Dead Trouble (5 page)

‘Look. Out here we kind of run things ourselves. We try to keep official law right out of it.’

‘This is an ex-Ranger talking? One who earned three bravery awards from the State Governor?’

Durango Spain smiled crookedly.

‘Yeah! Kind of strange, ain’t it? But … I guess I’ve been living here long enough to go along with the way of things, Deke. Different way of life here, makes it easier. We have enough troubles what with the weather and the Injuns.’

‘Not to mention Badman’s Territory being within spitting distance,’ Deke cut in and Spain nodded gently.

‘Yeah – sure. But this is wide-open country, Deke. Real wild frontier. Being an ex-lawman don’t count for spit here – and it don’t pay to keep remembering how The Book says things oughta be done. Forget that. That’s past now, for both of us. We have to live here, so we have to adapt, live the way everyone else does. Or we ain’t gonna live here for long.’

Cutler frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. He knew what Spain meant, but he had noticed his old pard did a lot less smiling than when he had last known him.

Was he imagining it or was there some kind of veiled warning in Durango Spain’s words?

Not that he was going to think too much about it, for his right arm was taking all his attention right now. If he had to draw his six-gun again, this minute, he wouldn’t have a hope. The pain was clear up into his shoulder and neck. His ear was ringing wildly, and he felt strange in the head.

‘Think I’ll go lie down for a spell,’ he told the startled Spain abruptly and groped his way back into the house.

His heart was hammering:
hell almighty, if this was how he was going to be, he couldn’t figure on lasting long in this Red River country
.

Deke Cutler didn’t get much sleep although he retired early. He hadn’t been in bed long when he heard voices on the porch – and he recognized Piet van Rensberg’s thick accent.

He pulled on a shirt and trousers, grimacing every time he moved his arm, and then Karen knocked on the door.

‘Deke? Are you awake?’

‘I heard Dutch Piet, Karen – I’m coming.’

He wondered whether to strap on his six-gun but decided against it. It wouldn’t look friendly for one thing and, anyway, his arm was still too damn sore and swollen to use it. He knew what had happened before, when he had shot Lyall: he had moved too fast and corkscrewed his wrist as he turned to clear the horse. Both the old Indian and Doc Farraday had told him to avoid twisting the forearm for some time. There were still muscles and tendons to heal and there were
mangled nerve-ends, too, which could easily get caught up and give him the kind of agony he was now
experiencing
. There was a solution to it – and he knew he was going to have to try it before long. Unpleasant,
naturally
, but …

In the parlour, van Rensberg and the big Samburu, with his spear, were waiting. Deke nodded and Piet did the same in reply. Sam, of course, said nothing, just stood impassively, holding his long spear. He had what appeared to be either a short sword or an unusually long and wide-bladed knife in a canvas sheath attached to the belt around his waist. Deke learned later it was called a
panga
, not unlike a machete.

‘Pete’s here about the man you shot,’ Spain said without preamble and Karen frowned at his lack of tact.

‘He was going to shoot me.’ Cutler looked levelly into the South African’s eyes. ‘Hoss and Leach might’ve told you that.’

‘Eh, man. They told me they didn’t know what had happened. That Lyall seemed to know you from down on the Rio and next thing you shot him.’

‘That the way it happened, Deke?’ Spain asked. He seemed tense and smoked jerkily.

Deke nodded. ‘But Lyall had cocked his rifle hammer, told the other two to ride out – but to be sure to say they saw me reach for my gun first.’

Van Rensberg smiled thinly. ‘Seems you were too fast for them to see any kind of a draw, man.’

‘I was shot in my gun arm six months ago. Bullet tore out some muscle and tendons. It doesn’t work like it should. Guess I tried a mite too hard, because I not only got my gun out as fast as I’ve ever used it, but I hurt my
arm and it’s still giving me pure hell.’

‘Thought you looked like you were recovering from something. Well, Lyall’s no loss. He was a hard man.’

‘You hired him,’ Spain said tautly.

Pete’s eyes swivelled towards the rancher.

‘This is a hard land, Durango. It needs hard men to work it. I’ve seen some of your ranch crew and I’ll bet they don’t all go to church on Sundays. Like Ringo, Hal Tripp, that big Jno …’

Spain sighed. ‘No, guess not. Like you say, it takes hard men. But you gonna make a stink over Lyall? What I remember about him he was pretty damn mean.’

‘He was. No, I just wanted to get things straightened out and make sure it won’t happen again.’ The cool, pale-blue eyes swept around the room and its
occupants
. ‘Despite what some say around these parts, I
have
been losing cattle. That’s why I’ve told my men to move on anyone found trespassing on my range. Lyall took things a little too far – as you did, Deke – and I’m not saying my orders’ll change, but this is just a friendly discussion to clear the air. You all willing to look at it that way?’

