FOUR

The land rose and fell, leveled off as they neared the summit pass, and the buckskin slogged on. Cookie didn’t look to be in much better shape. The younger paint horse hadn’t had enough feed and water the past few days. Bob Bodine looked worse than any of them. His head rolled and jerked as he clung to reins and pommel with both hands. He was a scarecrow riding, a starving, desperate avenging angel. At one point as they rode farther into brush country in the direction of the little creek, Bobo spoke up.

‘You were right, Sandy. I shouldn’t have come. I’m never going to make it to Sky Box and I’ll be of no help if you get into it with Amos Coyne and his men.’

Sandy looked away for a few moments, then pasted on an unconvincing smile. ‘You’ll feel better after we have some water. You’re healing all the time, remember. Your strength is bound to come back.’

Well, they said there were white lies. What else could he have said to the beaten man riding beside him? If they did manage to find good water in the creek, the best plan would be for Bobo to camp there for a day or two, try to get well. Sandy himself was set on continuing on as rapidly as he could, and that meant staying in the saddle for as many hours as the buckskin could carry him.

In mid-afternoon, they dipped down into a wash toward the creek which had no name that Sandy knew of. Its aspect was not promising. There was no sign of the sun glinting on water, nor could he smell it. There was some scent there, however; the lethargic buckskin lifted its head and stumbled on at a slightly quickened pace. They found what Sandy had expected – the remains of a creek, red mud and no sign of flowing water.

When Sandy dismounted, the buckskin began pawing at the mud. Sandy got to hands and knees and helped it to dig. After a while a puddle of muddy water appeared and then widened. Sandy wouldn’t have drunk from it, but the buckskin did not mind. It lowered its muzzle and tested what they had found. Sandy turned to the spiritless man sitting the paint pony’s saddle.

‘Bob? There might be enough water here to do our horses some good.’

‘All right,’ Bobo said, lifting a listless hand. ‘I’ll lead Cookie over there.’ Still Bobo lingered in the saddle, not moving, and it took Sandy a few seconds to realize that it was because he could not move – or was afraid to try getting down from the saddle. He walked to the paint pony and offered Bobo a hand.

‘Let’s do this while we can, Bob. There’s no water to be found for at least another twenty miles.’

‘All right. You’re right,’ Bob mumbled, but he still did not move. Cookie had lifted his head as well and now tossed his mane emphatically. If the buckskin was drinking, it wanted to drink too. Sandy patted Bobo’s knee.

‘Come on, old soldier, get down. We’ll rest here for a while.’

Bobo nodded again and let the reins slip from his fingers. Sandy nearly had to catch him as Bobo tried to swing down. He led the staggering man toward the shade of a clump of thickly growing manzanita and sat him there while he returned to try to open up the waterhole more. Digging with his hands between the muzzles of the two horses, Sandy was rewarded with a wider, deeper puddle of a pond where clearer water stood. It was enough for the ponies, at least.

Rising he walked back to where Bobo lay on his back, hat over his face. Sandy wiped his muddy hands on the stubble grass that grew there and on his jeans before sitting down beside his motionless companion. Sandy’s face was trickling sweat in the dry heat of the day. The little bit of extra exertion had been enough to start the perspiration trickling down his chest and under his arms. His shirt now cooled with the light gust of a breeze that had risen. He swatted away a menacing wasp and settled back on his elbows, watching Bobo closely.

He thought that the man had nearly played out his string. His breathing caused his lips to flutter. The sound was somewhere between a heavy snore and a death-rattle. What was there to do with him? He could not leave him alone out in this wild country, but he knew that Bobo would only slow him down in his pursuit of Amos Coyne.

Sandy was going to have to make a choice: leave his friend to die, or run down Amos Coyne and kill him. It wasn’t much of a choice. A blue and gold dragonfly sped past him following the course of the creek. Sandy watched it until it rounded a curve in the creek, then returned his gaze to Bob Bodine. The branches of the manzanita shrubs cast shifting shadows across Bobo’s supine body. Bobo’s face still carried scabbed reminders of the brutality Amos Coyne had inflicted on him.

Without removing the hat from over his eyes, Bobo spoke, saying, ‘Go after him, Sandy. You were right. I’m not up to this ride.’

‘You’ll be all right, after you rest for a little while.’

