Jim picked up the trail again on the third day out from the Treece place. Tracks left by five horses heading south, and no more than a day — maybe a day and a half — old. He figured that by now the Parsons bunch would be feeling pretty safe; apart from John Mulchay there hadn’t been any pursuit, so they would be congratulating themselves on getting away with the Sweetwater raid; their confidence would relax them, decide on them slowing their pace.
It was a good time for him to make a try at getting his money back, Jim decided. While the Parsons bunch were beginning to ease their guard. He didn’t fool himself into believing there wouldn’t be any risks at all. Anything he did that concerned the Parsons bunch would be dangerous by definition. Off guard or not they were still professional gunmen. Killers. The type who shot first and never even thought about wondering why. So however he approached the problem he had to keep in mind the possibility of finding himself on the hard end of someone else’s bullet. It was a less than comforting thought.
An hour after noon Jim stopped to give his horse a rest. He reined in beside a narrow stream that came winding down out of the high hills behind him. Letting his horse drink Jim knelt beside the stream and sluiced the clear, cool water onto his face, feeling it rinse away the gritty dust clinging to his stubbled flesh. Rising to his feet he wandered to the crest of a low rise and stared out across a wild and seemingly endless tract of semi-arid land. It lay dun-colored and shimmering beneath a burnished curve of blue sky that was marred only by a few thin scraps of white cloud. Henry Treece had been right. It was rough country. Jim sank down on his heels, resting his arms across his knees. He gazed southwards, shading his eyes against the harsh brightness of the sun. After some time he reached up and took off his hat, drawing his free hand through his hair. Hell, Jim boy, maybe you’ve bit off more’n you can handle. The thought drifted into his mind unbidden, and the simple act of even admitting the possibility he might be taking on overwhelming odds made him angry. It was akin to accepting failure, which was something Jim Travis never could.
He rose to his feet and stalked grimly back to his horse. Gathering the reins he swung into the saddle, setting the horse into motion with an angry jab of his heels. He rode away from the stream and crossed the final slope of the foothills to reach the silent wilderness of the flatlands.
Jim rode hard for the rest of the afternoon. An hour before dark he reined in as his aching eyes picked out the irregular shape of what could have only been a town some miles ahead. He sat for a while, staring at the dusty outline, and eventually moved off again. There was no doubt in his mind that the tracks he was following were aiming directly for the town.
He rode in after dark, passing the skeletal outlines of cattle pens and loading platforms that lay alongside a single-span railroad track. Just beyond the tracks lay a huddle of crude adobe huts and Jim caught the smell of spiced food cooking, heard the soft accents of Mexico. The way led him up a rutted slope that opened onto the town’s main street. He rode by stores that were still open for business and saloons that were just opening for the night ahead.
Jim spotted a hotel and took his horse over to the hitch rail. He climbed down, took his rifle and saddlebags and went inside. The lobby was dim, the air warm and smelling of dust. Jim’s boots rapped against the worn floor as he crossed to the desk where a middle-aged man watched him with total disinterest.
‘Single room,’ he said. ‘Just for the night.’
The clerk reached behind him and hooked a key off the board. He dropped it in front of Jim. ‘Sign the book. Room’ll be two dollars. Pay me now.’
Jim signed the yellowed page of the register. He fished out a couple of silver dollars and shoved them across the desk.
‘Where can I get a meal?’
‘Out the door. Turn left. There’s a place a few doors down.’
Jim took his key and climbed the creaking stairs. His room turned out to be on the front, overlooking the street. He tossed his gear on the bed and opened the window.
‘Where are you, boys?’ he asked softly, staring out of the window, and along the street. He knew damn well that he could be too late. The Parsons bunch had ridden into this town — it was entirely possible that they had already ridden out again.
Jim cleaned himself up as best he could, put on his last clean shirt and left the hotel. He found the place the clerk had mentioned. It was a small, but pleasant restaurant run by a dark Italian and his wife. They provided plain food that was at least well cooked. Jim had a steak with potatoes and greens, followed it with some stewed apples and a pot of rich coffee. He lingered over the meal, giving the saloons time to fill before he started visiting them. If Parsons and his bunch had spent any time in this town the saloons were the likely places for picking up any information. It was also a risky way of doing it but Jim had no other options.
It turned out to be a long and fruitless night. Jim moved from saloon to saloon, even chanced a visit to the two cantinas down in the Mexican section of town. He didn’t learn a thing apart from confirming his own suspicions that he was no drinking man. Somewhere close on midnight he made his way back to the hotel. He had spent too much of his money, swallowed too much bad liquor, and his only gain was a hell of a headache. He wasn’t exactly drunk but his senses were dulled enough so that he didn’t even see the two dark figures closing in on him until it was too late.
Far too late.
Jim’s first warning of trouble came in the form of a hard fist slamming into his left side. The blow drove the breath from his body, pain flaring up through his ribs. And then a hard bulk smashed against him, driving him sideways into the dark mouth of an alley. He tried to keep his balance, but hard punches came at him from the shadows, bouncing him against the rough planks of a building. The back of his head crashed against the planking. A savage blow numbed his jaw, filling his mouth with the taste of blood. Jim struck out wildly, felt his fist connect with soft flesh. Dimly he heard a man curse. And then the beating began again. They knocked him to the ground, dragged him up again, kicking and punching until he was so much dead weight in their arms.
A hand took hold of his hair, dragging his head back. Jim coughed up blood from his throat and spat it out. A man laughed. Close by a match flared and Jim blinked at the sudden bright light.
‘You hear me, boy?’
Jim croaked his answer.
‘Word is you’ve been all over town tonight askin’ questions. Now I’m askin’ one. What’s your business with Luke Parsons and his boys?’
‘My business,’ Jim husked, forcing the words from his swollen throat.
‘Looks like we got us a hard one, Will,’ the second man said.
‘Hard or not they can die just like anyone else.’
The match held near Jim’s face went out. The man cursed. There was a pause as he fumbled for another, scraped it alight. This time Jim caught a glimpse of the face behind the ring of flame. He made a mental note of a thick, hooked nose and narrow gray eyes.
‘You think of a right answer, boy, ‘cause I don’t like a smart mouth. Just what is it you’re after?’
Jim’s bottled-up frustrations boiled to the surface in a rush and he struggled against the hands holding him down.
‘Damnit, he’s got something that belongs to me and I aim to get it back.’
The man called Will chuckled. ‘Hell, boy, if everybody Luke Parsons has stole from come after him this town’d have half the territory in it!’
‘I don’t reckon we’ll have much trouble with this one,’ the second man chuckled. ‘He ain’t but a kid.’
‘Tell you something, boy,’ Will said. ‘You’re lucky it was only me and Lee you crossed. Luck too that the others already rode on. If you’d bumped into Nolan Troop or Luke himself ... well, hell, boy, you’d be dead right now!’
‘That supposed to satisfy me?’
Will grunted in annoyance. ‘Boy, you’re startin’ to rile me. I’ll give you some advice. I were you I’d get me on a horse and go home. Whatever it is you lost it ain’t worth the dyin’ for.’
The one called Lee jerked brutally against Jim’s hair. ‘You hear him? Hear him good, boy, ‘cause if I set eyes on you again I won’t come at you with words.’
‘That’s a promise,’ Will agreed. ‘Show your face in town come daylight you’d better do it with a gun in your hand!’
The match was snuffed out. Darkness rolled over Jim as he slid to the ground, his face pressed against the dirt. He heard the faint scrape of boots against the ground, the muted jingle of a spur, and then it all melted away. It became very quiet. He lay and decided it was in his best interests to stay where he was for a while. He was starting to hurt ...