Forty-Four Caliber Justice (22 page)

Scott Penny and Bull Westin dismounted in the pecan grove.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” Scott said. “There’s water in the creek and plenty of grass for the horses.”

“Fine,” Josh said, as he surveyed the area.

The cut bank of the creek was about fifteen yards away. The creek bottom was rocky and the whole area was covered with old dry pecan leaves and hulls. It was fairly clear of underbrush beneath the trees, but the outer edges of the creek were lined with thick brambles and broomweed.

No one, not even the most stealthy Comanche, could slip quietly through these leaves. The campsite would be well hidden from any observers outside the pecan grove. It would be almost impossible to see into the depths of the grove through the bramble perimeter.

“You picked a good campsite,” Josh told Scott.

“Thanks,” Scott said, as he grinned at Josh through the deepening darkness.

Josh turned his horse so his back wouldn’t be toward the other two men and dismounted, an act that didn’t go unnoticed. He rapidly stripped his bedroll and saddlebags from Chancy, then laid the Winchester on the saddlebags and removed the saddle and blanket. After rubbing the horse down and watering him, he staked him out with sufficient rope to feed. He spread his bedroll and sat down, leaning back against his saddle.

Not far down the creek, turkeys could be heard yelping as they walked toward the roost. In a few moments, the crashing and clucking began as they flew up into the big pecan trees, hitting limbs and jockeying for position high above the ground, also above any marauding coyotes or bobcats. They continued to cluck and fuss as they settled down for the night.

“At least we don’t have to worry about Indians coming from down the creek,” Scott said, listening to the clamor of the turkeys.

“Maybe,” Josh said. He picked up the Winchester and worked the lever, throwing out the round in the chamber and driving in a fresh one. Picking up the ejected round, he examined it, and slid it back into the rifle’s magazine, confirming the magazine was full and there was a round in the chamber. He lowered the hammer on the rifle and laid it aside. Drawing the Model 1860 .44 Colt Army, he checked all the loads carefully before finally sliding it back into the holster. With both weapons checked, he relaxed against the saddle.

“You expectin’ trouble?” Bull asked.

“I never expect trouble. But if it comes looking for me I aim to be ready,” Josh replied.

“You never said where you’re from.”

“Bull, I assume that’s what everybody calls you, you’re right. I didn’t. Not that it’s any of your business; I’m from Tennessee—northern Tennessee.”

Bull glared at Josh through the deepening darkness. “I need a smoke,” Bull said. He pulled out his tobacco sack and matches.

“You’ve got a choice,” Josh said. “You can go down into the creek bottom, where the light won’t be seen, or you can chew it, but don’t light it. I crossed Indian sign about a mile back from where we met. They were Comanches and traveling light; probably spoilin’ for a fight.”

“He’s right, Bull,” Scott said. “You never know where those Comanches could be. We sure don’t want to wake up with our hair hanging on some Indian’s lance.”

“We’re back here in this thicket,” Bull said. He rolled the cigarette, put it in his mouth, took out a match, and started to strike the match on his gunbelt buckle.

“Ain’t nobody goin’ to see us. Anyway, no Yankee drifter is tellin’ me when I can or can’t have a smo—”

A sickening hollow thud sounded as Josh’s rifle butt struck Bull just above the jawbone. He hadn’t seen nor had he sensed the speed with which Josh Logan picked up his Winchester by the barrel and back-handed Bull with the stock. The unlit match and cigarette fell silently to the ground.

“Mister, you could kill a man hitting him like that,” Scott said.

“He could have killed us if he’d lit that match. I’ll not abide stupidity. Specially if it might get me killed.”

“Well, I sure wouldn’t want to be in your boots. He’s gonna be madder than a wet hen when he wakes up.”

Josh looked at the crumpled and bleeding figure at his feet. “He won’t have far to look. I’ll be right here.” He turned slightly so he was facing Scott. “If you’ve a mind to deal yourself into this hand, now’s the time.”

“No siree-bob. That was all his doing. I reckon you might have saved my hair tonight, and I’ve no call to be put-out about that.”

“In that case,” Josh asked, as he returned to his bedroll and sat down. “I wonder if you might answer some questions for me?”

“Well, sure, I’ll try. I do a lot of talking, but I don’t usually have a lot of answers.”

