Matagorda (1967) (16 page)

"You runnin' from something?" The old man eyed them sternly.

"
Runnin'
at it," Spicer said. "There's been some shootin', and there's like to be more."

"You ain't Taylors?"

"No, but we saw Bill Taylor in town. They freed him from jail, and he risked his neck helpin' womenfolks to the courthouse." Spicer looked at them over the brim of his cup. "I'm thinkin' you've seen the last of Indianola."

They stared at him. "Half of it's floatin' in the street now," Spicer went on.

The boy was interested. "You said there'd been shootin'?"

"This here's Major Tappan Duvarney," Spicer said; "he's partnered with Tom Kittery.

We were taking no part in the feud, but they murdered one of our boys, and when we were helping womenfolks to get to the courthouse they came up on us. Four of 'em."

"Four?" The short puncher looked doubtful.

"The Major here, he taken two of the Munsons, shot 'em right out of the saddle. I taken one of them with my Winchester, and the other was of no mind to fight."

Welt turned suddenly. "Major, we done forgot all about him. He must've slipped off."

Spicer swore. "Major, that was my fault. I was s'posed to watch him."

"Forget it. I don't know what we'd have done with him anyhow."

"You can have the horses," the stockman said. "You want two?"

"Six," Tap said, "if you can spare them."

Over coffee and corn pone with sow belly they worked out a deal. Welt Spicer roamed restlessly, his eyes on the country around. Much of it was above water, but was a sea of mud. Water swirled in all the low places, dark brown under the somber sky.

When the bargain had been made, and Tap had paid the money, the rancher filled his cup again. "Major," he said, "ain't you the man who is driving north with a trail herd?"

Duvarney explained about the herd he had sold, and where it was, then added that Kittery's cattle had been scattered by the Munsons ... or so he had heard.

"My name is Webster, Major, and I'm holding about two hundred head here, and I've got about thirty head of saddle stock. How about me throwing in with you for that drive?"

Tap considered. Undoubtedly, if the Munsons had told the truth, his herd was scattered, yet some might still be together, and despite the conditions he was in no mood to quit. The check he had in his pocket represented a part of his investment, but only a part. If he could round up some of the cattle-and those alive would surely be bunched on high ground and easy to find-he could start a drive anyway.

"Fine!" he said. "I'll tell you what, Webster. When the water is down enough to move, you start for Victoria. Camp on the first big bend of the Guadalupe above the town, or as near there as practical, and we'll join you there. I've an idea I'll be driving Brunswick's cattle too."

The day was nearly gone when they moved out again, holding to high ground and scouting for cattle. Here and there they found a few Rafter K steers, and several bearing Duvarney's own brand. Moving them on, he was driving about thirty head of steers when he drew rein about a mile from camp. Against the dark clouds he could see a thread of pale smoke mounting . . . the camp was there.

Welt rode up beside him and
began
to build a smoke. The hills were dark with evening, the low-hanging clouds turning all the shadowed hills and hollows into black and gray. The cattle were concealed in the brush and so could not be seen; the brush itself was all a uniform blackness.

"You know, Welt, take a man like Jackson Huddy, now. He'd be apt to scout around hunting us out. He could find that herd now, couldn't he?"

"I reckon so."

"And being the kind of man he is, what would he be likely to do? Figuring you were him, with his make-up, what would you do?"

Welt Spicer's cigarette glowed in the dark. After a moment, he answered. "Why, I'd locate the cattle and leave them be. In this sort of weather, they ain't goin' no place I couldn't find 'em. So I'd move out somewhere and hole up and wait for you.

After all, you're one of the men I'd want to kill."

"That's what I was thinking," Duvarney said. He studied the terrain ahead of them.

"Being that kind of man, where would you lie up to wait?"

In the light that remained, they studied the layout of the country around. The low ground between the ridges and knolls was flooded, the small lakes like sheets of polished steel in the gray light. Trees and brush merged together into the darkness of the land.

The camp could be anywhere out there-not in the flooded lowlands, but on the slopes.

Suddenly he made up his mind.

"We aren't going in, Welt. We'll bed down and wait right here."

"It ain't far," Welt said. "I had my mind set on hot coffee and a meal."

"I picked up some grub from Webster back there," Tap said. "We'll stay here. My theory is, never walk into an opponent when he's set. It's better to circle around and get him out of position. In this case he can come to us if he wants to."

The place they found was ideal. It was on an open slope under a brow of sand. Sixty feet out from the bank they built their fire. The sand ridge had been scoured by wind until the overhang seemed ready to collapse at any moment, but the site they chose was just beyond the limits of where the sand would come if it did fall. Certainly nobody could approach the edge of that bluff without sending the sand, and himself, tumbling down the bank, and that insured them of safety from behind.

Before them the slope fell away, covered with sparse grass for the hungry horses and cattle. Most of the night they would be moving about on the slope between the fire and any approach from below, effectively blocking any attack from that side.

The fire they built was small, and was partly shielded by a mound of wet sand they built up for the purpose. There they made coffee and fried bacon. They had little enough, but they were hungry, and when they had eaten the bacon they wiped up the grease with chunks of bread that Webster had given them.

"You sleep, Spicer," Duvarney advised. "I'll call you after a bit."

Welt hesitated. Tap had seen that Spicer was half dead from fatigue, so he blocked any protest by adding, "I'm not tired yet, Spicer, and I've got to do some thinking.

You get some sleep."

When Spicer was asleep, Tap added a few sticks to the fire and moved back from it to a spot partly sheltered by a hummock of sand and brush. The truth of the matter was he was half dead from weariness himself, but he did have thinking to do.

