Riders From Long Pines (19 page)

“Don't call me cowboy,” said Cannidy, in a prickly tone. “My name is Chester Cannidy. I'm the tracker for this party.”

“I know your name,
cowboy
,” said Quinn. “Mr. Grissin told us you'd be meeting us here. Now get a cayouse under your saddle and
vamos.”

Vamos
your ass
. . . . Cannidy turned away, biding his time for now. He eyed a stout-looking little red desert barb, walked over and slung his saddle up over its back.

He had a feeling that finding these drovers wouldn't be the hardest tracking he'd ever done. But like a man cornering wildcats, once he had them what was he going to do with them? He knew Mackenzie and his drovers wouldn't give up easy. He also knew that Cleland Davis had a cabin in the north of the territory. If he knew about that cabin he was sure all of the former Long Pines drovers knew about it too.

He'd learned about the cabin himself back when he'd worked as a drover for a big English cattle syndicate. Cinching the saddle, he shook it back and forth with both hands, testing it. The real question, he thought, was whether he wanted to lead Grissin and these men there and take a chance on getting Mackenzie and his pals killed.
Damn it . . .
, he said in silent reply. How'd those four manage to get into such a mess?

 

In Creasy, Sam and Maria had lost two days after the ranger's horse pulled a tendon while they were bringing the wounded man to town. It had not been easy to find a good replacement horse for Black Eye, but he'd finally arranged to rent a fiery-spirited roan from the town veterinarian. At the same time he'd seen to it that the young veterinarian would be keeping Black Eye quartered and well cared for while the tendon healed.

When Sam had saddled the haughty roan, he led it over to Dr. Ross' office and hitched its reins to the rail out front. As he walked up to the front door and reached for the brass doorknob, the big cur circled once, then plopped down on the porch to await his return. Walking inside, Sam found Maria sitting in a chair outside the treatment room, waiting while the doctor changed the dressing on the wounded man's chest. She set a teacup down and stood upon Sam's arrival.

“Is the rancher doing any better?” Sam asked, taking off his broad-brimmed sombrero. The wounded man, Owen Bleaker, owner of a small spread thirty miles from Creasy, had drifted in and out of consciousness ever since the ranger had brought him to Creasy. The man Parks had killed, Harold
Red
Herbert, had been Bleaker's partner.

“Sí
, he is better.” Maria nodded. “The bullet went through him clean. Dr. Ross says he will live if infection does not set in.” As she spoke she reached her hand out and brushed a strand of hair from the ranger's forehead. “What about you? You look like you could use some rest.”

“I could use some rest,” the ranger said with a faint tried smile, “but I'll have to settle for some strong hot coffee instead. I can't stop, not as long as I know these four young men are taking the brunt of everything Buckshot Parks is doing out there.”

As the two talked back and forth, the doctor stepped out of the treatment room and shut the door quietly behind himself. He looked the ranger up and down from behind a pair of spectacles perched low on his nose. As if knowing what the ranger and Maria were talking about, he said to Sam, “I sure hope you find this son of a bitch who killed Red Herbert and did this to Bleaker.” Catching himself, he looked quickly at Maria and said, “Begging your pardon, ma'am.”

Maria only nodded curtly, accepting his apology. “We will catch him, Dr. Ross.” She paused, then asked, “Is Beth Ann going to be all right? She seemed terribly upset.”

The doctor sighed. “Yes, she will be all right. Like all of us in the healing arts, she hates to think that her good works might come to a bad end.”

“All the more reason for us to get under way and stop Stanton Parks from doing these fellows any more harm,” Sam said.

“Yes, I understand,” said the doctor. “Bleaker said to tell you the man rode away with Red Herbert's big fifty rifle. It's scoped and ready for long-range shooting.”

“Obliged for the tip,” said Sam.

“He would like to thank you personally before you leave,” said the doctor, “but I'm afraid he is back to sleep just now.” He gestured toward the front door. “So I'll tell him I thanked you for him. . . . That will have to do for now.”

“Obliged again, Doctor,” said Sam. “I'll come look in on him when we've finished with Parks and I return here for my horse.”

