Killoe (1962) (6 page)

Tap glanced across the Concho at the bluffs beyond the river. Close to where we sat, the Antelope joined the Concho, and the Concho itself pointed our way west.

"I don't like those bluffs," Tap commented, "but we're as safe here as anywhere, I guess."

Pa told him what we were thinking, and he agreed. We couldn't have chosen a better place to stop, for we had some shelter here from any wind that might blow up, there was good water, and there was grass. The youngsters were already rousing around in the leaves and finding a few pecans left over from the previous fall.

Switching saddles to a line-back dun, I rode over to the wagon where the Mexican was riding. He was propped up a little, and he had some color in his face.

"I'm Dan Killoe," I said.

He held out a slender brown hand and smiled; his teeth were very white. "'Gracias, amigo.

You have save my life, I think. I could go no further."

"You'd crawled a fair piece. I don't see how you did it."

He shrugged. "It was water I needed, and a place to hide." He grew serious. "'
Senor
, I must warn you. By sheltering me you will make the enemy . . . even many enemies."

"A man who makes tracks in this world makes enemies also," I said. "I figure a few more won't matter."

"These are very bad . . . malo. They are the Comancheros."

"I've heard of them. Some of your people who trade with the Comanches, is that it?"

"Si . . . and we do not approve,
senor
.

They found me in their country and they shot at me. I escaped, and they pursued .

. I killed one Comanchero, and one Comanche. Then they hit me. I fell, they caught me with a rope and dragged me. I got out my knife and cut the rope and I took that
man's
horse from him and rode ... they pursued again. My horse was killed, but they did not catch me."

This Mexican was something of a man. In my mind's eye I could see that drag and that chase. The only way he could get that horse was to kill its rider, and after that horse was killed he had dragged himself a far piece.

"You rest easy," I told him. "Comanchero or Comanche, nobody is going to bother you."

"They will come for me.'" He hitched himself to a better position. "You give me a horse and I shall ride. There is no need to risk."

"Let them come." I got down on the ground. "The Good Book says that man is born to trouble. Well, I don't figure on going against the Bible. What trouble comes, we will handle as we can, but nobody in my family ever drove a wounded man from his door, and we aren't about to."

That line-back dun was a running horse. He was also a horse with bottom. Leaving off the work that had to be done, I started for the Concho, and Zeb Lambert fell in alongside me.

This was Indian country, and we were expecting them. We scouted along the river for some distance, mainly hunting tracks, or signs of travel, but we found none.

Across the river we skirted the foot of the bluffs, found a faint trail up, and climbed to the top.

The wind was free up here, and a man could see for a long distance. We sat our horses, looking over the country. Zeb's brown hair blew in the wind when he turned his head to look.

The country away from the river was barren, and promised little. But no matter how we searched the country around we saw no movement, nor any tracks. Finally we circled back to camp.

They were out there somewhere, we were sure of it. But where?

The fires were ablaze when we rode in, and there was the good smell of coffee and of steaks broiling. Ben Cole and Freeman Squires had taken the first guard and were already with the cattle.

The herd was still feeding, relishing the fine, rich grass of the meadow. A few head had returned to the creek to drink again. Somewhere out on the plains a quail called.

Tap Henry came over to where I stood with Pa. "We'd best double the guard tonight," he said. "I've got a feeling."

"We've been lucky so far. The way I see it," Pa said, "that outfit back on the Brazos decided to let us get far enough out so they can blame it on Comanches."

Tap
looked
around at me. "Who's your Mexican friend?"

"He had trouble with the Comancheros. Says the man after him had a spider sear on his cheek."

Tap gave me an odd look. "Maybe we'd better give him the horse," he said, and then he got up and walked away.

"Now, what's the matter with him?" Pa asked.

It was unlike Tap to say such a thing, or to shy from trouble with anybody. "He must know something we don't," I said. "I'm getting curious about that man with the scar."

We ate, and I caught myself a little shut-eye, spreading my soogan under a pecan tree and lying half awake, half asleep, listening to the bustle around the camp.

All too soon, Zebony came to call me. He was pulling on his boots and, sitting there beside me, he said, "It's quiet out there . . . too quiet. You better come loaded for bear."

Milo Dodge was at the fire, and so was Aaron Stark. They were drinking coffee, and Stark had his Sharps repeater beside him.

Stamping my feet into my boots, I walked over to the fire. Once I had got to sleep I'd slept sound.., so sound it worried me, for I did not like to get into the habit of sleeping so soundly I could not be awakened by the slightest move.

The coffee was strong, and hot as hell. Pa came to the fire and handed me a cold biscuit, which I ate with my coffee.

"You boys be careful, now. I never knew Tap to be jumpy, but he surely is tonight."

Tom Sandy had the line-back dun ready for me, and when I stepped into the saddle I glanced over at Tap's bed. The bed was there, but Tap was not. "You seen
Tap
?"

Tom turned away. "No, I haven't!" he said, almost snapping the words
at
me. Once we were away from the firelight, the night was dark, for the area was partly shielded by the bluffs and the trees. We rode out together, the four of us, scattering to places about the herd. At such a time all the little noises of the night become intensely clear, and sounds which one has always known are suddenly strange and mysterious.

But the ears of men accustomed to the wilderness and the nighttime silences and sounds choose from among the many small noises those which are a warning. A bird rustling among the leaves, a small animal in the grass, a branch rubbing against another, the grunts and gasps and breathing of the cattle, the click of horns accidentally touching-- all these are familiar. We scattered out,
circled
, and then fell into pairs.

