Billy the Kid Page 12

Kelcey, the new man, a small bandy-legged cowboy from Cole's ranch, said, "If he goes where I think he's goin', you'll get all the shots you want at either one of them." Kelcey knew the country.

  Art turned on his horse to open a saddlebag flap. He extracted a large tobacco sack, opened it, and looked in. Examining the bits of scrap iron he'd picked up at the smithy's in Colterville, to which he'd added sharp bits of broken glass, he said to Perry, with a strange mirth, "Jus' checkin' it." Securing the flap again, Art said, "All right, fellas, let's go." The scrap iron and bits of broken glass were loads for his ten-gauge shotgun, which he planned to use on Billy Boy.

  Perry spit out a cud of massacred plug, then they reined off through the cottonwoods along the ridgeline, keeping Willie at a distance, barely in sight.

  ***

  TWO RANGES WERE OUT THERE, Willie knew, not quite as wide, high, and rugged as the first humpback that the Macombers trail pierced. Cedars and pines poked out unexpectedly between the varied-sized brown buttes that studded them. Beyond the next range was a wide sun-cooked mesa, then another porcupine-back which slid down, on pine-covered slopes, into the Benediction River valley.

  After the river and lush cow valley was still another low scrubby range, then desert, high and low, all the way across Nevada to the California border. Lonely land every mile. Land that offered the escape route.

  The clouds that had hovered on the east horizon at first dawn were moving slowly north but were still broken, allowing the sun to bore down brilliantly for five or six minutes; then the land would turn bleak and forbidding again for a period. Nothing moved across the wide vista as Willie covered the zigzag of the trail up the next range. He scanned down into the valley floor beneath, half gorge and half canyon, brush-clung. Nothing moved.

  9

  WEST OF WILLIE, Dobbs scrambled down from another vantage point, his lean body graceful. He'd picked up a sun glint from the sheriff's binoculars. Then he'd spotted the figure on the ledge.

  He soon returned to Art's side. Perry and Kelcey were relaxing nearby. Dobbs said, "He's still up there. 'Bout a mile and a half ahead. I don't know what he's doing, but he's got something that glints when the sun comes out."

  "Maybe he's signalin' Bonney," Perry said.

  Art's answer was an unconcerned shrug. "Let's don't rush him. Just follow him. He seems to know where he's goin'. He's got Billy pegged." Perched on a rock, he was using a paper funnel to pour the scrap-iron and glass mixture down into one yawning barrel of the ten-gauge. The load made a tinkling sound in the hollow steel.

  Kelcey had been watching Art throughout. Then curiosity got the best of him. He asked, "What are you doin' with that?"

  Art eyed Kelcey. It was obvious the cowhand didn't know much about gun loads. It was evident what was going into the shotgun—and why.

  Art told the bandy-legged man, "It's for Billy Bonney. He killed my youngest boy five days ago, for no reason a'tall."

  "That's the debt, huh?" Kelcey asked.

  Art nodded and blew glass dust from the funnel into the barrel hole.

  Kelcey half shook his head. "First time I ever heard of that. Scrap-iron load. Whew!"

  ***

  MOVING SLOWLY along the floor of the gorge, Billy flanked a narrow winding stream and led a badly limping Almanac. Frustrated, he had the consolation of knowing that the "sheriff," or whoever might be following, would have to tackle the same man- and horse-busting terrain. A man could ruin five horses and get himself killed with no trouble at all in loose gravel like this.

  At this moment he thought the land itself was more his enemy than any posse. He hadn't made more than twelve miles all day. Sooner or later he'd have to leave Almanac and hope to god that Willie would find him.

  As the shadows deepened in the gorge, Billy decided to go on for another hour, until full dark, then find a shelter. He would not light a fire, though. From the humpback slope, it would be a cinch to spot a flicker of red. He'd use his deputy coat for a pillow.

  In the middle of the night, Billy awakened and after long thought decided that the sheriff was not with a posse. He was alone, tracking without dogs or Indians. In this case, that would be Willie's style. He'd gone off to Phoenix instead of guarding his special prisoner in Polkton. Willie was taking the responsibility for Billy's escape. He wouldn't give up if he had to follow Billy all the way to California.

