The Baron Range Page 14

  “I don’t know,” Anson said.

  “They’re different,” Martin said.

  “Different how?” Peebo asked.

  “For one thing,” Martin said, “there’s so blamed many of ‘em. All different tribes and all mean as hornets. They’re good on horseback, like the Sioux and the Crow, but they don’t fight like ’em. You can’t see ’em until it’s too late, and when you think there’s only two or three of them, you’re ass-deep in a dozen or more.”

  “Same as the Plains tribes, it sounds like to me,” Peebo said. “Crow and Cheyenne are part horse and plenty smart. The Sioux, too. They come out of nowhere on a man and you can’t count ’em until it’s too late.”

  Martin and Peebo laughed together. Anson envied them. They had found a common bond and he’d hardly seen more than half a dozen Apaches in his whole life. They were like ants. You didn’t see them until they had already stung you and then you might find you had been sitting on an anthill all along without ever knowing it.

  “Well, if you get tired of fighting Apaches,” Martin said, “we’ve got Comanches, too. And it’s hard to tell who’s meaner.”

  “I guess it don’t make no difference long as you’ve got one in your sights,” Peebo said. “A lead ball don’t care what it hits and it does the same to mean or kindly.”

  Again the two men laughed, and Anson wished they would talk about something else. The only thing he’d ever fought was a bull with the pinkeye, and once he got it down, he ran away as fast as he could before it got up again.

  The rain drove down harder than before, and the flood roared past them just over the knoll. It was almost pitch-black and Anson couldn’t see more than five yards in any direction. The horses gave them some shelter from the downpour, but he was getting cold and starting to itch where his clothes clung to his skin.

  “Reckon Cullers is lighting a shuck?” Martin asked Peebo sometime later when the rain and the wind subsided for a moment.

  “He’s likely holed up same as us,” Peebo said. “He knows as long as it’s raining, we’re not going nowhere.”

  28

  KEN RICHMAN WORKED the horse through its paces in the circular corral. He used a small whip to get the sorrel’s attention, but he never touched the horse with the leather. The horse wore a halter and Ken held on to the rope looped through one of the D-rings. This was a morning exercise he dearly loved, just the horse and him—the big Texas sky and Baronsville, the town he was building, forgotten for an hour or so.

  “Ruddy, you can get to that next gait, boy,” Ken said to the gelding. “It’s in your nature.”

  Ruddy whickered softly as if in response to Richman’s conversational tone. He had three gaits down pat, but Ken wanted to bring him up to five gaits. He snapped the whip and it cracked crisply. Ruddy went into the fourth gait, a canter, and Ken beamed.

  “That’s it, boy,” he said. “You can run that one all day long.”

  Ruddy’s ears stiffened to rigid cones and his eyes broke open in a wild fixation on some object in the distance. Ken turned and saw the lone rider through the shimmer of the morning dew alight in the rising sun.

  “Ho, boy, that’s enough. Slow ’er down.” Ken clucked to Ruddy and the horse slipped out of the canter and slowed to a walk. Out of the corner of his eye, Ken saw a rider appear on the horizon. “I wonder who that is,” he said to Ruddy as he stepped up and rubbed its delicate nose. The horse bowed its neck and pawed a territorial crease in the dirt.

  Ken walked the horse over to one of the posts in the corral and snubbed the bitter end of the rope around it. He climbed over a pole and stepped outside of the corral. He pulled his hat brim down to shade his eyes from the sun. His florid face seemed to flare in the glow of morning and his square jaw tightened as he squinted to make out who the rider might be. He didn’t recognize the horse.

  He waited as the rider drew closer and soon he saw who it was. His jawline softened and his blue-green eyes sparkled.

  “What brings you all the way out to Wolf Ridge, Juanito?” Ken asked when the man on the horse was within earshot. “I thought you were up the coast with Marty and Anson.”

  “I was,” Juanito said. He made no move to dismount. “Martin wants you to do something for him.”

  “Glad to. He back?”

  “No. It is a long story.”

  “Tell it,” Ken said.

  Juanito recounted the events that had brought him back to Baronsville with a request that Ken get some men and ride to the Matagorda as soon as possible.

