Lookout Hill (9781101606735) (2 page)

Real pieces of work, these two
…. Sam shook his head a little, considering these men whose dark menacing life he’d committed himself to bringing to its bitter end.

It was his job, he reminded himself.

The second man was Texas outlaw and escaped convict Bobby Hugh Bellibar, another hard case with nothing to lose. Bellibar’s crimes over the past years were so numerous and diverse he was certain the courts must’ve had a hard time deciding whether to list his heinous offenses alphabetically or in the order of their perpetration.

Sam stopped and looked out over a valley a few hundred feet below. A thin glittering river wound out of sight at the bottom of a steep hillside. He thought about the empty canteen he’d found along the trail three hours earlier. He’d known then that it wouldn’t be long before they gravitated toward whatever water lay nearest them. And there it was, he told himself, Winchester in hand, leading the stallion behind him.

Twenty minutes later he came upon a lone horse standing to the side of the trail, its reins dangling loose to the dirt. The silvery gray dun stood dark with sweat and lathered in white foam. Upon seeing the Ranger, the animal shied away a few steps, favoring its right forehoof.
The horse with the outturned hoof,
he thought,
not surprised that it would be the first horse to falter under the weight of its rider and the rigors of this steep, rocky trail.

He let Black Pot’s reins drop from his hand, knowing the stallion would stay there. First checking for any sign of an ambush, Sam eased forward, his rifle hammer cocking under the pull of his thumb.

“Easy, boy,” he murmured to the silver-gray dun, picking its reins up from the ground. He examined the animal’s right forehoof, lifting it up between his crouched knees for a closer look. The horse chuffed and grumbled a little as Sam pressed with his thumbs and worked the horse’s hoof around with his gloved hands.

“There’s nothing wrong with you that a little rest and water won’t cure,” Sam said. “The water’s not far, but you’ll have to rest while you walk.” As he spoke he loosened the cinch and dropped the saddle from the dun’s back. “That’ll help some,” he added.

The horse looked at him, grumbling and scraping its good hoof on the ground as if in protest. Sam rubbed a hand along its withers.

“I know,” he said as if the animal understood him, “but it’s walk with us or spend the night here alone, feeding wolves.”

The horse stared at him through caged eyes, but then it took a wary step closer and probed its frothy muzzle toward him.

“That’s what I thought,” Sam said. He chuckled to himself, rubbed the horse’s muzzle and drew the tired animal over beside Black Pot. He stepped back up into
his saddle. “Don’t worry,” he said to the sweaty dun. “We’ll take it nice and easy down to the water.”

On the same trail, miles ahead of the Ranger, Hodding Siebert lay prone on the gravelly stream bank, his face and the upper half of his body submerged in the cool rushing water. Bobby Hugh Bellibar stood beside him, holding the roan’s reins loosely while the thirsty animal drank.

“Here’s the hard truth of it, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, his palms supporting him on the gravelly bank. “I’m not riding double the rest of the way to Copper Gully. Your horse gave out on you. We keep riding double, mine will do the same before we’re off these hilltops.”

“I hear you, Aces,” Bobby replied.

“This is nothing personal against you, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, “but when riding stock gets in short supply, every man has to fend for himself.” He paused as if in reflection, then said, “If I had a dollar for every man I shot over a horse, or
thought
about shooting over a horse, I’d be rich as a pound cake.”

“I understand,” Bellibar said acceptingly. “Me too.”

“So, figure something out before we leave here,” Siebert said with resolve, and with that he lowered his face into the clear, cool water.

Bellibar watched him drink.

“I think I got it figured,” he said as Siebert finally pushed himself up from beneath the water.

“Yeah, what’s that?” Siebert said, water running down from his wet hair, his clothes.

“I’m taking
your
horse, Aces,” Bellibar said flatly.