“How long have you been working for the Circle W?”

“It’s been a little over a month. Just drifted in from Fredericksburg way. Had an itch to move north--maybe on up to Colorado Territory. Understand there’s some gold showing up in those mountains west of Colorado City. So anyway, I needed a little stake since I lost most of my money in a card game down in Brownwood, and I heard the Circle W was hiring. So I—”

“Whoa, slow down, Scott. I didn’t ask for your life’s history; I just need a little information.”

“Uh yeah, that’s been my problem. Pa always said that if words were an axe, I could clear a section of land in a day’s time. Anyway, I been working one month at the Circle W. That’s where I met Bull Westin. He’s been riding for them quite a while.”

“Scott, have you heard of the Rocking N?”

“The Rocking N? Yeah, I have. Why?”

Josh ignored Scott’s question. “What can you tell me about them?”

“I don’t know much,” Scott said. “Seems Mr. Nance, he came out here from around San Antone ‘bout ’45 or ’46. From what I hear he was tougher than an old boar coon, what with all that rangerin’ he did.

“He brought his wife and kids. Didn’t have but two, a boy and a girl. Plus he pushed up, so the story goes, about a thousand head of those rangy longhorns he choused out of the brush south of San Antone. Supposedly he was big friends with Sam Houston, though I don’t know that for a fact being’s I’ve just been around here for a short while.”

Josh leaned back against his saddle, suppressing a grin. For being around such a short while, Scott Penny had certainly picked up a lot of information, some of it more accurate than Scott was aware.

The night had cooled into a comfortable evening. A light breeze was blowing, rustling the leaves on the pecan trees and carrying away the afternoon heat. Nearby an armadillo shuffled through the pecan leaves searching for grubs and ants. A family of coyotes serenaded the moon as it shone over the hills to the east. The solitude spoke to him as it had spoken to many of his warrior ancestors on the Scottish moors so many years before.

Through the brambles and sagebrush he could see the prairie surrounding the grove, bright in the light of the moon, peaceful for now. Hopefully it would stay that way. Josh had no desire to confront those Comanche braves. It was obvious from their tracks that they were traveling light and looking for blood. It was his aim to make sure it wasn’t his. For that reason, he had moved quickly when Bull started to light that cigarette.

Josh had known from the minute he first saw Bull there would be trouble. Bull reminded him of another man, a sergeant who ran rough-shod over his men and intended to do the same with the new shavetail second lieutenant who had taken over the command. The sergeant was a big barrel-chested man, like Bull, with shoulders wide from hard work and knuckles scarred from many a brawl. When he challenged Logan to join him behind the camp and shed his blouse, he was surprised to see the youngster turn, without a word, and stride toward the rear of the camp.

Josh thought about what Pa had told them all, on many occasions, that to go looking for a fight was a fool’s errand, for you would surely find one; but if a fight came to you, you best get on with it, for it wouldn’t go away.

Pa backed this up by teaching all the boys how to fight with their hands, arms, feet, and head, something he’d learned from a Frenchman he met down New Orleans way when he was with Andy Jackson. Then the boys practiced among themselves until tempers would flare and Pa would step in.

The sergeant didn’t know that. All he could see was a big raw-boned youth, barely on the high side of twenty; easy pickings for a barroom brawler like himself. By the time he realized he’d bitten off more than he could chew, it was too late. His face carried the scars of his mistake until a minie ball from a reb’s musket snuffed his life out six months later.

Josh knew he wasn’t through with Bull. The man would have to try him now or later. It was a thing that would have to be finished. Bull had been dealt a blow not only to his head, but also to his pride. No man could continue to live in this country, this wild, prideful land, without defending his honor.

“So how far is the Rocking N from here?” Josh asked.

“Well sir,” Scott responded with a nod, “it depends on who you ask. My boss says it’s about a half-day’s ride from here. But according to Mr. Nance, you’re on Rocking N range right now.”

CHAPTER TWO

JOSH WOKE TO the turkeys’ yelping as they greeted the West Texas morning. He came awake quickly, scanned the area in the dim early morning light, picked up his rifle, and stood. As soon as he moved, Scott Penny woke and looked around.

“I could sure use a cup of ranch house coffee right now, as bad as it is,” Scott said.

