A piece of flotsam moves aimlessly over one ocean and then another, discarded by them all until, at last, it fetches up on a foreign shore. It was in such a manner that the man in the black flat-hat approached the footbridge that led over Chandler Canyon to Raban’s End. He sure looked like flotsam with his battered hat and dusty, worn denims. He wore a homemade patchwork jacket that many a hobo would have abandoned long ago, given that they would have deigned to wear it in the first place. In this context even the patterning on the appaloosa beneath him seemed untidy.
The man reined in and dismounted. Leading his horse by the reins he walked to the bridge and stopped at the edge of the canyon. At the bottom, two hundred feet below, there had been a river. But that was long before the first page of recorded history had been turned. Although it was early morning he had been riding for several hours. Both he and the appaloosa wanted water––and maybe water could be found somewhere down there but the way down was too precipitous to risk a descent and an arduous return climb on such a small hope.
The horse remained obediently still as the man let go the reins and stepped cautiously onto the bridge. The thirty odd feet of the divide were spanned by wooden slats resting on crossbars fixed to wooden supports embedded in the canyon sides. Only one of the hand rails was left running along the side of the walkway, The frame creaked ominously under his weight. A generation of the extremes of damp and drying out had weakened the construction to the point of near collapse. The blond-haired man took a deep breath, held the rail and bounced up and down, gently at first and then with more force. His lifelong fear of heights ensured he didn’t take another look down into the nothingness below.
‘I think she’ll hold, old man.’ he said walking back to his patient steed. ‘But take it easy.’
He negotiated the horse onto the bridge giving it the leeway to find its foothold in its own time.
The sound of staggered hoof against wood was amplified into resounding echoes around the canyon’s vertical surfaces. The bridge was noticeably sagging under their combined weight and, as they reached the middle, there was a long, heart-stopping creak. The man froze and the horse followed suit, with complete faith in its master. The creaking subsided and, after a minute’s silence, the man whispered, ‘Don’t worry, old pal,’ as much to placate himself as his horse and resumed the crossing. They took the final incline even more slowly.
Within feet of the end there was a rending sound, louder and longer than the first. Man and beast made a last scramble for safety. As the horse’s rear hooves reached firm ground the whole bridge lurched several feet from the vertical. Something basic in the structure had given. Sand and rocks from the bases of the main supports cascaded down. The man turned and shuddered at the thought of what might have been.
He made the final ascent up the narrow winding path on foot. At the summit he mounted up and viewed the terrain ahead. Beyond the gentle downward slope was an open plain and an uneven horizon blurred by heat haze. ‘There must be a settlement out there someplace,’ he whispered as he imperceptibly gigged the horse. ‘And a settlement means water and work.’
Three hours later horse and rider entered the main street of Raban’s End leisurely, tiredly, as slow as the tumbleweed blowing in from the desert. They stopped at a trough partway along the street. The man slipped quietly from the saddle as the horse took some water. He doused his blond, sand-dulled hair but refrained from drinking the murky liquid himself. He pulled on the reins so the appaloosa wouldn’t overfill itself after a morning under the burning sun and he guided it further along the street. He stopped outside the saloon but avoided the hitching rail. Instead he went to the side of the building where there was shade for his animal. He unstrapped the saddle and eased it to the ground, slip-knotting the reins to the pommel. He returned to the front, looked up and down the deserted street once and then stepped up onto the raised boardwalk. Inside the saloon he pushed back his hat and smoothed down his still-damp hair with his hand.
The saloon’s only occupant was roused from his dozing behind the bar by the chink of spurs. `Howdy, mister,’ he said in welcome, standing up and drawing his hand across his rubbery face in an attempt to stimulate his features into some kind of awareness.
The stranger nodded and hesitated with batwings still flapping behind him, After a few seconds of exploring the depths of his breast pockets with thumbs and forefingers, he pulled out a dime. He placed it on the cottonwood bar. ‘As much beer as that will buy.’