As always, I rode with Zebony.

It was very still. Some of the usual noises we did not hear, and this in itself warned us that something was out there, for the small animals and birds become apprehensive at strange movements among them. "What do you think, Zeb?" "They'll try to get close."

Milo Dodge and Stark rode up from the other side. "Milo," I whispered, "Zeb and me, we're going to move out into the edge of the trees. We'll try to meet them before they get to US."

"All right," he said, and watched when I pointed out where we would be.

We never got the chance. There was one brief instant of warning, a rushing in the grass, and then they came with the black loom of the bluff behind them so that we could catch no outline at which to shoot.

They came charging, but in silence, and then the first shot was fired.

It was my shot, fired blindly into the blackness, as much as a warning to the camp as anything.

There was an instant burst of firing in reply, and I heard a heavy fall somewhere near me, and the grunt of a man hitting the ground. A spot of white ... a man riding a paint horse showed, and I fired again.

The horse swerved sharply and then we were all firing. The surprise had been mutual.

They came unexpectedly from the night, but they charged when all four of us were almost together, and our fire smashed them back, caused them to swerve. Shouting and yelling, they bore down on the herd.

The cattle lunged to their feet and stampeded down the valley and away from camp.

Catching the momentary outline of a man against the sky, I fired again, and then again. Hastily I reloaded and started after them. But as suddenly as it had happened, it was over. The attackers were gone and the herd was gone.

Zeb came riding up out of the night. "Dan! Dan?'"

"Yeah . . . somebody's down."

There was a rush of horsemen from camp, and Pa yelled out, "Dan? Are you all right?"

Zeno Yearling spoke from nearby. "Here he is. I think it's Aaron."

Pa struck a light. Aaron was down, all right. He was shot through the chest and he was dead.

"They'll pay for this," Pa said. "By the Lord Harry, they'll pay!"

We circled warily, hunting for other men who were down. We found two of theirs. One was a man named Streeter, a hanger-on who had drifted to the Cowhouse country from over on the Nueces after trouble with the Rangers. The other man we had seen around, but did not know.

"Two for one," Tap said.

"Two, hell!" Pa exploded. "I wouldn't swap Stark for ten of them! He was a good man."

"We'll wait until daylight," I said, "then go hunting."

We rode back to camp with Aaron across a saddle. Nobody was feeling very good about it, and I didn't envy Pa, who would have to tell his widow.

There was no talking around the fire. Picking up some sticks, I built the flames up. We checked around, but nobody else had been hurt.

"Two doesn't seem right," Zeb said. "I know we hit more of them. They came right at us, close range."

Karen and Mrs. Foley were at the fire, making coffee. Taking the Patterson, I cleaned it carefully, checked the loads, and reloaded. Then I went out and looked the line-back dun over to see if he'd picked up
any
scratches. He looked fit and ready, and I knew him . For a to6gh little horse.

The day broke slowly, a gray morning with a black line of trees that slowly took on shape and became distinct. With the first light, we saddled up again.

Tim Foley, despite his arguments, was forced to stay behind with the wagons, and Frank Kelsey stayed with him.

"You'd better stay, Tom," Pa said. "We've lost one married man already."

"Be damned if I will!" Sandy replied testily. He hesitated. "We should leave another man. Suppose they come back?"

4/5

"Free"--Pa looked over at Squires--"you stay. You stood guard last night."

"Now, look here!" Squires protested.

"As a favor," Pa said. "Will you stay?"

Freeman Squires shrugged and walked away. The rest of us mounted up and moved out.

The trail was broad enough, for they had followed the herd into the night, and the herd had taken off into the broad, empty lands to the south.

This was Lipan country, but the Lipans, of late, had been friendly to the white man.

We rode swiftly into the growing light, a tight bunch of armed horsemen, grim-faced and bitter with the loss of Aaron Stark and our cattle. No longer were we simply hardworking, hard-riding men, no longer quiet men intent on our own affairs. For riding after lawless men was not simply for revenge or recovery of property; it was necessary if there was to be law, and here there was no law except what right-thinking men made for themselves.

The brown grass of autumn caught the golden light of morning, and the dark lines of trees that marked the Concho fell behind. Our group loosened, spread out a little to see the tracks better. Among the many cattle tracks we searched for those of riders.

Away off on the flank, I suddenly came upon the tracks of a lone rider whose mount had a magnificent stride. Drawing up, I checked those tracks again.

It was a big horse---
far
larger and with a better gait than our cow ponies--and it carried a light burden, for the tracks indicated the weight upon the horse must be small.

The tracks came from the northwest, which did not fit with those we followed, unless they were being joined by some scout sent on ahead. Yet why would such a scout be sent? And who among the renegades who followed the Holts could possibly have such a horse?

The tracks had been made the night before, or late the previous afternoon, and I
followed
them, but kept my own party in sight.

Suddenly the tracks veered sharply west, and I drew rein, looking in that direction.

There was a clump of black on the prairie . . . mesquite? Cautiously, rifle ready, I walked the dun toward it. The size grew . . . it was a clump of trees and brush almost filling a hollow in the plain.

The edge broke sharply off in a ledge of rock, and the tops of the trees barely lifted above its edge. The tracks I followed led to the edge and disappeared into the copse.

Warily, I followed.

Then I heard running water, a trickle of water falling into a pool. A wind stirred the leaves, then was still.