Hellrakers, p.2
Hellrakers, page 2
It was at that moment that they heard the sound of running horses approaching the camp, and in another minute the gun-toting riders burst out of the underbrush to confront them.
TWO
If no one else recognized the night riders, Van Connely did. Two of them at least. He had spent the evening sitting across a poker table from the saloon keeper, Jesse Sparks and Court Riddick, who looked more in his element here than he had playing cards. The big man’s elongated single eyebrow was knotted above menacing eyes. He held his Colt steadily in his meaty hand. The third man was little more than a kid, his eyes wide with surprise as if he had not really expected to find the men they were chasing.
‘We’re looking for somebody,’ the sallow saloon owner said, leaning forward over his horse’s withers.
‘We had that figured,’ Randy Staggs said, stepping away from their horses a bit.
‘Are you in charge here?’ Sparks wanted to know.
‘I am,’ Skyler Lynch said, stepping forward from the shadows to stand near Staggs. ‘My name’s Lynch. Who are you and what do you want here?’
Glancing to his right he saw that Shawnee Burns, Trapper McGee, and Van Connely had all gathered, standing near their beds. Each had a holstered gun belted on. Shawnee looked almost eager for trouble. Gunplay was one of his favorite forms of entertainment.
‘Suppose you tell me what this is all about,’ Skyler said in a neutral tone of voice.
Jesse Sparks sputtered a little as he answered. ‘Three men wrecked my saloon! I don’t know how long – or how much – it will take to repair the damage they did.’
‘Do you know their names, what they look like?’ Skyler asked reasonably.
‘Just one of them. He was a sore loser in a poker game and came back with the other two, and they –’
‘How do you know that’s what happened?’ Skyler asked. Staggs glanced at the captain and read enough to tell from his eyes that he was growing angry – not at the townsmen but at Trapper, Shawnee, and Van Connely, because there could be little doubt that they were the ones who had wrecked the saloon. Not that Skyler had any intention of turning them over to Jesse Sparks; they were short-handed as it was. The captain didn’t wish to leave the three of them in the Morrisburg jail when he needed them so badly on the trail.
‘All of my men are here and accounted for,’ Skyler Lynch said. ‘Unless you can identify them with certainty.’
‘I told you I never saw but the one, blast you!’ Jesse Sparks fired back, and as Randy Staggs watched, the captain’s eyes narrowed, growing colder.
‘What about that narrow hombre?’ Court Riddick asked, jabbing a stubby finger in Van Connely’s direction. Van had taken off his town suit and dressed again in his rough range clothes, and the twisting, smoky light cast by the low-burning camp-fires was nothing like the clear white light in the saloon. Jesse Sparks stared at Van Connely for a long time, perhaps trying to form an accusing, harsh glare to break the man. But Van Connely had a long trail behind him – he had lied to judges on the witness stand and laughed off the accusations of professional lawmen. Sparks’s probing stare prompted no expression.
‘Will you at least wait until morning when I can bring the marshal back here?’ Sparks appealed to Skyler Lynch.
‘I will not,’ Lynch said firmly. ‘I have a business to run, a herd of horses I need to deliver to home range. Make an arrest or make an identification now, or be damned with you.’ Lynch said it calmly and quietly, but no man there doubted his determination.
‘Told you we should have gathered up a posse,’ the kid said, speaking for the first time.
‘Shut up,’ Sparks said roughly, his eyes still on the camping men. There were five of them to their three – if you could count Billy Slater, which Sparks did not. And if they were holding a herd of horses up the canyon, there would be at least that many more armed men around.
‘We’re going, but we’ll be back!’ Jesse Sparks vowed.
He was glaring suspiciously at Van Connely as he spoke, but Van only shrugged and set about rolling up his bed. With a last furious glance at the implacable Skyler Lynch and a muffled curse, Jesse Sparks yanked his pony’s head around and started toward Morrisburg, the other two riders following him.
‘I think he is mad enough to come back,’ Randy Staggs said.
‘I’m afraid I have to agree with you,’ the captain answered with a touch of weariness. Then, ‘All right, roll up the camp. We’re going to drive the horses tonight.’
