Collection 1981 - Buckskin Run (v5.0) Read online

  An iron wagon tire, showing evidence of having been subjected to heat. So then, they must have burned the wagons, thrown the metal parts into the pool, and…what about the gold?

  He was squatting beside the wagon tire when he heard the sharp, ugly bark of a rifle.

  He hit the ground in a dive from his squat, grabbed his rifle, and rolled over behind a rock. He was lying, waiting for another shot, when he realized the bullet had come nowhere near him.

  Starting to lift his head he heard two more shots, quick, sharp, fired only a breath apart.

  Stones rattled, a larger one plopped into the basin, and then Rod caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s body falling. There was a terrific splash, and the body sank from sight.

  Peering up, he saw a shadowy outline, a man’s figure, atop the cliff, peering down. Then the shadow disappeared and, jerking off his boots and gunbelt, Morgan went into the water. Its icy chill wrenched a gasp from his throat, and then he saw the body, only it was not merely a body but a man, still struggling to live.

  Diving low, he slipped an arm around the man’s body and struck out for the surface. It was a struggle to get him to the surface and out upon the shore, and the man was bleeding badly.

  It was Josh Shipton, and one look at the wound in his side and Rod knew there was no chance.

  Shipton’s lids fluttered. “B—Brew—Brewer dry-gul—dry-gulched me.” He waved a feeble arm. “Childs—gold—Childs.” He seemed to be trying to point toward the graves; or was it only one grave?

  Brewer had killed him, but what had he been trying to say? At what had he pointed? Or was it only a wild gesture from a dying man?

  Horse’s hoofs pounded on the sod, a racing horse. Rod wheeled, rifle ready. It was Jed Blue.

  “You all right? I heard shots.” Then he saw Shipton. “Ah? So Brewer got him.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Blue explained what Loma had told him, and what she overheard. He also added the bit about Mark Brewer’s shoulder holster.

  “What made Childs so afraid of Shipton?”

  “They were afraid of what he knew. Shipton knew all three of the men buried there, and if he saw Henry Childs he would smell a rat, and rat is right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shipton was trying to point at one of the graves. The grave of Harry Kidd.”

  “Kidd? Childs? Are you telling me Kidd didn’t die? That there’s nobody in that grave?”

  “Kidd murdered the other two, cached the gold, marked the graves so people would grow superstitious about them, then left the country. Coming back later, he started a ranch and helped spread the stories about the ghosts of Buckskin Run.”

  “Smart,” Rod admitted.

  “Except for one thing. He accused the wrong man of the murders. He spread the story around that the three had been killed and the gold stolen by Tarran Kopp.

  “Kopp killed a few men here and there, but all in fair fights. He never murdered a man in his life, and that story made him mad. I know, because I am Tarran Kopp.”

  From far down the canyon they heard a thunder of racing hoofs, a wild cry, and then a shot. Both men turned, rifles lifting.

  A small black horse was coming toward them on a dead run, and they could see a girl’s long hair streaming in the wind. Behind her, still some distance away, a tight group of racing horsemen.

  “It’s Loma!” Rod said. “And the Block C riders!”

  Dropping to one knee, he opened up with his Winchester. A rider threw up his arms and dropped from his horse, and the group split, scattering out across the small plain.

  The black horse swung in toward their position and was reined in. Loma slid from the horse’s back into Rod’s arms. The black horse wheeled and raced off a few yards, tossing its head with excitement.

  “Never figured on making a stand here,” Rod said. “Jed? Have you got enough ammunition?”

  “Plenty. How about you?”

  “The same…there’s one behind that spruce!”

  He fired as he spoke and the man cried out, staggering into the open where a bullet from Jed put him down.

  Bullets spattered on the rocks around them, but their position in the small basin around the pool was excellent. A man could stand erect alongside the pool and still be under cover. A ring of boulders almost surrounded the pool, and a stream of them fanned out downslope from them where the attackers were.

  Rod turned to Loma. “Can you fire a rifle?”

  “Just give me a chance! My father taught me to shoot when I was a little girl. Only, I—I never shot a man.”