Still showing a sleepy indolence, the barkeeper put a glass under the tap. ‘First order of the day for beer,’ he smiled in an attempt to explain his gaping yawn. ‘In fact, the first customer of the day for anything. Glad to see you, stranger. The name’s Cope.’
The stranger said nothing but rubbed his dry lips impatiently. Eventually the barkeeper pushed the tankard across the rough surface of the counter. The beer was flat and its few bubbles dissipated almost immediately. ‘Thing’s bad, are they? Cope prompted, picking up the dime and scrutinizing it momentarily before he dropped it into the till. The stranger sipped the drink slowly. In outward appearance the liquor was not unlike the contents of the horse trough, but neither that or its flatness was any deterrent to his thirst. ‘I’m short of cash if that’s what you’re hinting,’ the visitor said. He took another sip, savoring the precious liquid. ‘Yeah, thing’s are bad,’ he conceded. ‘Where does a guy go around here to get on a payroll?’
‘What kind of work you looking for?’
‘Put my back to anything.’ The stranger held up his hands, palms foremost. It was clear they were hands that had been put to much hard work in their owner’s twenty odd years.
‘What’s your name and where do you hail from?’ Cope asked.
‘The name’s Hazard and you should detect Texas in my way of talk.’
‘Well. you rode into the wrong town for work. Mr. Hazard. There ain’t much for the asking these days Things are in a state of flux as you might say. There’s more folk leaving than coming in.’ Then the man came from behind the bar. Hazard noticed he slung one leg stiffly as he walked across the boards to look through the dusty window to the side street. ‘You could sell your horse and rig, if you’re stuck.’
Hazard shook his head.
‘No, I suppose not,’ the barkeeper concluded from the glance he got from his customer and he walked back to the bar. ‘You wouldn’t get much of a price anyways, not in Raban’s End.’ He noticed Hazard drain his glass. ‘Like another on the house? You don’t seem to have the wherewithal and I appreciate the company.’
‘It’d sure pleasure me.’ the young man replied, putting the tankard down on the bar and resting his boot on the foot-rail. They talked for a while but the barkeeper did the jawing and the flies did the buzzing.
‘Well, I got one silver dollar to my name,’ Hazard said later. ‘If I can’t get a job, is there a place where I can at least get a bite to eat’?’
‘My missus’ll be happy to lay on a steak and fries,’ said Cope.
‘Can’t think of anything better.’ Hazard grinned in anticipation. As he spoke there came the sound of hooves outside. He moved to the window and saw a mounted horse passing at speed. The rider was bent forward over his steed’s neck. Hazard could make out long black hair and a checked shirt.
Cope hobbled to join his customer but was too late to see more than a fast-receding image. ‘Sure wants to get someplace in a hurry, don’t he?’
‘Can’t see the attraction of the desert in the noonday heat,’ added Hazard, thankful to be out of it. ‘I been out there. I know. Seems to me he’s more keen on leaving than arriving someplace.’
Later Hazard was seated at the back of the saloon, complete with table napkin, wiping clean his platter with a hunk of rye bread when there was another commotion outside.
‘Sure is busy in town today,’ said Cope as three men walked in. "What can I get you, Sheriff?’
‘Ain’t no time for drinking, Cope. I’m looking for riders.’ The lawman was tall with a droop moustache and had the look of an Earp daguerreotype about him.
‘You know I ain’t suited to no riding with this game leg o’ mine,’ said Cope, patting his stiff limb.
‘What about you, son?’ the sheriff asked, looking at Hazard. He pointed to the Joslyn .44 strapped to the young man’ s leg. Its trigger guard was thonged to a flapless Army holster.
The lawman noted how the holster had been knife-trimmed for ease of withdrawal. ‘Judging by the tailoring of your rig there, I assume you can you use that thing?’
‘That’s as maybe,’ the young man replied, wiping grease from his stubble-framed mouth. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘There’s been a killing. The telegraph operator’s been shot. Mr. Oldfield here witnessed it.’ He nodded at the man by his side. `The desperado rode out of town.’
‘How long since?’ asked Hazard,
‘About half an hour.’
‘I think we seed him,’ said Hazard. ‘Young guy, black hair and check shirt?’
