CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BRECKENRIDGE STOOD IN the doorway, angrily shaking his head as he surveyed the situation. Folks being forced into hiding in their own town and being beaten in their own place of business was insanity. Jennie was helping Anna Price tend to Eli, who had regained consciousness and was sitting up. Paul Price was on the other side of the room, talking quietly with Asa, trying to assure him that a Comanche raiding party wasn’t bearing down on the livery.
Clay was contemplating what to do. “If this doesn’t end,” he told Jonesy, “there’s gonna be folks getting killed. Eli nearly was already.”
“We going after them?” Pate said.
“Be better than waiting for them to come sneaking up on us. Right now we’ve got an advantage since they don’t likely know you and me have followed them here.”
“Then let’s make them aware.”
Clay walked over to Rayburn and sat beside him. “How you feeling?”
Eli’s voice was weak and gravelly. “Like I got run over by a herd of cattle,” he said. “But I’ll live. It’s mighty good to see you boys back in town. I missed you.”
“Paul tells me that Baggett and his associate rented tents,” Clay said. “You recall which ones you assigned to them?”
Eli thought for a minute before answering. “Down at the end of the third row,” he said. “Took them there myself. Baggett paid for two, side by side.” He let out a painful chuckle. “If it’s necessary to put a few bullet holes in my property,” he said, “there’ll be no charge.”
Clay then went to Price. “I know you can use a rifle,” he said, “seeing as how you’re a squirrel hunter.” He handed him Rayburn’s Winchester. “Me and Jonesy, we’re going to go see if we can confront these men. In our absence, you’re in charge of protecting folks here.”
“I wasn’t in the war, you know,” Paul said, “so I’ve never shot at a man before.”
“You might have to start,” Jonesy said. “Just think of ’em as somebody wanting to do harm to your wife.”
Price cocked the rifle and moved toward the doorway. “That’ll get them killed,” he said.
YOU GOT US a plan?” Jonesy said to Clay as he pulled his rifle from its scabbard.
“I’m thinking they’ve run out of folks to confront for the time being and are in need of time to think about what to do next. Since they’ve got no other place to go, they’ve probably returned to the tents. It’s best we approach on foot since horses would alert them long before we got close.”
There was a treeless, grassy slope behind the livery that led to Rayburn’s tent city. Clay and Jonesy had walked the route numerous times during their earlier stay in Tascosa. “We’ll be exposed, but I doubt they’re expecting company.”
In Baggett’s tent, he and Doozy were doing exactly what Clay had predicted. Their horses were staked outside.
Clay and Jonesy, crouching in the high grass, were within thirty yards of the tent when Baggett heard a voice he immediately recognized.
“Baggett, this is Clay Breckenridge. I got Jonesy Pate with me, and we’re here to see you dead.”
Almost immediately a series of quick shots erupted from the tent, forcing Clay and Jonesy onto their stomachs. Breckenridge again called out, “Doozy, we know you’re in there as well. I want you to be aware we’ve done left your crazy brother dead in that shack down by the Brazos. You should also know we got our boy back.”
In the tent, Doozy looked panic-stricken. “I didn’t come out here to get myself killed,” he said to Baggett. “They’ve done killed Alvin. Did you hear him? My brother’s dead.”
“Shut up,” Baggett said as he fired another shot toward the sound of Breckenridge’s voice.
“No way I’m doing this,” Doozy said, getting to his feet. “No way. I ain’t getting myself killed for someone who won’t even pay a fellow what’s owed him.”
He dropped his pistol to the plank floor and hurried through the tent opening, his hands high above his head.
“I’m surrendering,” he yelled. “Don’t shoot.”
From inside, Baggett let out a loud stream of curses. “You worthless coward,” he yelled, then fired a shot that struck Doozy in the back. His arms fell to his side; then he slowly went to his knees as Baggett shot him again. He was dead before his face was buried into the sand.
Even before Doozy’s fall was completed, Baggett was out of the tent, shooting blindly as he ran toward his horse. Clay and Jonesy, briefly surprised by what had just transpired, got to their feet and returned fire but missed.
Baggett was quickly riding away.
Pate turned to head back to the livery. “Let’s get our horses,” he said, pulling at Clay’s arm.
“I don’t think there’s a need to rush,” Clay said. “I got a good idea where he’s headed.”
BAGGETT WAS PUSHING his horse unmercifully, riding through Tascosa at a gallop and heading south.
In the livery anxious eyes focused on the doorway as Clay and Jonesy appeared.
“We heard gunfire,” Price said. “You boys shot or anything?”
“Nope. We’re fine,” Clay said. “One’s dead, but we still got work to do.” He told Price to remain on guard.
Jonesy was already saddling the horses. “Where we headed?” he said.
“Palo Duro Canyon.”
RETURNING TO THE canyon, something he’d sworn never to do, gave Baggett a painful knot in his stomach. He felt as if he might vomit as memories of the raid by the Comanches flowed back. As he rode down the path leading to where his compound had once been, the putrid odor of burned buildings and the remnants of death greeted him. The skeletal remains of several horses were scattered about and a large blackened circle where the bodies of his men had been burned was still visible.
