Collection 1983 - Bowdrie (v5.0) Page 14

  Bowdrie turned swiftly, covering Starr. The outlaw grinned at him. “Had to get in one shot!” he protested. Yet Bowdrie saw the man had started to swing the rifle to cover him. Only his quick turn with the pistol had stopped it.

  He grinned again. “Hell, Bowdrie, you can’t blame a man for tryin’!”

  He nodded toward the area beyond their brush screen. “No real war party, just huntin’ horses an’ a few scalps.”

  An hour later they were on their way. It was short-grass country now and would be all the way back to Texas. There might be occasional belts of tall grass, but it was going to be scarce. Bowdrie kept them moving at a stiff pace, knowing Starr’s followers would almost certainly figure out what had happened. He could not avoid them much longer.

  Undoubtedly even now they were working their way west to cut his trail, and when they came, it would be fast.

  When they did come, it was a surprise. Bowdrie had holed up in a deserted cabin in the upper Panhandle of Texas. Theirs had been a long, hard ride under blazing suns, cold nights, and sometimes showers of pounding rain. As they reached the cabin, Starr said, “You’re goin’ to a heap of trouble just to hang a man. Why don’t you let me go?”

  “Hangin’ you isn’t important,” Bowdrie replied, “but I’ve got a job to do and you’re part of it. The day has come when a man can no longer live by the gun. Two men were killed in that robbery of yours. Both of them had wives, one of them had two youngsters.

  “Hangin’ you won’t bring back their father or that other woman her husband, but it might keep some other father or husband alive.

  “Society is not taking revenge. It is simply eliminating someone who refuses to live by the rules.”

  Starr swore and spat into the dust. “Get me back to wherever you’re takin’ me, Bowdrie, or by the Eternal you’ll have me converted! But keep them guns handy, boy. If I get a hand on one of ’em, I’ll have a chance to be glad you aren’t leavin’ a widow!”

  “Get busy an’ pick up sticks. We’ll need a fire for coffee.”

  On the edge of the hollow where the cabin lay, Chick paused and took a careful look at the surrounding country. His nerves were on edge, and in part it was due to the long ride with a man who was ready to kill him at any slight chance, a man with everything to gain and nothing to lose. Around the next hill or down the next draw his friends might be waiting.

  Doc Bentley, Joslin, and the rest were all plainsmen and by now they would have figured out what he was doing and they would expect him to turn east, which he must do to deliver his prisoner. Also, they were on the edge of Kiowa-Comanche country.

  Bowdrie studied the situation. The adobe cabin was built in a hollow in a rocky canyon with a spring close beside it. There were a few cottonwood trees, and a couple of huge tree trunks that lay near the cabin. The view from the door overlooked the trail and the approach to the spring. The cabin had often been a refuge for buffalo hunters and had figured in many a brush with Indians, judging by the bullet scars.

  With an armful of wood on his left arm, Bowdrie walked back to the cabin. Working with the handcuffs on, Curly Starr had a fire going. He looked up, smiling.

  “As long as they sent a Ranger after me, I’m glad they sent one who could cook. I believe I’ve gained weight on this trip.”

  Bowdrie built his fire of dry wood to eliminate smoke. Earlier, crossing the plains, he had killed an antelope. Now he cut steaks and began to broil them. He knew better than to relax.

  “Always keepin’ an eye out, aren’t you?” Starr said. “I see you’re pretty handy with a gun, too. You’ll have to be if you ever tangle with Doc or Joslin.

  “That Ernie’s a pretty hand himself, you know. I had an idea he might try to cut me down someday. He wanted to boss the outfit himself, but he’s too bloody.

  “Between the two of us, it was Doc an’ Joslin who did the killin’. I led them to that bank and I wanted the money, but I never figured on no killin’.”

  “Then why don’t you give the Marsden kid a clean bill, Curly? He’s young enough, an’ he might turn into a pretty decent man.”

  “Or he might turn into a country lawyer.” Starr glanced at him. “That pretty sister of his must have sold you a bill of goods.”

  A quail called out in the tall grass beyond the cottonwoods. There was a shade of difference in Starr’s tone when he added, “She seemed like a mighty fine girl, at that.”