Karen said ‘yes’ right away and nudged Spain but Durango looked at the silent Cutler.

‘Deke…? You were the one got rousted.’

‘Be best if you put up some “No Trespassing” signs, Pete, if that’s the way you want things,’ Cutler said quietly and van Rensberg smiled.

‘Guess that’s the lawman still in you talking – but why not?’  

‘Not too damn neighbourly!’ Spain snapped.  

‘Long as we return each other’s stock that wanders
across the line, I don’t see anything wrong.’

Karen placed a hand on her husband’s arm.

‘I think that’s friendly enough, Durango.’

Van Rensberg made a small bow in her direction.

‘I thank you, Mrs Spain. Goodnight, Durango – Deke.’ He jerked his head at Sam and the Samburu went out through the door after the big South African like a slim shadow. Karen gave a small shudder.

‘That native … frightens me!’

‘He’s an odd one,’ admitted Spain. ‘You see him anywhere around, Karen, you tell me.’

‘He’s deadly with that spear, Durango,’ warned Deke.

‘Trick’d be not to get within throwing range,’ Spain said with a crooked grin, slapping a hand against his holstered Colt.

Deke felt more uneasy than ever when he went back to bed.

He tossed and turned most of the night, got up and stoked the fire in the kitchen, heated water, soaked his arm in a bowl and it gave him relief. But after only an hour’s sleep it woke him again and he got up, dressed and went out to the tool shed attached to the barn.

There was a bench vice there with wooden jaws. He cut a piece of a harness strap and placed the leather between his teeth. Deke put his hand in the vice’s jaws which he padded with old rags and slowly tightened them. When they gripped firmly, sweat now squeezing out of his face, he gingerly turned the arm first to the left, then to the right, the wrist joint creaking. Movement was restricted but moving the forearm to the right increased the burning pain and he knew this was where the nerves had pinched.

It was drastic but he knew what he had to do – the Old Indian had done it twice for him out at Big Hat but here he had to prepare himself and then give the short, sharp twist at just the right moment. He balked twice, the pain making him sweat and nauseous, then bit deep into the leather strap and gave the short, snapping wrench as the Indian had shown him. Something went
click
in his wrist.

His left hand instinctively released the pressure of the jaws as he slumped, out cold, knocking over the candle stub and extinguishing it. He floated in limbo for a time and when he started to come round, heard voices, coming from the barn. It was still dark but there was a greyness that told him sun-up wasn’t far off. Through the pounding in his head, he recognized Hal Tripp’s voice speaking in a hoarse whisper.

‘Jimmy.’ That would be Jimmy Taggart, the friendly young wrangler. ‘Put the mounts away and make sure you rub ’em down first. Don’t want no one to know they been ridden hard tonight.’

‘Jeepers, Hal, I know what to do!’

‘Just makin’ sure. And when you got time, bring in some of that hoss liniment. Ringo got … hurt.’

‘Was he shot?’ Jimmy asked, fear in his voice.

‘Just a nick – nighthawk a mite trigger-happy. Now you be quick, kid … We gotta turn in and grab a little shut-eye, be in our bunks when everyone wakes up.’

Deke must have passed out again for a time, for it was all quiet when he came to. He felt so lousy, he wasn’t sure whether he had overheard Tripp and Jimmy Taggart or if he had dreamt it.

He didn’t see anyone when he eventually made his
way back to his room and fell on to his bed, nursing his still throbbing arm.

‘What you aim to do today?’ Spain asked Cutler as they had their after-breakfast smokes on the porch. There was activity in the yard as men saddled horses, ready for their chores.

‘Gonna start getting myself back into shape,’ Deke answered the rancher. ‘I’m improving but not fast enough.’ He rubbed his right arm. He was bruised around the wrist joint and on the back of his hand. ‘Gonna start running along the river, force it a little more each day. Do some work on my gun arm, too,
lifting
bags of sand, squeezing rubber balls.’

Spain looked at him sharply.

‘Expecting trouble?’

‘Not looking for it, but if I have to use my six-gun again like I did on Lyall, I don’t want to feel crippled afterwards. I couldn’t’ve fired that gun a second time, Durango. I’d’ve been dead if Leach and Hoss had decided to take me on.’

Spain nodded sympathetically.

‘That backshot nearly finished you, didn’t it, pard?’

‘Came close.’

‘Too close, sounds like.’ Spain heaved to his feet. ‘OK. You get yourself back in good shape and then we’ll put you to work.’ He grinned. ‘Make you earn your keep.’

Then, in case that sounded a little unfriendly, he dug his hand into his pocket and brought out a roll of bills.

‘Here. Been meaning to give you this.’

Cutler frowned, not taking the money.

‘What is it?’

‘I know it bothers you that you ain’t paid that sawbones in Big Hat, the one who saved your life. Believe you said you still owed two-hundred fifty bucks. Well, here it is. Take it and send it to him.’