Josh went to his horse, saddled him, and slid the Winchester into its scabbard. As quietly as possible, he walked Chancy down to the creek for water. While the gray drank, he filled the water bag and his canteen, then went back up to the camp. Bull was awake, sitting where he had fallen.

Blood had clotted on Bull’s left cheek just below the hairline. His left eye was black and swollen almost completely closed.

Scott Penny was saddling his horse and chewing slowly on a piece of venison jerky. He turned to Josh with a wink, “Bull here’s not feelin’ too shiny.”

Bull turned his head so that he could fix Logan with his right eye. “You’re gonna pay for this one,” he said, rubbing his right fist in his left hand. His shoulder muscles bulged under his dirty shirt.

“Anytime you’re ready, Bull,” Josh said. He waited for a moment, then deliberately turned his back on Bull. “Scott, how far a ride is it to the Rocking N ranch house?”

“Bout a half-day’s ride south by west will put you on their doorstep.”

“Then I’ll be leaving you boys. Watch out for the Comanches, I’ve a feelin’ they’re not too far away.”

Josh heard the rush of feet in the pecan leaves behind him. He spun to his left, filling his hand with the Colt. Bull was caught in mid-stride.

Josh could see the bloodlust in Bull’s eyes. The man wanted to hurt him. He’d seen brawlers like Bull; they waited until a man’s back was turned, then attacked. Josh waited for the man to make a decision. Bull didn’t appear to be a fast thinker. He was probably weighing his chances. He didn’t want to, but if Bull kept coming, he’d kill him; but the man had frozen as still as a block of ice.

He looked calmly at Bull over the muzzle of the Colt. “You have an almighty urge to die, Mister. But this isn’t the time nor the place. I’ll tell you this much; you ever try to jump me like that again, and I’ll hole you where you stand. Now drop your gun, real easy, and go hunker down by that tree.”

Bull dropped his gun, turned around, moved over to the pecan tree, and sat down. Josh watched the man. He’d been humiliated twice. Josh realized Scott was a talker. He’d have the whole story about Bull spread across the prairie in no time. Bull would become a laughing stock. Well, he’d brought it on himself.

Josh raised a hand to Scott, eased down into the creek bed, and mounted the horse. He could feel the big gray's muscles quiver as he settled into the saddle. What more could a man ask than to be on horseback in a free, wild land like this Texas. He eased Chancy up to the crest of the mesquite covered hillside just high enough to see over the top. He was only a half mile from the pecan grove where they had camped. He hadn’t seen any movement as he rode out of the grove, but a man kept his hair by being careful.

The hill was a plateau that ran west as far as he could see. Mesquite and prickly pear cactus covered the rocky plateau. Occasionally an island of scrub oak provided a haven for deer, javelina, or marauding Comanches.

A family of white-tailed deer browsed contentedly. The two fawns still wore their spotted coats. They wouldn’t be around if Indians were holed up nearby. The doe’s head shot up as Josh rode over the crest. She watched him for a few moments as he drew nearer, then with a flick of her tail admonishing the fawns to follow, she trotted out of sight.

Only a few yards in from the edge of the hill, Logan saw the Comanche sign. Ten or twelve braves had passed by here last night. The horse droppings were crusting over, but still soft. All the horses were unshod, which meant they hadn’t raided anywhere yet. At least, they hadn’t captured any horses, and that was a Comanche’s passion—horses; horses and killing.

It was interesting, Josh thought, how city folks believed Indians wouldn’t fight at night. Night was the ally of the Comanche. When the summer night winds blew across the prairie under a full moon, he rode with blood in his eye and lust in his heart. The Comanche was the best light cavalry who ever sat a horse.

Josh sat relaxed but alert in his saddle as he rode southwest. Survival in this country meant spotting the other fellow first, and that’s just what he aimed to do. He had covered thousands of miles on the back of this horse in this same manner, both of them alert for danger. They had been together through some happy and some terrifying times.

Now he had a mission to complete for a friend; a friend who whetted his curiosity with his talk of Texas, of the land and of the people; a friend who had talked of Stephen Austin, Sam Houston, and even a Lt. Colonel in the United States Cavalry stationed in Texas, Robert E. Lee; a friend who spoke of his younger sister and his concern for her in this harsh but beautiful land; a friend who had brought to him the magic of this land; a friend who died on the point of an enemy’s saber.