Читать книгу Stand Up and Die - William W. Johnstone - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

A woman might say “This has to be the prettiest spot in Texas” about the Davis Mountains in West Texas. A man, on the other hand, could respond “What’s so damned pretty about Apaches hiding behind slabs of volcanic rock over your head and keeping you pinned down below with fire from a rifle they took off a dead cowboy whose horse give out at the wrong time? Or moving from canyon to canyon trying to find that herd of wild mustangs you’ve been chasing forever? Or getting baked by the sun because you’re five thousand to maybe eight thousand feet higher than you ought to be in Texas, then, five minutes later, freezing your butt off and getting peppered by sleet?”

As he crouched by the campfire along Limpia Creek, sipping his last cup of coffee before starting his day, Matt McCulloch smiled. It was a pleasant memory, that conversation he recalled having with his wife shortly after they had married. She thought they should settle here, grab some land. There was good water—though you might have to dig pretty deep to find it—enough grass to feed cattle and horses, an army post for protection, and a thriving, friendly town, with churches, a good restaurant or two, and a schoolhouse so that their children, when they got around to having children, could get a good education. But McCulloch had figured he could get more land for his money farther west and south, so they had moved on with a farm wagon, a milk cow, the two horses pulling the wagon, the horse McCulloch rode, and the two broodmares tethered behind the Studebaker that carried all their belongings.

Yeah, McCulloch thought as he stood and stretched. All their belongings. They’d had a lot of extra room in the back of that wagon to collect the dust as they traveled on, eventually settling near the town of Purgatory City . . . which wasn’t so pretty unless you found dust storms and brutality pleasant to the eyes . . . where churches met whenever a lay preacher felt the call . . . where the schoolhouse someone built quickly became a brothel . . . and where the best food to be found was the dish of peanuts served free to patrons at the Perdition Saloon.

He tossed the last mouthful of the coffee onto the fire and moved to the black horse he had already saddled, stuffing the cup into one of the saddlebags. Found the well-used pot and dumped the last of the coffee, hearing the sizzle, letting the smoke bathe his face and maybe blind him to any bad memories, make him stop thinking about that dangerous question What if ?

Would his wife and family still be alive had he settled here instead of over there? Would his daughter not have been kidnapped, never to be found again? Taken by the Apaches that had raided his ranch while he was off protecting the great state of Texas as one of the state’s Rangers?

Besides, even Purgatory City wasn’t as lawless as it had once been, especially now that a certain contemptible newspaper was out of business and its editor-publisher-owner dead and butchered. Even the Perdition Saloon had been shuttered. After a couple of fires and a slew of murders, the owner had been called to rededicate his life after learning that he had come down with a virulent case of an indelicate disease and inoperable cancer on top of that. The Perdition Saloon was now—McCulloch had to laugh—a schoolhouse. The city still boasted five other saloons, and all did thriving business when the soldiers and cowboys got paid, although Texas Rangers and some dedicated lawmen generally kept a lid on things.

He kicked rocks and dirt over the fire, spread out the charred timbers, and stuffed the pot into the other saddlebag.

McCulloch was getting his life back together, had even begun to rebuild that old ranch of his. Not much, not yet anyway. Three corrals, a lean-to, and a one-room home dug into what passed for a hill. It was enough for him.

The corrals were empty, but horses were what had brought Matt McCulloch to the Davis Mountains. Wild mustangs roamed all over these mountains, and he had decided it was a good time to get back into the horse-trading business. Find a good herd of mustangs, capture those mares, colts, fillies, and the boss of the whole shebang. Break a few, keep a few, and sell a bunch. It was a start, a new beginning. All he had to do was find a good herd worth the bruises and cuts, and maybe broken bones, he would get trying to break them.

Folks called the Davis Mountains a “sky island,” and McCulloch knew his late wife would have considered that pure poetry. The sea was just sprawling desert, flat and dusty, that stretched on forever in all directions. But nearby greenery and black rocks, rugged ridges and rolling hills rose out of nowhere, creating an island of woodlands—juniper, piñon, pines, and aspen. Limpia Creek cut through it, and canyons crisscrossed here and there like a maze.

He had a square mile to cover, six hundred and forty acres, but he could rule out much of the high country, those ridges lined by quaking aspen trees. So far, all McCulloch had seen were wild hogs, a few white-tailed deer, one antelope, and about a dozen hummingbirds. But he had also seen the droppings of horses—and the scat of a black bear.

He stepped into the stirrup, threw his leg over the saddle, and moved south to find the grasslands tucked in between slopes where a herd of mustangs would be grazing. Keeping one eye on the land and one eye scanning for any Indian, outlaw, snake, or some other sort of danger, he noticed that the black bear must have had the same idea. Well, an old mare or a young foal would make a tasty meal for a bear.

McCulloch stopped long enough to pull the Winchester from the scabbard.