“I hope that shan't be long, Ranger Burrack,” said the doctor as the two turned and walked toward the door.

“So do we, Doctor,” Maria said, looking back over her shoulder.

Out front at the hitch rail, the two stood for a moment while Sam produced the broken paper money band from his pocket and looked at it. “The veterinarian said there was a cowhand through here right after I brought Bleaker to town. Said the cowhand was on foot, carrying his saddle and gear. The cowboy told him he'd had to put his horse down from a snakebite.”

“Oh?” said Maria, listening to see where this was going.

“Yep,” Sam continued, “the horse doctor said he referred the man to the livery stable to buy himself a horse, but the man turned him down. The man asked
why would he waste his money?
There'd be a good horse waiting for him up the trail.”

“Davin Grissin?” Maria said, catching on immediately.

“Could be,” said Sam. “He's had time to gather support and make a move in all this. After all, it was his money stolen”—he toyed with the money band—“even though it was wrapped in these new money bands that the bank in Santa Fe had only started to use right before they were robbed.”

“Are you saying you think Grissin had something to do with robbing the bank at Santa Fe?” Maria asked.

“I don't know,” Sam replied. He put the paper money band away and unhitched the roan. “But Grissin is too rich to send money across this country unguarded . . . unless it was the law instead of the robbers he was worried about.”

The two swung up into their saddles, turned their horses and put them toward the north trail. The big cur sprang ahead of them and ran and circled and sniffed the ground, then loped on, leading them on a hunt.

Jet Mackenzie kneeled beside a cool running spring just off the high trail he'd ridden throughout the past day and night. He dipped his bandanna into the bracing water and pressed it to the fierce exit wound the bullet had left in his upper right shoulder. When he heard the breaking of brush across the narrow stream, he looked up, but was unable to draw his Colt with his right hand. By the time he'd gotten the gun up with his wet left hand, the figure across the stream revealed himself.

“Mac?” said Tad Harper, looking surprised and happy to see him. Then his eyes went to the bloody wound and stopped there.

“Yeah, Tadpole, it's me,” Mackenzie said, letting out a breath of relief. He holstered the gun awkwardly and struggled to get up.

“Hold on! Let me give you a hand,” said Harper, pulling his white-faced roan along by its reins across the shallow stream.

In the few seconds it took Harper to cross the water, Mackenzie made it up onto his feet. “I'm good,” he said, staggering a bit, then catching himself.

“You don't look too good,” said Harper.

“I'm a lot better than I was,” said Mackenzie.

“How'd you get shot? Who shot you?” Harper asked, staring at the bloody wound.

“I don't know who shot me,” said Mackenzie. “I had a sheriff tied down over a mule. Two riders found us and I got shot trying to get away. Leastwise the fellow over the mule said he was a sheriff. His story changed once I got the upper hand on things.” He dabbed the bandanna against the wound. “It's stopped bleeding some, but my arm is stiff from it.” As he spoke he turned his head quickly toward the sound of another man walking through the brush.

“It's all right,” said Harper, “that's just Brewer. We met up on the trail this morning at daylight. I walked on ahead to the water just to play it safe.” He looked across the water into the brush and called out quietly to Jock Brewer.

“That was good thinking, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie.

“Was it?” Harper grinned. “See, I figured if one of us came ahead and got into trouble, the other would come and give him some backup—”

“I got it, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie, stopping him short. He gazed into the brush as Jock Brewer walked into sight leading his brown-speckled barb.

“Dang, Mac!” said Brewer upon seeing the wound in Mackenzie's shoulder. He hurried across the stream leading his horse, then stopped and asked, “What happened? Are you shot?”

Mackenzie drew a patient breath, hating to have to repeat himself.

“He danged sure was shot,” said Harper on Mackenzie's behalf. “He had a sheriff tied over a mule, didn't you, Mac?”

“Where's Holly?” Brewer asked with a wary look, disregarding Harper.

“I had to leave him in Creasy,” said Mackenzie. “But the last I saw of him he was being looked after by a pretty, young woman. . . .”

