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

  Returning, the Kid rolled the dead man’s body over a small sand-bank, then caved the sand over him and added rocks and brush.

  Whoever had fired at him had been the killer, and he could not be far ahead. The hour was now getting close to sunset, and if the Kid wanted to join Scotty Ellis at supper he had best hurry.

  The sun was over the horizon when he loped his horse down to the Red Bluff Station. Scotty came to the door shading his eyes against the last glare of sunlight.

  “Kid! Sakes alive, Kid! I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age! Some cowhand from over at the Four Star told me you was fixin’ to get yourself hitched up.”

  “Got it in mind, Scotty. A man can’t run maverick all his life.” He led his horse to the corral and stripped the gear from his back, glancing around as he did so. No strange horses in the corral, no recent tracks except for the stage, a few hours back.

  He followed Scotty into the station, listening with only half his attention to the old man’s talk. It was the chatter of a man much alone, trying to get it all said in minutes.

  As he dished up supper the Kid asked, “Any riders come through this afternoon?”

  “Riders? Yep, two, three of them went by. One big feller headin’ toward Coyote Springs, and a couple more pointin’ toward Aragon.”

  “Two? Riding together?”

  “Nope. They wasn’t together. A big feller on a blood bay come through, and a few minutes later another feller, almost as big, ridin’ a grulla mustang. Neither of them stopped. Folks are gettin’ so they don’t even stop to pass the time o’ day!”

  Two men? He had seen only one, but if they arrived at about the same time then the other rider must have been within the sound of the rifle when the killer had fired at the Kid.

  At daybreak he rolled out of his blankets, fed and watered his horse, then washed and dried his hands and face at the washbowl outside the door.

  “Scotty,” he asked, over his second cup of coffee, “did you get a good look at either of those riders?”

  “Wal, don’t recollect I did. Both big fellers. Feller on the bay hoss had him one of those ol’ Mother Hubbard saddles.”

  Riding out for Aragon, the Kid reflected that none of it was his business. The thing to do was report what he’d found to the sheriff or his deputy in Aragon, then buy his calico and head for home.

  He smiled at himself. A few weeks back, before he met Bonita, he would have been so sore at that gent who fired at him that he’d not have quit until he found him. Now he was older and wiser.

  Aragon was a one-street town with a row of false-fronted buildings on one side, on the other a series of corrals. The buildings consisted of a general store, two saloons, a jail with the deputy sheriff’s office in front, a boarded up Land Office and two stores.

  As he rode along the street his eyes took in the horses at the hitching rail. One of them was a blood bay with a Hubbard saddle, the other a grulla. The horse with the Mother Hubbard saddle had a Henry rifle in the boot. The grulla’s saddle scabbard carried an old Volcanic.

  The deputy was not in his office. A cowhand sitting on the top rail of the corral called over that the deputy had ridden over to Horse Mesa. The Cactus Kid walked back along the street and entered the busiest saloon. One drink and he would be on his way. Picking up the calico would require but a few minutes.

  Several men were loitering at the bar. One was a lean, wiry man with bowed legs, and a dry, saturnine expression. He glanced at the Cactus Kid and then looked away. There was another man, standing near him but obviously not with him, who was a large, bulky man with bulging blue eyes which stared at the Kid like a couple of aimed rifles.

  Of course, even the Cactus Kid would have admitted that he was something to look at when not in his working clothes. He was, he cheerfully confessed, a dude. His sombrero was pure white, with a colored horsehair band. His shirt was forest green, and over it he wore a beautifully tanned buckskin vest heavily ornamented with Indian work in beads and porcupine quills. His crossed gun belts were of russet leather, the belt and holsters studded with silver. His trousers were of homespun, but striped, and his boots were highly polished, a rare thing on the frontier.

  The larger of the two men eyed him disdainfully, then looked away. The Kid was used to that, for those who did not know him always assumed he was a tenderfoot, a mistake that had led to more than one bit of the trouble that seemed to await him at every corner.

  The larger of the two men had several notches carved in his gun butt.