‘Yeah, Lester Adams.’
‘Young Lester Adams?’ Cope queried. ‘You sure, Sheriff? Lester’s allus been a peaceable kind of kid.’
‘Sure I’m sure,’ snapped the sheriff. ‘We got a witness, a distinguished member of the community. Mr. Oldfield here witnessed the whole thing. Anyways, the jasper can’t have got far and we’re taking out after him. There’s been too much lawbreaking and killing lately. We gotta stamp down hard.’
Cope nodded. ‘That’s right. Mr. Hazard. There’s been a lotta trouble.’
‘What’s more,’ the sheriff continued, ‘Mr. Oldfield’s been public spirited enough to offer ten dollars to any man willing to ride.’ Hazard looked at the man the sheriff had indicated as Oldfield. He was not so tall as the lawman. The pale skin of his face emphasized the red mouth that split his face like a bowie knife wound. Piercing grey eyes added to the menace of his face––but you can’t tell the character of a man by his features, Hazard reminded himself.
‘I’m interested,’ said Hazard He’d already been told that jobs were hard to come by and ten dollars was a start. ‘If I can get a horse. Mine’s plumb tuckered out.’
‘Cope’s got a horse he don’t use much,’ the man with the badge ventured. ‘Ain’t you, Cope?’
The bartender seemed reluctant to loan his horse. ‘Sure, I don’t use her much ’cos of my leg. But that also means she ain’t a regular riding horse.’ The sheriff looked at Oldfield who took out a large billfold and peeled off a couple which he dropped on the counter. But Cope was still unsure. ‘A stranger could have trouble with her,’ he maintained..
‘I can handle her,’ said Hazard, ‘if you’ll be so kind to let me have loan of her?’
Cope acquiesced with a shrug. ‘She’s out back in the stable.’ Hazard got to his feet and took the leather patchwork jacket from the back of the chair on which it had been draped. ‘I’d better refill my canteen. I’ve already learned how hot and dry it is out there in the desert today. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
Then Oldfield spoke for the first time. His Eastern voice had a rasping firmness. ‘Make sure it’s no more than ten, kid. We gotta move fast––and you’re on my time now.’
Cope stabled the appaloosa while Hazard put his own rig on Cope’s black mare––a stocky Morgan. In the meantime the sheriff had asked after more riders and had managed to pull in some more volunteers. At the prescribed time the posse of seven left town. With the riders not knowing the eventual duration of the hunt, the pace began at a restrained trot.
Within twenty minutes they were clear of the rock formations that skirted the approach to town. Reaching the sandy plain they broke single file and rode more or less abreast.
‘Anyone see the critter? shouted Oldfield after a while. The muscles of fourteen eyeballs strained to focus on the horizon.
‘No, but I can see another bastard I don’t like,’ said the sheriff. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the left where a rounded mass could be seen in the distance. ‘Christ! What’s that?’ one of the men shouted. It seemed alive and the longer you looked at it the more organic it seemed to be. It was growing––and coming nearer.
‘Dust storm,’ explained the sheriff.
‘Let’s move,’ ordered Oldfield. ‘Or it’ll cut us off from our quarry.’
‘More important,’ shouted one of the other riders,’ it’s likely to cut us off from our windpipes.’
‘Pay it no mind,’ snarled Oldfield, gigging his own horse. Instinctively the others increased speed to keep up; except the one who had vocalized last.
‘Pay it no mind?’ he shouted. ‘Last time there was a dust storm like that when old Joe Evans was caught in the desert. I found his body months later under two feet of sand.’
‘Shut up,’ shouted Oldfield, hard-spurring his steed even more.
‘Joe’s mouth and every other hole in his body was packed solid with sand,’ the dissenting one continued at the top of his voice. ‘And that’s one hell of a way to die.’
‘Stay with it, Sam,’ shouted the sheriff in an attempt at encouragement. But the distance between the main body of the posse and the last rider widened.
‘Ten dollars or no ten dollars,’ Sam shouted, ‘I’m getting back to town before it’s too late. There ain’t no protection for a soul out here.’