‘Take Cookie and go, Sandy. Leave the buckskin horse behind. Him and me – we’ve both had it.’

‘Bob.…’

‘I mean it,’ Bobo snapped. ‘Get after Coyne! Me and the buckskin, we’ll stay behind, Maybe in a couple of days we’ll both be rested enough to travel on.’

It was no time to argue. Both men knew the truth of their situation. ‘I’ll leave you a canteen,’ Sandy said. ‘I’ll fill it at the seep hole.’

‘Do that. Maybe a handful of food if you think you can spare it. But get the man, Sandy. Do that for me.’ Sandy nodded and rose, feeling ill-rested himself. Reluctantly, but with deadly purpose he started away from the injured man. ‘Take good care of Cookie,’ were the last words Sandy heard Bobo say.

Sandy stripped the buckskin of its gear and tethered the horse near to Bobo, with enough length of rope lead to allow it to reach the waterhole. The buckskin was indifferent to all of it. Sandy did not bother to switch saddles. Cookie sported a regular Western saddle, a welcome relief from the broken McClellan Sandy had been sitting for nearly two days.

And the younger horse was ready and eager to run. Sandy guided it across the muddy creek bottom and up the far side of the gully and then, with one last glance back at Bobo, he rode out onto flat open land.

Sandy felt a little guilty about the entire episode, but he was grateful to fate which had delivered a smooth-riding, quick young pony to him. They covered ground quickly now across mostly level land, Cookie showing no aversion to having a strange rider on its back, a new pair of hands on its reins. It was nearing sundown, the shadows long on the plains when Sandy spotted something familiar to him.

The small pueblo he thought was called La Paloma stood alone on the wide land, a collection of squat humble adobes they had passed on the drive east. They had stayed clear of it so the villagers would not be annoyed by the huge herd of cattle and the dust it kicked up, and also because in a town of any size there are temptations for cowboys who have been long on the trail. Sandy felt obligated to ride on through the night, but it was obvious that Cookie had been slowing down, and he could not run the eager young pony into the ground. Sandy decided to spend a few hours, possibly the entire night in La Paloma, using his last few dollars to see that Cookie was well fed and well rested.

For himself he could use a meal if one could be found at a reasonable price. After the dry food he been chewing along the trail, almost anything would be welcome, and the Mexicans were noted for their cooking. Sandy slowed the horse as he approached the little town, watched as kids and their dogs scampered for home and men in wide sombreros sauntered on their own way, probably summoned by the same urgings as Sandy’s for a home-cooked supper and a little rest after their day’s work.

He briefly envied the men their settled way of life, then began looking for a stable and a place to sleep that accommodated strangers in the pueblo. He halted Cookie at the head of what he took to be the main street: a dusty, rutted road crowded by two rows of about six buildings facing each other. With Cookie quivering slightly beneath him, Sandy listened for certain sounds – music, laughter – and tried to detect beckoning scents. He thought that he had identified a cantina and a restaurant – probably one and the same by all indications, and used his knees to start Cookie on again, letting the horse now use its own senses to guide them.

Cookie would be able to scent or hear other horses and smell fresh hay and identify a stable or corral, whichever the town had to offer travelers, and he let the paint pony choose its own path through toward a pole and plaster stable which housed six other horses. None of them wore the Sky Box brand.

After stabling Cookie, Sandy started out along the streets of La Paloma. The sun behind him was fading. A deep reddish glow hung over the town, reflecting off the white adobe buildings. Somewhere a rooster said goodnight to the day and another cock answered it as if responding to a challenge. A small brown dog not much larger than a cat scooted away at Sandy’s approach, yipping across its shoulder as it scurried away into the purple shadows of the alley. Distantly a guitar was playing a soft, sad Spanish tune.

It seemed a restful, peaceful night. People gathered together and talked of the small events of their days. Sandy Rivers was not so comfortable. In any strange town a traveling man will feel a little uneasy not knowing the situation around him, or which people could be considered trustworthy.

It was not running into unknown enemies that weighed on Sandy as he strode the main street of La Paloma, however; it was the possibility of stumbling across men that he did know too well. He did not expect to encounter Amos Coyne in La Paloma, though it was possible. There was a good chance that a few stragglers from the trail herd might have decided to take some time out of the saddle in the pueblo, not an infrequent occurrence for men who had spent months at hard labor and were due to return to the routine of ranch life. While they had a few dollars and the opportunity, they would be willing to pass idle time in a place like La Paloma before returning to a working cowboy’s drudgery.