“You’re talking out of your head, Bobby Hugh.” Siebert gave a sharp grin and turned sidelong to where Bobby had stood watering the tired roan a moment earlier. But Bellibar wasn’t there, and neither was the roan.

“Back here, Aces,” Bellibar said, behind him.

“Right,” said Siebert, getting the gist of it. He rolled over onto his back, his wet hair hanging in dripping points down his forehead. “I expect you think you’ve caught me at a disadvantage,” he added, cocking his head slightly.

“Yep, that’s how I make it,” Bellibar said, the horse’s reins in his left hand.

“You make it wrong, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, the grin still there on his wet face. “Don’t you think I already thought of this before I said anything about the horse?” He gave a dark, confident chuckle. “That’s why I unloaded your Colt earlier while you were dozing against that big pine. You’re jackpotted, pard. Now I kill you and take your power.”

Take his power…this crazy bastard.

“You’re bluffing,” said Bellibar. “I heard that one before, tell a man his gun’s not loaded, then gun him down when he makes a move to check it.”

“Already heard that one, huh?” Siebert sighed, shaking his head a little.

“Yep,” said Bellibar, “it might even have been you who told it to me.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Siebert. He pushed himself up from the ground and stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart. He wiped his left hand across
his face, pushing his wet hair to the side. His right hand stayed poised near the tied-down holster on his hip. “Only this time it’s a fact, Bobby Hugh,” he added, in a stone serious tone of voice. “I’ve got your bullets in my pocket. Want to see them?”

“Nope,” said Bellibar, his demeanor still confident, unwavering. “I believe you did it, you sneaking son of a bitch.”

Siebert gave a short shrug. There was no sign of bluffing in his eyes.

“Like I said, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said quietly, “times like this it’s every man for himself. You should have listened to me.”

Bellibar could tell the older gunman was ready to make his play. He saw Siebert open and close his gun hand, getting ready.

“I did listen to you, Aces,” he said. His expression softened a little. “That’s why I took your Remington from your holster while you sucked water.”

“Nice try, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, “but I ain’t falling for it—” As he spoke his right hand slapped against his empty holster and stopped him short. His eyes suddenly took on a look of desperation.

Now it was Bellibar’s turn to give a wide, confident grin. He reached behind his back, taking his time, and grabbed Siebert’s big Remington.

“See?” He wagged the gun back and forth in his hand. Looking down at it, he cocked it toward Siebert’s chest and said, “I bet you didn’t unload it, did you?”

“No, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said in defeat, “damn it to hell, I didn’t unload it.” In a flash he thought about
the small Colt Pocket pistol he carried behind his back, shoved down into his belt under his shirttail. But it was too late.

Bellibar’s hand bucked, once, twice, three times as he recocked and fired the big Remington. Each shot knocked Siebert farther out into the rushing water. The third shot flung him out of his right boot and sent him splashing into the thrust of the water’s strong current. The freed boot spun three turns overhead, landing upright in the water and floating away.

“Nice action,” Bellibar said. He smiled down at the smoking Remington, impressed, turning it back and forth in his hand.

He stepped forward into the water and took aim toward Hodding Siebert’s bobbing head—Siebert thirty feet away and slipping farther downstream, blood trailing red, thinning in the water behind him.

But before he could squeeze the trigger, a sound from the sloping hillside behind Bellibar drew his attention. He turned quickly, the Remington up, cocked and ready.

“Who’s there?” he called out, certain he’d heard something or someone up there among the trees and rock ledges. He looked back and forth on the steep hillside, knowing another stretch of this same trail switched back above him.

“
Quién hay…?
” he called out, repeating himself in his border Spanish.

He waited, silent, his eyes searching every land-stuck boulder, every rocky cut-ledge, every tall, clinging pine. Nothing….

Beside him, the roan had taken advantage of the young gunman’s cautious wait, drawing more water for itself. After another silent moment, Bellibar focused on the largest standing boulder.
That’s where he would be if he were up there,
he thought.