  Bowdrie was squatted beside the fire. His ear caught the change in Starr’s tone. It had come right after that quail called. He pushed the coffeepot against the glowing sticks, pushed others closer.

  He glanced around casually. Starr was sitting up more and he had drawn one foot back so the knee was bent and the foot was flat on the ground. His hands, still in the cuffs, lay loosely on his right side. At an instant’s warning he could roll over and make a run for it.

  Bowdrie’s mind raced. His rifle was twenty feet away, leaning against the wall of the adobe cabin. He was between it and Starr. Starr’s best best if Bowdrie was attacked was to run for the shelter of the cottonwoods, climb a horse, and get out of there. As for himself, he would never make the cabin. He would have to fight it out right here, behind that log.

  There was no sound but the bubble of coffee in the pot. He tossed Starr a cup. “Here!” he said.

  Curly grabbed it but his eyes sparked. Bowdrie knew where they would be, among the cottonwoods. The toss of the cup had put Curly off guard, but for the moment only.

  Curly had but one thing to do. To get away. Bowdrie had to both keep his prisoner and fight off three gunmen.

  Bowdrie heard a rustle among the leaves and he turned, drawing as he wheeled. He fired into the brush from which the movement came, and as he fired Starr dropped his cup and lunged to his feet. Bowdrie had anticipated the move and he swung back and down with the barrel of his pistol, stretching Starr unconscious beside the fire.

  Bowdrie dropped behind the log and snapped a quick shot at a stab of flame from the brush. Rolling over, he crawled the length of the log, getting closer to the doorway and his rifle.

  “Hold it, Bowdrie!” a voice called. “Turn Starr loose an’ you can ride off!”

  It was the moment he wanted, for they would be listening for his reply and not poised to shoot. With a lunge he was through the door and inside the adobe house. Two bullets struck the doorjamb as he went through.

  “You boys come in with your hands up,” he called, “and I’ll see you get a fair trial!”

  “You’re a fool!” somebody grumbled. “You haven’t a chance. We’ll burn you out!”

  “Anytime you’re ready!”

  The fire was blazing brightly and to approach the cabin they must make a frontal attack. He reached around the doorpost and got his Winchester.

  In the corner of the adobe was a huge pile of sticks, part of it a pack rat’s nest, part of it wood for the fireplace, left by nameless travelers. Taking up one of the sticks, he tossed it into the fire. As the fire blazed up, he detected a slight movement from Curly Starr.

  “Curly,” he spoke loud enough for the outlaw to hear, “don’t make any sudden moves. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you. I don’t want to, so don’t push your luck.”

  He waited, and all was still. Nobody wanted to rush him as long as the fire was burning brightly. He threw another stick into the fire. In the next half-hour three of the five sticks he threw landed in the fire. Yet it was a long time until morning.

  Starr had witnessed the brief battle with the Indians and had no idea of taking the risk. He reached for the coffeepot, snared it and a cup, and calmly filled the cup.

  “Thanks, Bowdrie. All the comforts of home!”

  “I should have hit you harder,” Chick replied cheerfully. “You’ve a thick skull.”

  “You hit me hard enough. My head feels all lopsided. Why don’t you be smart and turn me loose?”

  “They’d kill you,” Chick said.

  “Kill me? Are you crazy?”

  A
lthough the outlaws could hear him talking, they would not be able to distinguish the words.

  “When the shootin’ was goin’ on, one of the bullets was aimed for you. Missed by mighty little.”

  “You’re lyin’! Doc an’ Tobe are my friends!”

  “What about Joslin?”

  Curly Starr was silent.

  After a while he threw another stick into the fire and somebody shot at him, but the bullet was high. Later, he glimpsed the flickering light from a fire back in the trees, sixty or seventy yards away.

  Starr spoke suddenly. “Did you mean that? About the shot?”

  “It hit the log right over you, and couldn’t have been aimed at me.”

  Bowdrie waited, studying the fire. He could barely see it flickering but decided to take a chance. Lifting his rifle, he fired three quick shots. He was shooting through underbrush which might deflect a bullet, but at least one shot got through. Sparks shot up from the fire and somebody swore.