Sandy entered a small warm restaurant which he had identified from the spicy scents in the air. The place had only four round tables and a long banquet-style setting along one wall. The dark-faced waitress wore a black dress and white apron and a harried scowl. Sandy could see why. She was trying to set the tables and sweep up at once. The restaurant was not open for business yet. In La Paloma, as in most warmer climes, the people did not eat their evening meal until the sun was well down and the air cooler.

However, the waitress exchanged her scowl for a smile and seated Sandy at a corner table, away from the heat emanating from the open kitchen. She offered no menu – if the place had such an item – and briefly explained that the cook had just started. Sandy was not a particular diner on this night. He shrugged away all of her apologies.

In the end he was served with the best they could offer just then, warmed flour tortillas and a bowl of pinto beans along with a mug of almost-cool beer. It tasted fine to a man who had gone long without a prepared meal of any kind. And it was a very inexpensive meal. All in all just what Sandy had hoped for.

Back out on the street, Sandy looked up and down the dark row of buildings. The man at the stable and the waitress had both told him that there was a small inn in La Paloma where he could find a bed for the night, but their English had not been good, nor had Sandy’s kitchen Spanish been up to the task of making directions clear.

The street was quiet, the air cooling nicely. From a cantina another guitar – or the same one – sounded, accompanied by someone shaking a pair of maracas. Sandy didn’t care much for Mexican music, but on this night it was enjoyable to hear, especially after the long silent nights on the desert.

A buggy drawn by a high-stepping white horse passed, apparently carrying a pair of high-born Spaniards. The man wore a dark suit and glaringly white, ruffled shirt, the woman a dress of muted blue and a lacy black mantilla over her head and shoulders. A small kid with a wooden box appeared, asking if Sandy needed his boots shined. He did, but the shine wouldn’t last long and he hadn’t the change to spare.

All in all there was a pleasant, subdued aspect about La Paloma, Sandy thought. He made his way farther to where he believed the hotel might be found, and by deciphering the sign painted on the white face of a two-story adobe building, deduced that he had found it.

The rooms to let sat above a cantina – the source of the music. He could hear men shouting in appreciation of the guitarist as he passed through the saloon toward the hotel desk beyond. The room smelled of tobacco and beer. Neither was that an unpleasant scent to Sandy, although he did not use tobacco. It seemed a necessary part of the conviviality somehow.

Passing through an archway he discovered the hotel desk. A man dressed in the style of a cowboy was leaning against it, his elbows on its edge, his eyes fixed on Sandy. Sandy’s mouth tightened. He knew the man at once.

Randall Chandler had ridden with them on the trail east. Chandler wore a long unkempt red mustache, and a holstered Colt rode low on his hip. He was wearing a pair of sun-faded black jeans and a blue-checked shirt. He was no friend of Sandy’s.

Chandler was a close ally of Amos Coyne, or at least they gave that impression. Bobo had told Sandy that Coyne had three or four men riding with him who were loyal enough to Coyne, or greedy enough to assist him in his schemes. Chandler would have been among Sandy’s first guesses as to who they were.

‘Took your time getting here,’ was Randall Chandler’s greeting.

‘What do you mean, Chandler?’

‘I saw you ride in to town something over an hour ago. I recognized the pony. Stolen, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s not stolen,’ Sandy said, growing heated. Chandler had removed his elbows from the counter and stood up straight, studying him. ‘It’s a Sky Box horse, isn’t it?’ Sandy said. ‘I work for Sky Box.’

‘No you don’t. I happen to know that you were fired off the crew back in Durant.’ Chandler turned his head and made a gesture as if he were spitting, but his mouth was dry. Sandy had never thought of Chandler as menacing, in fact he had given little thought to the ranch hand, but there was something about him now that made Sandy wary. He let his hand inch closer to his own pistol. Chandler noticed this and something that might have been a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

‘Where’d you get that horse, Rivers?’ Chandler wanted to know.

Not wanting to go into the whole story, Sandy shrugged and said, ‘Found it loose on the desert. It beat what I was riding and so I switched to the paint. It didn’t matter whose horse it was – I was riding back to Sky Box anyway.’

