Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3) Page 6

  ‘I can’t see him giving up my money if I send him a damn letter.’

  A smile edged Beckmann’s lips. ‘Time was when I felt the way you do,’ he said. ‘Ten feet tall and so damn sure I could take on the whole world. That’s one of the troubles with getting older. You start to see you aren’t as smart as you thought you were. Or as tough.’

  ‘Trying to tell me I should quit while I’m ahead, Marshal?’

  The marshal shook his head. ‘You know your own mind, boy, and you’re of an age to run your own life. Just make sure you’re certain that what you go after is worth the risk.’

  Sleep was a long time coming to Jim that night. He lay staring up at the ceiling, not really seeing the slanting shadows etched across the plaster. His mind was crowded with conflicting thoughts.

  On one level was the debate over whether he was doing the right thing. Risking his life because of a sum of money. Giving up would have been easy right there and then. No one could have accused him of quitting. Not after all he’d been through. He could ride back to Sweetwater safe in the knowledge that he had at least tried. Yet going back empty-handed would also be an admission of failure. Not that he had anything to prove to anyone but himself. The fact of giving up would be something he would carry himself. He would have to live with it. But it was something he wouldn’t live with. If he could quit now he could do the same every time life became difficult. It wasn’t a prospect that sat easy on his conscience.

  Strangely he experienced less of a problem with the aftermath of the gunfight with Loomis and Brown. He had been forced into a killing situation and had reacted from a desire to survive. Only now could he sit back and question his motives in going into that saloon.

  True he had wanted a squaring of accounts with the two outlaws. But not to the extent of having to kill.

  Or had he?

  Perhaps he had been hoping they might push things to a point where the use of guns became unavoidable. It made little difference now. The decision had been taken from him the moment Will Loomis had seen him. From that instant the gun had become the deciding factor, and no amount of not wanting it would have changed things.

  Loomis had laid down the ground rules — fight or die — and Jim had responded.

  Whatever else he might waver on there remained a constant determination in his mind. He still needed to find Luke Parsons. Nothing would deter him from that.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Well?’

  Nolan Troop didn’t answer straight off. He walked back to his horse and eased himself into the saddle. There was a hard set to his jaw and a distant gleam in his eyes. Luke Parsons had seen that expression before. From past experience he knew it spelled trouble.

  ‘Nolan? Parsons put a deliberate emphasis on the word. Troop responded slowly. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the village below them. ‘Something ain’t right, Luke,’ he said.

  ‘Why? What did you see?’

  ‘Nothin’. It’s all pretty as you please. Just like it always is.’

  Parsons glanced beyond Troop to where the third member of the group sat silent and motionless on his horse. ‘Fargo?’

  ‘Like Nolan says — she looks fine. I reckon that’ll do for me.’

  ‘I only said it looks fine,’ Troop snapped. ‘I also said something ain’t right.’

  ‘But you haven’t said what.’

  ‘Come on, Luke, you’ve had feelings about something being wrong yourself. Ain’t something you can point at ‘cause it’s inside. A gut feeling.’

  Fargo hawked noisily and spat. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. ‘My gut’s telling me I ain’t had a half-way decent meal in a long time. Sittin’ up here ain’t about to remedy that condition. So let’s quit actin’ like a bunch of old ladies an’ get on down there.’

  ‘Got to admit he’s talking sense, Nolan,’ Parsons said. ‘We’ve come a hell of a way.’

  Troop scratched his unshaven jaw. He raised his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. He dug in his heels and took his horse out from the shade of the thick stand of brush and onto the dusty slope that led to the village. Parsons and Fargo trailed behind him, letting their tired horses pick a slow gait. Fine dust rose from beneath the plodding hooves, hanging in the dry, hot air.

  As they neared the village, Troop reached down and took out his rifle. He worked a shell into the breech and laid the weapon across his thighs. After a moment Fargo did the same. So did Parsons. It was a purely defensive measure. They were all men who lived on their wits and their ability to foresee possible trouble.

  Valerio was one of those ancient Mexican settlements that gave the impression it had been there right from the day of Creation. An untidy tangle of stone and adobe. Crumbling old houses. A church with a high tower holding a big bell. Some buildings gleamed with coats of thick whitewash. Others had faded to a pale, bleached shade that blended in with the dust continually blowing in and out of the crooked streets and narrow alleys. The pace of life in Valerio was measured and even. Nothing was allowed to disturb the established routine of life. Not that the inhabitants of Valerio were passive observers. They were aware of the way of the world. That they lived in hard and often violent times, and that meant an opportunity was to be grasped and made to profit. It was the only reason why Parsons and his men were made welcome in the village. The gringos brought money to Valerio. So they were tolerated. And that tolerance would last just as long as it was profitable.

  ‘Damn place is quiet as the grave,’ Parsons muttered sourly as the three neared the outskirts of the village. He was beginning to experience the same feeling Troop had. Shit, I should have listened to Nolan, he thought.