  ***

  IN A SPACE OF OPEN SKY to the west, beneath the edges of the storm clouds, the red circle of the sun began to drop as if a giant hand had been holding it in suspension, then had loosened its mighty grip to let it plummet. For a few awesome minutes, it held the blue ranges in crimson, made the red buttes angrier, and licked down across the east wall of the gorge.

  It outlined four riders—Art, Perry, and companions—as they topped the stark ridge of the razorback, their shapes grotesque against the darkening sky.

  For a fleeting moment, it also shone on the weary face of Willis Monroe, who was halfway down the west slope of the humpback, edging along a dizzy bluff. Clearing the bluff while it was still light, he dismounted to make camp. The Palouse was exhausted. So was he.

  ***

  THE STORM REDNESS had already painted the yard of the Double W, and a freshening wind was driving the sultry air before it. It had come whispering in from the south and was picking up speed by the minute.

  Cotton and Duke were near the back door, nipping into their haunches for pesky fleas. Now and then they looked up nervously as a chill-rain wind began shaking the willows.

  Inside at the kitchen table, Kate thought there was a terrible, ominous quiet about this sunset. The red had lanced through the window for a moment, but now it was pitch where the sun had been. The brooding mountains were barely visible.

  She was toying with her supper but had no real desire to eat. The day had seemed endless. She'd gone about all her chores, even doing more than usual, but hadn't been able to take her mind off her husband, or the boy he was tracking. She was positive Willis would find him. Yet stubbornness was sometimes a dangerous trait.

  A fork was in her resting hand. She stared at the food. Only the grandfather's loud ticktock could be heard.

  Finally the fork clattered down. Kate pushed her chair back.

  ***

  BILLY ROUNDED A BEND, sucking in his breath. Ahead, not more than five hundred yards, the gorge opened to a wider canyon. Where the gorge mouthed, astonishingly, sat a hewn log cabin.

  In the dimness the lodging was difficult to see, but it appeared to be snugged down on a big flat rock above the streambed. Smoke rose from its single chimney, spinning off in the mounting breeze. Billy stood a moment, then tied Almanac and went closer.

  He saw picks and shovels strewn about, and a jury-built ore crusher. He edged toward it, easing up the rough log steps that led to the flat.

  An animal snorted and thumped, and he quickly stepped back into the shadows. To the side of the shack he could make out a crude corral. He slipped toward it, ducked under the top rail, moved into the head shelter. A burro turned and stared at the visitor. Next to the burro was a sorrel.

  Billy peered through a crack in the horse shelter, then drew his gun, cleared the corral bars, and edged up to the cabin. He kicked at the flimsy door. It almost came off its hinges. The miner, who was eating, looked up and saw the intruder and the gun, and slowly raised his hands.

  Billy said, "I need to trade you horses." Almanac needed rest and safety.

  ***

  LISTENING TO THE WIND, Kate lay with her eyes wide-open, drilling into the ceiling boards. One arm was flung across her husband's pillow.

  She had begun to hate the clock. She listened to it for a while and then got out of bed. She went into the living room and crossed to the clock, opening the case to reach in and secure the pendulum. She'd go insane if it ticked all night.

  She began walking away but stopped in the center of the room, suddenly realizing that the soughing of the wind and the creaking of the house were even worse.
<
br />   She returned to the clock and started the pendulum stroke again, angrily swinging the case door shut. There was a crash as the glass shattered. Kate screamed.

  ***

  IN THE MOUNTAINS a rock rolled down on Willie from above, sending him out of his blanket into a crouch, gun aimed up the slope.

  "Billy?" he said breathlessly.

  There was no answer, and then he saw a mountain cat cross the dark shape of a boulder overhead, springing to another boulder. The inquisitive, shadowy form bounded away.

  Willie laughed nervously, feeling stupid, and returned to the bedroll, putting the .45 by his fingertips. He knew he might not sleep again that night.

  An hour later the sky began to rumble, faintly at first. Then lightning knifed across it, cracking wildly, sending great blue-white daggers through black clouds toward the mountains. The wind began to whine.

  Willie jumped up to gather the bedroll and his saddle, racing toward an overhang. He threw the gear under the rock shoulder, then ran again as lightning lit up the whole east side of the humpback. He pulled the Palouse under the slant, then tucked the bedroll and saddle deeper into it as the tentative spatters of cold smoking rain hit the rocks.