  Later, he must have dozed, because he awakened with a start. Undoubtedly the outlaws were waiting until morning, not relishing an attack past the firelight.

  Bowdrie crawled to the hole where the spring was. The old gourd dipper was probably dusty, but . . . He dipped up water and poured some over his head, then dipped again and drank.

  The spring was right outside the wall, but the first resident or someone later had removed adobe bricks so the spring could be reached without going outside in case of an Indian attack. Suddenly Bowdrie got out his knife and began digging at a brick beside the hole. Carefully he removed several of the crumbling adobe bricks. Then he tossed a couple of sticks on the fire.

  Returning, he slipped through the hole and flattened against the rock wall beyond the spring. He waited, but nothing moved.

  Placing each foot with care, he moved away from the house. By the time he was close to the fire the sky was growing gray. One man was asleep, the other was placing fuel under the coffeepot. He was about to step out when the sleeping man opened his eyes and got to his feet suddenly. His eyes focused on Bowdrie, realization hit him, and he gave a startled yip and went for his gun. Bowdrie fired, but the man was weaving and his bullet missed.

  A bullet whipped past his face, another hit his holster, half-turning him with its force. He fired again and Doc Bentley fell back against a tree.

  Bowdrie swung his gun to Tobe, who, startled by Doc’s surprised move, had shot too fast. Bowdrie’s bullet caught Tobe Storey in the middle of the stomach and he stepped back and sat down. He started to lift his gun but could not. He fell sidewise and lay on his shoulder against the ground.

  Bowdrie swung on Doc but the gunman lifted a shaky left hand. “Don’t shoot! I’ve had it.”

  “Throw your gun over here. With your left hand.”

  The gun landed at his feet. “Where’s Joslin?”

  Doc made a feeble gesture with his left hand and, thumbing shells into his right-hand gun, Bowdrie ran into the woods. Suddenly he heard an outburst of firing at the cabin.

  Ducking through the woods, he ran up to the fire. Ernie Joslin was standing over the fire. He was unsteady on his feet but he held a gun.

  He turned toward Bowdrie, lifting his gun. Bowdrie fired. Joslin stood for an instant, then fell flat, all in one piece. Bowdrie walked over to him and kicked the gun from his hand.

  Joslin was staring at him, his face against the ashes and earth. “If I’d known who you was there at first—”

  “I knew who you were. I knew you by the cigarette. You threw it away too late. You said you’d never been south of Wichita, but folks around Deadwood don’t smoke cigarettes. It’s a Mexican habit, although it’s workin’ its way north, I expect. Men up Dakota, Montana way smoke cigars. Up north they think cigarettes are kind of ladylike.”

  He turned to Starr. “Take off . . . take off these damned cuffs,” Starr pleaded. “I don’t want to die with ’em on.”

  Starr coughed, and when the coughing was over and the cuffs were off, he asked, “You got him?”

  “One of us did.”

  Folding his coat, he placed it under the head of the dying man. Then he opened Starr’s shirt. There was nothing he could do.

  “Got to your pack. Seen where you put my guns. I was figurin’ on a break when Joslin come for me. He killed those men back yonder. Him an’ Doc. I never went for killin’ m’self. Joslin, he was a bad one. I knowed he didn’t like me much, but . . .”

  For a long time he was silent and then he whispered, “You write it. The boy . . . You say Bill Cross is gone. Dead. Buried. Put . . . it down.”

  Billy Marsden was not in my outfit. The man named Bill Cross was badly wounded and we buried him in the hills. The killing was done by Ernie Joslin and Doc Bentley. This is my dying statement.

  Bowdrie wrote it, then read it to him. “Good!” He waited, gathering strength, then he signed his name. “You . . . you keep that kid . . . straight.”

  Bowdrie put wood on the fire. A glance at Joslin told him the man was gone. He hesitated to leave Starr, but he went back through the patch of woods.

  As he came through the woods, he heard a shot. He hesitated, then went on. Tobe Storey lay where he had fallen.

  Doc Bentley lay nearby. His right hand was horribly mangled from a bullet. He had taken Tobe’s gun and shot himself.

