Crow Bait
Authors: Robert J. Randisi
As Lancaster and Hermione stepped out the door he saw the four brothers standing shoulder-to-shoulder rather than fanned out, the way they should have been. They were probably used to facing men who wilted beneath their superior numbers, or had no experience in a gunfight. Neither was true of Lancaster.
“Hello, boys,” he said.
“What’re you doin’?” Sam asked. “Let Hermione go.”
“I don’t think so,” Lancaster said. “Drop your guns.”
The brothers exchanged glances with each other.
“What do we do, Hermione?” George asked.
Lancaster saw her shoulders rise and she took a breath, preparing to answer. But before she could Dan came busting out of the saloon, shouting, “What do you think you should do, you idiots? Kill him!”
Galvanized into action by someone actually making a decision, the four men went for their guns.
“No!” Hermione shouted, much too late.
Lancaster’s gun was already out…
Robert J. Randisi
crow bait
—
an emaciated horse likely to become carrion and so attractive to crows.
The Mojave Desert, Colorado, 1888
He stared at the sky for a while.
Until he saw one buzzard joined by another, then a third.
Time to move, Lancaster. No time to die.
The problem was, he didn’t remember how he had gotten where he was—lying on his back with pain in quite a few parts of his body—especially his head.
Okay, he thought, time to sit up and take stock.
With a groan he worked himself to a seated position, looked around. Nothing but some shrubbery, a few leafless trees, and hard, cracked ground. No other people in sight. The only thing he could see was a dead horse—his horse—lying a few feet away from him. No saddle.
He looked down at himself, checking for bullet wounds. There was some blood but didn’t seem to be any holes. His head was pounding, his jaw ached, as did his ribs.
He gave some thought to trying to get to his feet, but his head started to spin so he settled back down on his butt and tried to remember what had happened to put him in this position…
He remembered riding through the Nevada desert on his way to…well, where he was going—and to do what—wouldn’t come to him. Maybe later. He could have used some water, but he looked around and there was no canteen anywhere…
…he was riding through the desert, heading somewhere, when suddenly there was a shot and his horse went down. Thinking back, he thought he’d felt the impact of the bullet on the animal beneath him. The horse barely had time to quiver before it went down and died. Luckily, he’d been quick enough to throw himself free before he could become pinned beneath the carcass.
But even as he went for his gun, he was suddenly surrounded by men with their weapons already in their hands. Three men…
…okay, now it was coming back to him. Without a word the three men attacked him. They could easily have killed him, but instead they began to kick him. All three of them, viciously inflicting pain and damage with their boots. No words, no explanation. At some point his gun had gone flying, and he mercifully lost consciousness…
He looked around now, but there was no sight of his pistol or his rifle. He held his head in his hands.
…he recalled regaining consciousness while the men were stripping his saddle from his dead horse. They then came to him and took his gun belt, and his boots…
His boots? He took his head out of his hands and looked at his feet. No boots, just socks. It was just getting worse.
…they rolled him over, went through his pockets, took whatever money was there, then kicked him a few more times for good measure…
…he woke once more while they were talking, but for some reason he couldn’t hear them. And his vision was blurry. He saw…something, but couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
Then he heard…
“…kill him,” someone said. “It would be easier…bullet in the head…”
“No,” someone else said. “…not the way…supposed to be…”
“…desert will take care…”
“…awake…”
They noticed he was awake. He saw one of them step forward and knew another kick was coming, but couldn’t do anything to avoid it…
Somebody said, “Sweet, don’t…”
…a kick to the head knocked him out…again…
He sat there, still trying to remember. It came to him in pieces, but the pieces wouldn’t fit together. He probed and prodded his body. His jaw hurt, but it didn’t appear broken. He couldn’t say the same for his ribs. Had to be one or two of them that were cracked. He flexed his arms and legs, found that they worked. Why hadn’t they broken one or more of his limbs? That really would have left him in bad shape.
