Dead Trouble (4 page)

He thought he saw riders topping-out on a rise but the trees were moving too much with a strong breeze over there to allow him a clear view. Could be Indians – Spain had warned they were often hostile lately. He would need to stay alert. After he’d watered the grey at the river and then ridden back south-east, following the bank, he stopped suddenly, sliding the rifle clear of leather. Deke listened, patting the horse’s neck to keep it still and quiet.
Yeah!
He had heard right – a human voice, calling something, then running footsteps and a sudden snarling and squealing that set the hairs
standing
on the back of his neck.

He slipped out of the saddle, leaving the grey with trailing reins, crouched a little and made his way up the slope, gasping some at a sharp pain in the lung that had been nicked by Kid McKittrick’s bullet.

The squealing was high-pitched now, followed by snuffling snarls and, heart pounding, still crouching, he went down full length, using the rifle barrel to part the bushes in front of him. Cutler stiffened, felt his eyes fly wide in surprise.

Below him in a draw where water had lain long enough to make a mire and a slushy pool, a huge man stripped to the waist was knee-deep in mud, lunging at a trapped and bleeding wild boar with a … Deke wasn’t
sure what it was. At first he thought it was a sword, then he saw that it had a long-bladed spearhead, about fifteen inches of blued steel on a short handle no more than two feet in length.

The man was jabbing at the boar that had several wounds in its hide. The curving tusks slashed at the tormentor and the man leapt back, swearing in some language Cutler didn’t recognize. Wounded and likely dying, the boar made a last desperate attempt to escape past the prodding spear. Mud flew in a fanning spray and water geysered as the huge animal lunged through the mud and slush, the lowered head forcing a brown bow wave as the raking tusks sought the big man.

He leapt clear of the slush, let out a roar and while still airborne, took the slippery handle of the spear in both hands and drove the glinting blade down between the boar’s heaving shoulders. The snarling squeal of pain hurt Deke’s ears and the animal lunged and bucked in its final spasms, blood gushing from its mouth, as the man leaned all his weight on the spear, driving it completely through the hairy body and pinning the boar to the ground.

Deke hadn’t been conscious of holding a breath but now he let it out slowly, hissing between his teeth. He had never seen anything like it, not even when Indians, a dozen at a time, cornered a bear and ran it through with stone-headed lances while others shot arrow after arrow into the hairy body.

But this had been man against beast, one on one.

The big man below tossed his head, long muddy hair flying up out of his eyes as he lifted his face skywards
and let out a great roar of triumph, brandishing the bloody spear.

Cutler began to slide back but suddenly froze as something cold and very sharp sliced through the loose folds of his shirt and pricked his skin. He felt a thread of warm blood crawl across his flesh as he turned his head slowly.

He thought he had had his share of shocks for the day but here was another one.

A totally bald black man, slim and tall as a tree, he seemed from Cutler’s angle, and wearing some sort of red robe over one shoulder, belted about the middle, stood over him, prodding him with a long,
slim-handled
spear which had an oval metal blade about six inches long, now only a hair’s breadth from his flesh.

‘Stay!’ the man said in a deep voice and even that single word seemed to have a lilt of music in it.

Deke Cutler stayed put. He had never seen a man like this before – and he had never seen a spear like the man held ready to drive deep into his body if he so much as twitched a finger.

Cutler didn’t move. The black man, well over six feet tall, and his spear an extra six inches above that, didn’t move, either. He called out to the mud-and-blood-
spattered
spearman below in a sing-song language. The big white man looked up sharply, wiping mud and grit from the wooden handle of his strange weapon and then started up the slope.

When he arrived he looked down at Cutler, saw his puzzlement. He grinned through the layer of grime. He gestured to the black man and the man stepped back.

‘He’s Samburu. You’d never pronounce his real name so you can call him Sam.’ He attempted to wipe his large right hand on his filthy trousers and extended it. ‘I’m Piet van Rensberg’ – he pronounced it ‘von’. ‘You can call me either Pete or Van.’

