Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) (11 page)

Turning her head, she looked west and south into the upper canyon. Far away, she seemed to see a horseman moving, and the black dot of a herd. Turning the bay, she started west, riding fast. If they were working the upper canyon she still had a chance.

An hour later, the little bay showing signs of his rough traveling, she came down to the floor of the canyon. Not far away, she could see Rafe Caradec moving a bunch of cattle into the trees.

He looked around at her approach, and the black, flat-crowned hat came off his head. His dark, wavy hair was plastered to his brow with sweat, and his eyes were gray and curious.

“Good mornin’!” he said. “This is a surprise!”

“Please!” she burst out. “This isn’t a social call! Dan Shute’s riding this way with twenty men or more. He’s going to wipe you out!”

Rafe’s eyes sharpened. “You sure?” She could see the quick wonder in his eyes at her warning. Then he wheeled his horse and yelled, “Johnny! Johnny Gill! Come a-runnin’!”

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J
ERKING HIS RIFLE from his boot, he looked at her again. He put his hand over hers suddenly, and she started at his touch.

“Thanks, Ann,” he said simply. “You’re regular!”

Then he was gone, and Johnny Gill was streaking after him. As Gill swept by, he lifted a hand and waved.

There they went. And below were twenty men, all armed. Would they come through alive? She turned the bay and, letting the pony take his own time, started him back over the mountain trail….

Rafe Caradec gave no thought to Ann’s reason for warning him. There was no time for that. Tex Brisco and Bo Marsh were at the cabin. They were probably working outside, and their rifles would probably be in the cabin and beyond them. If they were cut off from their guns, the Shute riders would mow them down, kill them at long range with rifle fire.

Rafe heard Gill coming up and slacked off a little to let the little cowhand draw alongside.

“Shute!” he said. “And about twenty men. I guess this is the payoff!”

“Yeah!” Gill yelled.

Rifle fire came to them suddenly—a burst of shots, and then a shot that might have been from a pistol. Yet that was sheer guesswork, Rafe knew, for distinguishing the two was not easy, especially at this distance.

Their horses rounded the entrance and raced down the main canyon toward the cabin on the Crazy Man, running neck and neck. A column of smoke greeted them, and they could see riders circling and firing.

“The trees on the slope!” Rafe yelled, and raced for them.

He reached the trees with the black at a dead run and hit the ground before the animal had ceased to move. He raced to the rocks at the edge of the trees. His rifle lifted and settled, his breath steadied, and the rifle spoke.

A man shouted and waved an arm, and at the same moment, Gill fired. A horse went down. Two men, or possibly three, lay sprawled in the clearing before the cabin.

Were Tex and Bo already down? Rafe steadied himself and squeezed off another shot. A saddle emptied. He saw the fallen man lunge to his feet and then spill over on his face. Coolly then, and taking their time, he and Gill began to fire. Another man went down, and rifles began to smoke in their direction. A bullet clipped the leaves overhead, but too high.

Rafe knocked the hat from a man’s head and as the fellow sprinted for shelter, dropped him. Suddenly, the attack broke and he saw the horses sweeping away from them in a ragged line. Mounting, Rafe and Gill rode cautiously toward the cabin.

There was no cabin. There was only a roaring inferno of flames. There were five sprawled bodies now, and Rafe ran toward them. A Shute rider—another. Then he saw Bo.

The boy was lying on his face with a dark, spreading stain on the back of his shirt. There was no sign of Tex.

Rafe dropped to his knees and put a hand over the young cowhand’s heart. It was still beating!

Gently, with Johnny lending a hand, he turned the boy over. Then, working with the crude but efficient skill picked up in war and struggle in a half dozen countries, he examined the wounds.

“Four times!” he said grimly. Suddenly, he felt something mount and swell within him, a tide of fierce, uncontrollable anger!

Around one bullet hole in the stomach, the cloth of the cowhand’s shirt was smoldering!

“I seen that!” It was Tex Brisco, his face haggard and smoke grimed. “I seen it! I know who done it! He walked up while the kid was layin’ there and stuck a gun against his stomach and shot! He didn’t want the kid to go quick, he wanted him to die slow and hard!”

“Who done it?” Gill demanded fiercely. “I’ll get him now! Right now!”