  The Kid ordered his drink, but he decided he did not like the man with the bulging eyes. He had never liked anybody who carved notches in their gun butts, anyway. It was a tinhorn’s trick.

  The Kid looked at Joe Chance, the bartender, who was obviously uneasy, and had been so ever since the Kid walked into the saloon.

  The Kid had promised Bonita not to get into trouble, but nonetheless what he had found had been a coldblooded ruthless murder and one of the two men had done it. Both had been riding, as was obvious from the trail dust they carried, and, from the attitudes of the others in the room, both were strangers.

  “Chance,” he said, “what would you think of a man who dry-gulched a passing rider, then walked up and shot into him a couple of times to make sure he was dead, then took his horse?”

  Joe Chance knew the Cactus Kid. The mirror he now had behind the bar had caused the Kid to cough up three months wages to pay for it, and it had only been in place about sixty days.

  Chance shifted his eyes warily and reached for a glass to polish. “Why, I’d think the man was a dirty murderer who deserved hangin’!”

  After a pause, his own curiosity getting the best of him, he asked, “Who done such a thing?”

  “Why, I don’t rightly know at this minute, but I got an idea we’ll find out. He came over the trail just ahead of me. He robbed the man he murdered, and he’s in town right now!”

  The bow-legged man lifted his eyes to meet those of the Kid. There was something mocking and dangerous in those eyes. The Kid knew he was looking into the eyes of a man who both could and would shoot. “I just rode in,” the man said calmly.

  “So did I.” The big man put his glass down hard on the bar. “Are you aimin’ that talk at us?”

  “No,” the Kid said mildly, “only at one of you. Only, the other man must have heard those shots, and I’m wondering why he didn’t do anything.”

  “What did you do?” the bow-legged man asked.

  “Nothing. The killer caught sight of me and tried to cut me down, too. Hadn’t been for that I’d have ridden right on by and I’d never have seen the dead man.

  “The man who was killed,” he added, “went by the name of Wayne Parsons. He was from Silver City.”

  “Never heard of him.” The biggest of the two men obviously shifted his gun. “I come from Tombstone.” His eyes rested on the Cactus Kid, and their expression was anything but pleasant. “They call me the Black Bantam.”

  “Never heard of you,” he lied. Bantam was a notorious outlaw who had been riding, it was said, with Curly Bill.

  “There’s plenty of people who has,” Bantam said, “and if I was you, young feller, and I didn’t want to get all them purty clothes bloody, I’d go herd my cows and leave my betters alone.”

  “I didn’t come to town huntin’ sheep,” the Cactus Kid said calmly, “or I’d dig my hands in your wool. Nor did I come for cows. I came to get some calico for my girl’s dress, which doesn’t leave me much time to curry your wool, Bantam.

  “All I’ve got to say is that one of you is riding a dead man’s horse and carryin’ stolen money.”

  Bantam’s fury was obvious. He was facing the bar, but he turned slowly to face the Kid. Men backed off to corners of the room, and the bartender took a tentative step toward them, then changed his mind and backed off. “Now, see here—!” he started to say, when—

  “Hold it, Bantam!”

  All heads turned at the interruption. It was the bow-legged rider.
“Nobody’s asked me who I am, and I’m not plannin’ to explain. If you need a handle for me just call me Texas.

  “But Bantam it seems to me this is between us. He says one of us is guilty, so why don’t we settle this between us? Just you and me?” Texas smiled. “Besides, I don’t think you’d like takin’ a whippin’ from that youngster.”

  “Whuppin’? Why, I’d—!”

  “No, you wouldn’t, Bantam. I’ve known all about you for a long time, and you never did hunt trouble with anybody who’d have a chance. This dude youngster here is the Cactus Kid.

  “Now it seems to me it is between us, so why don’t we just empty our pockets on the table here so everybody can see what we’re carrying.

  “The Kid is handy at readin’ sign, so maybe he will see something that will tell him which one of us is the killer.” He moved closer, his eyes dancing with a taunting amusement. “How about it, Kid?”

  The Kid’s eyes shifted from one to the other, the one taunting and challenging, the other stubborn and angry.

