the Man from the Broken Hills (1975) (14 page)

In my present condition, moving swiftly was out of the question. I would have to get to the corral, get a saddle and bridle on a horse, get the corral bars down and mount up, then ride out. And during every movement I would be sitting there like a duck in a shooting gallery, waiting for the shot. After a moment, I took a chunk of wood from the fireplace and placed it in front of the hole in the wall. Then I lay down again, heaving a great sigh of relief.

Iwas tired. I lay back, exhausted. All my life I'd been a loner, but at that minute I wanted desperately for somebody to come. Somebody ... anybody ... Just somebody who could watch while I slept, if only for a few minutes.

I strained my ears for the slightest sound, and heard only the birds, the slight movements of my horse. I closed my eyes ...

Suddenly they opened wide. If I slept I would die.

Rolling over, I sat up. Fumbling with a cup and the coffeepot, I poured coffee. It was no longer hot, for the untended fire had gone down. I tasted the lukewarm coffee, something I'd never liked, then knelt before the fire and coaxed some flame from the coals with slivers of wood.

Would no one friendly ever come?

Hopefully, I continued to listen for the sound of a rider, and heard nothing. I could fix myself something to eat. That would keep me awake and busy. Again I pushed myself up off the bed, my hands trembling with weakness. At the cupboard, I got out a tin plate, a knife, fork and spoon.

In a covered kettle, I found some cold broth Ann had fixed for me, and I moved the kettle to the fire, stirring the broth a little as it grew warm. Again I looked from the windows, careful not to show my head.

What I needed more than anything was rest, yet to rest might be to die. Had I my usual speed of movement and agility, I would have gone outside and tried to hunt down whoever was trying to kill me, but my movements were too slow, I was too tired, and too weak.

Suddenly, I heard hoofbeats. A rider was approaching. Gun in hand, I moved cautiously toward the door, and peered beyond it. A moment later the rider appeared.

It was Barby Ann.

She rode right up to the door and swung down, trailing her reins.

She walked right in, then stopped, seeing me and the gun in my hand. "What's the matter?"

"Somebody took a shot at me. A little while back. Right through a crack in the wall."

When I showed her, she frowned. "Did you see him?"

"No," I said, "but it's likely the same one who tried to kill me twice before, and he'll try again. You'd better not stay."

"Joe Hinge said you were hurt. You'd better get back into bed."

"Thatbed?"

"You've covered the hole, so why not? He can't shoot through that wall. You need some rest."

"Look," I said, "would you stay here for an hour or so? I do need the rest, need it the worst way. If you'll stay, I'll try to sleep."

"Of course I'll stay. Go to bed."

She turned her back on me and walked outside the door, leading her horse to the corral trough for water. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, I watched her go. She had a neat, if too thin figure, and she carried herself proudly. It was in me to ask her about Roger Balch, but it would not do. After all, it was none of my business. I was only a cowhand working for her father.

She tied her horse to the gate, then turned to come back to the line-cabin. Inside the door, she looked at me, sitting there. "You'd better lay down," she said. "I can't stay too long."

Easing back on the bunk, I stretched out with a great sigh of relief. Slowly, I felt the tension ease from my muscles. I let go then, letting myself sink into the bed, just giving myself up to the utter exhaustion I felt.

The last I remembered was her sitting by the door staring out into the afternoon.

It was shadowed and still when I opened my eyes, but even before they opened I heard the low murmur of voices--of more than one voice. Danny Rolf and Fuentes were in the room. There was no sign of Barby Ann.

Fuentes heard me move. "You sleep," he said, chuckling. "You sleep ver' hard, amigo."

"Where's Barby Ann?"

"She rode back when we came. Or rather, when Danny got here. Then I came in. You've really slept. It is two hours since I came."

I lay still for a few minutes, then sat up. "You wish to eat? I have some stew ... very good ... and some tortillas. You like tortillas?"

"Sure. Ate them for months, down Mexico way."

"Not me," Danny said. "I'll take hot biscuits!"

Fuentes waved at the fireplace. "There it is. Make them."

Danny grinned. "I'll eat tortillas." He looked over at me. "Barby Ann said you'd been shot at?"

Indicating the chunk of stove wood I'd laid over the crack, I told them about it. Fuentes listened, but had no comment to offer.

"I'll not ride with you!" Danny said. "He might shoot the wrong man."

"Finding any cattle?" I asked.

"We rounded up sixteen head today, mostly older stuff. We got one two-year-old heifer, almost the color of Ol' Brindle."

"Seen him?"

"He's around. We saw his tracks along the bottom. He stays to the brush during the day, feeds mostly at night, I think."

We talked of horses, cattle and range conditions, of women and cards and roping styles, of riders we had known, mean steers and unruly cows. And after a while, I slept again, pursued through an endless dream by a faceless creature, neither man nor woman, who wished to kill me.

I awakened suddenly in a cold sweat. Danny and Fuentes were asleep, but the night was still and the door was open to the cool breeze. A horse moved near the corner of the corral, and I started to turn over. Then like a dash of icy water I knew.That was no horse!

I'd started to turn over and I did, right off the bed and onto the floor. And for the second time that day a bullet smashed into the bed where I'd just been.

Fuentes came off the floor with a gun in his hand. Rolf rolled over against the wall, grabbing around in the darkness for his rifle. I lay flat on the floor, my side hurting like the very devil, with a bruised elbow that made me want to swear, but I didn't. This was one time when a single cuss word might get a man killed.

All was still, and then there was a pound of hoofs from some distance off, a horse running, and then the night was still.

"If I was you," Danny said, "I'd quit."

"Maybe that is it," Fuentes said. "Maybe they want you to quit. Maybe they want all of us to quit, starting with you."