‘Twenty dollars a man!’ Oldfield shouted. Either Sam never heard the increased offer or he ignored it––as he wheeled around and began returning at speed. Hazard kept pace on the sturdy Morgan. Although smaller than the others, the horse had stamina. While Hazard had a healthy respect for dust storms––he knew they were far more lethal than they appeared––he felt there was still a good chance it would move behind them. And he liked the increase in Oldfield’s ante.
But a minute later, the scale and direction of the approaching cloud could be appreciated.
‘Sam’s right,’ shouted another. ‘We’re gonna find ourselves in the thick of it.’
‘Thirty bucks!’ screamed Oldfield. ‘And a hundred for the one who gets the killer.’
‘We got wives and kids, Mr. Oldfield,’ some shouted. And two riders peeled off together, circled arid made back.
Shortly, the remaining four riders knew they were hard into the periphery of the turbulence. The wind was picking up and men felt the increasing stings of bullet-fast pieces of sand. The horses had slowed of their own accord and were becoming difficult to handle.
`I gotta admit––this is suicide,’ shouted the sheriff. ‘Best turn tail and try to keep ahead of it.’
Those that had them had pulled up their bandanas. Without such protection the Eastern-dressed Oldfield was spluttering. ‘Two hundred bucks for the one who stays with it and catches him,’ he said as loudly as his coughing would permit. Hazard couldn’t see what happened after that, so oppressive were the wind and dust. He realized later all the men had finally retreated at that point. With the words ‘two hundred bucks’ echoing in his ears he pulled in the Morgan by a barely discernible cluster of rocks. They mere small but better than nothing. Before the startled animal could object he’d hobbled the back legs with rope from the rig. With the horse now close to panic, it was more difficult to rope up the forelegs, but he managed it. It was then easy to overbalance the animal but he took care to keep out of the way of the descending mass of horseflesh. Once it was prone he tightened the loops.
He unstrapped the large blanket from the back of his rig and enveloped the animal’s head. Nearly blinded with whirling sand, he pulled the top half of his body under the blanket and endeavored to make it as airtight as possible. With persistent soothing of the muzzle, the animal became less agitated and the two of them lay there, sharing each other’s breath. The stench was almost insufferable. At the cost of allowing the entrance of a considerable amount of dust, Hazard occasionally opened up part of the blanket for fresh air and to ensure the maintenance of a vent through the sand that was rapidly piling up on them.
He may have been there for half an hour, maybe more, he couldn’t tell. He only pushed out the blanket when he reckoned it was very safe to do so. The storm had subsided but there were still fine particles hanging in the air. Enough to cut visibility by diffusing the sunlight. And still enough to tickle the back of one’s throat.
‘We’ve been lucky, old gal.’ he said as he patted the mare’s rump. He pulled up his bandana again. Not only had he, like Sam, known of folks being buried alive, he had also heard of other poor souls who’d been sucked upwards by the central draught and thrown hundreds of yards to their deaths.
He hadn’t been unthinkingly impetuous in braving the caprices of nature. He had the advantage of his fellow hunters. Firstly, he knew about the state of the bridge whence their quarry was headed. The way it was when he’d left it, he reckoned there was a good chance it wouldn’t take another horse and rider. Secondly, if the winds had travelled up that way and stormed up the gorge anywhere near the bridge then it would be at the bottom of the canyon by now anyway. So there was a good chance the man was trapped. If that was the case the villain had no course other than to retrace his steps and eventually come back down. Hazard would wait. With two hundred dollars at stake, it was worth taking a chance.
He took the hobbles from the horse and it lurched to its feet with the ungainliness of a new-born foal. He looped up the rope and tied it to the saddle. He shook what sand he could from the breath-soaked blanket, rolled it up and tied that in place, too.
He took a sip from his canteen, partly to clear his throat of sand, and then gave the horse some licks from a cupped palm. ‘Come on, gal. We’ve still our two hundred bills to earn,’ he said, grabbing the pommel and hauling himself up.
