Dust and Bullets Page 2

  ‘Pull up your neckerchief. We don’t want them to see who we are.’ They checked their guns. ‘Ready?’ Ahiga asked.

  Fogarty nodded. At a sign from the Navajo they applied their spurs and came charging out of the trees, shouting loudly. The startled sheep began to bleat and run in all directions before moving in panic towards the cottonwoods and the trail out of the canyon. One bunch split away and Ahiga veered round to herd them back again, swinging a lariat over their heads.

  The doorway to the hogan broke open and three men emerged, looking confused. Drawing their guns, they began to fire. It was wild shooting and mainly served to stampede the frightened animals further. Two more figures emerged from behind a rock and commenced to blaze away with rifles. A shot flew over Fogarty’s head and he swung round to return fire. The three men from the hogan were running towards them and he saw one of them reel backwards as a shot from the Navajo took him in the shoulder. The other two took shelter behind a tree and continued shooting. The noise was deafening as the gunfire echoed back from the cliff above them. The sheep were headed down the defile when yet another figure emerged from cover to loose off a couple of shots, which whined by uncomfortably close.

  The sheep were well down the canyon now and as Ahiga followed them, still shouting and swinging his lariat, Fogarty turned to hold back any pursuit with his six-guns. Another shot ricocheted from rocks. Fogarty fired once more, then swung his horse to follow the flock. The sheep were slowed down now as the canyon narrowed and some of them were attempting to climb higher up the canyon walls. Fogarty feared disaster but he had not reckoned with the skills of his companion; although there were some casualties the main body of sheep was guided through the gap and into the broader canyon beyond.

  Fogarty glanced back, expecting pursuit, but they had a good start on the rustlers. As they passed under the overhanging rocks Ahiga paused and, pointing up, began to fire. Fogarty took his hint and opened up with his Henry. The noise was tremendous and had its effect as first one and then another of the rocks began to sway and then, almost in slow motion, to topple down the side of the cliff.

  Spurring their horses forward till they were well clear, Fogarty and the Navajo looked back as the rock fall came crashing down to the canyon floor. Dust rose into the air and a horde of smaller stones came rattling down in the wake of the big boulders which now effectively blocked the canyon behind them. Ahiga grinned once more.

  ‘I reckon it’s going to take ’em some time to make their way past that,’ he said, lowering his neckerchief.

  ‘Was that part of your plan as well?’ Fogarty retorted. They both laughed.

  ‘Better get after those sheep,’ Ahiga said. ‘I know a place to keep them till we can get word to their owners.’ Now that the excitement was over Fogarty became conscious again of the stifling heat in the canyon. They took swigs from their leather canteens and then followed the flock.

  The afternoon sun was low in the sky when they got back to the hogan. When they had eaten they sat out again, smoking and talking things over.

  ‘That was an enjoyable little escapade,’ Fogarty said.

  ‘It sure was, but it won’t mean anythin’ to the Ocotillo Kid.’

  ‘His boys took a bloody nose.’

  ‘That’s all it was. This little sheep-rustlin’ caper hardly signifies in Goffin’s grand scheme of things.’

  ‘Is that so? What else can you tell me about him?’

  The Navajo paused and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where do I begin?’ he replied. ‘He and his gang started operatin’ around these parts about six months ago, rustlin’ sheep and cattle mainly. But that was just the start. Since then they’ve gone on to other things. If there’s anythin’ shady goin’ on, you can be sure they’ll be behind it.’

  ‘It’s quite a ride from Hackberry to here. Seems like they cover a lot of territory.’

  ‘Sure. Once they got goin’, they started to attract every outlaw and gunslinger lookin’ for easy pickin’s.’ Ahiga turned to his friend. ‘If you’re thinkin’ about goin’ up against them, I guess you’d better know what it is you’re gettin’ into.’

  Fogarty drew on his cigarette. ‘Appreciate it,’ he said.

  ‘You and this man you figure they killed – what was his name?’

  ‘Ben, Ben Arrowsmith.’

  ‘You went back a long way?’