‘Come on,’ Chandler said belligerently. ‘You know whose horse that was.’

‘Sure I do,’ Sandy admitted. ‘It was Bob Bodine’s pony.’

‘So, what did you do with Bobo?’ Chandler asked. He was easing nearer to Sandy, something the younger man did not care for.

‘I didn’t do anything to him,’ Sandy protested. He had an idea now of where this conversation was heading.

‘No?’ Chandler said, standing close enough now to Sandy that he could smell the dried sweat and tobacco residue on him. Chandler made that spitting gesture again and then turned his cold dark eyes on Sandy once more. ‘I think you killed Bobo and took his horse.’

‘Why would I—?’

‘You were broke and down on your luck and here comes Bobo riding a spry young paint pony – just what you needed – and so you took the opportunity and killed the man.’

‘I did nothing of the sort.’

‘So you only stole his horse? Is that right? Stole a Sky Box pony. They still hang men for that offense, Rivers. A man alone on foot doesn’t stand a chance in wild country. It’s the same as murder. One way or another you killed Bobo.’

‘Did I? No, but you might talk to Amos Coyne about who might have killed Bob. Though I expect you already know all about it. You were there when it happened, weren’t you?’

Outside of a flicker of his eyelids, Chandler did not react to that. ‘What are you talking about, Rivers?’

‘Bob Bodine wasn’t dead when I came across him. He told me what Coyne did.’

‘Bobo must have been out of his head … or maybe it’s you who is,’ Chandler said. Then he shrugged slightly and repositioned his hat on his head, thumbing it back. ‘Maybe we won’t hang you just now, not in a strange town. But you’d be well-advised to stay wide of Sky Box, Rivers. Over there you’ll surely hang for killing Bobo and stealing his horse.’

With the threat delivered, Chandler turned back toward the cantina, sauntering away toward where the music played and the beer and tequila flowed. Well, Sandy thought, I’ve been warned. Putting it out of his mind as well as he could, he dug his hand into his pocket where the last of his coins rested. There was so little that he doubted he could even take a bed in the hotel. In the morning he had to see that the stable was paid for taking care of Cookie. Thinking of the horse led him to believe that he could not let it out of his sight for the night. He had it in mind to return to the stable and bargain with the man there for a place to sleep in the hayloft.

From out of a back room, a short, very thin Mexican man peered out and then slipped through the door to return to his place behind the counter. Apparently he had not liked the look of Randall Chandler either and had decided to absent himself from the area. The little man asked, ‘May I help you please, señor?’

‘No,’ Sandy answered, ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

So it was that Sandy Rivers, after striking a deal with the stablehand, spent the night in the loft, watching over Cookie, a nervous restlessness keeping him from getting much sleep. Once, near dawn, the hinges of the stable door squeaked a complaint and Sandy saw the narrow figure of a man peering into the darkness of the building. Then, after a moment’s look, he left again, closing the door.

Sandy thought he recognized the man: Jordy Cavett, a Sky Box rider who was also close to Amos Coyne, but in that light he could not be sure. If so, there were at least two Sky Box men in La Paloma. They must have their horses picketed out somewhere, perhaps behind the hotel. No matter, Sandy had at least two men to concern himself with. All the more reason to hit the trail early and put some distance between himself and these possible adversaries.

Sunrise was still only a vague orange glow in the single high window of the stable when Sandy led Cookie from his stall and spread the saddle blanket over his back. The stablehand had appeared from somewhere and he watched with sleepy eyes as Sandy completed his work. They haggled briefly over the money due, but as it became evident to the stableman that the change in Sandy’s palm was all that he possessed and he remembered the bribe he had taken to allow Sandy to bed down in the loft the night before, he finally gave in, shrugged and took the coins as his due.

Sandy swung aboard the paint pony and walked the animal out into the dim glow of dawn’s light. He turned Cookie’s head away from the main street of La Paloma and rode westward out onto the empty dry grasslands toward the far distant Sky Box Ranch.

He did not know what lay ahead of him. He could not predict the outcome of his arrival on the home ranch. All he knew was that Turk, Jerry Higgins, Bob Bodine and the ghost of Len Storch expected it of him.

The land was raw, harsh and empty. As was Sandy Rivers’s heart.