By the time he reached the slopes beyond the desert-plain hours later, he knew he was alone. The air was as clear as it could be in the afternoon heat and he could see there were no other hunters behind him. But neither, to the fore, could he see the object of his pursuit. He dismounted and led the mare up the steep rocky trail. Reaching the plateau, again he could see no one. He passed the spot where at the beginning of the day he’d looked down at the plain. It wasn’t far to the bridge now. Minutes later he could see the spectacular crevice of Chandler Canyon, His hunch had been right––the bridge had gone, He dismounted and walked down the winding foot-trail.
He got to a point where he could look down to the canyon floor. Yes, there were pieces of wood the size of matchsticks far below. He could make out some dark shape protruding from part of the wreckage. Looked like a horse. But from this height there was no certainty. Moreover, he could see no rider’s body. He drew his Joslyn in readiness and scanned his surroundings. He’d been on the lookout for a horse and rider since he’d crested the rim but had seen nothing. He was just deciding to return to the vantage point of the summit when he heard a noise. It was a noise he’d heard earlier in the day––the sound of pebbles failing down the precipice. He turned his head to listen. There it was again, but this time he heard something else. It sounded like a foot scrambling against a rocky wall. More pebbles fell.
It was difficult to locate the origin of the noise with the echoes bouncing between the rocky surfaces but peering over the edge he could detect some movement almost directly below him. One of the bridge stanchions was still partway embedded in the canyon side at all angle, There was a man hanging from it!
Hazard shouted reassurance: ‘Hold on!’ a ridiculous thing, to say when judged outside the event but it was the only exhortation in such circumstances. ‘There’s a rope coming down.’ He fixed the rope to the pommel and lowered down the end. He heard a faint voice shout. ‘Got it!’
The Morgan, a general purpose animal which can double as a work horse when called upon made light work of hauling the suspended man to the top. From up above, Hazard could first make out the black, now disheveled, hair and then the checked pattern covering the shoulders. As the man pulled himself to his feet, Hazard was sure it was the man he sought.
‘Jeez, saying thanks don’t seem enough,’ the man said, smoothing his long hair and attempting to brush the dust from his face. ‘I couldn’t have held on much longer.’
‘I don’t know whether you should be thanking me, mister’ Hazard said, backing off a little and drawing his Joslyn.
The man made an attempt to run but was successfully prevented from doing so by the quick interpolation of Hazard’s boot. Such that he sprawled face first into the dust.
‘You’re from town,’ the man said, rising to his feet and wiping the newly-acquired fresh layer of dust from his features. ‘With than damn posse.’
‘Yes,’ said Hazard. ‘And trying to run like that you’ve just convinced me you’re the varmint I’m chasing.’
‘But I’m innocent.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ Hazard replied. He had too. But from fellow prisoners–– however, that’s another story. ‘Now, you’re coming back with me. You can do it walking on healthy legs or limping––’cos I ain’t averse to putting a slug in you.’
He ordered the man to stand at a distance while he took some more rope from his saddle. He cut off a length and used it to tie the man’s hands firmly behind his back. Thus freed from having to watch his captive closely he looped the rope used for the rescue and fixed it to his rig. He took the mare’s reins. ‘I’ll follow you up the cliff path,’ he said, motioning with his head,
When they reached the summit, Hazard mounted. ‘You keep ten or so feet in front. Now git moving––you know the way to town.’ They proceeded slowly down the gently sloping trail.
‘The name’s Lester. Lester Adams,’ the man said after a while, without turning his head. Hazard didn’t speak. He already knew what handle his captive went under and he saw no use in a polite exchange of names, The less personal this business was, the better for his liking.
‘Ain’t seed you a-fore,’ the man continued. ‘What are you ? Some outside law?’ Several times in his past Hazard had been described as laconic. It seemed an appropriate circumstance in which to live up to the description.
The man was obviously thinking about his captor. ‘No, you ain’t law. One, there ain’t been time for the sheriff to call in any outside officers. Two, it wouldn’t be in Oldfield’s interest.’ There was more silence. ‘I’ve got it. You ain’t one of the townsfolk from Raban’s End that the sheriffs roped in to form a posse. You’re some kind of bounty hunter!’