Staggs was expecting the order, but still was disappointed when he heard it. Driving a herd of half-broken horses across unfamiliar ground with an exhausted crew was not an enviable task. If they didn’t lose a number of horses, they might well lose a number of weary men who figured they were being used unfairly. None of them were riding with Lynch out of a sense of loyalty to the brand. They were here for the job, and like any job it could quickly become untenable. The men that Skyler had hired out of necessity were, for the most part, roughnecks, bar-brawlers and small-time crooks – all used to making a living in easier ways. Randy Staggs had the idea that there were probably posters out on a few of them; that was why they had agreed to ride north in the relative safety of the drovers.
‘We might have some quitters,’ Staggs pointed out unnecessarily.
‘We’ve known that from the start, Randy. There’s nothing to be done about it. I collected most of them from under rocks and out of the gutters – let them go back there if they choose.’
There was extreme bitterness in the captain’s words, but also resignation and determination. Three of his men had already disappointed him, and they were still hundreds of miles away from home.
It was bound to happen, Skyler reflected, would probably happen again, but he could only continue to try. For himself – and for Kate. He looked up at the sound of approaching boot steps. Van Connely was sauntering toward him across the dark campground, saddle in hand.
‘Well, Van, what is it?’
‘Me and the boys just wanted to thank you for standing up for us against those townies,’ the sharp-eyed gambler said.
Skyler Lynch trembled briefly as if he had been struck by a cold gust of air. Connely may or may not have guessed that Lynch was trying to hold back his temper. The captain only said: ‘Get off to work. Tell the others that there won’t be any relief on this night. If they ask why – tell them.’
Not that Van Connely would – Skyler Lynch knew his men that well. Connely was unlikely to tell the men that he, himself, was the cause of their missing rest. He smiled thinly and strode away followed by the shuffling Shawnee Burns and Trapper McGee. With a deep sigh and a mingled curse and prayer Skyler went off to wake the cook and to catch up his own horse. It was going to be a long miserable night.
By the time Connely, Shawnee Burns, and Trapper McGee reached the canyon where the horses were being held, the men standing watch were seething.
‘About time you showed up!’ the black-bearded man called Tioga growled.
‘No choice,’ Van Connely said smoothly as his gray horse side-stepped uneasily in the mud beneath him. The ragged clouds skated past forming a sheer veil across the stars. The bearded Tioga sat his pony, waiting. There was a cold wind rising.
‘The captain, he had us wait around until he made up his mind – him and Randy Staggs.’
‘Made up their minds? About what?’ Tioga asked with dull impatience.
‘About what he was going to do – what we were to report to you,’ Connely said as two other riders approached to join the conference: Shell Bodine and Slater.
‘Well, are we finished here? I’m beat,’ Slater said. Archie Slater had deeply sunk black eyes and a neatly trimmed black mustache. He didn’t seem the kind of man to volunteer for drover’s work, but probably like the rest of them he had been broke and desperate when approached by Skyler, perhaps eager to put miles between himself and the Pocono. For Slater had that definite, undisguisable look of a man with trouble on his back road. Slater never confided in Connely as to what it was, but Van had the idea that they were two of a kind in background and spirit.
‘Afraid not,’ Van Connely told them. ‘It seems that the captain has decided that we’re going to drive the horses overnight.’
‘What!’ Tioga asked in angry disbelief. ‘Why in hell would he do that? Half-wild broncos in the dead of night!’
‘He doesn’t explain things to me,’ Connely said with an apologetic glance, which took in Tioga, Archie Slater and Shell Bodine, measuring their angry reluctance to follow the orders. Van shrugged. ‘I don’t mean to question his orders, but it makes no sense to me. If it were up to me.…’ He let his voice fall silent meaningfully. Shrugging, he said, ‘We’ve got no choice, boys – let’s get them started as best we can.’ He had made no mention of the angry Morrisburg townspeople, of course, and so the captain’s order seemed either whimsical or bull-headed.
‘The hell with this,’ Tioga muttered darkly. ‘This is not what I signed on for – pushing broncos in the cold and dark with all this mud underfoot.’