When he came upon the next pile of excrement the bear had left, he swung out of the saddle, and broke open the dung with his fingers, rubbing them together. He smiled, picturing the looks on the faces of his wife and daughter had they been around to witness it. He could hear both of them screaming to go wash his hands in lye soap. Quickly, he shut off those thoughts, not wanting to ruin such a beautiful morning with a burst of uncontrollable rage at God, his life, his decisions, and this tough country where he had tried to make a life.

All right. The scat was about a day or so old. A mile later, when the bear had started up the mountain, McCulloch did not follow. But he did keep an eye overhead.

Eventually, he forgot about the bear, for something else commanded his attention—tracks left by unshod horses. And not of a war party of Comanches, Kiowas, or Apaches. He dismounted for a closer look. No, some of the tracks belonged to youngsters, the colts that eventually might challenge the big stallion leader. It was a big herd, too, and McCulloch thought how he would handle such a large bunch. He’d have to trap them at a water hole or in a canyon. Do some breaking there. Then drive all he could all the way to his spread to start the real work. The bone-jarring, backbreaking work.

He was about to mount his black horse when something caught his eye. He moved a few yards away and sank his knees, protected by the leather chaps he wore, into the dirt. One of the horses he was following wore iron shoes. The rear hooves had been shod. Maybe a mare had wandered into the herd from some ranch or farm. Perhaps it had lost the iron shoes on its front feet. But some men in these parts were known to put shoes on only the rear feet of their mounts, so McCulloch might have competition for the herd.

Texas, he reminded himself, was a free country.

The other thought that crossed his mind, however, was that whoever was trailing this herd—if that indeed were the case—might not like competition. Especially if the horse had been stolen by an Indian.

His own horse had four iron shoes. Traveling across the volcanic rock and stones that lined the trail he had to follow would produce far too much noise. He leaned the Winchester against a rock and fished out leather pads from a saddlebag. These he wrapped around the black’s feet, and the heavy hide would muffle the noise of his horse’s footfalls. Carbine back in hand, McCulloch mounted the horse, and rode through the canyon.

When he came into the opening, he didn’t see the horse herd, but he found the black bear.

It lay dead at the base of a rocky incline to the east.

McCulloch reined in, dismounted, and wrapped the reins around the trunk of a dead alligator juniper. The blood from the dead bear made his horse skittish, and the last thing McCulloch wanted was to be left afoot in this country. He stepped a few feet away from the horse and squatted, studying the country all around him, including the dead bear. No birds sang, no squirrels chattered, and the wind blew the scent of death and blood across the tall grass. Fifteen minutes later, he moved closer to the bear, seeing the drying blood soaking the ground.

The bear hadn’t been dead very long, McCulloch thought after he reached his left hand over and felt the thick fur around the animal’s neck. His fingers ran across the stab wounds. Knife? Lance? Certainly not the claws from another animal. Wetting his lips, McCulloch again looked across the canyon, up and down, and listened, but the only sound detected came from the stamping of the black’s hooves and the wind moaning through the rocks and small trees.

He moved to the bear’s head and saw the flattened grass and the blood trail that led into the rocks. Whoever had killed the bear had been wounded and dragged itself—no, himself—into the hills. A busted Spencer carbine lay in the grass, and McCulloch saw the holes in the bear’s throat. Two shots that had done enough damage, caused enough bleeding, to end the bear’s life, but not before that bear had put a big hurt on the . . . Indian.

Most likely, McCulloch figured, seeing the beads scattered about the scene of the tussle and the studs that had been nailed into the broken Spencer’s stock. He spotted one eagle feather that had been caught against a jagged bit of rock.

“Now what?” he whispered.

The Indian likely crawled into the rocks. Maybe to die. McCulloch didn’t see the Indian pony, but when a bear comes charging at you, horses run like hell. If that horse with two rear iron shoes hadn’t been part of the mustang herd, it might have joined up already. Even wild horses and trained horses knew the value of teaming up in numbers in that part of the United States.

He looked up at the rocks, and again at the trail of blood and trampled grass. The wind cooled him. Despite the morning chill, he had started to sweat. He had lived too long to risk his hide going after a wounded Indian. Besides, the bear and maybe the Indian had made finding that herd of mustangs a whole lot harder.

McCulloch rose, moved to the side of the rocky wall and slid around the bear. Stepping back a few feet, he looked up the mountain and listened again. Still nothing but the wind. Not completely satisfied but in a hurry to get after those mustangs, he decided to make for his horse. He didn’t think the Indian would have another long gun. Maybe a short pistol, but probably nothing more than a knife. Odds were McCulloch could make it to the black, mount up, and ride away without any trouble. Better odds were that the Indian had bled out and would soon be feeding javelinas and coyotes.

Three steps later, McCulloch leaped back, more from instinct and that hearing he prided himself on. Even then he almost bought it. The knife blade sliced through his shirt, through flannel and the heavy underwear. The Winchester dropped from McCulloch’s hands and into the dirt as he staggered away. Blood trickled.

The Indian came at him again.