He struck a match and lighted the lamp, then replaced the chimney. I pointed to the rolled-up blanket I'd been using for a pillow. There was a neat bullethole there, neat and round and perfect, despite the fuzzy material.

"He doesn't want me to quit," I said, "he wants me dead."

Chapter
13

Headquarters ranch lay warm in the sunlight when I came down the slope, walking my horse. Fuentes and Danny rode with me, because three men can watch the country easier than one, and I was almighty tired when we reached the bunkhouse.

Barby Ann came out on the porch. "What's the matter, boys?"

Danny went up to the porch and told her, while Fuentes saw that I got safely inside. "You will be better off here, I think." The Mexican squatted on his heels near the door. "Joe will be here, and Ben Roper."

"I'm better," I said. "The fever's gone, all right, and now I'm only tired from the walk. Give me a couple of days and I'll be working again."

"You staying on?"

"Somebody shot at me. I'd like to find him and see if he'll shoot at me face to face. If I ride away now, I'd never know."

For two days I rested at the ranch. On the second day I walked outside into the sunlight, and when chow time came I went up to the house rather than have food brought to me. Nothing in me was cut out for laying abed, and I was itching to get into a saddle again. I'd been thinking, and I had some ideas.

There was nobody in the ranch house except Barby Ann. When I got to the table, she came from the kitchen. "I was just coming down to see how you felt."

"I felt too good to have you walking all the way down there."

She brought two cups and the coffeepot, then went back for some other food. She was still in the kitchen when I heard somebody coming. I slid the thong off my sixshooter. It was probably Rossiter, but after a man has been shot at a few times, he gets jumpy.

Suddenly Rossiter loomed in the doorway, stopping abruptly. "Barby? Barby Ann? Is that you?"

"It's me," I said. "It's Milo Talon."

"Oh?" He put out a hand, feeling for a chair. I jumped up and took his hand and led him to a place near me at the table. "Talon? Are you the one who's been having trouble?"

"I've been shot at, if that's what you mean."

"Who? Who did it? Was it some of the Balch crowd?"

Barby Ann came in from the kitchen, looking quickly from her father to me. "Pa? You want coffee?"

"Please."

Barby Ann hesitated. "Pa? Milo's been shot. He was wounded."

"Wounded? You don't say! Are you all right, boy? Can you ride?"

"I'll be back at work in a couple of days," I said cautiously. Something in his manner irritated me, but I was not sure what it was. And I had to remember that, due to my own discomfort, I was more easily irritated.

We drank coffee and talked while Barby Ann got something on the table. "Hope this won't make you leave us, son. Barby Ann and me, well, we'd like to have you stay."

"I'll finish the roundup. Then I'll be drifting, I think."

"Hear you bid for some girl's box at the social. Paid a good sum for it." He paused. "Who was she?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't know. She never told me her whole name, and she wouldn't let me ride all the way home with her."

Rossiter frowned, drumming on the table with his fingers. "Can't imagine that. Everybody around here knows everybody." He turned his head toward Barby Ann. "Isn't that so, honey?"

"They didn't know her, Pa. I heard talk. Nobody had any idea who she was or where she came from. She was ... well, kind of pretty, too."

After a while he turned and went into the next room. I sat over my coffee, half dozing. Yet my mind kept going back to those shots. Whoever had dug that hole between the logs in the cabin wall had known where to dig. Yet that might not be surprising, for line-cabins were often used by any passing cowboy who might stop overnight. The chances were good that every rider within fifty miles of the North Concho knew the place.

"How's the gather?" I asked Barby Ann.

"Good ... We've nearly four hundred head down there now."

"Seen Roger lately?"

She flushed, and her lips tightened. "That's none of your business!"

"You're right. It isn't." I got up slowly, carefully, from the table. "Just making conversation. I think I'll go lay down."

"You do that." She spoke a little sharply. No doubt what I'd said had irritated her, and she was right. I'd no business asking a personal question, yet I couldn't help but wonder if Henry Rossiter knew his daughter was meeting Roger Balch.

For those two days I rested, slept, and rested. My appetite returned, and it became easier to walk around. On the third day, I got Danny to saddle up for me, as I still hesitated to swing a saddle on a horse for fear of opening the wound. I rode down to where the herd was gathered.

Harley was there, rifle in hand. It was a very good rifle, and well cared for.

"Nice bunch," I commented.

"They'll do," he said shortly. "Should have enough to drive."

He moved off to check a big cow that was showing an inclination to move toward the hills. The grazing was good, and they were close to water and showed little inclination to wander off. I could see another rider, Danny Rolf, I believed, on the other side.

It felt good to be back in the saddle, and I was riding my own horse with his easy way of moving. Harley seemed in no mood to talk, so I drifted on around the herd and into the edge of the hills. Yet I rode with care.

As I turned away from the herd to start back toward the ranch, I saw Joe Hinge coming down the slope from the west with a mixed lot of cattle. As they neared me, I drew up and helped guide them toward the main herd. With one or two exceptions they were Spur branded.

Joe pulled up near me, removing his hat to mop his brow. Despite the coolness of the air, he was sweating. And I didn't wonder. "How're you feelin'?" he asked me.

"So, so. Give me another day."

"Sure ... But I can use you." He glanced at me. "You up to working out west?"

"Anytime," I said casually.

I decided against saying anything about a hunch I had.

"Good ... But watch your step."

After a bit I rode back toward the bunkhouse, and unsaddled my horse when I got there. Doing the casual things that a man does all the time gives him time to think, and I was doing some thinking then.

Somebody wanted me dead ... Why?

Another day I slept, loafed, and was irritable with myself for not being back on the job. The following morning I saddled up the bay with the black mane and tail, a short-coupled horse and a good horse from which to rope.