  “You won’t get much chance here. Those boys are pretty well snuckered down now, and they aren’t about to get themselves killed. Just fire a shot in that general direction once in awhile.

  “Jed, I’m going to circle around and try to get whoever is leading this bunch. My guess is it will be Brewer.”

  “Or Childs. Don’t forget him.”

  Rod slid back to lower ground, wormed his way through some brush, and descended into a small wash. All of this was on land he claimed, and over which he had ridden many times. He knew every inch of it.

  There had been no more than eight or ten men in the original group, and at least two were out of action. Unless he was mistaken, the Block C boys had enough. Their loyalty was largely money loyalty, and nobody wants to die for a dollar, at least nobody in his right mind.

  He moved swiftly and silently along the sandy bottom, his boots making no sound in the soft sand. He was rounding a boulder when he heard a voice. It was Mark Brewer.

  “Think we’ve got ’em, Henry?”

  “Got ’em? Oh, sure! We’ll finish them off, send the boys home, and dig up that gold. It’s high time we dug it up. Something always kept me from going after it before. Price on gold has gone up, so we’ll have more money, Mark.”

  “You mean,” Brewer’s voice was so low Rod could scarcely hear, “I’ll have more!”

  Through an opening in the rocks, Rod could see them now. He saw the surprise and shock on Childs’s face turn to horror as Brewer drew a gun on him.

  “Very simple, Henry. I’ve been waiting for this chance. I’ll have it all for myself, and everybody will blame Morgan and Kopp for killing you.”

  Childs’s hand went to his holster, but it was empty. “Don’t bother, Henry. I’m making it easy for you. I lifted your gun then waited until your rifle was empty. Now I’ll kill you, let the boys finish off Morgan and Kopp, and I get the gold.”

  The two men faced each other across ten feet of green grass, cut off from view of the Block C riders by trees and boulders and over fifty yards of distance.

  Childs’s small mouth tightened until it was scarcely visible. He was sullen and wary. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ve had it coming. I murdered good men for that gold and never got a penny’s worth of it. Now you’ll murder me. Of course, we’re going out together.”

  His hand flashed in movement, and Mark Brewer’s .44 roared. Childs swayed like a tree in the wind but kept his feet. In the palm of his hand was a small derringer. He fired, and then again.

  Brewer’s gun was roaring, but his last bullets were kicking up sand at Childs’s feet. He went to his knees, then down to his face in the bloody sand.

  Childs said, “I had a hide-out gun, too, Mark. I was half expect—”

  He put out a hand for support that was not there. Then he fell, sprawling on the grass. Rod hurried to him.

  His eyes flared open. “You got a mighty pretty girl there, son,” he said. The two-barreled derringer slipped from his fingers and he was dead. Rod stood for a moment, staring down at him.

  Without the stolen money the man had done well. He had built a ranch, fine herds of cattle, earned the respect of his community, and all for nothing. The old murders had ridden him to his death.

  Rod walked around the bodies and through the trees. When he got where he could see the Block C riders he lifted his rifle.

  “Drop your guns,
boys! The war’s over! Childs and Brewer just killed each other.”

  Jeff Cordell dropped his gun. “Damned if they didn’t have it coming.” He paused. “Mind if we look?”

  “Come on, but don’t get any fancy notions. Too many men have died already.”

  The Block C riders trooped over, and stood looking down at the derringer that had slipped from his fingers.

  “Mark always said he never carried a gun except when he was out in the hills like this.” He stooped and flipped back Brewer’s coat to reveal the shoulder holster. “His kind always want an edge.”

  Cordell started to turn away. “You can take them along, Jeff. Take ’em back down to Cordova and tell them the truth.”

  “Why not? All right, boys, let’s clean up the mess.”

  When they were gone, Tarran Kopp came out of the trees. Loma was with him.

  “We could have buried ’em where they fell,” Kopp said.

  Rod shrugged. “Maybe, but I want no more ghosts in Buckskin Run.”

  He glanced around at Kopp. “What name are you using from now on? If we’re going to be partners I’d better know.”

  “Jed Blue. Tarran Kopp’s a legend. He’s from the past; let him stay there.”