Baggett was repulsed, thoughts of his stolen money no longer foremost on his mind. This time it was survival not greed that had brought him here to the last safe place he knew.
His horse’s coat was lathered in sweat as he reined him to a stop in front of where his cabin had once stood. All that was left were ashes. He dismounted and hurried to the hidden trail he’d used so many times before.
AS THEY SLOWLY entered the canyon, the sights and smells also offended Breckenridge and Pate. They stopped as they neared the opening where the compound once was.
“Don’t appear to me there’s many hiding places remaining,” Jonesy said as he surveyed the burned-out buildings. Clay scanned the canyon walls, looking for a vantage point from which Baggett might open fire. Aside from a few circling hawks, he saw no movement.
Hoping their prey might reveal his location with gunfire, Breckenridge called out, “This is the end of the line, Baggett. You’ll not get away. Consider yourself a dead man.”
The warning was met with silence.
“Where do you think he is?” Pate said.
“I got no idea, but I think we’d be wise to take Marshal Rankin’s advice and show patience. Baggett ain’t got but one way out of this place, and unless he grows wings and flies, we got him covered. We’ll wait him out for a while.”
He yelled once more, his voice echoing against the canyon walls. “We got all the time in the world, Baggett.”
In truth, they waited less than two hours. “Let’s start walkin’ the edges,” Clay said. “You take the east side, and I’ll head west. Go slow, and be sure he doesn’t sneak up on your backside. Stay down in the rock formations in case he does decide to start shooting and give away where he’s hiding.”
As he made his way along the boulders, Clay looked out at Baggett’s horse, on its side and struggling for breath. It was dying, and Breckenridge felt a renewed surge of anger. Jonesy, meanwhile, hadn’t gone but a hundred yards before a bobcat sprinted from its lair, very nearly causing him to fire off a round. Mostly, however, there was only a disquieting feeling about the place. No breeze blew and only the occasional sound of nature broke the silence.
Breckenridge moved slowly along the ledges and crevices, stopping occasionally to listen for any telling sounds. There was nothing to hear or see until he reached the area directly behind where Baggett’s cabin had once stood. There, he saw vegetation, tangled vines and bushes mingled with the cacti.
It hid what appeared to be a narrow footpath. Though never much of a tracker, Clay thought he could see faint boot prints in the crushed rock. They led toward the canyon rim. He followed the path higher until he could see a larger stand of brush and a boulder where the trail seemed to end.
Taking small, careful steps, he reached the brush pile and saw what it was hiding.
He was preparing to move one of the limbs aside when he heard the shotgun blast. It blew the remainder of the brush away from the cave entrance and sent red-hot pain through Clay’s thigh. His rifle flew away, tumbling down the side of the canyon, and he was suddenly on his back, feeling as if he might pass out.
He rolled from the pathway as a second blast lit the dark interior. Smoke billowed from the mouth of the opening. There was a faint sound of someone laughing.
Hearing the shots, Pate climbed down from the rocks and was running across the compound, calling Breckenridge’s name. When he reached him, Clay was bleeding badly. He had torn the sleeve from his shirt and was attempting to bandage the wound when Jonesy arrived.
“He’s holed up in that cave,” Clay said, pointing to the nearby ledge. “We’ve got to keep him there until we can figure a way to approach him.”
“Any thoughts on how much ammunition he’s got?”
“I don’t want to make a guess, but probably enough to kill us both if we don’t use our heads.”
Pate was staring at Clay’s wound. “You ain’t gonna die on me, are you?”
“Not planning on it. You bring any matches?”
Jonesy reached into his shirt pocket. “Good thing I ain’t had time for smoking my pipe today,” he said as he held up a half dozen wooden matches.
“Let’s smoke him out.”
Jonesy moved away from the path and approached the mouth of the cave from the side. Brushing some dried leaves into a pile, he soon had a small blaze. After he moved large limbs of the dried brush over it, they were quickly ablaze and being thrown into the cave. Pate repeated the action several times as thunderous shots from inside responded.
Shortly, a roaring fire lit the first few yards of the cave. Pate could hear curses coming from inside.
He found a small bush that was still alive and full of leaves, pulled it from the rocky soil, and, leaning in from one side of the opening, began using it to fan the smoke farther back into the darkness. Then they waited.
“Might as well come on out, old man. If you don’t, next thing we got planned is a rockslide that’ll close up this hole,” Jonesy said.
There were more shots from inside, then a long silence.
Finally, they heard the sound of coughing getting nearer and nearer, louder and louder. Suddenly, Baggett was standing at the opening, holding his shotgun and wiping his eyes in an effort to see where to aim.
Whether it was a shot fired from Jonesy’s rifle or the one from Breckenridge’s pistol that killed Ben Baggett, neither knew. Nor did they care. Clay was on his feet, moving stiff legged toward the fallen body. Pate was already straddled over it, his rifle pointed at the dead man’s head.
He and Clay looked at each other, expressions of relief on their faces.
“Now all I gotta do is figure how to get you down from here so we can head back to town before you bleed to death,” Pate said. “That or Madge’ll be giving me the dickens from now on.”