Mackenzie gave them all the details of the doctor's daughter, of being caught off-guard in the livery barn and of knocking the sheriff out and being on his way taking the man far from town when he ran into the two riders. When he finished, Harper and Brewer looked at each other in astonishment.

“That was some
time
you and Thorpe had,” said Brewer, taking it all in. “I just hope ole Holly is all right there by himself.”

“At least I managed to get the sheriff away from him before I took this bullet,” said Mackenzie.

“You don't think this sheriff's posse might have caught Holly and taken him prisoner, do you?”

“I can't swear to it, but I don't think so,” said Mackenzie. “Fact is I don't believe this sheriff had a posse—I ain't convinced he was even a real sheriff,” he tacked on.

“Did you see his badge?” asked Brewer.

“Of course I saw his badge,” said Mackenzie, pressing the wet bandanna to the wound.

“Then he must've been a sheriff,” Harper cut in.

Mackenzie and Brewer gave each other a look. “When I left Thorpe,” said Mackenzie, “he was awake and knew what was going on around him. I expect if he smelled even a whiff of trouble he skinned out of there.”

“But we don't know that, do we?” Brewer asked.

“That's right, we don't,” said Mackenzie. “I told him to head for the cabin up around Marble Canyon. If he doesn't show up there in a few days . . .” He let his words trail.

Brewer gave him a firm look. “Then we'll be bound to go to Creasy and start looking for him from there. Wouldn't you say?”

“That's right, we will,” said Mackenzie, returning the look. “Every one of us is innocent of any wrongdoing. The only way any one of us gets freed of this is if we all get freed from it.”

“That sounds right to me,” said Brewer. The two nodded at each other, then turned to Harper. “What do you say, Tadpole?” Mackenzie asked.

“Right as rain,” said Harper. He picked up the reins to Mackenzie's horse and handed them to him. “Are you able to make your saddle left-handed?” he asked Mackenzie with a slight grin.

“Stand back and watch me,” said the tired, wounded trail boss.

“It's near a two days' ride to Clel Davis' cabin,” said Brewer, stepping up into his saddle beside Mackenzie's horse.

“A hard ride at that,” Harper added, stepping up into his saddle as well and pulling his white-faced roan back a step. “Are you going to need that shoulder looked at?”

“I've looked at it,” said Mackenzie.

“Oh, are you a doctor now?” Brewer asked in a gigging manner.

“No, but I watched the doctor's daughter take care of Thorpe,” said Mackenzie. “I believe I've got the hang of it.”

“Mac's got the hang of taking care of bullet wounds, Tadpole,” said Brewer, nudging his brown-speckled barb forward beside Mackenzie's claybank dun. “What do you think of that?”

Harper gave the young but senior trail hands the lead and nudged his horse along behind them. “Mac's the boss,” he said. “Whatever he says is jake with me.”

 

Evening had drawn long shadows across the high trails when Stanton Parks stepped down from his saddle and led his horse to the stream. Following the same hoofprints he'd trailed throughout the day, he watched a coyote raise its muzzle and slink away as he approached. At the spot where the coyote had stood, he looked down at the blackened bloodstains the coyote had been licking.

Parks grinned to himself and said under his breath, “I hope I find you bled out and dead, you cowpoking son of a bitch.”

Looking all around at the boot- and hoofprints joining Mackenzie's from across the stream, Parks rubbed his boot toe back and forth in the dirt and said, “That's good, get all of my money bunched up to where I can take it back at once.”

He turned and mounted and rode on, still following the tracks that had now grown from one single wounded rider to three, two of them well armed and capable. But Parks didn't care. These were drovers, he reminded himself, not outlaws, not thieves and killers—not men like himself, he thought. Once he got them all rounded up, he would take what was his without any trouble.

True, the young trail boss had gotten the best of him back in Creasy, he thought, rubbing his battered face with a gloved hand. But that had been only a lucky fluke on the drover's part. He had to admit he'd underestimated the man's speed and cunning. But that was a lesson learned that he would not have to learn again.