Cutler sat up, wincing involuntarily, seeing that van Rensberg noted the expression. Piet took Cutler’s right arm and helped him to his feet. The strength in the
man surprised Deke who shook hands and introduced himself.

‘I see my name and accent have you fooled. I’m from Africa, born in the south, but the family moved to Kenya many years ago. We had a cattle farm there – we call them farms but they’re very much like your ranches.’

‘I’ve heard of Africa, but not this other place.’

‘Kenya. Very beautiful country. A rich land. Sam’s people have lived there for centuries. He was kind of a foster-father to me, brought me up while my own father ran the farm and went hunting big game.’

Cutler frowned. Van Rensberg appeared to be about forty. ‘He doesn’t look that old …’

Sam remained impassive, one bare foot resting behind the knee of his other leg, leaning his weight on the slim, upright spear. Piet laughed.

‘You’d be surprised at how old he is. But he doesn’t know himself, only roughly. Haven’t seen you around here before.’

‘Just arrived. Durango Spain’s partner.’

Van Rensberg squinted. ‘Ah …’ was all he said.

Cutler pointed to the short-handled spear.

‘I’ve never seen one like that. Thought at first you’d broken it.’

Piet held up the spear, turning it slowly so that the sun glinted as it ran down the honed edges.

‘Assegai. A spear developed by a Zulu king named Shaka in the early 1800s for close in-fighting. Revolutionized war at the time for the Zulus. Very
effective
weapon once you’ve mastered it.’

‘So I saw.’ Deke gestured to the swamp and the dead
boar below. ‘You do that for sport?’

‘Suppose I do. Nothing so honorable as giving the animals a sporting chance or anything like that. I just enjoy the fight and the danger. Got myself a cougar a little while back. Killed several boars, a stag in rut, which I may tell you is not at all an experience I wish to repeat. Not with those antlers raking at my innards! In Florida I once fought a couple of alligators, and a Cape buffalo in the Transvaal. Biggest ambition, though, is to tangle with a grizzly. Looking for something new, you know.’

‘With that thing? You’d be plumb loco.’

‘Eh, man – I’m an expert with the assegai. Even Sam there wouldn’t take me on. He’d outdo me in long range. He can drive that spear of his through a fourinch tree, and right in the knothole he aimed at, so I wouldn’t want to tangle with him that way. But he wouldn’t fight me hand to hand with assegais.’

‘Don’t reckon I would, either,’ Cutler allowed. ‘You got a ranch up here?’

‘Ay – neighbour to you. Smaller holding. I have men to run the place while I hunt. Take after the old man, I s’spose.’

‘Sounds like a nice set-up.’

Van Rensberg grinned.

‘I went back to South Africa before I came to America. I … picked up some diamonds and they’re still allowing me to indulge my sport.’

There was something in the way that the man said it that made Cutler think he hadn’t come by the diamonds legitimately.

‘Well, I’d better get down to the river and wash this
filth off me. Care to try some genuine Cape brandy? I have a bottle or two left up at the house …’

‘I’ve never tasted it, but, yeah. I’d like to.’

‘Sam’ll fetch your horse. If you feel like walking, that is…?’ There was a query in Pete’s voice and he looked steadily at Cutler.

‘I guess I need the exercise.’

‘Ah.’

‘They call him Dutch Piet round these parts,’ Spain said over the supper table after Deke had told him and Karen about his meeting with the strange van Rensberg.

‘Ex-army of some sort. From South Africa, he says.’

‘Yeah. Lotta Dutchies there, I hear. Keeps to himself. Big
hombre
. Likes to hunt with spears.’

Cutler told them then about the man killing the wild boar in hand-to-hand combat with the assegai.

‘It’s true then, eh?’ Spain said, pursing his lips and shrugging. ‘I’ve heard talk of it. Spends a lotta time over in the Territory, too, hunting bears, they say.’

Karen seemed interested but Deke couldn’t tell her much.

‘Built like a statue and looks like one – his face I mean. His jaw reminds me of the prow of a sailing ship I saw once in Vera Cruz. Hair grows down low to his eyebrows and he has a large broken nose, What you’d call a strong face.’