  ***

  EIGHT MILES ON to the west, on the downslope of the third range where it slid into Benediction Valley, lightning cracked savagely, reaching toward the minerals in the earth. Billy watched bolts strike three or four times in the long, narrow stand of pines. They were parched and dried from the summer's long heat.

  Flames shot into the air and the cold storm wind fanned them, sending them north along the stand by the river, sweeping with a roar. Pine top after pine top exploded until the whole slope was a fiery mass. It cast a violent red scar on the slope beneath the boiling clouds.

  Billy looked out at the slanting rain from his lee of cover on the second humpback. "Do it good," he said. Following him wouldn't be easy in this storm.

  The miner's sorrel was several feet away. She was a wise horse and had barely reacted to the fierce jags of lightning that had preceded the sheets of rain. They'd made five miles up the mountain since leaving the shack, and before the deluge hit.

  Billy remembered these wild autumn storms, with their rumbling, blasting fireworks. They usually didn't last too long but poured water like it had no end. Another month and he would have been in snow. He was glad, too, that he was out of the gorge. In an hour it would be a water-raging mill run.

  As he watched the rain, he thought maybe his luck had changed. Tracks would be washed out. Willie, or any posse, would have to ford the stream. The downpour might hold them in position all night.

  Billy gathered the blanket around him and pushed his head into the vee of the saddle.

  The storm passed in two hours, leaving the mountains fresh and clean. Stars came out, and on the west slope by Benediction, the fire burned through the last of the pines, leaving glowing embers and three inches of gray-white ash over five hundred acres.

  At dawn the still-smoking pines stood as helpless as charred cadavers, stripped of all green, mortally wounded, giant black fingers against the new clear sky.

  10

  "CAME SNEAKIN' IN here last night," the miner fumed. "Held a gun on me, an' took a week's supply o' grub. My horse, too. Left me that lame one. Ever I see him again, I'll pump him full of hot metal."

  "I wouldn't recommend trying," Willie said, going over to Almanac, talking to him.

  It was nearing ten o'clock.

  He patted his horse, looking at him for damage. He examined the hoof. The shoe had been sheared off, and there was a nasty rock cut on the hock. Otherwise the gelding was all right. Nature would take care of the hoof. He patted Almanac's flank.

  "This is my animal," he said. "I'll be back to get him in a week or so."

  The miner cackled. "He stole the sheriff's horse?"

  At the moment Willie failed to see the humor in that theft. "How did he ride out?"

  "On down this canyon. There's a trail goin' up. Pick it up 'bout a mile down."

  The sun was out full, turning the range golden. Mist came off the rain-swept rocks and seeped out of the arroyos. Sparse cedar and juniper on the slopes steamed as if they baked in the heating rays concentrated on them.

  The stream had widened from about three feet to a good twelve, with white water cresting over the muddy flow. It roared through the gorge beneath the miner's shack.

  "Can I ford it?" Willie asked.

  The miner nodded. "Right opposite the trail. Shallow there. Gravel bar. Keep to this side o' the bank till you get there, though. Watch quicksand."

  Willie swung back up into the saddle, taking another look at Almanac in the feeble corral, wishing once again he had the gelding's power beneath him. "Take care of that animal. I'll repay the grain."

  He rode on off, hearing the miner's shout, "You shoot that damn horse thief, not my sorrel!"

  Willie didn't bother to answer the grizzled man.

  ***

  RIGHT SHOULDER BANDAGED, Sam Pine was sitting up in bed. Kate stood at the end of it, face drawn and eyes red from lack of sleep.

  "Can't you send more men back in there, Sam?"

  The deputy shook his head. "Not unless he comes out and asks for them. Knowing Willie, and knowing why he wants to take Billy alone, I doubt if he will."

  "Send them anyway," Kate said harshly.

  Sam tried to placate her. "Kate, why don't you go on home and—"

  She interrupted with cold fury. "Sam, why don't you go to hell?"

  Sam was shocked. The women he thought well of never swore. And he'd never heard the former teacher swear before. He was speechless.

  She stood staring at him. "If that shocks you, I'll really cut loose. I know all the words."

