CHAPTER TWENTY
AFTER TWO DAYS in the saloon, Jonesy felt good enough to return to his tent. His arm was in a sling, and he still moved slowly, but was in good spirits. “I’m right glad to be out of there,” he told Clay. “That’s the longest I ever spent in the bed of a woman wasn’t my wife.”
He was fast tiring of the constant attention. Clay was never far away, always wanting to know if there was anything he could do. He arrived several times daily with coffee and tended the bandages. Madge brought soup and muffins. A bottle of whiskey sat near his bed.
“Time I get up and about,” he said when he finally emerged. Clay argued but to no avail. “I ain’t figuring on riding broncos or chopping no wood,” Jonesy said, “but I feel a need for fresh air, sunshine, and making myself somehow useful.”
With Breckenridge at his side, Pate slowly walked up to the corral, then down toward the laundry. It was good to be moving around, feeling the blood pumping through his weakened body.
“We need to do some talking,” he said as they made their way back toward the livery. “You and me both know I’m pretty worthless in this state. And I’m aware of you wanting to get on with the business you come to tend. What worries me is you trying to do it by yourself.”
Clay gently placed a hand on his friend’s injured shoulder. “I didn’t bring you out to this godforsaken country to get you all shot up. I’m being truthful when I say I’m feeling real bad about that. The important thing for now is that you mend proper. Once that’s done, we’ll make us a new plan. We’ll go one day at a time.”
As they talked, a clatter sounded near the entrance to the stable. They walked around the corner of the building to see a buckboard pulling to a stop. Holding the reins was the one-eyed man named Bootsy. Sitting next to him, a scowl on his reddened face, was Ben Baggett.
“My man here has told me of making your acquaintance,” Baggett said, not bothering to introduce himself or inquire about Pate’s injured shoulder. “If what he’s saying is true, we’re both in search of the same man. I’m of a mind we might be of use to one another.”
“And how’s that?” Clay’s question was directed at Baggett, but he was looking at Bootsy, wondering if their earlier visit had been part of a ploy to involve them in the failed attempt to chase down Top Wilson.
“I’m wondering if you’ve already attempted to make use of us to tend to your bidding,” Breckenridge continued. “If so, it got my friend here shot, something I deeply resent.”
Baggett removed his hat and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “I heard about what happened,” he said, “and had no idea you boys were involved until my folks come limping home. They didn’t even know who it was who allowed them to escape with their lives until Bootsy fessed up and guessed it was you. Part of my reason for being here is to thank you for saving my men.” He made no mention of the two who had died.
“Exactly what’s your interest in this fellow Wilson?” Clay asked.
“He’s got something that belongs to me, and I aim to get it back. I have no idea why it is you boys have need of him, but clearly you do. I’ll not poke my nose in your business, but I’ve got men who’ll ride with you and help catch him. After I get what I want, he’s yours to do with as you please.”
He replaced his hat and looked toward Bootsy. “I do have one other question. You have any cause to believe that Wilson’s accompanied by anybody else? Another of my hands has gone missing, causing me concern.”
Clay realized that Baggett was unaware his brother was dead. “Nope,” he said. “We’re looking only for Wilson.”
“Then I’ve said what I come to say. Think on my offer, and Bootsy here will be back in the morning to learn your answer.”
As they rode away, Eli Rayburn appeared from behind the livery door, where he’d been listening. “That man’s mighty desperate,” he said. “I’ve never known Ben Baggett to ask help from nobody.”
“What’s your thinking?” Clay asked Jonesy.
“Sounds to me we’ve just been offered a deal with the devil.”
Breckenridge shook his head. “Not ‘we,’” he said. “Me.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Bootsy was waiting outside the tent when they woke. “So we’re clear,” he said, “I made no mention to Mr. Baggett about alerting you boys to his plan the other day. Nor did I share with him that we talked about Will Darby and how you might even be his kin.
“Only reason I said anything at all was the fact he was mad enough to kill those two who returned empty-handed and told him of being ambushed. And when I say ‘kill,’ I ain’t choosing the word lightly. Wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d shot them both right where they stood.
“Here of late, things have been falling apart on him. He lost his boy, you know, then had three men die at the hands of Comanches. Then the two who Wilson bushwhacked, and Darby’s gone God knows where. My boss is a mighty distressed man.”
“So what will restore a smile to his face?”
“Take four or five men, more if you want, and go looking for Wilson. He’ll provide his best, but, truthfully, he knows his men ain’t near as smart as he’d wish once they get past stealing cows. So he’ll agree on you being in charge. I’ve volunteered to come along. We can be ready whenever you say.”
Breckenridge accepted the cup of coffee Pate handed him. “Tell your boss I need five men with some muscle and good sense. It would be good if they still had hair and their own teeth. And I’ll allow only one who ain’t got both his eyes. We’ll leave out from here at daylight tomorrow.”
Clay avoided the saloon that evening, hoping not to have to try to justify his actions to Madge. Pate’s sullen response to the idea was enough to deal with. “Teaming up with a crowd of no-’count outlaws is liable to get you killed,” he argued. “Wait until I’m better, and we’ll go take care of this ourselves.” Clay had never heard his friend curse so much.
The fact that Madge didn’t stop by the tent spoke loudly about her feelings on the matter.