He looked at his feet. Nothing wrong there, except for his toes peeking out of some holes in his socks.
He took a deep breath. It was finally time for him to try getting to his feet.
The first time he almost made it, but his head swam and he staggered, sat back down
Tried again, slowly.
Got to a bent-over position, hands on his knees, then straightened up slowly.
Stood.
Stayed.
It was a start.
The three men rode up to the fourth and dismounted. One of the men—the largest—was carrying an extra saddle. Another man had extra saddlebags. And the third was carrying an extra handgun and rifle.
The man they were meeting was standing next to a buckboard. He was tall, ramrod straight even though he was in his sixties. His face was deeply chiseled with lines he had earned over a long, hard life. And though he currently was a wealthy man, his life was still hard. New lines were still forming.
The man with the saddle walked around and dropped into the bed of the buckboard.
The man with the saddlebags did the same.
The man with the gun walked to the older man and handed them to him.
“Done?” the older man asked.
“Done.”
The older man handed him an envelope with money in it, payment for all three.
“Do not ever contact me,” the older man said.
The man with the envelope looked inside, raised his eyebrows, and said, “You got it.”
All three men mounted up and rode off.
The older man with the chiseled face did not move until they were out of sight.
A step…
…then a second…
…and a third.
Good, Lancaster, you’re almost walking.
Then, when the fourth step came down on a sharp rock, he cried out and sat back down, hard.
“Goddamnit!”
He wasn’t going to get far trying to walk in his socks. After a few moments of thought, he decided he could do without the bottom parts of the legs of his jeans. He’d tear them off in strips and wrap them around his feet. That would give him some protection, though probably not as much as even a pair of moccasins.
He was thirsty and beaten up, but was not yet weak. At least, he had the strength to tear his pants legs into strips. By the time he was done, his feet were wrapped and his jeans came down to his knees.
Time to try to get to his feet again.
As he put his hands down on the ground to push himself up, he felt something next to him. He looked down and saw that it was his hat. He hadn’t noticed it before. At least he’d have that to keep the
sun out of his eyes and off his head. He grabbed it and jammed it on.
He repeated the stages, getting his feet beneath him, standing with hands on his knees, and then straightening. He arched his back, winced at the pain in his ribs but did not give in to it. He looked around him. In every direction he saw nothing except an occasional Joshua tree, which was indigenous to the Mojave Desert.
Lancaster knew that the Colorado River was approximately fifty miles to the east. Under normal circumstances—being on horseback—it was an easy ride. On foot it would be more difficult. On foot, with no boots, no water, and having been badly beaten, it would be nearly impossible to get there alive.
But that’s what he had to do. The nearest town he knew of was Laughlin. He remembered more now. He had actually been heading to Laughlin when his attackers set upon him. They came riding at him and, being the cautious type, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d kicked his horse into a gallop, rather than stand and draw down on them. In retrospect, he probably should have stood and fought. It’s what he would have done in the old days. The rest was still a blur, but he remembered his horse going down and throwing him. Next thing he knew he was being beaten and kicked…
He took a few steps, testing his denim-wrapped feet. It was better—better than socks, certainly better than bare feet.
The sun had long since hit its zenith and was on the way down. He had a few hours of daylight,
which was good. He’d last had a drink of water just before the riders came up on him. He wouldn’t have to walk in the hot sun for very long. Once it got dark he’d keep walking, make as much time as he could in the dark.
There were four-legged predators he’d have to be careful of—snakes, coyotes, and bobcats. If he ran into any of them, he’d have to be able to defend himself. He’d have to find something—a club, a rock—something he could use if and when the time came.
But he’d have to rest if he was going to make it, and that’s when he’d have to watch for insects—spiders and scorpions, mostly.