  Sam cleared his throat. "Well, Wilson's posse will leave here tomorrow morning. Barnes is gettin' back on the train today. He'll lead it."

  Moving toward the door, Kate said, "And it'll take them three days to catch up. All of you make me sick."

  The door closed with a bang.

  ***

  THE MINER'S SORREL was sure-footed but too old for any speed. Billy had decided to pace her out for emergency and for the stretch across the desert. He'd picked his way up the second range without once touching spurs to her.

  Although he'd looked back countless times, seeing nothing, Billy could almost feel the big man's presence on his tail, sitting high, somber, single-minded. He'd be coaxing a horse upward in a soft voice, eyes set on the terrain ahead, never even considering an ambush—which Billy had thought about, but only briefly. Winging him to put him out of action. A last resort.

  Billy discounted any brilliant moves. Willie trying to circle out in front was almost an impossibility. The man could telegraph ahead to Nevada or California peace officers to set a trap, squeeze from both sides. But that wasn't Willie's method. Relentless plodding was, and it began to unnerve Billy.

  About noon, near the razorback of the second range, Billy stopped to bind the sorrel's hooves with the squares of rawhide from Beckmann's. It didn't take long to finish the job. Then he led the weary mare thirty or forty feet.

  The earth was turning softer and would get like flour once he was into the mesa ahead. Sharply defined shoe prints could draw a steady line to his neck. Billy looked back at the marks. Now there were only round depressions in his wake, easy enough to blot out. Once he'd heard about a man who had turned his horses' shoes backward to fool trackers. But this rawhide was simpler. He also hoped for more rain.

  He walked the sorrel to where he'd started, broke a scrub pine branch off, remounted, then towed the branch behind the red-brown rump for almost a quarter of a mile.

  Finally, heaving the branch away, he said softly, "That'll be enough to confuse you for a while, Deacon Monroe."

  Then he reined up over the crest, chuckling. He did not laugh long. Not a quarter way down the mountain, the sorrel began showing her years and weakness.

  ***

  WILLIE GOT
DOWN on his knees to search the earth on the trail. Then he walked a few hundred feet up it. There was no doubt that Billy had dragged a branch, because the twig marks were clearly on the ground. Yet there was not even a thin sign of shoes mixed under the wavering scratches.

  Willie pondered a moment longer, thinking that Billy might have decided to leave the trail, breaking south along the range crest. He aimed the binoculars that way but picked up nothing except two grazing antelope. Puzzled, he mounted again and trotted on.

  Soon the wavering branch marks ceased, and Willie looked down at a series of round depressions that led away up to the crest. Dismounting once more, he ran his fingers around the concave marks. Then it dawned on him. The rawhide! He laughed in admiration and climbed back on the Palouse, galloping the sturdy horse to the crest. At this point the grade was shallow.

  Breaking over it, with the barren, dusty mesa suddenly spreading out before him, his eyes caught a slow-moving plume of dust midway across. It crept along. He adjusted the binoculars and saw Billy Bonney at last.

  Willie murmured, "You should have stayed up high," then spurred off, sending the Palouse downslope.

  ***

  IT WAS ABOUT ONE O'CLOCK when Billy, just before dropping into the dry creek cut on the west side of the mesa, turned once again to look back. A stick of dust was streaking toward him, coming fast. A single cone of it. The distance was too far to pick him out, but the fact that it was a lone rider didn't leave much to guess. Willie Monroe.

  Staring at the low cone of shimmering dust, Billy lingered on the bluff of the cut, suddenly furious. Then he shouted in frustration, "Dumb mule-head! Go back! Don't make me kill you!"

  The yellow inverted cone of dust came steadily onward.

  Cursing, Billy angled down the loose sand mesa bank and plunged into the draw that sliced between it and the next low mountain range. The bed, cobble-stoned with rocks, led north and south, before a long curve took it in the direction of a canyon and on to the Benediction. Its ragged banks showed signs of wild torrents in the runoffs. But now it was a damp ghost creek.

  Rounding a sharp bend to the north, Billy made a decision. The sorrel was too beat to run any appreciable way. She'd give up and fall to her knees at anything more than a slow trot; her heart would pop. There was nothing to do but hole up and hope that Willie would turn south.