West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) (14 page)

"No."

"Then I'm a sittin' duck for Injuns."

Speke smiled a rare smile. "Maybe you'll be lucky."

He walked his horse away on Floren's trail. He was in no hurry. Before them lay the breaks of the Colorado. Soon Floren would be stopped by the canyon itself. Speke had been long in the desert, and the desert teaches patience. There was no escape for Floren.

For days Speke had directed his smoke columns and his actions to cause the two outlaws to pull farther and farther north, until now Floren was in a cul-de-sac from which there was no way out except back the way he had come. But Floren would not know this. He would waste time looking.

It was a hot still day when the search ended. A day of a high sun and the reflecting heat from the face of vast plateaus of rock and the cedar-clad hillsides. Lizards panted even in the shade, their mouths held open, their sides pumping at the hot, thin air.

Floren was hollow-eyed and frightened. Whichever way he went he faced awesome canyons, and the only water was far, far below. Only a few drops slopped lonesomely in his canteen, and the horse he rode was gaunt and beaten. He swung down, and his heels hit hard, and he stared over the brink into the vast canyon below.

Trapped . . . Seven times he had found new routes, and each had ended in a cliff. Seven times he tried and seven times he failed. And now he knew there was no way to turn but back. He turned toward the horse, and as if expecting him, the animal went to its knees, then rolled over on its side. Fiercely, Floren swore. He kicked the horse. It would not rise, it could not rise. Better yet without the horse he could take the gold and find a way down the cliffs. Then a raft . . . feverishly, he rushed at the horse and stripped off the pack of gold. He started to take his rifle, then shrugged. It would only be in the way.

Shouldering the gold, he walked to the cliff's edge. There was no way over at that point. He turned, then stopped abruptly. One hundred yards away was Speke. The prospector held a Winchester cradled in his arm.

Speke said nothing. He just stood there, silent, still, alone.

Floren touched his lips with his tongue. He held the gold sack in his right hand. Anyway, at that range ... a pistol ... he looked toward his rifle. Too far away.

Speke shot from the hip, and the sack jerked in Floren's hand. Another shot. Speke moved a step forward and Floren dropped the sack and drew. He fired quickly, hastily. He missed. . . .

Speke fired again and Floren felt the bullet tug at his shirt. He took a hasty step back, then fired again himself. The bullet struck far to the left. Speke swung his rifle and fired. Rock fragments stung Floren's cheek. He -jerked his head back up.

Speke said nothing. He worked the lever on his rifle and waited. Floren started forward, and a bullet kicked up-sand ahead of him. He took a hasty step back.

The edge . . . could not be far behind. He glanced back and Speke fired swiftly, three shots. They scattered rock around his feet and a ricochet burned Floren's face. He was no more than six feet from the edge.

"You ain't goin' to make me jump!" he shouted angrily. He threw up his gun and fired.

Speke waited a minute, then walked swiftly forward and picked up the gold. He backed away, then dropped the sack and fired. His Winchester '73 carried eleven bullets and he was counting them.

The shot whipped by Floren's face, so close it drew blood.

Floren was frightened now. His face was drawn and white. He stared with wide eyes and haggard mouth. Speke picked up the gold again and backed to his horse. Lashing it behind the saddle, he swung into the leather.

As he did so, he dropped the lead rope of one of the Indian ponies. "Help yourself," he said, and rode slowly away.

Floren started after him, shouting. Tom Speke did not turn his head or glance back. He merely rode on, remembering Tucson and the Shoo Fly. He would enjoy a meal like that now. Maybe, in a week or so ...

He had lots of time . . . now.

*

Let the Cards Decide
.

Where the big drops fell, we had placed a wooden bucket retrieved from a corner of the ancient log shack. The long, earth-floored one-room cabin smelled of wet clothing, wood smoke, and the dampness brought on by unceasing rain. Yet there was fuel enough, and the fire blazed bright on the hearth, slowly dispelling the dampness and bringing an air of warmth and comfort to the cheerless room.

Seven of us were there. Haven, who had driven the stage; Rock Wilson, a mine boss from Hangtown; Henry, the Cherokee Strip outlaw; a slender man with light brown hair, a sallow face, and cold eyes whom I did not at first know; the couple across the room; and myself.

Six men and one woman--a girl.

She might have been eighteen or a year older, and she was one of those girls born to rare beauty. She was slim, yet perfectly shaped, and when she moved it was to unheard music, and when she smiled, it was for you alone, and with each smile she seemed to give you something intimate, something personal. How she had come to be here with this man we all knew. We knew, for he was a man who talked much and talked loud. From the first, I'd felt sorry for her, and admired her for her quiet dignity and poise.

She was to become his wife. She was one of a number of girls and women who had come west to find husbands, although why this girl should have been among them I could not guess. She was a girl born for wealth and comfort, and her every word and movement spoke of breeding and culture. Yet here she was, and somehow she had gotten into the hands of Sam Tallman.

He was a big fellow, wide of shoulder and girth, with big hands and an aggressive manner. Not unhandsome in a bold way, he could appear gentle and thoughtful when it suited him, but it was no part of the man and strictly a pose. He was all the girl was not: rough, unclean, and too frank in his way of talking to strangers of his personal affairs.

That Carol Houston was becoming disillusioned was obvious. That is, if there had been any illusions to start. From time to time she gave him sharp, inquiring glances, the sort one might direct at an obnoxious stranger. And she was increasingly uneasy.

The stage was headed north and was to have dropped several of us here to meet another stage heading west. We were going to be a day late, however, for our coach had overturned three miles back on the muddy trail.

Bruised and shaken, we had righted the stage in the driving rain and had managed to get on as far as the shack. As we could not continue through the night, and this place was at least warm and dry, we made the best of it.

