Cordell was pleased with the bay mare. True, she was long past being a colt, but she still had enough go about her to carry him miles into the night without acting up as the stud had done. He made a dry and fireless camp. He would have liked some coffee, but that could wait. He would stop somewhere after daylight and boil a pot without much risk that his campfire would attract attention. He had no specific reason to believe anyone was actually on his trail, but he trusted his hunches. They told him it was likely that someone was. They just didn’t tell him how far behind the pursuit might be. He had no intention of making it easy for them.
The stallion had been so feisty that it had been a constant fight to make it go where Cordell wanted it to. The mare was more pliable. He guided her onto hard, rocky ground where the terrain offered any. Unlike the stallion, she never stumbled. His snaky trail would be difficult for even an expert tracker and impossible for anyone less apt.
He had begun to notice a considerable scattering of buffalo bones bleaching on the prairie. He realized that this was all that remained of the vast shaggy herds that had once roamed the country. No one could have believed beforehand how quickly they would be decimated once a market developed for the hides.
“All wiped out,” he told the mare. “Their time has come and gone.”
He tried not to dwell on it, but he could not help thinking that his own time would probably soon be gone, too. With John Laws of all kinds covering Texas like horseflies, little room was left for free spirits like himself. Before long, bankers would be able to rob the public without having to worry about somebody robbing them. He would have no choice but to change his occupation. Maybe he could make a living gathering up buffalo bones.
In a couple of days he came to the crumbled ruins of what he took to be a frontier military fort. Partial stone walls gave him some idea of the post’s original configuration. He recognized one small structure as having been a powder magazine, constructed at a distance from the other buildings as a precaution in event of an accidental explosion. Remnants of charred wood told him the fort had been burned in the distant past.
From stories he had heard, he realized this was probably what remained of Fort Phantom Hill, built as an outpost against Comanche and Kiowa, then abandoned. It would have been logical to assume that Indians had burned it, but Cordell had been told that departing soldiers hated the place so much that they had set it on fire to make certain they never had to return.
He had seen maps of this area. He tried to visualize them from memory and determine where he was in relation to the farm from which Buster had come. Unfortunately, he was stumped.
The sun was going down, and he was hungry, so he decided to camp here. He could build a small campfire within one of the ruined buildings. The partially crumbled walls should protect the modest flames from view. He loosed an unwieldy bundle from behind the cantle, along with his rolled blanket. In the bundle were coffee beans from Irmadell’s kitchen and part of a ham from Jedediah’s smokehouse. He was glad he had had the foresight to take them. All that Galveston money in his saddlebags would do him no good if he starved.
He had found a stream below the hill and assumed it to be the Clear Fork of the Brazos. He could follow it and find Fort Griffin, but it was as crooked as a snake’s track. It stood to reason that he had bypassed Griffin and now was to the west or southwest of it. After the mare had drunk her fill, he staked her where he found the grass tall and moderately green for this part of the country. Here rainfall was chancy, and grass had to be hardy to survive long periods of drought. But the struggle seemed to give the vegetation more strength than was common farther east. Animals thrived on it.
The ham, though good, was getting to be monotonous. Sitting beside the tiny campfire, he sipped from what was left of his coffee. He reflected darkly that he seemed to have spent most of his adult life like this, alone, hungry, sleeping with a single blanket on the hard ground. Usually, like tonight, he had wondered who might be coming behind him and how close they might be to catching up.
He thought about Son Dobson and how much he would give to trade places with the old farmer-fisherman, worried about nothing more than his noisy grandchildren. If they were Cordell’s, they could make all the noise they wanted. That would be far preferable to the eerie silence of this old fort, where stone chimneys stood like tombstones over broken-down walls. The place was about as welcoming as a cemetery.
He dozed off, only to be awakened suddenly by the sound of horses moving through the grass. His heart hammered as he drew his pistol and sprinted out through an opening. He flattened himself against the highest part of the wall opposite the source of the sound.
Someone shouted, “Hello, the camp!”
Cordell remained silent. He heard a young voice say, “Told you I smelled smoke. There’s a campfire in that old buildin’. What’s left of one, anyway.”
