Ralph Compton The Convict Trail (15 page)

It had to be done. Clay Cullen had chosen the dance and now he must pay the fiddler.

His mind made up, Kane's eyes reached through the darkness to the herd. He had to get them running, but there must be a night herder and maybe two or three. He kneed his horse closer to the cattle.

Unlike longhorns, Herefords were a docile breed not much inclined to be skittish, and it was possible only one man was out with the herd and he'd be as hungover as the rest. The night was on Kane's side. The dark sky quivered white with lightning and the rising wind was talking loud. The few longhorns in the herd might be feeling uneasy, and if they cut and ran, the Herefords would follow.

He walked his horse to the edge of the herd and drew rein, his gaze scanning the darkness. He waited, so much on edge he felt like his belly was being pulled out. He could get them running, he figured, but if the night herder was somewhere close in the darkness, he could be rifle-shot right out of the saddle. After a couple of minutes his patience was rewarded. A man rode toward him, slumped, his chin on his chest, his face hidden behind his hat.

“Howdy,” Kane said. He rode close to the man.

The rider's head snapped up. “You sent to relieve me?” He was groggy from sleep, but suddenly his eyes widened. “Hey, who the hell are—”

Kane drew and shot into the middle of the man's chest. The herder immediately threw up his arms and fell backward off the saddle. “That was for Mae,” he said.

Kane shoved his Colt into the air and fired, then fired again. Led by the longhorns, the herd started to run. To Kane's joy they were headed right for the camp where up until his first shot every man had been rolled in his blankets.

The cattle were running hard and Kane followed them at a gallop. Men scattered as the cattle charged among them, and the marshal saw one puncher go down, screaming as he was trampled under pounding hooves.

The night became a shambles of charging cattle, roaring guns, angry shouts and the flickering forms of running men backed by the firelight. Fractured images hurtled toward Kane at breakneck speed: open mouths that bellowed curses, orange muzzle flashes blasting near him, the backs of running men.

Then Clay Cullen's face, twisted in rage, swung into Kane's line of vision. The rancher was bringing up a rifle. Kane's horse reared as he cut loose with both Colts. Hit hard, with scarlet blood suddenly thick in his mouth, Cullen called out, then went down. A shot split the air next to Kane's head, then another. Lewt Mantles was standing with his legs spread, calmly working his guns, his eyes red in the firelight, intent on Kane. The marshal fired at the man but missed. Heedless of the men around him, he rode right at Mantles, the gun in his right hand flaring. Hit, Mantles took a step back.

Kane's gun was empty. His reins trailing, he did a perfect border shift and Sam's Colt thudded into his hand. Kane was right on top of Mantles now. The gunman fired and Kane felt a sledgehammer blow to his right thigh. He leaned out of the saddle, shoved his gun into Mantles' face and pulled the trigger. Instantly the man's face turned into a crimson mask of blood and bone. Mantles staggered to his right, still trying to bring up his guns, but couldn't find the strength. He toppled into the fire, an upset coffeepot hissing over the coals around him.

Then Kane was through them, riding hell-for-leather into the gloom. Bullets zinged around him and one burned across the thick meat of his shoulder. The rest went wild. All at once he was swallowed by darkness, and the shooting staggered to a ragged halt.

His leg on fire, Kane rode into the plain, then looped wide around the camp and swung north. Behind him, borne on the wind, he heard men yelling. Distance and darkness shredded the sound, and soon there were only the whisper of the prairie and the drumbeat hammer of his heart.

The violence Kane had wrought had been brief, shocking and sudden. It had been brought about by a man trained in arms, using the latest black-powder weapons of the time, designed to fire big, low-velocity lead bullets that inflicted terrible wounds. For a few brief, terrifying seconds he'd been a ravening wolf among sheep and his attack had been devastating.

He stared into the night ahead of him, but saw only the eyes of Lewt Mantles as the gunfighter died in the flame-streaked night. The man had not died clean and had breathed his last, facedown in fire. Somewhere, along the back trail of his years, Mantles had taken the gunfighter's path and had known and accepted the risks. But no man should meet an end like his.

