Ralph Compton The Convict Trail (14 page)

As the pictures moved together Kane began to remember, and the memory pained him worse than the trip-hammer clangor in his head. Clay Cullen and his riders . . . the man's threat to hang Mae St. John . . . his drawing down on him . . . and then the world going dark.

Alarm spiked at Kane. Where was Mae?

He rose to one elbow and the landscape around him immediately cartwheeled crazily, the labored cut of his ragged breath loud in his ears. The spinning slowed and stopped, and the camp shimmered into focus.

He was lying near the fire, on his back, his saddle under his head. He raised his hand to touch the place where he'd been hit and dislodged a wet towel that had been placed on his brow. Kane's fingers moved to the back of his head and felt crusted blood on his hair. The wound was raw and sore to the touch, but it had barely broken the skin.

Not a bullet then. A rifle butt probably, or a tree limb. Like a bumpkin selling pumpkins, he'd allowed someone to sneak up behind him and buffalo him good.

The marshal pushed himself off the grass, and when the earth settled again he saw vultures circle the sky, birds of ill omen that glided patiently under a black star.

His eyes moved around camp, past the prison wagon where men cowered, to the oak tree by the stream and the terrible fruit it bore. Three bodies dangled from ropes, swaying gently in the wind. Mae St. John's hair drifted over her contorted face, as though the breeze was aware of her ugliness in death and sought to shield her from prying eyes.

Sam Shaver stood with his back to Kane, the scattergun in his hands. A man sat at his feet, his back hunched, his head lifted to Mae's body. With a small twinge of anger, the marshal recognized him as Buff Stringfellow. He shouldn't be there. He should be in his cage.

Someone had shoved Kane's gun back in the holster. He settled the belt lower on his hips and walked unsteadily to the oak. Sam saw him, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Cullen?” Kane said.

“Who else?” Sam said. “Him an' some o' the others. Buck surprised them, put up a fight. The old man had sand.”

Kane looked. One of Buck's eyes was swollen shut and blood from his smashed mouth stained his ragged mustache.

“When?”

Sam looked at Kane as though he thought the question strange. “Two hours back, maybe a tad longer.”

“I been out fer two hours?”

“Out. At one time I thought you was dying, but then I remembered you've got a thick skull.”

Kane had to direct his impotent anger somewhere. He pointed to Stringfellow. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He asked. Once upon a time, him an' Mae were close.”

“Get him back to the cage.”

Now Stringfellow turned his head. “Damn you, Kane, she was my woman. Let me grieve.”

“I ain't in the grieving business,” Kane said. “On your feet an' get back into the cage where you belong. Stay down there a minute longer an' I'll shoot a thumb off you.”

The outlaw struggled upright. When he looked at the marshal, his black eyes were glittering with hate, but he said nothing.

“Do your duty, Sam,” Kane said.

“Yes indeed, Marshal Kane,” Sam said. His cheeks were stained with red, like a man who had just been slapped. He motioned with the Greener. “Let's go, Buff. You can't do any good here.”

Kane's gaze followed Sam as he locked Stringfellow in the cage, then returned to the oak. “You're a hard man, Logan,” he said. “There's just no give in you, is there?”

“Stringfellow is still alive, ain't he? That's give enough.”

Sam watched the circling vultures for a few moments. Then he said, “Your sorrel's gone. Cullen took it with the remuda. He left the wagon mare.” The old man's eyes tightened on Kane's face. “We goin' on?”

“Only after I get my hoss back.”

“That's not it. You want to kill Clay Cullen. He's nothin' to you.”

“He done ill by me. I can't let that go. The man can boast he put the crawl on Logan Kane. People hear that an' think all kinds of strange things.”

“No, Marshal, that's still not it, leastways not entirely. Mostly it's on account of how Cullen hung Mae St. John. What was she to you, except Buff Stringfellow's woman?” Sam stared at Kane. “I smell iron in the wind, an' that means winter's crackin' down on us and we still have mountains an' rivers to cross. We got to move on, Logan.”

“I'll take the mare,” Kane said. “Be back in a couple of days.”

“There's twenty of them, only one o' you.”