He turned as he spoke and walked backward looking Hazard over. ‘Ain’t never seed a bounty hunter a-fore. In that case there ain’t much I can do is there? All you’re interested in is the money.’
‘Keep moving.’
The man turned frontward again. ‘How much is Oldfield paying you, Blondie? How much does thirty pieces of silver run to these days?’ The biblical analogy was not lost on Hazard. Raised in a small farming community himself he d had his share of Bible readings. And he had respect for the Word, but he didn’t take his captive’s bait. Sometime later, they reached level round and Hazard called for him to stop. ‘You got one hell of a walk ahead of you through that desert. Have a drink before we start.’ He shook the canteen. It was half empty. He took the top off and swilled a mouthful himself. ‘Come here.’
Adams walked back and Hazard tipped some water down his throat. ‘Now start moving again.’
After about an hour Adams tried a new tack. ‘I know you won’t believe me if I say I didn’t do it,’ he said.
‘Right.’
`Well, I didn’t.’
Hazard ignored the expected protestation.
‘You know what he wants me for, don’t you?’ Adams pressed.
‘I don’t want to know. All I know is I’m getting paid for taking you in. If you didn’t do it, it’ll come out at your trial.’
‘Trial––hell! I ain’t getting no trial. Oldfield don’t handle things that way. Say, pal, give me a break.’
Hazard ignored the plea.
‘He s covering up for hisself,’ Adams went on. ‘That’s what he’s doing. You ain’t local. You don’t know Oldfield.’
`Right again. I don’t know him. But I’ve seen the color of his money. That’s enough for me.’
‘Oh, yeah, he’s got money all right. That’s why he get things done––his way. He virtually owns the place as it is. You’re just someone else he’s bought.’
Hazard realized the man in front of him wasn’t going to shut up. ‘OK, get your story off your chest and then maybe I’ll get some peace.’
‘Oldfield and his men came into Raban’s End some six months ago. From Washington, as I have since found out. Since then land’s been bought. Sometimes by him, more often by his cronies. But he’s behind it. Things have been happening to frighten off homesteaders. And there’s been some accidents––the fatal kind. What I couldn’t understand is that there’s nothing worth a rat’s ass around the town. Land’s mostly desert as you can see. And ain’t never heard of no ore being found within a hundred miles. So why’s he buying it ?’
‘You tell me.’
‘He came to see me a month ago. Offered a rock bottom price for my spread. It ain’t much but it’s all I got. I’ve worked hard and my stock, plus what we get from the land, feeds me and my family. We’re even getting a bit of surplus these days to market to buy a few luxuries. Anyways, I turned him down. Days later one of my barns got burned down. Then someone started putting shells into my heifers. It had to be Oldfield but what could I prove? I figure he’s bought off the mayor and law. Leastways they get kickbacks to keep them quiet. And everyone else in town’s shit-scared of him.
‘Anyways,’ the man continued, ‘I’ve got a cousin in Washington. Works as a clerk in some government department along Pennsylvania Avenue. He’s only a pen-pusher but, as I know Oldfield came out from Washington. I sent my cousin a letter. Explained the situation––I’m not the only one under pressure to sell––and asked him what he could find out about Oldfield in the capital. Yesterday I was in Raban’s End when a telegraph message came in for me. It was from my cousin. It transpires Oldfield’s got a political crony in the capital. The guy’s pushing through a bill for a railroad out here. Seems there’s nothing gonna stop it and so I reckon the two of them have been buying up land cheap all along the proposed route. They stand to make a fortune.
‘But within half an hour the telegraph operator––he’s the only other one who knows what the message said––was shot dead. The next thing I know Oldfield had named me as the culprit. Says he witnessed the killing. With Oldfield behind it I didn’t stand a chance so I lit out. That’s the situation you’re taking me back to.’