Kane gritted his teeth against the pain in his thigh as he untied the mustang and led the little horse behind the sorrel. He turned his head, listening. He heard no sound of a chase, and he thanked God for it. There had already been enough killing.

Bitterly, Kane realized he could see no end to it. The vicious, mindless violence, the belted men dying hard and defiant, would go on and on . . . until the day he lay with his own face in the flames, his open eyes already staring into hell.

The prairie wind tugged at him, teasing, and the sky was black, without stars. A fine rain pattered against him and ticked through the trees, and he shrugged into his slicker.

It had to end, he knew that now. Kane had killed three men that night and their deaths weighed more heavily on him than any others. And he thought he knew the reason. He had acted out of pride, not a sense of justice. He'd used the deaths of Mae St. John and her riders only as an excuse to gun Clay Cullen. His fingers strayed to the star pinned to his gun belt. He could have arrested Cullen, taken him to Fort Smith and let Judge Parker deal with him. The chances were he would have died in the attempt, but the judge had already lost threescore deputy marshals in the line of duty and maybe that's what was expected of him. Maybe that was what the law expected of him.

The marshal was a troubled man as he rode through the rainy canopy of the night, because all at once he knew exactly who and what he was, and that knowledge cut deep, like a knife.

He was Logan Kane, the violent gunman, an outlaw with a badge.

Chapter 16

The night had turned cold and there was sleet in the rain as Logan Kane rode into camp. The fire was out and there was no sign of Sam Shaver.

He swung out of the saddle and let the mustang's lead rope drop. Then his eyes sought to penetrate the darkness, looking for movement in the shadows. Nothing stirred, the only sound the rustle of the oak and the distant cry of coyotes.

He drew his gun and limped toward the wagon, the pain in his leg beating at him. The cage loomed ahead of him, an obscene thing of wood and iron. It was empty, the open door creaking in the wind.

“Logan, is that you?”

Sam's voice, thin and strained.

“Behind the wagon, Logan.”

The old man was lying on his back, his face wet with sleet and rain. Death shadows had gathered in his eyes and cheeks; his breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling with every shuddering gasp.

Kane kneeled beside him. He took off his slicker, rolled it up and placed it under Sam's head. “Take it easy, old-timer,” he said, attempting to smile. “You'll be fine.”

“Not fine, no, Logan. They've kilt me.” His eyes dropped to the front of his shirt where blood gleamed. “I'm shot through and through, Logan.” He lifted a thin, blue-veined hand and touched Kane's chest with his fingertips. “I held on—figgered you'd be back.” His eyes met those of the younger man. “Get yore sorrel back?”

“Sure did. Brung the dray back too.”

“Take care of that mustang, Logan. He ain't a bad hoss.” Sam's hand fell to his side and for a moment Kane thought he was gone, but then the old man whispered, “Cullen?”

“Dead.”

“Did he have iron in his hand?”

“He did, and he had his face to me.”

“Then you done what you had to do, Logan.”

“Maybe so.” He brushed a wisp of gray hair from Sam's forehead. “What happened, old-timer?”

“Ol' Buff called me over to the wagon, tole me Joe Foster was awful sick because o' that kick in the head you gave him. The kid was groanin' an' carryin' on, an' I set my scattergun down and stepped over there.”

Sam was fighting for breath, desperately clinging to life.

“You take it easy, Sam,” Kane said. “You can tell me later when you feel up to it.”

It didn't matter how it had happened; the prisoners were gone and Sam was dying. The circumstances told their own story.

But the old man shook his head. “Listen . . . Buff grabbed me and held me against the bars. Then he yelled, ‘Now, Jack!' Next thing I know, a bullet hits me atween the shoulder blades an' they'd done gone an' kilt me.” He smiled weakly. “I didn't have no Colt or I would have drawed it an' at least plugged ol' Buff.”

Kane's voice was tight in his throat. “Which way are they headed?”

“North, Logan. They got a heap o' friends in the Indian Territory.” Sam let out a long, pained sigh. “My talkin' is done, Logan. Hey, know what I'd like?”

“What's that, old-timer?”

“A cup o' coffee.”