There seemed no end to the rain, and in the few, momentary lulls we could hear the measured fall of drops into the bucket, which would soon be full.

Now in any such place there comes a time when conversation slowly dies. The usual things have been said, the storm discussed and compared to other storms, the accident bewailed, and the duration of our stay surmised. We had exchanged destinations and told of our past lives, and all with no more than the usual amount of lying.

Dutch Henry produced some coffee, and I, ransacking the dismal depths of the farther cabin corners, a pot and cups. So the good, rich smell of coffee permeated the room with its friendly sense of well-being and comfort.

My name, it might be added, is Henry Duval. Born on Martinique, that distant and so lovely island noted for explosive mountains and women. My family had been old, respected, and until it came to me, of some wealth. By profession I had been a gambler.

This was, for a period of nearly a century, the usual profession of a young man of family but no means. Yet from gambling I had turned to the profession of arms, or rather, I had divided my time between them. The riverboats started me on the first, and the revolutions and wars of freedom in Latin America on the second. Now, at thirty-five, I was no longer occupied with either of these, but had succeeded in building a small fortune of my own in handling mining properties.

But let us be honest. During my gambling days I had, on occasion, shall we say, encouraged the odds? An intelligent man with a knowledge of and memory for cards, and some knowledge of people, can usually win, and honestly-- when the cards run with him--but of course, one must have the cards. So when they failed to come of themselves, sometimes I did, as I have said, encourage them a bit.

Haven, the stage driver, I knew slightly. He was a solid, dependable man, both honest and fearless. Rock Wilson was of the same order, and both were of the best class of those strong, brave, and often uneducated men who built the West. Both had followed the boom towns--as I once had.

Dutch Henry? You may have heard of him. They hanged him finally, I believe. He was, as I have said, an outlaw. He stole horses, and cattle, and at times robbed banks or stages, but all without malice and without unnecessary shooting. And he was a man of rugged good nature who might steal a hundred today and give it away tomorrow.

The sallow-faced man introduced himself. His accent was that of the deep South. "My given name is John. I once followed the practice of medicine." He coughed into a soiled handkerchief, a deep rattling tubercular cough. "But my ahh . . . condition made that an irony I could no longer endure." He brushed a speck of lint from the frayed cuff of his faded frock coat. "I am now a gentleman of fortune, whatever that may mean."

Henry made the coffee. It had the strong, healthy flavor of cowpuncher coffee, the best for a rainy night. He filled our cups, saving the best for the lady. She smiled quickly, and that rugged gentleman of the dark trails flushed like a schoolboy.

Tallman was talking loudly. "Sure hit the jackpot! All them women, an' me gettin' the best o' the lot! Twenty o' them there was, an' all spoke for! Out in the cold, they said I was, but all right, I told 'em, if there's an extry, I get her! An' this one was extry!"

The future Mrs. Tallman flushed and looked down at her hands.

"How did it happen, Miss Houston?" I asked her. "Why didn't they expect you?"

She looked up, grateful for the chance to explain and to make her position clearer. She was entitled to that respect. "I wasn't one of them--not at first. I was coming west with my father, in the same wagon train, but he died of cholera and something happened to the little money he had. We owed money and I had nothing . . . well, what could I do?"

"Perfectly right," I agreed. "I've known some fine women to come west and make good marriages that way."

Good marriage was an expression I should not have used. Her face changed when I said that, and she looked down at her hands.

"Should o' heard the others howl when they seen what I drawed!" Tallman crowed. "Course, she ain't used to our rough western ways, an' she ain't much on the work, I hear, but she'll learn! You leave that to me!"

Haven shifted angrily on his bench and Rock Wilson's face darkened and his eyes flashed angrily. "You're not married to her yet, you say? I'd be careful if I were you. The lady might change her mind."

Tallman's face grew ugly. His small eyes narrowed and hardness came into his jowls. "Change her mind? Not likely! You reckon I'd stand for that? I paid off her debts. One o' them young fellers back yonder had some such idea, but I knocked that out of him mighty quick! An' if he'd gone for a gun, I'd o' killed him!" Tallman slapped his six-shooter. "I'm no gunman," he declared, "but I get along!"

This last was said with a truculent stare around the room.

More to get the conversation away from the girl than for any other reason, I suggested poker.

John, the ex-doctor with the sallow cheeks, looked up sharply, and a faint, wry smile hovered about his lips. The others moved in around the table, and the girl moved back. Somehow, over their heads, our eyes met. In hers there was a faint pleading, an almost spoken request to do something . . . anything . . . but to get her out of this. Had we talked an hour she could not have made her wish more clear.

In that instant my resolution was made. As John picked up the cards I placed my palm flat down on the table in the old, international signal that I was a cardsharp. With a slight inclination of my head, I indicated Tallman as the object of my intentions, and saw his agreement.

Tallman played with the same aggressive manner of his talk, and kept a good eye on the cards that were played. We shifted from draw to stud and back again from time to time, and at first Tallman won.

When he had something good you had to pay to stay in the game, and he rode his luck hard. At the same time, he was suspicious and wary. He watched every move closely at first, but as the game progressed he became more and more interested and his vigilance waned. Yet he studied his cards carefully and took a long time in playing.

For me, there were no others in the game but Tallman and John. Once, when I had discarded, I walked to the fire and added a few sticks, then prepared more coffee and put the pot on the fire. Turning my head I saw Carol Houston watching me. From my chair I got my heavy coat and brought it to her. "If you're cold," I whispered.

She smiled gratefully, then looked into the flames.

"I do not wish to intrude on something that is none of my business." I spoke as if to the fire. "It seems that you might be more comfortable if you were free of that man."

She smiled sadly. "Can you doubt it? But he paid bills for me. I owe him money, and I signed an agreement to marry him."