said, “so I reckon the coach can manage it. Is straight ahead the best direction?”

“It’ll take us to Texas, which is where I was heading for in the first place. As a matter of fact, I’d be there now if I hadn’t had to leave Centipede in such a hurry that I was forced to hunt my food along the way.” Climbing up to the driver’s seat, the gambler pointed at the horse I’d lately ridden.
“Now if this line likes to oblige its passengers, you’ll harness him up, and we’ll move along. The Indians will have squirmed out of gun range pretty soon, leaving the way clear for the bloodhounds of the law.”

Sundown was close at hand, but we pushed ahead until it had given away to twilight, and dusk in turn to full night. Around nine o’clock we camped where a trickle of water crossed the trace, but we were rolling again at white dawn.

McQuinn rode with me at first, but after a while he retired to the coach, to make up some of the sleep he had recently done without. I was therefore alone when I caught sight of a small, square wooden building. As we neared this edifice, I could see nothing but a little, glassless window. When I had driven beyond it, though, I perceived that the box had a larger hole. The doorway itself was low, narrow and crudely framed. More noteworthy was the sign above it.

RUSTLERS ROOST
, the letters stated.
WHY DON’T YOU?

“Hey, Terry,” I called down to the coach, as I reined in. “We’re somewhere or other.”

Waiting for McQuinn to wake up and get his bearings, I discovered another sleeping man. This one was stretched out under a shelter open to all four winds. In addition to him it covered primitive kitchen arrangements and a squaw busy plaiting leather strands into a lariat. She looked at me as if I didn’t exist, but after a moment she paused in her work to shake the sleeper.

By the time he had sat up and turned his curly brown head our way, McQuinn was afoot. “Are we in Texas here?” he called.

The fellow arose, scratching a bulging belly where his shirt was conveniently open. “Your front pair is, but you’re over the border.” He examined the stage with interest, but he didn’t ask any questions. “You see, most of my customers
don’t want to be in Texas, but they don’t like to wait very long for a drink after they leave it.”

“The man said ‘drink,’ Baltimore.” I had climbed down from the driver’s seat by then, and we both inspected the inside of the shack. In the foreground were a knocked-to-gether table and three boxes for stools. To the left there was a plank bar with a shelf holding glasses behind it. “What do you have?” my companion asked, stepping aside to let the proprietor in.

“It depends on how well you done before you got here,” we were informed. “Soso horse thieves can likely only afford sod corn barefooted. For good average rustlers there’s some more or less real bottled whiskey. But for sure enough aces, slick enough to make off with a stage coach, I got a
few
quarts of geniune Kentucky.”

When I asked him if he had any Maryland rye, he obliged me by pouring it out of the bottle containing the dyed-in-the-wool bourbon. Still it wasn’t bad stuff, ranking a couple of notches above the liquor I’d bought in Chuckwalla.