Cutler took it slowly, watching his partner’s face. ‘I’m obliged, Durango, but I can’t take this if things’re as tight as you say with the ranch.’

Spain waved it aside.

‘You know me. Worrier type. Tend to exaggerate.’

‘You … sure?’

‘Hell, yeah!’ Spain sounded impatient now. ‘I sold a few cows over the last few days to some fellers just getting started on the river. Pay off the sawbones and you can start pulling your weight here with an easy mind.’

‘Well, it sure is a surprise.’ Then Cutler said, without even planning it: ‘Hal Tripp and Ringo handle the deal?’

Durango Spain frowned, his eyes sweeping across Deke’s rugged face.

‘What the hell makes you say that?’

Deke shrugged.

‘Dunno, really. Just got the impression those two were rounding up some cows when I saw them
yesterday
afternoon. Foothills pasture.’

‘Well, they would’ve been, but no – I handled the deal myself. Feller paid me yesterday afternoon.’

Cutler put the money away.

‘Well, thanks again, Durango – I’ll make up for this.’

‘Take a ride into town and send it off by wire. Then you can relax – and work at your exercises.’

He went down into the yard, calling to some men before they rode out. Deke watched, smoking slowly.

It was a nice gesture. So why did he get the feeling that Spain was kind of mad at him over something?

The running showed him just how much out of shape he really was. After only half a mile he was sweating enough to soak his clothes and breathing like a
locomotive
with a leaky boiler. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, careful not to put too much pressure on his gun-arm wrist, fighting for breath.

Swinging the arm when he ran made it ache and the wrist was burning again. He hoped the damaged nerves were not going to pinch up on him. Then he got the notion that if he could give the wrist some support, just like when it was sprained from roping or bull-dogging, it might help. So he made a rawhide cuff and laced it tight, having to try several times before he got the
pressure
and tension just right. Too much and it cut off the blood’s circulation. Too little and it didn’t give the wrist the support it needed.

But it seemed to work and he changed the rawhide for some stiffer, still pliable leather, cut from an old saddle flap. He made it longer, like an archer’s
arm-guard
. This was better: he was pleasantly surprised at how much easier it was for him to use his right hand. It helped the arm, the support keeping the nerve ends properly aligned so they didn’t pinch and cause numbness and pain. The swelling went down rapidly.

That fixed to his liking, he concentrated on running, forcing himself on for another hundred yards even when he was ready to drop. He overdid it sometimes
but after a week he was running two miles without undue distress. At the end of the second week he was doing five and he knew this distance would increase as the weeks went by.

Twice he saw van Rensberg and the Samburu. This was where he learned that Sam’s big knife was called a
panga
in Africa and it was used for many things: cutting grass for hut roofs, kindling, wood for fences, defence against wild animals – or wild people.

‘Could make a mess of a man,’ Deke opined and he caught Pete and Sam exchanging a strange look.

‘Could easily take his head off,’ van Rensberg allowed. ‘Thought I saw some bear tracks.’ He gestured up into the hills. They were standing on neutral ground, just beyond where their fences met in a point. ‘Not very familiar with the local wildlife. Possible there’s a grizzly around here?’  

‘Never heard of any. Want me to take a look at the tracks?’  

‘Eh, man, that would be fine!’  

Sam never rode anywhere. He trotted alongside his master’s big sorrel, sometimes holding to the stirrup strap. They rode up into the hills. When they stopped at the place where Pete had found the tracks, they looked out over a deep bend of the river to slopes and dark-green timber beyond.  

‘That’s the Territory yonder,’ Deke said thoughtfully. ‘Our line comes closer to it than I thought.’  

‘Nice country. Here. What do you think?’  

Cutler dismounted and went down on to one knee, examining the tracks. They were the size of a saucer. He sat back on his heels and thumbed back his hat.

‘He’s a big’n, a black, I suspect, and heading for the Territory.’

Excitement glinted in van Rensberg’s eyes.

‘Hear that, Sam. A big one! A worthy trophy, Deke?’

‘Can’t say. He might have a coat all tore-up from fighting. He’s got a limp, anyway.’

Pete frowned swiftly.

‘He’s hurt?’

‘Might have a thorn in his foot or a stone’s worked into his pad. Won’t improve his temper.’ He squinted at the man. ‘You’re not going after him with that short spear?’

‘The assegai? Only way to do it to my way of thinking. My strength and cunning pitted against his.’

‘You prick him with that and he’ll tear your head off, then rip up the whole damn county in a bad mood.’

Van Rensberg drew himself up, taller than Deke by a few inches.

‘Eh, man, I don’t let wounded game slink away to die in agony. I have my pride and honour. If I happen to wound something, I chase it down until I can put it out of its misery. No matter how long it takes or how dangerous it is to me!’