  “Why not?” Bantam thrust a big hand into his pocket and began putting the contents of his pockets on the table. The man who called himself Texas did likewise.

  “There it is, Kid. Look it over!”

  Joe Chance leaned over the bar to watch, as did Slim Reynolds and Art Vertrees, the only others present.

  In the pile Texas made were a worn tobacco pouch, a jackknife, a plug of chewing tobacco, several coins, a small coil of rawhide string, and a small handful of gold coins wrapped in paper. There were two rifle bullets.

  In Bantam’s pile there was a wad of paper money, some sixty dollars worth, some small change, a Mexican silver peso, a jackknife, a plug of chewing tobacco, a stub pipe, a tight ball of paper, a comb, and some matches.

  Thoughtfully, the Cactus Kid looked over the two piles. There was nothing that could be identified with any man. It was merely such stuff as could be found in the pockets of any cowhand. Except—he picked up the ball of tightly rolled paper and slowly unrolled it.

  It unfolded into a plain sheet of writing paper that had been folded just once. There were also marks that made it appear the paper had been folded about something. The crinkling from being rolled up was obviously more recent that the soiled line of the old crease.

  It was not the fold the Kid was noticing, nor the faint imprint of what might have been carried within that folded sheet but rather the diagonal line of the sweat stain that ran across the papers.

  “That ain’t mine!” Bantam protested. “I had no such paper in my pocket!” He was suddenly frightened and his lips worked nervously. “I tell you—!”

  Texas had drawn back to one side, poised and ready.

  The Cactus Kid drew the dead man’s papers from his pocket and placed them beside the folded paper. The diagonal sweat stains matched perfectly.

  “So?” Texas said. “It was you, Bantam! You killed him!”

  “You’re a liar!” Bantam said angrily. “I done no—!”

  Texas’ hand streaked for his gun, and Bantam grabbed at his own gun. The two shots sounded almost as one, but it was Bantam who fell.

  Texas holstered his gun. “Had no idea he’d draw on me, but a man’s got to watch those kind.”

  Nobody replied, and he gathered his things from the bar and went outside.

  The Kid turned back to Joe Chance. “Better give me another shot of rye; then I’m picking up my calico and headin’ for home. This town’s too sudden for me.”

  Two of the bystanders took the big man’s body out, and later Slim Reynolds came in. “He must have cached that stolen money somewhere because he surely didn’t have it on him.”

  “Bantam’s had it coming for a long time,” Vertrees said, “and Texas was right. He never killed anybody in a fair fight.”

  “What about that grulla mustang of his?” Reynolds asked. “That’s a mighty fine horse.”

  The Kid put his glass down on the bar. “Did Bantam ride the grulla? Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” Vertrees replied, surprised. “I was on the street when he rode in. He was only a little ahead of Texas, who was riding a bay.”

  The Cactus Kid turned and started for the door. He was in the saddle and started down the street when he thought of the calico.

  Bonita wouldn’t like this. He had promised her faithfully he’d return with that calico, and after all, hunting killers was the sheriff’s job. Angrily, he turned the paint and trotted back to the store. “Got some red and white calico?” he asked.

  “Sure haven’t! I’m sorry, Kid, but a fellow just came in and bought the whole bolt. Red and white it was, too.”

  “What kind of a fellow?” The Kid asked suspiciously.

  “A pretty salty-lookin’ fellow. He was bow-legged and had a Texas drawl.”

  “Why, that dirty, no-account—!” The Kid ran for his horse.

  As he started out of town Reynolds flagged him down.

  “Kid? What d’ you make of this?” He indicated a place in the skirt of Bantam’s saddle where the stitching had been slit. Obviously something had been hidden there. “Do you believe that Texas man stole that money?”

  “No, he was the killer, himself!”

  Why Texas had headed back along the trail down which they had come he could not guess, but that was exactly what he was doing.

  It was a gruelling chase. The paint pony liked to run, however, and although the bay was a long-legged brute they moved up on him. Occasionally, far ahead, he glimpsed dust. Then it dawned on him that Texas was not trying to escape. He was simply staying enough ahead to be safe for the time being.