  “I know Cullers,” Ken said. “Who he is. A cutthroat.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “I’ll put Ruddy away and saddle my riding horse and round up some men. You think Marty will be in the Matagorda?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Where are you headed now, Juanito?”

  “Back to the Box B. Martin wants me to look after Caroline. Have you seen her?”

  “Nope. I rode out once to check on her, but she was asleep. The criada said she was fine. Lonely.”

  “Yes. Get down to the Matagorda fast, will you, Ken? I think Martin is going to need some help with those cabrones. There is only Martin and the boy to go against them. They are very dangerous men, those three.”

  “Yes, I expect so. Swenson I don’t know. Hoxie is never very far away from Sam Cullers. Cullers is a backshooter and knifer.”

  “Hasta la vista,” Juanito said, and turned his horse toward the Box B. Ken watched him go and then walked back to the corral, opened the gate. He hadn’t told Juanito, but he had known Jerry Winfield, too. They had once helped Jim Bowie and his brothers smuggle some slaves into New Orleans. Neither of them had liked the job much, and Jerry had wanted to let the Negroes go. But they were broke and needed the money. Jerry had worried about it for a long time, though, and now it was hard to believe he was dead.

  Tears came unbidden to Ken’s eyes as he led Ruddy out of the corral and toward the stables. “Damn that Cullers,” he muttered.

  29

  THE RAIN SLACKENED and the roar of the runaway creek gradually subsided.

  “Maybe we can get across now,” Peebo said, pushing the horses out of his way as he stood up.

  “Worth a try,” Martin said.

  The three men mounted their horses and rode over the top of the knoll. Below, the floodwaters were subsiding. They had made a wide pool and were now receding fast.

  Anson looked across the creek at the empty land beyond. But then he saw something. “There’s somebody on horseback,” he said. “Straight out yonder.”

  “I see him,” Peebo said. “Duck.”

  Martin and Anson ducked, but Peebo just sat there, looking at the man. A second later, they saw a puff of smoke, then heard the crack of the rifle. A lead ball whistled overhead.

  “High and wide,” Peebo said.

  “That Cullers?” Martin asked.

  “No, I figure that to be Hoxie.” He paused as the rider turned his horse. The horse galloped away and disappeared over the horizon. “And there he goes,” Peebo said.

  “Can we cross that flooded creek?” Martin asked.

  “We’re damned sure going to try,” Peebo said, and rode down the slope of the knoll, leading the way.

  Martin and Anson followed.

  The three men picked their way across the creek, and after some close calls, with the horses struggling against the current, they made the other side, high and dry.

  “We can catch Cullers now,” Peebo said. “I figure he left Hoxie behind to try and shoot me down. But Hoxie got rattled when he saw there was three of us.”

  “You read a man pretty good, Peebo,” Martin said.

  “I try.”

  “By the way, is that your real name? Peebo?”

  Peebo laughed. “My first name’s Peabody, but I never could pronounce it when I was a kid. So, everybody started calling me Peebo and I figure it’s a hell of a lot better than Peabody. The name sounds too British for a Yankee.”
r />   “Yeah,” Martin said. “I like Peebo a hell of a lot better.”

  Anson snorted. He didn’t like Peebo, either as a name or as a man. He didn’t like the way his father took to him so quick. He felt shut out. He watched as the two rode away together. He jabbed spurs into his horse’s flanks, but he didn’t care if he caught up with them.

  “They wouldn’t notice, no way,” Anson said aloud. As he rode, he tried to squelch the resentment he bore toward Peebo Elves. But he had a hurt somewhere inside that wouldn’t go away. “Who in hell does he think he is, anyway? Peebo, my ass. He ought call himself Short Britches.”

  Anson was surprised when his father finally turned around in the saddle and motioned for him to catch up. He grinned and slapped his horse on the rump. He galloped into the wind just as a last spatter of rain dashed against his face.