  ‘Nope. But we got along.’

  ‘So why did you leave?’

  ‘I soon realized I’m no prospector. I figured if there was more gold in those streams, he was welcome to it.’

  The Navajo nodded. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Tell you the truth, I’ve been feelin’ that way about herdin’ sheep.’

  ‘You just got your flock back.’

  ‘I figure other folk could manage ’em better. Nope, I think a time’s come for movin’ on.’

  ‘So what’ll you do? You got a nice set-up here.’

  ‘Maybe. At least till the Ocotillo Kid or his gang decide to wreck it.’

  ‘You figure it’ll come to that?’

  ‘It will unless I do somethin’ about it.’

  Fogarty eyed the Indian closely and a smile began to play around the corners of his mouth. ‘It might be real tough for one man to go against Goffin,’ he said, ‘but two . . . well, that would be a different matter.’

  Ahiga grinned. ‘There’s another bottle of that Forty-rod back in the hogan,’ he said. ‘I reckon we should drink to the partnership.’

  Marshal Shackleton had spent a good part of the night thinking about his prisoner’s escape and had almost come to the decision that the affair wasn’t really any of his business. The original incident had occurred at a place beyond his jurisdiction. If a man calling himself Vince Packard had not turned up claiming to be a witness, he wouldn’t have known anything about it. Likewise, if Fogarty had not arrived in Hackberry, he wouldn’t have become involved. Looking back on the affair, he had to admit that maybe he had been a little high-handed in his approach to Fogarty. Hell, it wasn’t any of his concern. He had plenty of other things to worry about.

  It was only when he got to his office early the next morning and saw the damage that he changed his mind. It was obvious what had happened; the missing guns were proof enough. He didn’t like the feeling that to some extent it was his own fault. He should have taken the possibility of Fogarty’s return into account. He had been careless and the thought of it rankled. Slamming the door behind him, he made his way to the Capitol Hotel. He wanted to have another word with Packard. It only took a few minutes for him to reach it. The desk clerk looked up somewhat nervously as he burst through the door.

  ‘I’m lookin’ for one of your guests,’ the marshal said. ‘A man called Vince Packard. Is he in the dining room?’

  The clerk involuntarily glanced in that direction although he knew that Packard wasn’t there. ‘Mr Packard left early this morning,’ he said.

  ‘He did what? Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. He was particularly anxious to reach Dry Fork in order to catch a train.’

  ‘He gave me no indication that he intended movin’ on.’

  The clerk looked blank. ‘I can only tell you what happened,’ he said.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Half past six. I had only just come on duty.’

  The marshal blew out his cheeks and thought for a moment or two. ‘Then he can’t have got far,’ he said.

  Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked out through the door. He quickly made his way to his office where he took a bottle of bourbon out of a drawer and poured himself a stiff drink. The day had begun particularly badly and it didn’t promise to improve when he looked out of the window to see his deputy approaching. He felt foolish. Somersby was little more than a boy and the marshal didn’t like to feel that he wasn’t setting him a good example. He tossed back his head, swallowed the whiskey, quickly put the cap back on the bottle and returned it to the drawer. The door opened and Somersby entered
.

  ‘Mornin’, Marshal,’ he said.

  ‘Mornin’.’

  Somersby suddenly noticed the broken window and the glass on the floor. His eyes swept up to the peg on the wall where the gunbelt had been hanging.

  ‘Looks like Fogarty came back durin’ the night,’ the marshal said.

  Somersby grimaced. ‘Shouldn’t we go after him?’ he replied.

  The marshal nodded. He no longer had much choice and besides, he didn’t like the idea of anyone getting the better of him.

  ‘Never mind about tryin’ to put a posse together,’ he said. ‘That would only take more time. Let’s you and me saddle up and ride out right now.’