  ‘Something stinks,’ Troop said forcibly. ‘I knew it. Goddam it to hell!’

  Parsons abruptly yanked back on the reins, causing his horse to falter.

  ‘Luke?’ Troop’s query was brittle.

  ‘On the roof. The cantina. I seen him. Son of a bitch moved.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rurales! Ain’t no way I’d mistake those boys,’ Parsons said. ‘You figured it right, Nolan.’

  Troop was already scanning the terrain surrounding them, seeking a way out. He knew their time was short. Once the waiting Mexicans realized they had been seen they would come boiling out of the village with guns blazing.

  ‘We head east,’ he said. ‘Into the lava-beds. It’s the only chance we’ll have of losing them. If we can give them the slip we can cut off to the north.

  ‘That’ll take us back over the border,’ Fargo protested.

  ‘If we’ve got the Rurales on our trails there ain’t going to be any place in Mexico I want to be,’ Troop said angrily.

  ‘Me neither,’ Parsons agreed. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  They drove their horses into motion as one, setting the startled animals to running. Almost in the same instant came a distant shout from the direction of the village. A ragged volley of shots crackled through the air, but the distance was too great for sustained accuracy. They knew, though, that it was a condition capable of being remedied by the Rurales once they took up the pursuit. Which they would. The Mexican law force, despite the rumors about its capabilities, had a reputation for dogged persistence when it came to staying with its quarry. They also had the advantage of being in their own territory. No one knew it better. Or used it to the best advantage.

  They rode hard, knowing that their horses were already tired and couldn’t be expected to maintain the kind of pace now expected from them. But there was no alternative. It boiled down to a simple choice. Make a stand — and die. Or run — and hope to elude the Rurales. The risk of death lay with both choices. It could come during a fight or after capture by the Rurales. A quick end would be favored. The justice of the Rurales could be, and often was, crude and violent. It was not the way any man would choose for himself. Even if he was granted the luxury of choice.

  To the east of Valerio the land fell away in a series of long slopes dotted with shallow gullies and pa
tches of thick, tangled brush. Beyond lay the lava-beds. A vast tract of twisted and tortured black rock thrown up during some prehistoric period; molten rock that had cooled into solid material that had been shaped and worn by the elements. It was an inhospitable place. Virtually devoid of vegetation. Bone dry and scoured by drifting sand and dust. Its only saving grace lay in its mazelike formation of natural tunnels and crevices. The formless jumble of shattered, broken heaps of rock provided ideal places of concealment. There were no trails to follow. No worn paths.

  Nolan Troop was the first to reach the fringes of the lava-beds. He drew rein and turned in his saddle to cast a sharp eye along their back trail.

  ‘They showing yet?’ Parsons asked. He pulled his lathered horse alongside Troop’s.

  ‘Damn right they are,’ Troop replied bitterly.

  They watched the drifting dust staining the horizon. Moments later they were able to see the group of riders themselves.

  ‘Some peace we’re going to get,’ Troop muttered darkly.

  Parsons shrugged. ‘Valerio always did right for us before.’

  ‘Yeah? Well that’s going to comfort me no end,’ Troop told him.

  ‘What the hell do you want me to do? Apologize?’

  Troop swore angrily. He yanked his horse’s head round and took the animal across the hard black rock, heading for the rising mass of the beds. Fargo followed close, leaving Parsons to bring up the rear. They were forced to keep their horses to a slow walk. The surface of the rock underfoot was hard and glass-smooth in places. The nervous horses took a dislike to the slippery surface, and they started to play up.

  ‘Hold still you son of a bitch!’

  Fargo’s outburst only served to startle his skittish mount. It snatched its head away from his tight rein, kicking out and then panicking as it lost its grip on the rock. Fargo hauled up on the reins, making a desperate attempt at keeping the animal on its feet. He realized the futility of the effort, dragging his feet clear of the stirrups as the horse lost its footing. Its shrill scream of fright mingled with Fargo’s wild curses as he slid from the saddle, hit the hard rock and slithered helplessly down a steep drop.

  ‘Shit!’ Parsons yelled. He dropped from his own saddle, hanging on to his reins as he peered over the edge of the drop. He could see Fargo thrashing his way out of a tangle of thorn bush. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Fargo said. ‘I’m down here ‘cause I like the goddam view.’

  ‘Get your ass back up here,’ Troop told him. ‘I don’t fancy hanging around too long with those greasers close enough to ... ’

  The whack of a rifle firing was followed by the whine of the bullet bouncing off rock. It struck yards to Parsons’ left.

  Troop turned in his saddle, rifle sweeping round in a glittering arc. His eye had spotted the target long before his weapon’s muzzle was lined up. He touched the trigger. Smoke lanced from the muzzle, the sound of the shot echoing through the rocks.

  ‘Nolan?’ Parsons asked.

  ‘Got the bastard.’