Hazard remained silent. It was obviously in his captive’s interests to come up with some story like that. Then he said, ‘You’re wasting your breath. I don’t know nothing about politics. And you know I ain’t got no way of checking what you say. Anyways, I’m just a cog in a machine.’ There was a firmness in his voice but growing uncertainty in his mind.
`If you untie me,’ Adams persisted, ‘I’ll show you the telegraph message. It’s in my back pocket.’
‘You know I ain’t gonna untie you.’ Hazard could have explained that one of the reasons was his inability to read, but that was an inadequacy of which he wasn’t proud.
‘OK; you get it out. It’s there.’ Adams stopped and indicated the pocket with his tied hands. Hazard took the Winchester from his saddle-holster and one handedly jabbed it in his captive’s back. ‘Keep on moving. Whatever’s on that piece of paper ain’t no interest to me.’
Adams did as he was bid. ‘OK, tell you something else. Anybody in town will tell you that I ain’t ever been seen with a hand gun. I’ve only got two pieces and they’re both rifles for use on the farm. You can bet your bottom dollar the bullets in the telegraph operator are both from a .45, something of that caliber.
‘Bottom dollar? You’re too late to talk of my laying down my last dollar, my talkative friend. My bottom dollar’s already gone.’
Adams trudged on through the sand, eventually accepting a joint silence. They stopped at half-hourly intervals to take water till at last the canteen was empty. The heat was oppressive and Hazard was getting tired. He’d had a full day. But he wasn’t too tired to notice that Adams had slowed to a snail’s pace.
‘No need to go that slow,’ he chided.
‘I’m getting worried. Does Oldfield know you kept on my trail after that dust devil?’
‘Figure he does.’
‘I was just thinking. It’d sure suit him to have me dead a-fore we get back to town. And you, if it comes to that. I don’t suppose you got anyone local to miss you or cause any rumpus if you took a heavy dose of lead in your system. It’d sure have occurred to him that I would have told you the truth of the matter. It’d save him his “30 pieces of silver” as well.’
‘Nobody’s gonna gun us down. For one thing, it’s too open.’
‘We ain’t in town yet. We got us a few miles of rocky countryside to cross a-fore we get there. Lots of places where some pokes could hide and pick us off. You’ d better start thinking about your own hide, Blondie.’
‘‘That guy you killed,’ Hazard observed. ‘Did you talk him to death?’
‘I’m just saying we gotta look out for a drygulching.’
‘I’ve heard some diamondbacks in my time but none that rattled as loud as you.’ The last curt statement acted as a burial marker on the conversation and quietly, slowly they progressed across the desert, But Hazard was not a professional bounty hunter, although he treated his prisoner with firmness, he was becoming more uneasy. Like gentle but persistent waves on a beach, doubts were beginning to erode the conviction with which he followed his present course. Ten hours before he was willing to take on any work which would bring him money, but since then his hunger had been assuaged. In seeking money for catching a human being, hadn’t he sold his soul to the devil? He’d hunted men before, even killed, but that had been for overpowering personal reasons. This was different. How much is a man worth? By accepting the commission Hazard had set the price at two hundred dollars. ‘I’ve gotta live, ain’t I?’ he told himself. Thereby he buttressed his conscience––at least temporarily––against the incoming tide of doubt. The sun was low when they approached the first rocky promontory that marked the last stretch of trail to town. From the high elevation their long-cast shadows were efficient indicators of their positions. Ideal for sighting along a rifle barrel.
Without warning there were two simultaneous, long-considered shots. The one gouted up sand a little behind the roped walker. The other took Hazard in the left shoulder. With hands encumbered, Adams bent from the waist and began a zigzag run toward the outcrop. Recoiling under the impact of the missile that had pierced his body, Hazard slumped forward awkwardly onto his mount’s neck. His legs automatically moved back with the impulse and his feet hit flanks, fortuitously spurring the horse on. The animal came to rest where Adams had stumbled prostrate under overhanging rock. Hazard began to keel uncontrollably out of the saddle.
Adams saw his difficulty as he got to his knees. ‘You’ve been hit!’ He staggered clumsily to his feet and quickly arched his back to break the stricken rider’s fall. Hazard bounced against the cushion of the bent man and slumped to the sandy ground.