  30

  SAM CULLERS HEARD only a single shot, a faint crack from faraway, the sound of it dulled by the lumbering dove-gray clouds overhead. He barely heard it, since he had put distance between him and that persistent little bastard who was following them like his own shadow. Still, he did not slow his pace. He rode on, thinking to himself how lucky they were to have crossed that dry creek bed before the sudden flood. But then the rains had been so relentless they hadn’t been able to see two feet in front of them, so they’d had to wait out the storm. He had left Hoxie within two hundred yards of the last place he had spotted that little bastard on that seventeen-hand horse.

  “Either Hoxie got the bastard, he missed, or that short stuff changed him out of the saddle,” Cullers said to himself. But he kept looking back over his shoulder, and when he saw a rider coming, he knew it was Hoxie, hell-bent for leather, wearing out a good horse.

  Sam didn’t wait for Hoxie to catch up with him, but eventually Hoxie did. His horse was well lathered with the yellow foam of sweat, breathing hard.

  “You dumb bastard,” Cullers said. “What the hell happened?”

  “Soon’s I catch my damned breath, I’ll tell you,” Hoxie puffed.

  “Likely your horse’ll founder before you get your breath.”

  “I ain’t partial to ridin’ bareback noway, ’specially when the hide’s slicker’n greased owl shit, but it ain’t just one no more, Sam. We shoulda stole us some saddles while we were at it, goddamn.”

  “Quit your grumblin’. You mean you got the little bastard?”

  “No, I mean they’s three of ‘em a-doggin’ our trail. And the little bastard’s pullin’ the horse the Swede stole.”

  “Who are the other two?”

  “Looks like them fellers we seen in Galveston at the grog shop.”

  “Shit,” Cullers said. “Baron and his brat, you mean. Is that gaucho sonofabitch with ’em?”

  “I don’t reckon. Just Martin and the boy. They must have got Lars and done somethin’ to him, Sam.”

  “Like what?” Cullers snapped.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Shot his ass to pieces, I reckon.”

  “Maybe Lars just run off and gave back the damned horse. How far behind do you figure?”

  “They crossed where that creek bed was. Half a mile at most.”

  Cullers looked back over his shoulder. He could see half a mile. The land was flat. Ahead, it looked much the same. If they continued on their course, they’d be caught out in the open, outnumbered, shot down like a couple of dogs. He searched to the north and the land appeared to get hilly, broken up. He turned his horse, put it to a gallop.

  “Hold on, Sam. I—I can’t keep up with you. My horse needs rest.”

  “Tough luck, Hoxie. Maybe you can hold ‘em off or down ’em.”

  “You bastard. We’re in this together, ain’t we?” Hoxie tried to get his horse to break out of a walk, but the bottom had gone out of him. He would be lucky to ride another mile. The sound of the horse’s lungs working gave him the shivers.

  “Not no more, we ain’t,” Cullers said and slapped the tips of his reins against his horse’s rump.

  “You sonofabitch!” Hoxie yelled, but he heard his words die in the empty air.

  But despite what Cullers had said, Hoxie was not stupid. He knew he had little chance against three men. Not out in the open like that. He dismounted and walked to the front of the horse. He grabbed the animal by the ears and pulled downward with all his strength. The horse stumbled and tried to stand up, but Hoxie’s weight was too great for him. Finally the horse went to its knees and Hoxie climbed onto its neck and forced it to lie flat. He lay on the horse’s neck until it quieted and then slid back beside it, one hand putting pressure on the neck to keep the horse down.

  He wished he had a saddle to use to stop a bullet, but all the horses had on when they stole them were halters. He lay against the horse’s back, listened to its labored breathing, felt its backbone undulate like a bellows against his belly.

  Hoxie pulled out his knife, a big-bladed bowie, sharp on both sides of the blade.

  “I’ll shut you up, you mangy sonofabitch,” he said, and plunged the knife into the horse’s throat, drew it back toward him quickly, leaving a huge gash that poured blood out as the horse kicked and thrashed, sucked blood into its lungs. “They might get me,” Hoxie said, holding the horse down so it didn’t roll over and crush him, “but they ain’t gettin’ you back.”

  The horse twitched spasmodically for a few more seconds, then expelled air from its anus and was still. A putrid smell hung in the close air and Hoxie pinched his nose. He lay his reloaded rifle across the dead horse’s side and waited for what he was sure would be certain death.