‘We’d better do the best we can,’ Van said sympathetically. ‘Maybe we will get extra wages for this.’
‘We might take a lot more than that out of this,’ Slater responded which was just the sort of reaction Van Connely had been fishing for.
The horses were roused, bunched and started southward. The animals were in a fractious mood; they had two attempts at a break-out before they had even reached the mouth of the canyon. The men grumbled, swore, and pushed on. That was the state of matters when Randy Staggs reached the herd. He rode his buckskin up beside Van Connely and spoke:
‘Did you explain to them, about the townsmen possibly riding after us?’
‘I explained it as best I could,’ Van Connely said innocently. ‘They still don’t like it.’
‘No,’ Staggs replied, ‘I didn’t expect them to – uh, oh – look at that palomino; he doesn’t want to go along!’
Randy heeled his horse after the break-away wild horse, leaving Van Connely behind. Van smiled thinly, and rode steadily, silently on through the night until Shawnee Burns caught up with him.
‘What are you up to, Van? Is it what I think?’
‘You know me well enough.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ Shawnee agreed.
‘What do you think the herd will bring – cash money? I’m thinking something like three thousand dollars.’
‘More. With any luck, four or five thousand. Depending on how many horses we get through with. It’s going to be a long drive.’
‘We sell them at the first chance we have – by then we’ll have lost any posse those Morrisburg jackasses can raise,’ Van believed.
‘If we get half that amount, we’ll be better off than we are working for ranch-hand wages. But what about the captain – and Staggs? We have to assume Randy Staggs will stand by the old man, being his old Ranger buddy.’
‘You can count, can’t you, Shawnee.’
Burns blinked and scowled before he responded. ‘I guess I can, well enough. You’re saying that there’s only the two of them against the rest of us if the other boys stand with us.’
‘I think they will. None of them were cut out to be cowboys either.’ Van leaned back in the saddle looking briefly skyward. ‘You know, Shawnee, my friend, that’s the one problem with hiring crooks to work for you: you’ve got a bunch of crooks working for you.’ Van smiled and then straightened in the saddle as a blue roan, aggravated by the loss of sleep, the cold, the mud underfoot, and its human masters’ unreasonableness broke free of the herd.
‘Let’s get him, Shawnee!’ Van Connely said. ‘From here on we’re working for ourselves and every pony we lose is costing us money.’
After midnight it began to rain again. Skyler Lynch had given the cook, Angelo, a hand hitching the team to the chuck wagon. Now they turned the herd southward, riding on relentlessly with the stiffening wind at their backs, gusting strongly enough so that it seemed to threaten to knock a man out of his saddle. The rain, which had began to fall gently from the thin clouds, now fell heavily as a reinforcing storm arrived from the north with tumultuous fury. Skyler Lynch rode close to the herd both to keep them closely bunched, and because their massed bodies threw off heat.
The night turned black and bitter. Randy Staggs kept his buckskin horse close to the flank of the herd, closer than he would have dared with horned steers. Glancing back he could see no one, only the backs and glittering eyes of the unhappy horses. The wind was fitful, the rain constant, the temperature dropping precipitously. Hunched in his waist-length leather coat, Staggs trembled with each icy blast that swept across the prairie. Using his coiled riata, he kept nudging the horses into a tighter bunch. They plodded on, shoulder to shoulder, not liking the restriction much.
Randy’s nemesis was a devil-eyed black stallion with a blaze on its nose and one white stocking on its right front leg. The HF-connected brand it wore was like a fresh scar on its flank. The animal was in a miserable temper, it seemed, and decided to take its mood out on Randy Staggs. The horse would bolt toward the perimeter then lose itself among the herd. Then it would make its way again to the fringe and appear ready to bolt, only to turn back again, its eyes fixed challengingly on Randy as if daring this man-thing to try to tame it.
The horses were forced to slow and come to a stop at a deep coulee slashed across the plains. Lightning flashed, and by its illumination Randy saw that there was only one way across – straight down a sandy bluff, which ended at a fast-flowing rivulet, then straight up the farther bank.