“Maybe they got some coffee,” another replied.
Cordell held his breath. He heard the creak of leather as the riders dismounted on the far side of the ruined structure. The first voice said, “Don’t seem to be anybody here. Must’ve fixed supper and left.”
“Naw, there’s a blanket yonder, and a saddle. And I seen a horse staked outside. Somebody’s still around.”
Cordell stepped back through the opening, pistol in his hand. “Somethin’ I can do for you fellers?”
The pistol caught their immediate attention. Both men raised their hands to shoulder height. One stammered, “You don’t need to point that thing at us, mister. We don’t mean you no harm.”
Cordell made his voice sound severe. “Did you come lookin’ for me?”
“We don’t even know who you are. We was just lookin’ for some coffee, and maybe somethin’ to eat.”
Cordell placed several small pieces of dry wood on the fire to make it flare up. In its dancing light, he saw that both men were young, probably twenty years old or less. They looked like cowboys, possibly out of a job and riding the chuck line, depending upon others’ hospitality. He lowered the pistol but did not immediately return it to its holster. Young or not, they could hurt a man. “Sorry if I gave you-all a fright, but you never know who might come ridin’ in out of the night. Fort Griffin and the Clear Fork country have raised some hard characters.”
“We’re a ways past Griffin.”
That told Cordell he had indeed ridden too far. It was by no means the first wrong guess he had made. In case someone should ask these two later, he decided to throw them off the track. “I know. Already been there. I’m headin’ west, out to El Paso.”
“They’ve got hard characters there, too.”
Though not convinced, Cordell decided to give the pair the benefit of the doubt. He holstered the pistol but did not let his hand drift far from it. “The pot’s empty, but you’re welcome to boil some fresh coffee if you’re of a mind to. Got smoked ham, too. Feel free to eat it all up. I’m tired of it.”
He watched as they wolfed down what was left of his ham and drank coffee steaming hot. One had soft, patchy whiskers. He looked as if his next shave would be his first. The other’s whiskers were just beginning to darken. Cordell asked, “You-all work around here?”
They looked at one another before the older of the two answered. “We’re drovers. Came up from south of San Antonio with a herd but got fired at Griffin. It wasn’t our fault. We wasn’t the ones started the fight.”
“Anybody killed?”
“Not quite, but pert near. We decided not to stay around. Folks in Fort Griffin have been known to hang people.”
Cordell noticed that the younger-looking one, who had spoken little, seemed to be studying Cordell’s saddle with much interest. Perhaps he sensed that the bulging saddlebags held something more than grub.
“Much obliged for the supper,” the older one said as he got to his feet. “If you don’t mind, we’ll stake our horses and camp the night here.”
Reluctantly Cordell said, “It’s a free country.”
He watched them as they walked out to where they had tied their horses. The youngest seemed all of a sudden to be doing a lot of talking. The other nodded a couple of times and glanced back over his shoulder. Cordell wished he could hear what was being said. He had a hunch they were not discussing his health.
He knew he would not sleep tonight.
He spread his blanket outside the wall. They remained inside. While they settled in for the night, he kept watching them through an opening that had been a doorway. He waited until he heard snoring, then arose, rolled his blanket and tied it behind his saddle along with his little bit of camp equipment. So the pair would be less likely to hear, he led the mare out fifty yards or so before he saddled her. He circled back around and quietly untied the youths’ horses. He led them westward about a mile before turning them loose. Not quite qualifying as horse theft, it was his favorite way of stalling pursuit.
By the time the pair found their mounts, he would be miles away.
He was still uncertain about their intentions. Odds were that they would have tried to rob him during the night. In that case he had no cause to regret setting them afoot. On the other hand there was a chance they were just what they appeared to be, a couple of luckless cowboys. If so, he had done them a wrong. But at least it was only a nuisance that would result in nothing worse than sore feet. Some people he had known, like Milt Hayward, would have shot them just to be safe.