Then all the life that had been in Sam Shaver left him, and he died quietly and without fuss as was the way of the Western men of his generation.

Kane struggled to his feet, a hot, killing rage in him. He fought it back. That was not the way. He was a sworn lawman, not a good or admirable one, but a lawman nevertheless. It was time to step up. He'd arrest Jack Henry for murder and throw him in the cage with the others. Let Judge Parker kill him. Kane was done with it.

The marshal led the horses into the trees and unsaddled the sorrel. There was a patch of good grass close to where Mae had bathed and he turned them loose to graze. He stood near the stream and remembered how lovely the woman had looked that morning. Now, buried at the base of the oak, she would no longer be beautiful.

Here the trees kept out the worst of the sleeted rain and Kane managed to scrounge up some dry wood. He built a small fire in the hollow base of a massive boulder a ways back from the creek and then limped back to the camp.

Kane removed his slicker from under Sam's head and spread it over him. He checked the wagon, but all the food had been taken, along with the spare rifle, a box of shells and the scattergun. For some reason, the prisoners had not taken the coffeepot that was still sitting on cold ashes. The pot was full. The old man must have been making coffee before he was shot.

Kane took the pot back to his fire, set it to boil and built himself a cigarette, then another. Only then, afraid of what he was about to see, did he slip his suspenders off his shoulders and shrug down his pants to look at the wound in his thigh.

It was bad. He could tell that, and immediately he felt a twinge of fear. He was in a hell of a fix.

The bullet had entered the front of his thigh and exited at the back, a few inches under his hip, but had missed bone. The wounds looked raw and red, like the open lips of a hog ranch whore. Kane wished Sam were at his side. The old man had patched up dozens of marshals and he would have known what to do with an injury like that.

The coffee bubbled, and Kane poured two cups. He pulled up his pants and slipped one suspender over his shoulder. Then he lifted Sam's cup. He hobbled to the old man's side and carefully laid the steaming cup beside him.

“Here's your coffee, old-timer,” he said, smiling. “An' I sure hope you know I brung it.”

Kane returned to the trees and drank his coffee. He built a smoke, then poured himself another cup. He was in no hurry to do what had to be done.

An hour before sunup the sleet and rain stopped and the clouds parted. The morning was cold; Kane shivered and threw a few more sticks on the fire. The effort left him gasping and he huddled closer to the flames for warmth.

He glanced through the tree canopy at the brightening sky, turquoise enamel rippled by bands of lilac and gold. A gusting wind talked among the branches and set the fire to guttering.

It was time. He'd have to get it done and then move on.

Kane slipped a shell from his cartridge belt and pried the bullet out of the brass with his pocketknife. He poured the fine-grained black powder onto the wound in the front of his thigh, figured he didn't have enough and did the same thing with another cartridge.

He'd heard the old mountain men had done this to cauterize wounds, but he didn't know if that was true or not. He'd find out soon enough.

Kane reached for a brand from the fire, gritted his teeth and applied the flame to the powder. It flared, sizzling, sending up a cloud of greasy, white smoke. The pain was a living entity that clawed viciously at Kane's leg. His body slammed into a rigid board and he hissed through his teeth as he desperately tried to hold on. But then darkness took hold of him and he knew no more.

Kane drifted back to consciousness. The fire was burning cheerfully and the morning light was still the same. He had only been out for a few minutes.

The pain in his thigh was now a dull ache and he looked at the wound. The skin had been blackened and it was difficult to tell if the burning powder had made a difference. Maybe it seemed a little less inflamed, but that may have been wishful thinking. The burn would probably have killed any infection and that could only be good.

Now he had it to do all over again, this time on the back of his thigh, an awkward place to get at.

Kane poured more coffee and smoked another cigarette. When he was done, he opened up a couple more cartridges, lay on his left side and poured a mound of powder onto the wound.

It is said that pain leaves no memory, but Kane remembered. A lump in his throat, his heart pounding, he lit the powder. His bellow of agony sent the jays exploding from the trees and made the horses whinny in alarm. Kane's open mouth grabbed at air like a drowning man and his fingers dug deep into the soft dirt. But this time he stayed awake, arching his back until the worst of the pain passed.