He could not remember passing this way on their ride north, but probably they had veered far off the trail under these conditions. They were not going to have the time to look up and downstream from there for a better crossing. Not with the restive, milling horses ready to bolt at any moment. Besides, he was thinking, they likely had a posse from Morrisburg on their heels by now. These, if they were coming, would not be slowed by having to tend the balky herd. They would be riding flat out across the plains, blood in their eyes.
Lightning struck again, very close this time, sending an electric glow across the empty land, disturbing the wild horses even more. Randy glanced beside him and saw the captain approaching him, shoulders hunched beneath his sheepskin coat.
‘What do you think, Randy?’ Skyler Lynch called above the pitch and whine of the wind.
Staggs expelled his breath through tightly pinched lips and shook his head. ‘There’s no choice, I don’t think, Captain. We’ve got to push them across here or camp again.’ And they couldn’t make camp again – it was pointless.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Skyler said heavily. His face looked weighted down by the years. His eyes could not be seen in the darkness of night. ‘What I’d give for a crew of good Texas cowboys!’ he exclaimed. Randy knew what he meant; a crew of experienced hands would have a tough job of it, driving the horses into the gully and out again, but they would get the job done. With the rag-tag crew the captain had assembled for this drive, it seemed a nearly impossible task.
‘There’s no choice, Captain,’ Randy said.
‘No, there isn’t. We’re going across – pass the word, would you, Randy?’
Randy Staggs set out to circle the horse. The rain drove down. It stung his eyes and soaked through his jacket, adding the cold weight of water to his shoulders. Once Randy thought he felt the colder kiss of snow against his cheek. He found Van Connely and Shawnee Burns sitting their horses side by side and gave them the orders to push on into the coulee. Connely only nodded – the man seldom showed expression. Burns grumbled something indistinguishable and reached into his saddle-bags where he carried a smuggled bottle of whiskey. What was Randy to do, scold him? He started on to find the other men giving them the best instructions he could.
These, however well-intentioned and considered, were not going to be easy to follow in this weather with the horses plunging down to the river bottom against their will. ‘Try to keep them bunched in the coulee bottom. When we push them up on the other side, we’ll have to pinch them off at the head so they won’t run out onto the plains,’ he said in variations to Trapper McGee, Tiog, and Shell Bodine.
‘Do you want to talk to Angelo yourself?’ Randy asked when he again found Skyler Lynch.
‘I suppose so,’ the captain said wearily. ‘We’ll have to cut his wagon loose, you know?’
‘I know it – though you could let him follow the coulee along eastward, seek out an easier crossing … if one exists.’
‘I’ll give Angelo the option,’ Skyler said. ‘I haven’t done so well at making decisions so far.’
‘Captain …’ Randy began sympathetically, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but before he could continue there were three sharp reports and Randy saw Skyler go suddenly erect in his saddle, hand clasped to his chest. Then Randy felt his buckskin horse’s front knees buckle and give way and he was thrown over its neck to the cold, dark earth as dozens of wild horses dashed past his head and plunged into the coulee.
He must have been knocked out as he fell, because as Randy tried to grope his way up to full consciousness, his head whirled and his limbs seemed disconnected from his body. There was thick mud beneath him, a driving mesh of cold rain surrounding him. The night offered no visibility. A soft nearby moan caused Randy to grope around with his hands like a blind man in the night, and his fingers touched the captain’s shoulder.
Skyler Lynch reached out and gripped Randy’s wrist.
‘Thank God!’ the captain said hoarsely. ‘I thought I was all alone. Who is it? Is that you, Randy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I knew I could count on you. I always could. I’m hit pretty bad,’ he said, his voice weakening.
‘You’ve been hit before – and survived,’ Randy said, sitting up with crossed legs beside the wounded man. The snow, now, was beginning in earnest. Large flakes were falling across Skyler’s face and the injured man did nothing to brush them off.
‘I’m afraid this is worse,’ Skyler said, and he coughed once, violently, so that crimson blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘It must have been the posse, don’t you think, Randy? I mean such as they are, my own men wouldn’t do this, would they?’