He made little effort in the night to hide his tracks, for he could not see the terrain well enough to pick his ground. Much of it was sandy. Judging direction by the North Star, he kept riding west to confuse pursuers until he came into a dry wash with a gravel base. That ought to make him hard to track, he thought. He followed the wash in a northwesterly direction for several miles until it played out. He cut back to the northeast to compensate for the wide circle he had made.
At daylight he did not know where he was except in a general way. Far to the west stretched the rough breaks that led to the base of the high-plains escarpment. Somewhere to the east was notorious Fort Griffin, legendary first as a military post and buffalo hunters’ rendezvous, then later as host to cattle drives on their way north to Kansas. He felt that its tales of violence had been exaggerated. Such stories almost always were, for most people were more interested in raw meat than in the facts. Still, there must be at least some fire to yield so much smoke. Perhaps in such an environment his past transgressions might be overlooked.
He was unaware of the half dozen riders until they topped a small rise in front of him, not fifty yards away. To run would be useless, for they had seen him. Dropping his hand to the grip of his pistol, he reined in the mare and waited. They had the grim and purposeful look of a posse. Had they come from behind him, he would not have been surprised, but their appearance head-on gave him a start. He resisted the temptation to draw the weapon. They could perforate him before he got off more than a shot or two.
The leader was a gaunt man with a severe expression and a black beard that hid his collar button, or would if he were wearing a collar. He said sternly, “I do wish you’d take your hand away from that six-shooter.”
Cordell decided to try bluffing his way through. “Not till I know your intentions.”
The leader beckoned to a rider whose hat was precariously perched atop a bandaged head. “Does he look like one of them, Hez?”
The little man called Hez gave Cordell only a brief inspection. “Naw, this feller is as big as the both of them put together. He don’t look like no drover, and he sure as hell ain’t no kid anymore.”
“You’re certain?”
“Damn right. They had their faces covered, but I could tell from their voices that they were a couple of young’uns. One of them no-good little bastards laid the barrel of a pistol upside my head. Like to’ve brained me.”
The man with the beard turned apologetically to Cordell. “Sorry for the inconvenience, friend. We’re lookin’ for a couple of cowboys that robbed a saloon in Fort Griffin after closin’ time the other night. Probably came off of a cattle drive and knew there’d be a lot of money in the saloon. Got themselves a road stake before they lit out for parts unknown.”
Cordell knew whom he was talking about, but he saw no reason to say so. An honorable outlaw did not inform on others. It was a courtesy of the trade. He didn’t see a badge among this bunch anyway. They looked more like a mob bent on vengeance. Citizens of Griffin had been known to mete out rough justice without waiting for the law. Waiting required patience.
He said, “I ain’t seen anybody that fits your description. Fact is, I ain’t seen anybody at all.”
“They had a good head start. They’re probably long gone.” The bearded man frowned. “If you happen to run into a pair of that description, though, you’d better ride way around them. A young rattlesnake’s bite is as dangerous as an old one’s. Hez’s partner is laid up with a cracked skull. They’re liable to kill somebody the next time.”
Cordell said, “It’s been some years since I was in Fort Griffin. What’s it like these days?”
“It’s seen better times. With railroads comin’ across Texas, the trail drives are slowin’ down. Since the Indians were put away, things are quiet up at the army post. Worst of all, Albany’s the county seat now. Griffin ain’t like it used to be, and sometimes I begin to wonder if it ever was.”
Cordell had no interest in the fortunes or misfortunes of Fort Griffin except as they might apply to the Jackson family. He was doubly relieved when the posse rode on. First of all, they had not recognized him. Maybe the alarm hadn’t reached this far west. Second, his suspicions about his visitors last night had proven well-founded. If he had relaxed his guard, he might be lying dead amid the ruins of Phantom Hill, and they might be marveling at their great luck in becoming suddenly rich.
Inasmuch as these possemen had looked him over without realizing who he was, he felt emboldened to visit Fort Griffin and ask about the Jacksons. He would finish his mission here, then move on. Perhaps that new life he had hoped for was finally within his reach.
Choctaw John chewed vigorously on a wad of tobacco as he squatted on his heels and studied the ground. “Ain’t there been a storybook about a flyin’ horse?”
Andy replied, “Can’t say. I never read many story-books.”