  Chapter Two

  Cora Siddons sat in a corner seat of the stagecoach and peered through the window at the dry, sun-bleached country outside. It was unfortunate in a way that the railroad line didn’t extend further than Dry Fork, but she’d been in luck because a stage to Hackberry had come through on the same day she arrived and she hadn’t needed to spend any time waiting around. She shifted uneasily. The leather of the seats was worn and cracked and she felt uncomfortable. The stage shook and jolted as it travelled along the rough, rutted track, rocking on its thoroughbraces with every rise and dip of the terrain. Dust muffled the horses’ hoofbeats and hung in a yellow pall outside the windows, obscuring the view.

  She stole a glance at the other passengers, trying to guess their occupations. There were three of them: a nattily dressed man of middle years who she guessed was some kind of drummer; another man dressed more casually, who looked as though he might be a stock buyer; and a younger man of somewhat rougher appearance she was unable to place. Her guesses were probably wide of the mark because she was new to the country. As her thoughts turned to what might await her in Hackberry, she couldn’t help a certain frisson of apprehension.

  Her reflections were interrupted when the stage suddenly began to slow. With a final lurch it came to a halt. She heard sounds of movement overhead, and then the door was pushed open and the driver leaned in.

  ‘An obstruction on the road,’ he said. ‘It’ll take us a few minutes to move it. Might as well take the chance to stretch your legs.’

  With his assistance she climbed down. Ahead of them a tree lay across the track. The other passengers got out. The two older men joined the driver and the guard as they considered the best way to remove it. As she watched, four figures emerged from cover, all of them carrying rifles. They wore their bandannas pulled up to conceal their faces. Three of them looked pretty indistinguishable but she couldn’t help but take notice of the fourth man, who appeared to be their leader. He was unusually long and thin. His companions were by no means small, but he towered over them.

  ‘Drop your guns!’ the tall man barked.

  The stagecoach guard was taken unawares but he had taken his Winchester with him and instinctively he swung it up. Immediately two shots rang out and he spun backwards, blood pumping from his chest. He crashed to the ground and lay unmoving.

  ‘I wouldn’t try anythin’ else if I were you,’ the man said.

  ‘I ain’t carryin’ no weapons,’ one of the passengers offered.

  ‘Me neither,’ the one who looked like a drummer said.

  The younger man hesitated for a moment before unbuckling his gunbelt and throwing it to the ground.

  ‘Frisk them,’ the tall man snapped.

  While his men carried out his commands Cora shrank back. She suddenly realized that the stage robbers hadn’t noticed her. She began to tremble. Would any of the other passengers give her away? Scarcely daring to breathe, she kept on retreating till the looming bulk of the stage stood between her and the outlaws. There was plenty of cover to hand. Praying that their attention would be given to the other passengers, she slipped between some paloverde trees. Silently she kept on moving, expecting at any moment to hear the sound of footsteps behind her. She was in an arroyo. The ground was littered with old prickly-pear pads and spiny cholla segments and she almost let out a cry when a loose segment of cholla lodged itself in the back of her calf. She limped on till she found a narrow, precarious trail leading up a dry side gully and followed it till, worn out with the strain and exertion, she flung herself down in the shade of a sycamore. Then she heard the muffled sounds of gunshots.

  Fogarty and Ahiga spent the next day at the hogan before starting out the following morning. Fogarty had been half-expecting a visit from the outlaws but Ahiga was confident that they would not be able to find the canyon. They rode up by a different trail from that along which Fogarty had made his approach and they were soon in the foothills. When they had ridden a little further Fogarty drew his horse to a halt and glanced back at the mountains. They seemed to float above the desert floor, ethereal and mysterious. The sky was vast and the air shimmered.

  ‘It is a good land, is it not?’ the Navajo said.

  ‘It will be when we’ve cleared it of scum like the Ocotillo Kid.’

  They rode on till Ahiga slowed his pinto and pointed to the heavens. High above them a few black dots hung in the blue void. ‘Buzzards,’ he said.

  ‘They’ve probably spotted a deer carcass,’ Fogarty replied.

  The Navajo shrugged. ‘Maybe, but somewhere in that direction is the stage route.’

  ‘You figure we ought to take a look?’

  ‘It ain’t much out of our way.’