AT DAWN BAGGETT’S men were waiting, each wearing a sidearm. Rifles, in their scabbards, hung from their saddles. They looked like a hurriedly-thrown-together sheriff’s posse. Bootsy called off the names of the men—Davey, Tip-Toe, Bear, and Geno—which Breckenridge showed no interest in remembering. Pate, attempting to lighten the previous evening’s mood, leaned close to his friend and whispered, “I’ll say a prayer you don’t get your throat cut in your sleep.”
As they rode from town, Clay and Bootsy agreed they would travel directly to the site of the ambush and begin the search there. They would be looking for a needle in a haystack.
When they reached the gorge, they found two saddled horses running free, foraging on wild berries and the low-hanging beans on mesquite trees. One had an open wound on its flank where it had been attacked by coyotes or wolves. Lying side by side near one of the nearby boulders were the mangled remains of the two men Wilson had killed. Animals and blowflies had made the bodies unrecognizable.
“We’ll stop and see what’s left of them gets a proper burying and the horses tended to,” Clay said. “Collect their weapons as well.”
His first order since they had left Tascosa was met with little enthusiasm.
He instructed one of the men to unsaddle the deserted horses. “We’ll leave the gear behind and hope somewhere up ahead we’ll find a home for the animals.”
Searching the ridge of the gorge, Bootsy located where Wilson had camped, waiting to carry out his ambush. There were the remains of a small campfire and burned bones of what appeared to be a couple of rabbits. On a pile of rocks were bloodstains left by Jonesy Pate.
Clay walked the area for several minutes, moving from the campsite to the perch Wilson had fired from, then to where he had tethered his horse. “I’m just making a guess,” Breckenridge said, “but since he had cause to take leave in a hurry, I’m betting he continued that way.” He pointed eastward.
The following day they encountered a small herd being driven toward the Red River. Clay and Bootsy approached the trail boss and asked if he had seen any strangers recently.
“Few evenings back,” he said, “this skinny-lookin’ fellow—real funny acting—rode into our camp on a horse that appeared on its last leg. He was wanting to buy a fresh mount and said price was of no matter.
“All we could spare was a mare not in much better shape than the one he had. But he took it and was on his way, happy as could be, especially after we also agreed to sell him a tin of coffee.”
“You recall what direction he was headed?”
The trail boss pointed to the south.
“What’s down that way?” Clay asked.
“Just more of what you’re looking at here, which ain’t much.”
The following afternoon, as the men’s heads bobbed in rhythm with the gait of their horses, Clay rode up next to Bootsy. “We’re being followed,” he said. “Have been most of the day.”
Bootsy shielded his good eye and looked in the direction Breckenridge was pointing. On a distant rise, he could see the faint outline of several horses standing side by side.
“Indians,” Bootsy said. “I’d bet money on it. My advice is you don’t tell the men, lest they scatter like scared quail. This here’s trouble Top Wilson started back when he rustled those cattle from the Comanches.”
“And it doesn’t appear to be over. Best we start considering what to do should they decide to do more than follow along and watch.”
“My vote’s for getting outta here.”
“No way of telling how many there are,” Breckenridge said, “but it’s likely we’re badly outnumbered. And I don’t figure there’s any friendly intent to their following us. The cattle drive we paid a visit to is about a half day’s ride back the way we come. They had six, maybe eight men who, if they’re fair shots, could help even the odds.”
Without explanation, Clay ordered the men to reverse direction.
Well before they reached where he assumed the cattle drive would be, Clay sensed disaster. On the far horizon he could see black dots in the bright blue sky lazily gliding in a circle.
Buzzards.
The scene they soon rode up on caused two of the Baggett men to retch. Others silently looked away.
“Good Lord Almighty,” said Bootsy, “it was a massacre. Nobody but a crazy person would do something of this nature.”
“Savages,” Clay said as his eyes roamed the horror.
Tied to the wheels of the chuck wagon were two cowboys who had been scalped and their eyes removed. Their shirts had been torn open and gaping cuts to their stomachs allowed bloody intestines to spill into the dirt.
Other dismembered bodies lay nearby, pecked at by the buzzards. Somewhere nearby, hungry coyotes were already howling.
There was no sign of the cattle.
Clay stood in his saddle, again searching the horizon. In the distance he could see the same horseback forms that had first alerted him to the fact they were being followed. “They’re playing a game with us, like a kitten with a ball of string,” he said. “They’re sending a message I don’t rightly understand. If they wanted us dead, they’d have done killed us.”
“What are you thinking we should do?”
“Safest thing would be to head back to the canyon. If we can make it.”
Which was just what Silver Hawk hoped their plan would be. He had recognized three of the men from the night his village was raided. The War Gods had instructed him to make the white man lead him to the place those who stole his people’s cattle and killed his warriors called home.
As the nervous group made their way homeward, they were still followed, but always from afar.
“Time was,” said Bootsy, “when I considered the worst thing could happen would be a tongue-lashing or worse from ol’ man Baggett. And you can rest assured that’ll be coming when he learns of our decision to retreat. But after seeing what was done to those trail drivers back there, the boss doesn’t worry me in the least.”
The Indians, on the other hand, worried him a great deal. Clay shared his concern.