  31

  PEEBO PUT UP his hand as a sign for Martin and Anson to halt.

  “What’s up?” Martin asked. “We can catch that bastard easily. He can’t be more than a quarter mile away by now.”

  “Just a minute, Martin,” Peebo said. “First, some figuring. We know a couple of things about Cullers and Hoxie. Might be important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They left the Matagorda in a big hurry. We know they have one rifle. Hoxie probably has a pistol and I know Cullers does. They don’t have any food or water. No saddles to carry anything.”

  “So?”

  “So even with a rifle and two pistols, they could stand us off awhile. And they’re probably waiting up ahead for us to ride right into them.”

  “That could be,” Martin admitted.

  Anson stood his horse a dozen yards from the two men, listening to them talk. He wondered how his father could be so subservient to a little man like Peebo. So trusting. It galled him to think that his father would let a complete stranger tell him what to do. Surely his father was a lot smarter than Peebo Elves, who couldn’t be more than a few years past twenty, if he was that old.

  “Now,” Peebo said, “we can sure as hell chase them jaspers and we might get lucky. Or we could buy the farm. But I think we have a good chance, with the three of us, if we come at them from a different angle.”

  “Flank ’em?” Martin asked.

  “Something like that. Now, the most dangerous path is to follow Hoxie’s and Cullers’s tracks. I’ll do that. You and Anson can come up on their flanks and we’ll have them boxed in.”

  “Might work,” Martin said. He looked over at Anson. “Better get in on this, son.”

  “I can hear you,” Anson said, his tone sullen as the shift in a cat’s purr from soft to growl.

  Peebo looked at the two men, his cyan eyes aflare with light. “Or I can go on alone,” he said. “You two can foller like you done.”

  “We have a stake in catching Cullers, too,” Martin said. “We’ll back your play.”

  “Good. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. You two ride a wide half circle on either side of me. I’ll follow the tracks right to the end.”

  Martin looked sharply at his son. “Anson, you take the right flank. Keep Peebo in sight if you can, but don’t sit up too straight. You don’t want to give either Hoxie or Cullers a good target. Keep your rifle ready.”r />
  “All right,” Anson said, and wheeled his horse off the track.

  Martin took the left flank and Peebo rode on, following the fresh tracks of Hoxie and Cullers. He put his horse to a gallop and drew his rifle, lay it across the pommel.

  Anson drew his rifle from its scabbard and checked the priming. “Damn,” he said. The powder was wet, had turned to paste. He dug a finger into the pan and wiped the goo out, buffed it clean with his thumb. Then he took a dry patch and wiped the pan dry. He bit the wooden stopper out of his small horn and poured fresh powder in the pan. He blew away the excess and pulled down the frizzen. He heard Peebo’s horse galloping away and spurred his horse up to the same gait, which was not smooth, but rough and ungainly.

  His side began to ache, and the rifle took on weight, was difficult to handle with the horse’s rough gait making him bounce like a sack of spuds on the saddle. He ranged well to the right but he could still see Peebo on his left, riding slightly ahead of him. He found himself hoping that Peebo would come upon Cullers and Hoxie first and shoot them both dead. And he almost wished all three would die in a hail of gunfire, but he knew that it was not good to think that way. Peebo had done nothing to him. He just didn’t like the way his father had taken to him so quick.

  He wrestled the horse, trying to break it into a gait that was less jiggling, but the animal wouldn’t respond. Apparently it had but two gaits, a walk and a gallop. His side was shot through with a piercing pain that almost doubled him over with the intensity of it.

  How much farther do we have to go? Anson asked silently.

  The ground was rough, dotted with sage and cactus, sand and dirt and wildflowers that blurred past. Anson could not distinguish any particular thing anymore as his eyes teared up from the pain in his side. He wondered if there was going to be an ambush and whether he would hear the sound of the rifle and hear the ball whistle before it struck him in the face. He knew these thoughts were morbid, but they took his mind off his unbearably painful side ache. He remembered he was supposed to hunker low over his horse’s neck, and when he did that, the pain only got worse, and still he kept waiting for that rifle report, which could come from Peebo or his father or from Hoxie or Cullers.