The marshal smiled. “That's Cullen's problem.” He glanced at Mae's body, then back to Sam. “She does mean something to me. She was real purty an' she sang real sweet. She didn't deserve to die like this.” His eyes lifted to the oak again. “We'll cut them down an' bury them decent. Then I'm riding out.”

“And who's goin' to bury you decent, Logan?” Sam said.

 

They buried Mae, Buck and Ed Brady near the oak, but far enough away to avoid the tree's roots. As a reluctant concession to Sam, Kane allowed Stringfellow to stand at the graveside.

When the praying was done, the outlaw said, “She was a good woman, a decent woman, but they pushed her to the wall, all them rich ranchers who wanted her miserable few acres.” He looked at Kane. “You going after Cullen?”

“He's got my hoss.”

“Take me with you, Marshal. Give me a gun an' let me put a bullet in him.”

Kane smiled. “Stringfellow, I wouldn't trust you at my back with a gun in your hand.”

“Damn you, I never back-shot a man in my life.”

“There's a first time for everything.” Kane looked at Sam. “Take him to the cage.”

Stringfellow's eyes swung to the old man, desperately seeking an ally. “Tell him, Sam. Tell him it's my place.”

Sam shook his head. “Buff, you ain't got a hoss.”

“Then I'll walk. I'll run.”

“You'll walk to the cage,” Kane said. “Then your walkin' is done.”

“Kane, when it's over an' Cullen is dead, you can chain me up again, on my word of honor. Hear me, Kane. I'm breaking apart here.”

The marshal spat onto the ground at Stringfellow's feet. “Your word of honor ain't worth that. Now, let the dead lie quiet an' get back to the wagon.”

A ragged, bearded man with sun-scorched skin and hollow eyes, and stinking of his own rank sweat, Stringfellow somehow managed to draw his dignity around him like a tattered cloak. “Kane, the man who rides next to Cullen is Lewt Mantles. There's nobody better with a gun than him. You ain't comin' back here.”

Kane seemed to think that over. Finally he turned to Sam. “If I don't come back, shoot Stringfellow. After that the others will follow you willingly enough.”

“Marshal, if'n you want him dead that bad, why don't you shoot him your ownself afore you leave?” Sam asked. He looked irritated.

“Because I plan on comin' back. An' besides, the judge would take it hard if it turned out I killed a prisoner I didn't need to.” Kane's eyes moved to Stringfellow. “Right you, back in the cage.”

“Kane, I hope you burn in hell,” the outlaw said. His raw hatred was a living entity, pushing against the marshal.

Kane smiled. “Then you better save a place for me, hadn't you?”

 

Kane tightened the cinch on the wagon dray, an ugly little mustang with a hammerhead and a mean eye. “Sam, I won't waste any time getting back. Don't take any chances with the prisoners. Feed them in the cage if you have to, and keep your eyes skinned for Jack Henry. Maybe he studied on how things were shaping up around here an' moved on, but maybe he didn't.”

“He didn't move on, Logan. He's close. I can sense him.”

“Then watch for him. I took Henry fer a bushwhacker an' a sure-thing killer.” He looked at Sam. “What you seein' in the fire?”

“I ain't seein' nothing, an' that's what troubles me.”

Kane swung into the saddle. The yellow mustang halfheartedly bucked a few times to keep him honest, then settled down. It was an old horse and not much given to energetic displays.

The marshal looked down at the old man. “I'll be back soon, Sam. I meant what I said about Stringfellow. Don't take any lip, an' if it comes down to it an' you have to lead the prisoners north, shoot him first.”

“I ain't like you, Logan,” Sam said. “I'm not that hard.”

Kane shook his head. “You may have to be.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, his eyes measuring the younger man. Then he said, “Know what sits on that hoss? Pride. An' fer what? Because you let a man best you, an' now you can't let that go. It's false pride, Marshal. Ride out now and all you are is a droop-tailed rooster crowing on a dung heap.”

“Then them people who was hung don't matter, huh?”

“They rustled cattle an' took their chances. Logan, you don't owe them a damned thing.” Sam's talking was done. He reached down, slid his Colt from the leather and held it up to Kane. “Take this. If you get into close work, you may need it.”