  Fogarty gave a wry grin. It was true that they had no definite plan other than to make their way back to the spot where he and his partner had been prospecting. The heat was oppressive and they had been planning to rest up till the worst of it had passed; instead they set off in the new direction. After a time the trail they were riding intercepted a broader ribbon of track which wound through the rugged terrain like a snake. The road was pitted and scarred with wheel ruts and the unmistakable sign of horses.

  ‘Looks like the stage from Dry Creek came through fairly recently,’ Ahiga said.

  Fogarty pondered his words for a moment. ‘What’s the next stop along the line?’ he asked.

  ‘Hackberry,’ Ahiga replied. Fogarty had told him what had happened to him there but the Navajo didn’t elaborate and only gave Fogarty a quizzical glance.

  Neither of them had much chance to think about the matter because a bend in the trail suddenly brought them their first sight of the stagecoach. They drew their horses to a halt and reached for their rifles.

  ‘Somethin’s wrong,’ Fogarty said. His eyes swept the rocky landscape. A palpable silence seemed to hang over the scene, broken only by the faint buzzing of flies.

  ‘There isn’t anybody around,’ Ahiga replied. ‘Nobody alive, that is.’

  They rode forward and as they got closer they could see the obstacle in the road which had obviously caused the stage to halt. The stagecoach stood at a slight angle and the horses still stood in their traces. The bodies of the driver, the guard and the three passengers lay sprawled in the dust.

  ‘The tree trunk must have been laid across deliberately,’ Fogarty said.

  The Indian turned from examining the corpses and moved to the side of the stagecoach. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘There are footprints leading away from the scene.’

  Fogarty looked where Ahiga indicated but he could not discern anything. The Indian had moved to the rear of the coach. ‘They lead into the woods,’ he said. ‘They are the footprints of a woman.’

  Quickly they plunged into the trees. Again, Fogarty would have had no idea which way to go, but the Navajo picked his way unhesitatingly through the brush.

  ‘Better go steady,’ Fogarty said. ‘If it’s a woman passenger we don’t want to frighten her.’

  They followed the course of the arroyo till its junction with the narrow gully. When they turned off Fogarty could just make out the woman’s tracks. They pressed on and soon they could see what they were looking for: a huddled shape in the shadow of a sycamore tree. The woman was obviously oblivious of their presence and for a moment Fogarty feared that s
he might be wounded or even dead. Just at that moment, however, she started and jerked upright.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Fogarty called. ‘We are friends.’

  In response she struggled to her feet but made no further movement as Fogarty and Ahiga emerged into the open.

  ‘We were passin’ by. We saw what happened to the stagecoach.’

  Suddenly the woman swayed and would have fallen had Fogarty not rushed forward and caught her in his arms. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe now.’

  It was late at night. Between them, Fogarty and Ahiga had buried the victims of the Ocotillo Kid’s attack on the stagecoach before setting up camp. They had tried to prevent the girl from seeing the bodies, but she had insisted on doing so.

  ‘Why would anyone do something like this?’ she asked.

  Fogarty had no answer. The passengers had been robbed and the mailbag had been removed, but he knew that wasn’t really an explanation. The girl had no appetite but Ahiga persuaded her to eat some of the beans and bread that he prepared. She drank coffee from a tin mug. When they had finished they made themselves comfortable. The stagecoach stood a little way beyond the circle of light thrown by the fire and Fogarty was wondering what to do with it. The obvious thing would be to harness up the horses and drive it into Hackberry, but there were obvious problems with that idea.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me askin’, Miss Siddons,’ he said, ‘but I was wonderin’ what brings you to these parts.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she replied. ‘My uncle is the town marshal of Hackberry. Since my mother died, he’s the only family I got left. He’s alone in the world and so am I, so it seemed only sensible to come out and join him.’

  At her words Fogarty started. ‘You say the marshal is your uncle?’ he said. Across the flickering flames his eyes met those of Ahiga.

  ‘Yes. You seem a little startled. Is there something unusual in that?’

  Fogarty recovered himself. ‘Nope, not at all.’

  ‘Do you by any chance know him?’