Resting was far from his mind at the moment, though. What he had to do at the moment was get moving and keep moving. The one thing that could most kill him was if he lost consciousness—and there was good chance of that. He knew he’d been kicked in the head at least a couple of times. His dizziness was not completely gone, but if he gave into it and passed out he knew he might never wake up.
So Lancaster started walking.
The horse did not even look fit enough to eat.
The Serrano Indians were not a warlike tribe. The Serranos existed on small game, used them not only for food but clothing, as well. Horses and burros were for riding and work only, so when one of them was no longer fit for that, they turned them loose in the desert.
When Lancaster saw the horse, he couldn’t believe it at first. It was just getting dark—he’d only been walking for a couple of hours—and the animal looked like the answer to a prayer—at first.
At second look, the only phrase that came to mind was “crow bait.”
He stopped walking and stared.
The animal was standing still, looking completely unconcerned about anything. It was an Indian pony with some mustang throw in, its once straight back slightly bowed, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was all the bones that were showing through its skin.
Its tail swished away flies nonchalantly as it turned its head and stared balefully at Lancaster.
Lancaster stood still and stared at the animal. Dusk had come upon them, and he could already feel
the difference in temperature. At night it became much colder in the desert and, if for no other reason, he could use the animal for its warmth.
Now he had to see if he could catch him.
From the pony’s appearance, it didn’t seem he could run away from Lancaster, but then he wasn’t in that great shape himself. From just two hours of walking, even with his feet wrapped, he was sprouting blisters and bleeding from cuts.
“Easy, fella,” he said, “easy,” as he moved closer.
He needn’t have been so careful, though. The horse was making no move to run away. He simply watched as Lancaster came closer.
“There ya go,” Lancaster said, reaching his hand out for the horse to sniff.
He let the animal smell his hand for a few moments, then came closer and patted his neck. He then ran his hand over the horse’s back and flanks and was appalled at the condition it was in. He was actually afraid that if he got on the horse’s back the animal might collapse in a heap of bones.
“Can you walk?” he asked the horse. “Come on.” He pushed on the horse’s rear flank, and the animal moved. He examined its legs more closely and found them unharmed. Despite its emaciated appearance the horse seemed sound.
Traveling through the desert at night was fairly safe. There were not enough rocks or shrubs to pose a danger, and most of the desert predators were warm-blooded and didn’t like the coolness of the night. The only danger was the possibility of your horse stepping in a chuckhole and snapping a leg.
But this was an Indian pony who had spent its
life in the desert, surefooted as they came—hopefully.
“Okay,” Lancaster said, “I’m gonna try gettin’ on your back. You seem tame enough, and I’m in no shape to get thrown, understand?”
Of course, the horse didn’t understand. If he threw him, Lancaster didn’t know if he’d be able to get up again, but he had to try it. He’d come upon this horse standing in the middle of the desert for a reason.
If he’d had to try this the next day, after a few more hours of walking in the sun, he probably would not have been able to climb aboard, but he still had some strength left. Despite the pain in his sides from being kicked, he managed to drag himself up onto the horse’s back. He sat there a moment, catching his breath, waiting tensely for the horse to buck.
It didn’t.
Lancaster leaned over and patted the horse’s neck
“You and me are gonna get along fine.”
The horse’s head went up and down, as if in agreement.
“Now let’s see if you can walk.”
He gigged the horse with his sore feet and the animal did indeed begin to walk. Granted, he walked very slowly, but at least they were moving, and in the right direction.
“You know where the river is, too, don’t you?” Lancaster asked.
The horse just kept walking.
“Well, if you and me are gonna spend some time together,” Lancaster said, “and depend on each
other, I think I need to be able to call you something other than horse.”
They rode for a while, Lancaster trying to come up with a likely name. Finally he did, but it was chancy.
“You might throw me when I tell you this,” he said, “but I think I’m gonna call you Crow Bait.”
He tensed, but nothing happened. The horse just kept walking.
“Okay, then,” Lancaster said, “Crow Bait it is.”