  “Maybe it’s better than hangin’,” Bowdrie said aloud; then, gathering up the weapons, he walked back to Starr.

  “Joslin never liked me.” Starr had wiped the blood from his face and had pulled himself into a sitting position. “Figured to have all that bank loot for himself. It’s cached under a flat rock at Granite Spring.”

  He lay quite awhile, then said, “That Marsden girl? Sure pretty, wasn’t she?” His voice trailed off and then he said, “Chick? Bury my saddle with me, will you? Might have some mean broncs where I’m goin’. Man feels the need of . . . of his own . . . saddle.”

  “Want your boots off?”

  There was a flicker of a smile on Curly’s lips. “Lived with ’em on. I’ll die with ’em, only don’t cache me with him. Not with Joslin.”

  Bowdrie went for the horses and brought them in, and loaded them with the weapons of the fallen men. Suddenly he heard Starr choking and ran to him. He had thrown out a hand and was gripping the horn of his saddle as it lay on the ground.

  “They got me, kid! Bowdrie . . . I’m pullin’ leather!”

  Bowdrie dropped beside him and put a hand on Starr’s shoulder. His hand had been there for several minutes before he realized the man was dead.

  In the cool of the morning with the sun on his shoulders, Chick Bowdrie headed south and east, carrying in his thoughts the memory of a man who died game, and in his pocket another man’s chance for a new life.

  Historical Note:

  DOAN’S STORE

  AT THE CROSSING of the Red River on the Western Trail from San Antonio to Fort Griffin to Dodge City, stood a place established by Corvin F. and Jonathan Doan. It was a rude, hastily thrown together structure of pickets with a mud and brush roof and a flapping buffalo hide for a door. Later, when time permitted, an adobe store was built to handle the increasing trade as the cattle trails shifted west.

  This was the last place at which even the most limited supplies could be purchased. North lay Indian Territory and the long dusty drive to Dodge. A few miles south lay Eagle Flat, where cattle were rounded up before the final drive north.

  Later, a dozen houses were built in the area, as was a hotel called The Bat’s Cave.

  Doan’s Store and Crossing was known to every cattleman and trail driver, and it is said that somewhere between six and seven million head of cattle were driven over the Western Trail and crossed the Red at Doan’s Store. From there it was roughly three hundred miles to Dodge.

  During the great days of the cattle drives, nearly every trail driver of note rode this trail, as they had ridden those further east.

  Had they kept a register, it would have held the names of most of tho
se famous or infamous who traveled the wild country.

  THE OUTLAWS

  OF POPLAR CREEK

  MOBY FOSDICK KEPT the trading post at Lee’s Canyon, and Moby was a hard man. It took a man with a cold eye and a ready hand to do business in the Poplar Creek country, and Moby had been there a long time.

  The store was a low-roofed building built in a hollow of the hills just below the falls of Poplar Creek. Lee’s Canyon, narrow and rock-walled, was mostly uphill until within two hundred yards of the trading post. Then it topped a rise and the trail slid down into the hollow with a creek to the north.

  From the store you could hear the roar of the falls, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.

  If you just rode up to the post, did your buying and then rode away, you would believe there was only one way in and one way out, both along the Lee’s Canyon trail.

  A knowing man could tell you there were at least two other trails out of the hollow and into the badlands. One led through a crevice in the rock wall, invisible until close up, an opening that barely allowed room for a man on a horse. If it were a heavy horse, the rider might have to push one stirrup well forward to slip through.

  Across the wide spread of Poplar Creek the rock wall reared up for about three hundred feet, but downstream there was a gravel beach perhaps ten feet long.

  Moby had often wondered about that beach. He was an old Indian fighter with an eye for terrain, and it looked like water had been running down through some crack in the wall after heavy rains, but no opening could be seen.

  Moby planned to someday build a boat and have a look over there. If there was an opening it would be another way out. Busy around the place and with occasional customers, he just never found the time, but it lingered there, in the back of his mind.

  The second of the unseen paths was up the face of the cliff itself, the trail beginning among some poplars across the hollow and maybe a half-mile from the post. It wound up the cliff, always hidden behind juniper and ponderosa pine.