His plans had been shot to pieces by feud and storm. If he hoped to save anything from the wreckage, he must have another plan. Brunswick could no longer make a shipping from Indianola, and the chances were that all the Gulf ports had suffered. The thing to do, he knew, was to make a drive to Kansas, as originally planned.

The only way he could do that, even with Brunswick's help, was to strike south quickly, round up all the cattle he could find that wore his brand or that of Kittery, and then start north at once. This country would be weeks if not months recovering from the disaster, and if he moved swiftly he might even get away before any more serious fighting developed.

But, whether he liked it or not, he had to get Jackson Huddy before the killer got him. For one thing was certain: Huddy would try. Duvarney was no longer an outsider, for now he had killed Munsons.

He carefully considered every move, and then when the skies were thickening again, he shook Spicer awake.

"Can you spell me? I've about had it," he said.

Welt Spicer rolled out and slipped on his slicker. He took his rifle and slung it, muzzle down, from his shoulder. Duvarney rolled into a half-wet blanket under a tarp, and was almost instantly asleep.

Awakening suddenly, feeling the
tap
-tap of rain-fingers on the tarp, he lifted the edge ever so little, inhaling deeply of the fresh, rain-cooled air, and listening.

He could hear the hiss and crackle of the small fire, but unless he moved he could see only the light cast by the flames, not the fire itself. He felt a curious reluctance to move, as if some subconscious warning had come to him in his sleep, awakening him.

He slid his pistol from its holster under the tarp and hooked his thumb over the hammer, easing the gun up, chest-high and ready for firing.

His ears captured no sound, his eyes could see nothing but the firelight. The wind, which had almost died away, suddenly guttered the fire, and rustled among the leaves of the brush. Ever so slightly, he tilted back his head and opened the tarp a little more. A cold drop of rain fell from the edge to his arm and trickled from his wrist toward his elbow.

Welt Spicer was seated at the fire, just far enough back to be out of its light, and his head was hanging down. Even as Duvarney saw him, Spicer's head came up. He shook it, trying to clear it of sleep, and stared all around him, holding his eyes unnaturally wide as a man does in trying to ward off sleep. He eased his position, and soon his head lowered again.

At that moment, and for no apparent reason, Duvarney glanced up toward the rim of sand that hung above their camp. His bed was made so that his feet pointed toward the bluff, and now, as he looked, he saw something round and white rising above the rim. A gleam of light appeared and vanished ... a rifle barrel?

The spot of white lifted, and now he could make it out better. There was just enough light from the fire to reflect from the face of the man who was some yards off on the rim of sand.

For a man was there, rising up to his knees to aim his rifle into the camp. But his position was not quite what he wanted, and he hitched one knee forward. The movement was his undoing.

He was already on the very lip of the sand, and the move put his knee down on the overhang. Instantly the sand gave way and the man came tumbling down, accompanied by a great mass of sand. He hit bottom floundering, and as he struggled to his feet, Duvarney lifted himself on one elbow and shot him.

The fall of sand made only a heavy whush in the night, but the shot startled the animals to their feet and brought Welt Spicer up standing.

"Watch yourself, Welt. There may be more of them."

Where Welt had stood, there was emptiness, then his quiet voice came. "Sorry, Major, I must have fallen asleep."

"You were dozing. It's all right, I was awake."

"Who was it?"

Duvarney pointed. "He was drawing a bead on you from the rim, but he changed position a mite, and it toppled with him. I took his action as unfriendly, so I put the brand on him."

Duvarney remained where he was, but after a moment he ejected the empty shell from his gun and reloaded.

"I figure this man was scouting and saw his chance. Now, they heard that shot but they don't know whose it was-he might have shot one of us, or we might have shot him."

"They'll think he got one of us," Welt said. "They might not even know there was two of us here." Welt was close by now, only a few feet from Duvarney. "They'll be expectin' him back, you know."

Tap considered that. It would give a man a chance to walk right up on their camp.

He could work near to it in the darkness, then just stand up and walk in. If he came right up to their fire they would be sure it was their own man, returning from whatever he had set out to do.

"I'm going down there," Tap said, "and see if Huddy is around."

"You want comp'ny?"

"They'll be expecting one man. You sit tight . . . and take care."

Duvarney took his rifle and went down the slope. When he found their fire he saw that there were five men seated by it, or lying around, talking. They seemed unworried about the possibilities of attack, which meant they had hit Tom Kittery hard.

He went on down, making no pretence of being quiet. At the edge of the fire he saw seven saddled horses.

They looked up as he came near, and one man started to speak; then he saw Duvarney.

"Sit tight, boys," Duvarney said. "I don't want to kill anybody unless I have to."

One of them was the man who had escaped from them in Indianola. "Do what he says," this man said. "This is Duvarney . . . the one I was tellin' you about."

Suddenly Tap's mind registered the significant fact that there were five men here.

He had killed one up at his camp, and yet there were seven saddled horses . . . where was the other man?

"Where's Jackson Huddy?" he
asked
.

One of the men grinned. "Don't try to find him. He'll find you.'

"I hear he's something of a man hunter," Tap responded, "but as near as I can find out he never met anybody in a fair, standup shooting match. Anybody can run up a score hiding out in the brush."

It was a deliberate taunt. He wanted Jackson Huddy to hear it. He wanted to anger him, to jar him out of his usual pattern. He wanted that slow, meticulous, careful man to be jolted into acting quickly.

"Man, you're askin' for trouble!"

"I shouldn't really ask, I expect," Duvarney said carelessly. "From all I hear, he's so used to crawling on his belly in the grass that he wouldn't know how to stand up and fight."