‘Yes. I’ve only seen him once but I thought he was – different from other men.’ Spain looked at Karen sharply and she smiled, reaching out to touch his hand. ‘Oh, no need for jealousy, Durango! You’re quite handsome 
enough for me!’

‘I better be,’ he growled, the half-grin belying the frown. ‘Seems to have a deal of money.’

‘Seems to,’ Cutler agreed but said nothing about any diamonds. ‘Big spread, but the buildings are a bit different from ours – and the ranch kitchen’s a separate building – huge, with slate floors and some kind of thatching on the roof. African style he says.’

‘A slice of home,’ Durango allowed sardonically.

Then they changed the subject and after the meal, sitting out on the porch having a smoke, Durango said casually:

‘Dutch mention the Territory at all?’

Cutler was surprised at the question.

‘Not really. Said he figured it might be a problem some time for all the ranches along the river.’

‘Not for him.’

‘What’s that mean?’

Spain blew a plume of smoke before answering.

‘Word is he deals with the outlaws, lets ’em use his place as a safe trail in and out of the Territory. He’s the only one round here who’s never lost any cows to rustlers.’

Deke made a point of riding out along the line between Shoestring and van Rensberg’s ranch, which, of course he had called
Assegai
, the brand being a short-handled spear.

He had seen the big sprawling ranch house with its riverstone work and heavy log construction and the thatch roof that made it look so out of place here. But he wanted to get a better look at the holdings – and for
some reason, felt it would be best if he wasn’t seen by Dutch Piet or his riders.

It was just a hunch, probably influenced by Spain’s rumour that van Rensberg dealt with the Territory outlaws.

It was nothing new. Deke had known plenty of Border ranchers down on the Rio who did deals with rustlers and
contrabandistas
, turning a blind eye when such men crossed their land on dark and dangerous missions into Mexico.

He had to remember he was no longer a Ranger – but it would be awkward, at the least, to have a neighbour who allowed outlaws to use his land for their forays along the Red River.

He wondered why Spain hadn’t looked into it? Likely because he had enough worries trying to make Shoestring pay, he supposed.

Cutler watched the Assegai ranch from high timber, still on Shoestring land, well hidden. But maybe the sun flashed from his field glasses as he focused them on a small tight group of riders heading out from the ranch yard. One man in the lead looked up, seemingly right at him, then, after a hesitation, kept riding, though he dropped back to join the others and two of them also glanced towards the timber where Deke waited.

He decided to let it go for that day but was back the following morning before sun-up, crossing the creek so that he was amongst some boulders that were closer to the trail used by the men. He didn’t need field glasses here.

The same small bunch of men rode out and he was able to follow their progress from the boulders until
they split up into three groups, two pairs, three men in the other group. Deke smiled faintly: this was making it hard for him, for now he had to decide whom to follow, had to choose one out of three. He could easily pick the wrong one. But the fact that they were taking such precautions told him they were up to something.

He waited, watching. One pair rode out of sight over a hogback rise. The other pair went down to a small creek and started taking measurements that told Cutler van Rensberg was considering building a small dam – conserving water in these dry conditions was a mighty good idea.

The three other riders were out of sight when he turned to look for them and he couldn’t say just where they had gone. It was time to move out, anyway. He clambered down to where he had ground-hitched the grey and was lifting a foot towards the stirrup when the riders appeared, at three different points, covering him with their rifles.

‘What you doin’ on Mr Rensberg’s land, mister?’

The man who spoke had long legs and a chunky body. He sat his saddle easily, thumb on his rifle’s hammer. He was bearded but not as if he was growing one permanently, more like he hadn’t bothered to shave for a week or so.

‘Far as I know, I’m still on Shoestring.’

The chunky man shook his head slowly.

‘Creek loops here. You’ve crossed and re-crossed it but it’s put you on the wrong side.’

‘Well, I’m new to this neck of the woods. My mistake.’

‘It is.’