Brisco’s eyes were red and inflamed. “Nobody gets him but me. This kid was your pard, but I
seen
it!” He turned abruptly on Rafe. “Boss, let me go to town. I want to kill me a man!”

“It won’t do, Tex,” Caradec said quietly. “I know how you feel, but the town will be full of ’em. They’ll be celebratin’. They burned our cabin and ran off some cattle, and they got Bo. It wouldn’t do!”

“Yeah.” Tex spat. “I know. But they won’t be expectin’ any trouble now. We’ve been together a long time, Boss, but if you don’t let me go, I’ll quit!”

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R
AFE LOOKED UP from the wounded man.

“All right, Tex. I told you I know how you feel. But if somethin’ should happen—who did it?”

“Tom Blazer. That big redhead. He always hated the kid. Shute shot the kid down and left him lay. I was out back in the woods lookin’ for a pole to cut. They rode up so fast the kid never had a chance. He was hit twice before he knew what was goin’ on, and then again when he started toward the house. After the house was afire, Tom Blazer walked up, and the kid was conscious. Tom said somethin’ to Bo, shoved the gun against him, and pulled the trigger.” He stared miserably at Bo. “I was out of pistol range. Took me a few minutes to get closer. Then I got me two men before you rode up.”

Wheeling, he headed toward the corral.

Rafe had stopped the flow of blood, and Johnny had returned with a blanket from a line back of the house.

“Reckon we better get him over in the trees, Boss,” Gill said.

CHAPTER XIV

“I’ve Come for You, Tom!”

Easing the cowboy to the blanket with care, Rafe and Johnny carried Bo into the shade in a quiet place under the pines.

Caradec glanced up as they put him down. Tex Brisco was riding out of the canyon. Johnny Gill watched him go.

“Boss,” Gill said, “I wanted like blazes to go, but I ain’t the man Brisco is. Rightly, I’m a quiet man, but that Texan is a wolf on the prowl. I’m some glad I’m not Tom Blazer right now!”

He looked down at Bo Marsh. The young cowhand’s face was flushed, his breathing hoarse.

“Will he live, Rafe?” Johnny asked softly.

Caradec shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “He needs better care than I can give him.” He studied the situation thoughtfully. “Johnny,” he said, “you stay with him. Better take time to build a lean-to over him in case of rain or snow. Get some fuel, too.”

“What about you?” Johnny asked. “Where you goin’?”

“To the fort. There’s an Army doctor there, and I’ll go get him.”

“Reckon he’ll come this far?” Johnny asked doubtingly.

“He’ll come!”

Rafe Caradec mounted the black and rode slowly away into the dusk. It was a long ride to the fort, and even if he got the doctor it might be too late. That was a chance he would have to take. There was small danger of an attack now.

Yet it was not a return of Dan Shute’s riders that disturbed him, but a subtle coolness in the air, a chill that was of more than autumn. Winters in this country could be bitterly cold, and all the signs gave evidence this one would be the worst in years, and they were without a cabin. He rode on toward the fort, with the thought that Tex Brisco now must be nearing town.

It was growing late, and Painted Rock lay swathed in velvety darkness when Tex Brisco walked his horse down to the edge of town. He stopped across the bend of the stream from town and left his horse among the trees there. He would have a better chance of escape from across the stream than from the street, and by leaving town on foot, he could create some doubt as to his whereabouts.

He was under no misapprehension as to the problem he faced. Painted Rock would be filled to overflowing with Shute and Barkow riders, many of whom knew him by sight. Yet though he could vision their certainty of victory and their numbers, and was well aware of the reck-less task he had chosen, he knew they would not be expecting him or any riders from Crazy Man.

He tied his horse loosely to a bush among the trees and crossed the stream on a log. Once across, he thought of his spurs. Kneeling down, he unfastened them from his boots and hung them over a root near the end of the log. He wanted no jingling spurs to give his presence away at an inopportune moment.

Carefully avoiding any lighted dwellings, he made his way through the scattered houses to the back of the row of buildings along the street. He was wearing the gun he usually wore, and for luck he had taken another from his saddlebags and thrust it into his waistband.