  That could mean he planned to trap him in the hills somewhere ahead. After all, Texas had dry-gulched that other man.

  When they reached the hills, the Kid turned off the trail. This was his old stamping grounds, and he had hunted strays all through these hills and knew their every turn and draw. He knew Mule Creek and the Maverick Mountains like it was his own dooryard.

  Climbing the pony up the banks of the draw, the Kid skirted a cluster of red rocks and rode down through a narrow canyon where the ledges lay layer on layer like an enormous chocolate cake, and emerged on a cedared hillside.

  He loped the paint through the cedars, weaving a purposely erratic path, so if observed he would not make an effective target, then he went down into the draw, crossed the Agua Fria, and circled back toward the trail, moving slowly with care. He was none too soon.

  Texas was loping the bay and glancing from side to side of the trail. Almost opposite the Kid’s hiding place, he reined in suddenly and swung down, headed for a bunch of rocks across the way.

  The Kid stepped into the open. “It was a good idea, Texas,” he said, “only I had it, too.”

  Startled, the man turned very slowly. “I knew you’d figure it out, Kid. I thought I’d just buy all that calico to make sure you followed me. I just don’t want any witnesses left behind.

  “Anyway, that girl of yours would still need a dress, and I could always say your dyin’ words were that I should take it to her, and that I was to stay by an’ care for her, like.”

  He let go of the reins of his horse. “I would like to know how you figured it out, though.”

  “It was the Henry rifle. When you rode off on the bay with the Henry in the scabbard I knew it had to be you. I found a shell from that rifle.

  “Bantam was really surprised when he saw that paper. You’d slipped it into his pocket when you were standing close, then you called him a liar and killed him before he had a chance to talk. Then you went to his saddle and recovered the money.”

  “It was this way, Kid. I’d tailed Parsons to kill him for his money, but after I did, Bantam opened fire on me and run me off. He’d been trailing him, too. Then he went down to the body, got the money and lit out.

  “Anyway,” Texas added, “now you know how it was. When you came into sight, Bantam took a shot at you to warn you off until he could get out of sight.

  “But I gue
ss you got me, so it all went for nothing. I’m not sorry about Bantam, he was simply no good, but as for you—”

  He would hang for what he had done, and both he and the Kid knew it, and the Kid, knowing his man, knew he would take a chance. Texas went for his gun and the Kid shot him.

  Then he walked over to the bay, which showed no intention of running away, and recovered the bolt of calico, and then the money from Texas’s body.

  “Parsons will likely have some folks who can use this,” he told himself, then rolled the body over the bank, tumbled rocks and sand over it and, gathering the reins of the bay he mounted the paint and headed for home.

  When he cantered up to the gate Bonita came running, eyes sparkling with happiness. Having known other girls before, he was not sure whether it was for him or the calico, but contented himself with the conclusion it was probably a little of both.

  “See?” she said. “When you just go into town and come right back there’s never any trouble. It’s easy to stay out of trouble if you just want to. Now this wasn’t any trouble, was it?”

  “No, honey, no trouble at all.”

  He glanced at the paint pony, who was looking at him with a skeptical eye. “You shut up!” he told the paint, and followed Bonita into the house.

  The pony yawned and switched his tail at a fly.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  COLONEL ALBERT PFEIFFER

  THE UTE AND Navajo peoples had ward of ownership of the hot springs of Pagosa, in what is now Colorado. Each claimed ownership and each had some valid plans. But rather than go to war, it was decided that each tribe would choose a champion and that a battle between the two men would decide ownership of the springs.

  The Navajos chose a huge warrior, a man known for his strength and fighting ability. The Utes, oddly enough, chose a white man, an adopted member of their tribe, one Colonel Albert Pfeiffer, soldier, mountainman and friend of Kit Carson.

  The weapons chosen were Bowie knives, and before the assembled tribes, the two men stripped to the waist. The Navajo was a powerfully built man who towered over Pfeiffer, much the shorter of the two but nonetheless a very strong man. As they moved toward each other, Pfeiffer suddenly threw his Bowie knife with such force that it drove to the hilt in the Navajo’s chest, ending the contest and deciding the issue.