Kane nodded and shoved the gun into his waistband. “Be seein' you, old-timer.”

Sam didn't say anything. But when the marshal swung his horse away, he whispered, “
Vaya con Dios,
Logan.”

His eyes were very old—and very tired.

Chapter 15

Clay Cullen and his men were not difficult to track. He was driving the cattle along the same trail that had brought them north. He'd taken along the chuck wagon and it followed in the same ruts.

Kane rode under a pale blue sky. The sun was dropping lower and shadows were angling among the trees. The day was still hot and only a soft wind stirred the prairie grass. For the past hour the mustang had stepped out willingly enough, but it had a short-coupled, choppy gait and was uncomfortable to ride.

The marshal took off his hat and wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. The air was astonishingly clear and he could see for miles across the high plains. Only in the far distance, where heat waves danced, could his gaze penetrate no farther. Once he saw a herd of antelope emerge from the haze; distorted by the shimmer, their legs stretched impossibly long and slender. As they came closer, they slowly returned to their normal shape and headed north, toward water.

Kane began to smell dust as the day shaded into evening. He swung out of the saddle and studied the cattle dung. It was moist and fresh, dropped no more than a couple of hours before.

He rode on as the night birds pecked at the first stars of night and an owl in the trees demanded over and over again to know his identity. With the coming of the dark, the wind rose, tossing the long grass, and the coyotes had begun to call back and forth.

An hour later, in full darkness, Kane saw the fires.

He rode closer, trusting to the gloom, and scouted the camp. This close, he heard the quiet talk of men. There was none of the drinking and carousing he'd heard the night before. Maybe the deaths of Mae St. John and the others were weighing on them. But more likely this was a crowd with a hangover, tuckered out by the rigors of a cattle drive.

The remuda was near to the tree line, the herd grazing close to him, upwind from the camp. In the darkness Kane detected no sign of water, but there must be a source somewhere since this part of the Oklahoma Territory was cut through by many streams that were fed by the Little and the fall rains.

Kane swung the mustang to the east, riding close to the trees. Nothing on his clothes or saddle reflected light, and the moon was hiding behind cloud. Over at the camp, men had already sought their blankets and the only movement was when somebody rose and reached for the coffeepot.

Used to men on horseback, the remuda did not stir as Kane got closer. A few raised their heads and looked at him, their ears pricked, but they soon ignored him and went back to grazing. A problem for Kane was that the horses slowly moved away from him as he rode among them, their footfalls stirring up the night.

But even in the darkness, a red horse is not hard to find. He shook out a loop, then dabbed it over his horse's head. The big sorrel balked, pulling back on the rope, and for a moment Kane's heart stopped in his chest; he feared the big stud would cut and bolt. He spoke softly to the animal and it calmed at the sound of his voice. He led the sorrel out of the remuda and back to the black wall of the trees.

When the cattle herd was between him and camp, Kane switched his saddle to the sorrel and looped a rope around the mustang's neck. He tied the little horse to a tree, then swung onto the sorrel's back. Then he stood and considered his options.

Logan Kane was not by nature a deep-thinking man. When presented with a situation he reacted to it instantly, heedlessly, without considering the consequences of his actions. It was this that had helped him establish a reputation as a named gunfighter who was mighty sudden on the draw and shoot. But it had impaired his relationships with the few women with whom he'd allowed himself to get close and had all but assured him of a life without wife or child. Kane knew this and, aware of the limitations his character imposed upon him, accepted it.

Now he sat his horse, alone in the sheeted darkness, tangling with his alternatives. He had his horse and Sam was alone with the prisoners. He should go back, not needlessly risk his life. Yet he couldn't get Cullen out of his mind. He owed the man, not only for a bump on the head, but for what he'd done to Mae St. John.

And the old man had been right. There was pride. It was the gunfighter's stiff-necked pride, the most important part of the code he lived by, and it was honored by the best of them—Hardin, Hickok, Thompson, Longley and the rest. He could not let Cullen go unpunished, not if he ever again wanted to hold up his head in the company of belted men.