Tex Brisco was a man of the frontier. From riding the range in south and west Texas, he had drifted north with trail herds. He had seen some of the days around the beginning of Dodge and Ellsworth and some hard fighting down in the Nations and with rustlers along the border.

He was an honest man, a sincere man. He had a quality to be found in many men of his kind and period—a quality of deep-seated loyalty that was his outstanding trait.

Hard and reckless in demeanor, he rode with dash and acted with a flair. He had at times been called a hard case. Yet no man lived long in a dangerous country if he were reckless. There was a place always for courage, but intelligent courage, not the heedlessness of a harebrained youngster.

Tex Brisco was twenty-five years old, but he had been doing a man’s work since he was eleven. He had walked with men, ridden with men, and fought with men as one of them. He had asked no favors and been granted none. Now, at twenty-five, he was a seasoned veteran. He was a man who knew the plains and the mountains, knew cattle, horses, and guns. He possessed a fierce loyalty to his outfit and to his friends.

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S
HANGHAIED, HE HAD quickly seen that the sea was not his element. He had concealed his resentment and gone to work, realizing that safety lay along that route. He had known his time would come. It had come when Rafe Caradec came aboard, and all his need for friendship, for loyalty, and for a cause had been tied to the big, soft-spoken stranger.

Now Painted Rock was vibrant with danger. The men who did not hate him in Painted Rock were men who would not speak for him or act for him. It was like Tex Brisco that he did not think in terms of help. He had his job, he knew his problem, and he knew he was the man to do it.

The National Saloon was booming with sound. The tinny jangle of an out-of-tune piano mingled with hoarse laughter, shouts, and the rattle of glasses. The hitching rail was lined with horses.

Tex walked between the buildings to the edge of the dark and empty street. Then he walked up to the horses and, speaking softly, made his way along the hitching rail, turning every slipknot into a hard knot.

The Emporium was dark except for a light in Baker’s living quarters, where he sat with his wife and Ann Rodney.

The stage station was lighted by the feeble glow of a light over a desk as the station agent worked late over his books.

It was a moonless night, and the stars were bright. Tex lighted a cigarette, loosened his guns in his holsters, and studied the situation. The National was full. To step into that saloon would be suicide, and Tex had no such idea in mind. It was early, and he would have to wait.

Yet might it not be the best way, if he stepped in? There would be a moment of confusion. In that instant he could act.

Working his way back to a window, he studied the interior. It took him several minutes to locate Tom Blazer. The big man was standing by the bar with Fats McCabe. Slipping to the other end of the window, Tex could see that no one was between them and the rear door.

He stepped back into the darkest shadows and, leaning against the building, finished his cigarette. When it was down to a stub, he threw it on the ground and carefully rubbed it out with the toe of his boot. Then he pulled his hat low and walked around to the rear of the saloon.

There was some scrap lumber there, and he skirted the rough pile, avoiding some bottles. It was cool out here, and he rubbed his fingers a little, working his hands to keep the circulation going. Then he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It opened under his hand, and if it made a sound, it went unheard.

Stepping inside, he closed the door after him, pleased that it opened outward.

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I
N THE HURLY-BURLY of the interior one more cowhand went unseen. Nobody even glanced his way. He sidled up to the bar and then reached over under Tom Blazer’s nose, drew the whiskey bottle toward him, and poured a drink into a glass just rinsed by the bartender.

Tom Blazer scarcely glanced at the bottle, for other bottles were being passed back and forth. Fats McCabe stood beside Tom, also not noticing Tex.

“That bastard Marsh!” Tom said thickly. “I got him! I been wantin’ him a long time! You should have seen the look in his eyes when I shoved that pistol against him and pulled the trigger!”

Tex’s lips tightened, and he poured his glass full once more. He left it sitting on the bar in front of him.

His eyes swept the room. Dan Shute was not here, and that worried him. He would have felt better to have had the rancher under his eyes. Bruce Barkow was here, though, and Pod Gomer. Tex moved over a little closer to McCabe.

“That’ll finish ’em off!” McCabe was saying. “When Shute took over I knew they wouldn’t last long! If they get out of the country, they’ll be lucky. They’ve no supplies now, and it will be snowin’ within a few days. The winter will get ’em if we don’t, or the Injuns.”