“I’m afraid that’s what we got here. For all the trace I can find, that horse just up and flew away.”
John’s tracking had led them to an abandoned military post, its walls crumbled, the brush growing up on what had been a parade ground. It was Phantom Hill, John said. Fresh ashes and charred wood showed that someone had built a campfire. Boot tracks were still visible where remnants of old walls had protected them from wind.
John said, “Looks like your man met up with two others here. Hard to figure what happened. All three horses started off together. Looks like somebody was followin’ after them afoot. Damned peculiar.”
A mile or so from the post, two horses had split off and headed north. The third, its tracks the same ones Andy and John had followed all along, had continued westward for a short time, then suddenly vanished. John and Andy spent several hours circling and searching but found no more sign.
Andy had heard stories among the Comanches about medicine men supposedly able to transform themselves into birds and fly to distant places. He had never believed those tales. Anyway, Cordell was no medicine man, but years of experience in escaping from the law appeared to have made him part coyote.
John said, “Maybe your Cordell is usin’ an old Choctaw trick, wrappin’ his horse’s feet with leather so the hoofs don’t cut deep.”
Andy could not leave unanswered the implication that Choctaws were smarter. “Comanches did it, too.”
He thought it more likely that Cordell simply had a strong instinct for finding ground where he would not leave a trail. Andy had developed a grudging respect for the fugitive’s perverse ability to evade pursuit.
John said, “If you ever capture this one, they ought to promote you. He’s about as slippery as I’ve ever seen not to have some Choctaw blood in him.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t know a lot about him except he’s slicker than a greased pig.”
John arose to a stand and leaned against his horse. “I’m afraid we’ve lost him for good. He’ll eventually come to ground in one place or another, and some sheriff will grab him.”
“I’ve been on his trail too long to quit. I couldn’t go back and look at Tom Blessing’s grave, knowin’ I’d failed him. I wish you’d stay with me awhile longer.”
John shrugged. “I hate to take money under false pretenses, except when it belongs to Thaddeus Hunnicutt. I get a kick out of aggravatin’ that old skinflint.”
“What if I offered you three dollars a day instead of two?” John brightened. “Now, Ranger, you’re speakin’ the Choctaw language. But you know there ain’t a Chinaman’s chance I’ll pick up that trail again.”
“At least it’s a chance, no matter how small.”
“I like a man who makes up his mind to do a job and sticks with it even when it goes to hell. Must be the Comanche in you. They’re the stubbornest damned people I ever knew.”
“You might be right.”
“As I remember it, though, every time us Choctaws had a fight with the Comanches, we won.”
Andy grinned. “Like hell you did.”
He knew that by tradition a Ranger was always supposed to be sure of himself, but he was undecided about what to do next. All he could think of was to keep going in a westerly direction and hope. Maybe they would get lucky and cut into Cordell’s trail. Andy had a general sense of where he and John were. He had passed through this region during his time with the nomadic Comanches and later in his growing-up years. This was a transition area where the Cross Timbers yielded to the rolling plains. Somewhere back to the northeast would be Fort Griffin. The town and the army post for which it was named lay along the south side of a Brazos River tributary known as the Clear Fork. It had been a favorite hunting ground for the Comanches before they were driven north of the Red River. Cattlemen had brought in their herds after hide hunters had killed off the buffalo. Now farmers were taking up the more arable portions, turning the native sod under. He had heard rumors of plans for a railroad.
Cordell had avoided towns for the most part, so Andy thought it unlikely he would go to Griffin and risk being recognized. More likely he would continue west, up over the caprock and out onto the open plains. On the vast Llano Estacado, Indian raiders had usually been able simply to disappear, confounding those who pursued them. Andy decided to keep moving that way and hope.
He saw half a dozen riders ahead, coming from the direction of the distant caprock. They slouched in their saddles as if they had almost reached the end of their endurance. He said, “Let’s wait and see who they are. Maybe they’ve seen somebody.”
The apparent leader was a man with a black beard not unlike the one Andy remembered seeing on Cordell, though this beard was better trimmed. The man gave Andy and John a quick but critical study, then asked, “Mind tellin’ me who you-all are?”