“This man tried to kill me,” he called out, hearing his echo roll off along the hills. “
Trató de matarme,
” he repeated in his imperfect Spanish. Still nothing….

“Self-defense.
La defensa propia,
eh…?” he called out, ready to level the Remington at the sight of anyone who appeared.

What the hell…?
Maybe he’d been mistaken, he thought, the ring of the big Remington still stuck inside his ears. Did it really matter? This was Mexico. Nobody cared if a couple of gringo outlaws threw down on each other.

He let the hammer down on the Remington and stuck it behind his gun belt. Beside him, the roan raised its dripping muzzle.

“Are you through?” he asked the horse in an impatient voice. Then he reached down, adjusted the horse’s cinch more firmly and stepped up into the saddle. He turned the roan toward the trail and looked up along the hillside one last time.
Whoever’s up there, this is your lucky day,
he thought—
the day Bobby Hugh Bellibar didn’t kill you.
He smiled to himself, tapped his boots to the roan’s sides and rode away.

Huddled behind the boulder Bellibar had been watching so closely, an old Mexican by the name of Herjico Herrera wrapped his arms around his young granddaughter, Erlina, and her black-and-white-speckled goat, Felipe. He held one thin, weathered hand over the mouth of the girl and the other over the mouth of the goat. As the sound of the horse’s hooves clacked across the rocky gravelly bank and faded out of hearing along the trail, the old man sighed in relief, lowered one hand from the girl’s mouth and crossed himself. Behind him a donkey stood against the rock as quiet as a statue.

Erlina wiped her hand across her lips in exasperation.

“
Abuelo
, I am thirteen years old. You do not have to treat me like a child,” she said.

“Thirteen is not grown-up. It is only old enough to get you into grown-up trouble,” the old grandfather said in a harsh whisper. He stared warily in the direction the horseman had taken.

Felipe the goat wiggled his head until he freed himself from the old man’s hand. Then the little goat shook his head and flicked his ears back and forth.

“And this pampered little devil,” the old man added. “It is only by God’s grace that this hombre did not come up and kill the three of us.” He drew back a threatening hand toward the goat. But the goat lowered its knobby head, bleated out a warning and charged against the old man’s hand. A cheap metal bell held around the goat’s neck by a stripe of rawhide clacked vigorously.

Erlina giggled childlike behind her cupped hand, seeing the little goat appear to run in place, held in check by her grandfather’s palm.

“Stop it, you little fool!” Herjico whispered harshly to the goat, knowing that removing his hand from its head would only invite it to charge again. “By the saints, I will have you for dinner!”

Erlina wrapped her arms around the goat’s thin neck, pulling it back to keep it from charging her grandfather again. She hugged the goat to her lovingly.

“No, no, little Felipe,” she said to the goat, clasping a hand over its twitching ears, “
mi abuelo
does not mean it. He would never eat you.” She turned her dark eyes up to the old man. “Do you mean it, Grandfather?”

“No, I do not mean it,” the old man said, standing, letting out a patient breath. “I would not eat little Felipe…not today anyway.” He dusted the seat of his baggy peasant trousers and stared down at the trail winding out of sight away from the stream. “But tomorrow, who can say?” He reached back and took the donkey’s rope in hand.

Erlina did not push the matter any further. She stood up, turned the goat loose and stared down at the stream bank.

“
Abuelo
,” she asked, “is it now safe for me to take little Felipe down so he can drink?”

Her grandfather looked down at her and smiled to himself.

“Always, this worthless little goat is first with you,” he said. He smiled and brushed a strand of raven black hair from her forehead. He noted how he no longer had to stoop down as far as he used to in order to touch her face. His granddaughter was quickly growing into a young woman while the years of his life slipped past him cloaked in inevitable silence.

“
Sí
, we can take the goat and the donkey down to drink, but we must be cautious,” he said, putting aside his inner thoughts. “We do not know if the killer will return.”