The other two closed in behind him and Cutler turned slowly, to watch them, putting his back to the grey which wouldn’t move unless he commanded it to. It gave him something solid and stable behind him – and it forced the chunky man to knee his mount out into the open so he could see Deke clearly.

‘Mr Rensberg don’t like trespassers.’

‘I’ve met him. My name’s Deke Cutler.’

‘The Ranger, Lyall,’ said a swarthy rider on Cutler’s left.

‘Not any more,’ Deke said quickly.

‘Could be. Or could be you’re up here workin’ under cover,’ Lyall said.

‘We better take it easy, Lyall,’ said the third man worriedly, a lanky ranny with a horselike face.

‘Leave this to me, Hoss. Cutler. Know that name. Used to ride the Rio country few years back. You outta the San Angelo Ranger station?’

‘I’ve worked out of there, yeah,’ Deke said warily.

‘Uh-huh. You led a raid on some fellers bringin’ up a big bunch of hosses from Mexico, at the Indio Crossing.’

The name rang bells in Cutler’s brain.

‘The horses belonged to a rancher name of Felipe Marino, as I recall. Your bunch killed four of his men – and two women who were in the camp of his
caballeros
.’

‘Greaser women! There was only me and my half-brother who got out of that gunfight, Ranger! And my brother died two days later from a wound he’d taken at the Crossin’.’

‘We gave you all a chance to surrender.’

‘Eyewash! Damn Rangers wanted to teach us Border
men a lesson. You shot to kill!’

‘That’s what we were paid for, Lyall. Long time ago. What’s it got to do with now?’

The chunky man grinned lifting the rifle.

‘First time we’ve met since, Ranger – you work it out.’

‘Hey, Lyall!’ shouted the lanky ranny called Hoss. ‘I don’t want no part of this!’

‘Then ride out, damn you! How about you, Leach?’

The swarthy man ran a tongue around his lips. ‘Bit chancy, Lyall …’

‘You ride out with Hoss then! This feller’s trespassin’. I just need you fellers to stick around long enough to swear he went for his gun first before I …’

He thumbed back the rifle’s hammer. Then there was a single shot and Lyall rolled backwards over his horse’s rump, his rifle discharging, setting the animal plunging.

Cutler turned his smoking six-gun towards Leach and Hoss, hoping he wouldn’t drop the Colt, because his arm felt as if it had been torn up from wrist to elbow and his thumb ached excruciatingly. He had surprised himself with the smoothness and speed of his draw, had reacted instinctively, but his arm was giving him hell with just that one shot. He had to keep a straight face, bite back the pain while he kept them covered. If they thought he couldn’t shoot again …

‘You gents aiming to buy in?’ He hoped his voice didn’t betray the fact that he was in agony. The gun started to waver and he tightened his grip, let the barrel move from one man to the other, as if he had meant it to.

They lifted their hands, holding their rifles over their heads.

‘We were gonna ride out!’ bleated Hoss. ‘You heard Lyall tell us to ride out!’

Cutler looked down at Lyall. The man was huddled on his side on the ground. Deke used a boot-toe to roll him on to his back. The bullet had taken him through the middle of the chest.

‘He dead?’ Leach asked hoarsely.

‘Yeah. You’d best tote him back to van Rensberg. Make sure you tell him
exactly
what happened.’

He managed to hang on until they had loaded Lyall on to his horse and they led him away from the
boulders
and down to the creek. Sagging against a rock, gun holstered, massaging his burning, knotted forearm, Cutler watched them ride away, wondering what sort of reaction the incident would bring from the African.

The thing was, had van Rensberg known that Lyall was a wanted man when he hired him?

Durango Spain wasn’t pleased when Cutler reported it to him.

‘Why the hell’d you have to kill him?’

‘He was going to kill me.’

Spain swore.

‘Yeah, well, you always did have a reputation as a killer. Hell, Deke, I know you wouldn’t’ve had any choice, but something like this could get back to the sheriff in Wichita Falls and he might come up and investigate.’

‘Nothing to hide,’ Cutler said.

Spain’s glance was sharp and intense.