‘How bad’s it feel?’ Adams asked, looking at the blood adding another color to Hazard’s already multi-hued jacket.
‘You were right all along’ Hazard whispered. `Hell, you were right.’
He drew his knife with his unaffected right hand. ‘Turn round.’ He sliced through Adams’s bonds. ‘You say you’re a rifle man. Get the Winchester from the saddle-holster. You’ll find some shells in one of the saddle-bags.’
Adams eagerly did as he was bid while Hazard drew his Joslyn and broke it to check its chamber was full.
‘I’ll sort the bastards out,’ said Adams confidently. ‘You stay here while I go up top.’
‘No,’ Hazard cautioned. ‘You won’t stand a chance. They’ll be waiting for you. We’ve got the advantage. They’ve shown their hand and they’ve got to play it out.’
‘What do you mean?’
`They’ll wait for a spell and then have to come down. They’re committed now. We’d best lie low here––facing both ways. That’ll give us a chance. At least, they don’t know how badly I’m hit––or whether you’ve got free hands.’
He parted his jacket, rent his shirt and examined the wound. ‘Get my bandana off and pad it in there…gently.’
That done he lay on his right side against the rock with an arm outstretched and five-shooter leveled. ‘Now scat the horse. Then, the moment you see one of the bastards, shoot on sight.’
Adams slammed the horse’s rump so that it cantered off and then he followed the suit of his erstwhile captor to face in the opposite direction. The soles of their boots almost touched.
At least, Hazard had been right m his prediction of their bushwhackers’ next step. After a ten minute lapse, two figures with raised guns appeared from behind the base of the rock, one on each side of them.
The slug from Adams’s Winchester took away part of Oldfield’s head. The man went down with a grunt, inaudible to them at their distance, blood drenching the front of his fancy Eastern shirt. Hazard’s .44 shot caught his target in the hip. The fellow buckled sideward as though his leg had disappeared. Although not dead like Oldfield, the pain in his chipped thigh-bone ensured he took no further part in the action.
It was dark when Hazard stepped out of the doctor’s surgery. His shoulder was bandaged and his arm was in a sling.
There had been a third man in the bushwhacking but he’d vamoosed when he saw his two cronies downed. Adams and Hazard had resumed their journey back to town. Adams had woken up the doctor and organized some attention for Hazard’s wound. While being medicated, Hazard had told the sheriff about the developments after the dust storm and the lawman went out with a wagon and fetched in the wounded man and body of Oldfield. Although the sheriff had been maneuvered into forming a posse to hunt down Adams, it was because of his simple-minded malleability and weakness of will, rather than any black-hearted complicity in the frame-up. He gave no more consideration to the notion of Adams being guilty. The climax of the hunt and the crumpled message from Adam’s pocket were explanation enough. The truth was corroborated when two hand-gun bullets were extracted later from the telegraph operator’s body. Washington would be contacted when someone could be found who could work the signaling apparatus.
Hazard and Adams stood facing each other in the moonlight.
‘You’ve not got too much out of today.’ the homesteader said.
‘I don’t know.’ Hazard smiled ironically. ‘I’ve learned a lesson. Hope there’s no hard feelings’
‘Why should there be? You saved my life at the canyon. And, if you hadn’t brung me back and sided with me against Oldfield, I’m sure he and his men would have hounded me until they caught up with me and put out my lights. Huh, a puny sandstorm wouldn’t have stopped him.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe nothing, said Adams. ‘You been mighty firm with me today and now it’s my turn to be firm with you. You’re coming back to meet my missus and family. You’re gonna recuperate at our place. And when your arm’s better you can work with me on the land until you find another job or want to move on. I can’t pay you but at least, you’ll have a full belly. That’s if you’ve a mind to.’
Hazard took the proffered hand with his own remaining good one and shook it. ‘I’ve a mind to.’
(This piece marks a landmark for me as the first western short I ever sold. (The story of how Hazard came by his Joseph-jacket and its significance for him is chronicled in Hazard (Hale, 1979)