“I’m Andy Pickard, Texas Ranger. John’s my tracker.”
“A Ranger?” The man looked frustrated. “We could’ve sure used you yesterday. I reckon now it’s too late. They’ve given us the slip.”
“Two men, probably drovers. Robbed a saloon in Fort Griffin, pistol-whipped the owner and the bartender. Come nigh killin’ them.”
Andy’s hopes surged. “Was one of them a big feller, forty or so?”
“No, these were young. Not much more than kids, the way the bartender told it.”
Andy’s hopes sagged.
The leader asked, “You’re lookin’ for a big man?”
“A man named Cordell. I’ve been on his trail all the way from southeast Texas.”
The leader stroked his beard. “We may have seen him. We came upon a big feller yesterday and asked if he’d crossed trails with the two we’re after. He said he hadn’t.”
“Was he ridin’ a bay mare?”
“Sure was. What’s he done?”
“It’d take an hour to tell you what all. Which way was he travelin’?”
“West.” The posse leader frowned. “If you was to chance upon those two young scoundrels, we’d appreciate you puttin’ them under arrest and bringin’ them to Fort Griffin. We’d see that they never rob anybody again.”
“I couldn’t stand still for a hangin’, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”
“You ain’t likely to see them anyhow. They’re probably halfway across the plains by now, to Mobeetie or Tascosa.”
Andy said, “I don’t think so.” He told how John had read the tracks. “Two riders turned north. I’ll bet they’re the ones you’re lookin’ for.”
The leader looked puzzled. “We missed that. But why would they turn north after comin’ so far west?”
“Maybe they figured to circle around and throw you off.”
One of the possemen said worriedly, “They could be back in Fort Griffin right now, robbin’ somebody else. They had their faces covered. Nobody would know them.”
The leader said, “Then we’d better use our spurs and get back. Comin’ with us, Ranger?”
“No. We’ve got our own job to do.”
Andy strongly suspected that the posse had unknowingly come upon Cordell. Living up to the outlaw fraternity’s code of ethics, he had lied when he told them he had not seen the young riders.
The riders pushed their horses into a reluctant trot. Andy and John continued in their westward direction. Late in the afternoon Andy noticed that John kept looking back. Andy saw nothing behind him. Finally John said, “I thought you Comanches had a guardian spirit to tell you about things you can’t see.”
“It doesn’t always work. Choctaws are supposed to have one, too.”
“I don’t need any spirit to talk to me. My eyesight’s good enough. I’ll bet you hadn’t noticed there’s somebody followin’ us.”
Andy’s first thought was of Cordell, but that made no sense. “If there is, how do you know he’s followin’ us? He might have a good reason to be travelin’ in the same direction that we are.”
“We can find out. Let’s jog to the north and see if he keeps on comin’.”
John’s uneasiness was contagious. Andy had still not seen anyone, but he knew John’s eyesight was sharp. Perhaps he had a sixth sense as well. “We’ll try it. I hope you’re wrong.”
They made a sharp change in direction and rode on for a mile or so. John said, “Like I figured, he’s trailin’ us.”
Andy had hoped it would not happen. He said, “There’s brush up ahead. We can pull up there and lay for him.”
“What’ll we do with him when we get him?”
“Unless he’s Cordell, I’ve got no idea.”
Showing caution, the rider slowed as he approached the brushy draw where Andy and John had concealed themselves. He stopped to study the way ahead. By this time Andy could see that the man was large, somewhat as he remembered Cordell. But Cordell should be somewhere ahead of them. It made no sense for him to have fallen behind.
The rider overcame his doubts and came on. Pistols drawn, Andy and John rode out to confront him. Andy said, “Keep those hands up where we can see them.”
Startled, the man instinctively reached for his pistol but saw he was covered. He raised his hands to shoulder height and blurted, “What the hell?”
“That’s what we want to know. How come you’re trailin’ us?”
The rider shook his head. “I ain’t trailin’ you. I don’t even know who you are. If you figure to rob me, you won’t get much.”
“We’re not robbers. I’m a Ranger. Now, who are you?”