  They walked away together to their horses. “We’d better dig up that gold, once for all. We can buy cattle, fix up a place for you all, and I’ll take the old cabin.”

  He glanced slyly at Rod. “You know where it is?”

  “Where you’d expect to find it. Buried in the grave of Harry Kidd.”

  Together, they rode back down the trail to the cabin on Buckskin Run.

  Jed Blue looked around at them, pointing at the cabin. “I never had no home before,” he said, “but that’s home. We’re a-comin’ home.”

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  MRS. PAIGE

  THE PEOPLE WHO built the West, like those of whom I write, were survivors. They had to be.

  Fifty books could be filled with anecdotes of men, women and children who survived under seemingly impossible conditions—survived attacks by enemies, by wild animals, by terrible storms, and hunger, thirst and cold. One of these was Mrs. Paige.

  In this space I do not have the room to tell all that happened to her and her family. Her father and many of her relatives were killed by Indians. Those the Indians missed at one time, they caught up with later.

  Attacked on the trail, Mrs. Paige was struck repeatedly on the head, stabbed and then thrown over a cliff. She hung briefly in a tree, and then fell the rest of the way. The Indians approached the rim and threw a number of boulders at her, some of which scored direct hits. Believing her dead, the Indians rode away. Sometime later, when she returned to consciousness, the young woman began to crawl. Despite the loss of blood and the wounds she had suffered, she crawled several miles, managing occasionally to stagger a few steps.

  It was southern Arizona, the heat was around 110 degrees, but she crawled on until she had to take shelter under some low-growing brush. In all, during the next few days, she traveled most of sixteen miles before she was discovered and taken to a nearby town. She had lost almost half her normal weight, her eyes were deeply sunken in her skull, her face burned almost black and the skin shrunk tight against her skull. Yet she survived for many years.

  NO TROUBLE FOR THE CACTUS KID

  EVEN THE COYOTES who prowled along the banks of the Rio Salado knew the Cactus Kid was in love. What else would cause him to sing to the moon so that even the coyotes were jealous?

  The Cactus Kid was in love, and he was on his way to Aragon to buy his girl some calico, enough red and white calico to make a dress.

  It was seventy miles to Aragon, and the dance was on Friday. This being Monday, he figured he had plenty of time.

  Red and white calico for a girl with midnight in her hair and lovelight in her eyes. Although, reflected the Cactus Kid, there were times when that lovelight flickered into anger, as he had cause to know. She had made up her mind that he was the only man for her, and he agreed and was pleased at the knowledge, yet her anger could be uncomfortable, and the Cactus Kid liked his comfort.

  The paint pony switched his tail agreeably as he cantered down the trail, the Kid lolling in the saddle. Only a little ride to Aragon, then back with the calico. It would take Bonita only a little while to make a dress, a dress that would be like a dream once she put it on.

  Love, the Cactus Kid decided, was a good thing for him. Until he rode up to Coyote Springs and met Bonita, he had been homeless as a poker chip and ornery as a maverick mule.

  Now look at him! He was riding for Bosque Bill Ryan’s Four Staff outfit, and hadn’t had a drink in two months!

  Drinking, however, had never been one of his pet vices. By and large he had one vice, a knack for getting into trouble. Not that he went looking for trouble; it was simply that it had a way of happening where he was.

  The Cactus Kid was five feet nine in his socks, and weighed an even one hundred and forty pounds. His hair was sandy and his eyes were green, and while not a large man it was generally agreed by the survivors that he could hit like a man fifty pounds heavier. His fighting skill had been acquired by diligent application of the art.

  On this ride he anticipated no trouble. Aragon was a peaceful town. Had it been Trechado, now, or even Deer Creek…but they were far away and long ago, and neither town had heard the rattling of his spurs since he met Bonita…nor would they.

  It was spring. The sun was bright and just pleasantly warm. The birds were out, and even the rabbits seemed rather to wait and watch than run. His plan was to stop the night at Red Bluff Stage Station. Scotty Ellis, his friend, was majordomo at the station now, caring for the horses and changing teams when the stages arrived. It had been a month since he had visited with Scotty, and the old man was always pleased to have visitors.

  The Cactus Kid was happy with the morning and pleased with his life. He was happy that Bosque Bill had let him have a week off to do as he pleased, work being slack at the moment. Next month it would be going full blast, and every hand working sixteen hours a day or more.

  The Cactus Kid didn’t mind work. He was, as Bosque Bill said, a “hand.” He could ride anything that wore hair and used his eighty-foot California riata with masterly skill. He enjoyed doing things he did well, and he had found few things he couldn’t do well.

  The saw-toothed ridge of the Tularosa mountains combed the sky for clouds, and Spot, the sorrel and white paint, bobbed his head and cocked an ear at the Cactus Kid’s singing. The miles fell easily behind and the Kid let the paint make his own pace.

  They dropped into a deep canyon following a winding trail. At the bottom the two-foot wide Agua Fria babbled along over the gravel. The Kid dropped from the saddle and let Spot take his own time in drinking. Then he lowered himself to his chest and drank. He was just getting up when the creek spat sand in his face, and the report of a rifle echoed down the canyon walls.

  The Cactus Kid hit his feet running, and dove to shelter behind a boulder just as a bullet knocked chips from it.

  Spot, in his three years of carrying the Kid, had become accustomed to the sounds of battle and rifle shots, and in two quick bounds was himself among the rocks and trees and out of sight.

  The Kid had hit the dirt behind his boulder with his Colt in his fist. His hat off, he peered from alongside the rock to see who and why. A glance was enough to tell him his Colt wasn’t going to be much help, so rolling over, he got into the rocks and scrambled back to the paint. Holstering the Colt, he slid his Winchester from its scabbard. Then he waited.

  His position wasn’t bad. It could be no more than an hour’s ride to Red Bluff Station, and he had until Friday to return with the material. Well, until Thursday, anyway. How long did it take to make a dress?

  No more shots were fired, but he waited. At first he was calm, then irritated. After all, if the dry-gulcher wanted a fight why didn’t he get on with it?

  No shots, no sounds. The Cactus Kid removed his hat agai
n and eased it around the boulder on a stick. Nothing happened.

  The Cactus Kid, rifle ready, stepped from behind his rocks. There was no shot, nothing but the chuckling of the stream over the gravel. Disgusted, he swung into the saddle and turned his horse upstream. In a few minutes he glimpsed a boot heel.

  Rifle ready, he circled warily. It was not until he drew up beside him that he saw the man was dead. He was lying flat on his face and had been shot at least twice through the head and twice through the body. Kneeling beside him, the Cactus Kid studied the situation.

  One shot, which wounded the dead man, had been fired some time before. The wounded man had crawled here, seeking shelter. He had been followed and shot at least twice more while lying on the ground.

  Whoever had done the killing had intended it to be just that, a killing. This was not merely a robbery.

  The dead man’s pockets were turned inside out, and an empty wallet lay on the ground. Empty of money, that is. There were several papers in the wallet, a couple of faded letters and a deed. A sweat stain ran diagonally across the papers.

  Pocketing them, the Cactus Kid looked around thoughtfully. Seeing some bloodstains, he followed the track left by the wounded man back to the main trail. Here the story became simple.

  The man had been riding along the trail toward the canyon when shot. He had fallen from his horse into the dust, had gotten to his feet, and had fired at his killer. Two empty cartridge cases lay on the ground.

  Evidently the wounded man had ejected the two empty shells and reloaded, and then had been hit again and had tried to crawl to a hiding place or a better place from which to fight.

  Scouting around and checking obvious ambush sites, the Kid found where the killer had waited, smoking a dozen or more cigarettes. There were marks in the dust where a saddle had rested.

  A saddle, and no horse? Scouting still more, he found the horse. It was a rangy buckskin, and from the looks of it the horse had been literally run to death. Its hair was streaked with dried sweat and foam.

  “Whoever he was,” the Kid said aloud, “he was goin’ someplace in a hurry, or gettin’ away from something. He killed his horse, then holed up here until a rider came along, dry-gulched him, robbed the body, and rode off on his horse.”