The man looked around as if gauging his chance of breaking away. “Name’s Smith. John Smith.”
Andy said, “My horse could come up with a better name than that.” He saw that the man had a sizable blanket roll tied behind his saddle, as if he were traveling far. He probably had camp supplies bundled in it. His saddlebags bulged. “You’re pretty well fixed for travelin’.”
The man’s eyes had a hard and defiant look. “It’s a long ways between towns.”
Andy said, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find you in my fugitive book. Keep him covered, John.”
Andy holstered his pistol and reached into his saddlebag, where he kept Len’s list of wanted men. He cut his gaze away from the stranger for a moment. The stranger sank spurs into his horse and rammed into John, throwing him off-balance. John grabbed for the saddle horn, dropping his pistol. In an instant the rider had his own pistol out. He snapped off a shot at John and swung the muzzle around. For a couple of seconds he aimed point-blank at Andy. For some reason he did not squeeze the trigger.
Startled by the shot, Andy’s horse danced in confusion. Andy drew his pistol but was unable to steady it enough for a clean shot. The shooter wheeled his horse around and quickly vanished from sight in the thick brush. Andy was about to spur after him when he saw that John was on the ground. Fearfully he swung out of the saddle and dropped to one knee. “Are you hit?”
John pressed his hand against his side, then raised it for Andy to see the blood. “Damn right I’m hit.” He sucked in a sharp breath, his face twisting. “Feels like I’ve got a broke rib. Maybe a bunch of them.”
The two horses ran off a short way, then stopped to look back. The little pack mule followed them. Andy hoped that was as far as they would go, but he could not take time to catch them now. He had to see about John. Kneeling at the tracker’s side, he pulled John’s shirt open. The wound was bleeding.
After a brisk examination he said, “Looks like that bullet glanced off of your ribs and went on. Probably broke one or two.”
John wheezed, “Hell of a way to earn three dollars.”
“Think you can ride?”
John pressed his hand against his ribs and tried, with Andy’s help, to get to his feet. He groaned and settled back down to a sitting position. “I don’t think so.”
It occurred to Andy that if one or two ribs were broken, which appeared likely, a sharp edge could puncture John’s lung. He said, “I can’t just leave you out here and ride for help. No tellin’ how far it’d be or how long it’d take.”
“There ain’t no way in hell that I can ride a horse.”
Andy weighed another possibility. “Maybe I can rig a travois like the Indians used.”
John considered. “Sounds like a Comanche torture trick, but I don’t want to stay here.”
Andy rolled John’s shirt and used it to bind the ribs as best he could. John grunted when Andy drew the makeshift wrapping tight. Face pinched with pain, he asked, “Who do you reckon that was?”
“Somebody who was afraid I’d find him listed in the book, I guess. It was just chance that we ran into each other.”
“But he was followin’ us.”
“That I can’t explain.” There was something else Andy could not explain. “He drew a perfect bead on me but didn’t shoot.”
“I wish he hadn’t shot at me either.”
“He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t.”
“Count your blessin’s. Anyway, I’m afraid I’ve cost you any chance to catch up with Cordell.”
“It appears we’d lost him anyway.”
Andy slowly approached the horses, talking gently in hope they would not run away. He caught his own, then John’s. It took a while to find two branches long enough and strong enough to carry John’s weight. He ran them through his stirrups and tied them, then secured shorter pieces as cross braces behind the horse. He placed his and John’s blankets on as padding. “It’s a long ways from a feather bed,” he said.
Slowly and cautiously he eased John onto this awkward conveyance. Hurting, John said, “Don’t you bounce me off of this thing.”
Andy tied John’s horse to the pack mule, knowing the mule would follow like a dog. He asked, “Are you ready?”
“No, but let’s go anyway.”
Andy sensed that his horse was uneasy. Allowing it time to accept this odd attachment it was expected to drag, he started in a slow walk. The horse kept looking back at first. Andy feared it might kick at the travois. But the animal calmed, and Andy felt secure enough to pick up the pace.
It was going to be a rough ride for John. Andy could only guess how far it was to Fort Griffin.