  The sound of the shots had a telling effect on Fargo. He scrambled up the steep slope and ran to his horse. The animal had regained its feet and was standing in a passive, head down pose. Fargo snatched up the dangling reins, raining curses on the unfortunate animal.

  ‘Let’s go. Let’s get the hell under cover.’ Troop’s voice whiplashed across the lava-beds.

  Dismounting they dragged their weary horses behind them, aware that at any moment a hail of bullets could come at them.

  The first shots that did come were still off-target. The next volley brought a number of near-misses. Chips of black rock were gouged from the surface. Sharp splinters peppered Troop’s face as one bullet howled off the side of a shoulder-high boulder he was passing. The pain brought a characteristic response. Troop spun on his heel and pumped a half-dozen shots in the general direction of the advancing Rurales.

  Fargo, impatient with the slow progress, jammed his rifle back in its scabbard and dragged himself back into his saddle.

  ‘The hell with this,’ he roared. ‘I’m movin’ on.’

  ‘Fargo, get off that damn horse,’ Parsons yelled.

  Parsons’ shout was swamped by the rattle of shots. Fargo rose in his stirrups, arms thrown forward. The right side of his shirt burst open in a ragged spray of red. He cried out once. Then he keeled over and fell from the back of his horse. He hit the hard rock on one shoulder, turning over a couple of times before coming to rest at the base of a high rock. He arched his body and made an uncoordinated attempt at standing up. Blood was trailing from the gaping tear in his shirt. The left side of his face had been scraped raw where he’d hit the rock. He got one leg under him and hunched himself up the side of the rock. He clamped his left hand over the wound in his right side. The flow of blood continued, bubbling heavily through his fingers.

  ‘Take the horses,’ Troop yelled at Parsons. ‘Head for that gap yonder.’

  As Parsons took the reins, leading the animals away, Troop ran across to Fargo. He threw one arm around Fargo’s body and helped the man to walk.

  ‘Move, Fargo,’ Troop roared. ‘Move, or so help me, I’ll put a round straight up your ass.’

  Bullets were peppering the air with regularity now. They were bouncing off the rock and flying in all directions. Gray-uniformed figures were slipping through the rock formations behind Troop and Fargo, and with each passing second they were getting into closer range.

  Parsons reached the safety of the gap in the rock-face and guided the horses through. Then he turned and set up a steady volley of covering fire. He shot at every figure he could see. His hand was steady and he shot with great accuracy. Three Rurales went down. Whether or not they were dead didn’t worry Parsons at that juncture. He was only interested in creating difficulty for the opposition.

  Troop, half-carrying Fargo, stumbled into the gap. He let Fargo drop and joined Parsons, adding his rifle to that of his partner.

  ‘This is getting to be like the old days,’ Parsons said, a grin forming beneath his moustache.

  ‘Oh hell, I hope you ain’t goin’ to start in on that crap,’ Troop scowled. ‘You tell me one more time about the good times and the great days we had and I’m going over there and join the Rurales.’

  ‘Nolan, you just ain’t fun any more,’ Parsons said.

  ‘Never was one for keeping my sense of humor when I’m about to get my head blown off.’

  Parsons stopped firing long enough to reload his rifle. He pulled away from the gap as a vicious volley of shots ripped splinters of rock from the sides.

  ‘There a way through to the other end?’ he asked Troop.

  ‘We’d better hope so,’ Troop answered. His face was streaked with powder-smoke stains and his eyes were red. ‘Sooner we get out of this the better I’m goin’ to feel.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ Parsons said. ‘I’ll keep that bunch busy a while.’

  Troop nodded. He bent over Fargo and hauled him to his feet. Fargo made a lot of noise during the process.

  ‘You going to make it, Fargo?’ Parsons asked between shots.

  ‘Don’t you fret over me,’ Fargo mumbled. ‘I’ll make it, Luke, else I’ll die trying.’ He chuckled hoarsely at his own joke.

  With a deal of cursing and grunting Troop boosted Fargo into his saddle. Then he gathered the reins of all three horses.

  ‘Fargo, you hang on tight, ‘cause if you fall off I ain’t comin’ back for you.’

  ‘Troop, I got a tighter grip to this saddle horn than a tenderfoot to a whore’s tit.’

  Troop, his rifle in his right hand, moved off along the narrow gap between the rock walls, coaxing the nervous horses with soothing words.

  Luke Parsons edged himself into a better position by the gap and took stock.

  The Rurales — those he could see — had fanned out in a line facing the gap. They were behind cover, only showing themselves long enough to loose off a shot, most of which were either too high or off to right o
r left. Parsons thanked whoever had trained the Mexicans into being such poor shots.

  During the next ten minutes the exchange of fire became sporadic. The Rurales had found themselves comfortable positions and seemed content to stay there. Parsons didn’t allow himself to become too complacent. It was entirely possible that other members of the Rurales group had worked their way around to the rear of the outlaws’ position and were contemplating an attack from there.

  Shots sounded from the far end of the gap. Parsons recognized the sound of Troop’s rifle. He responded instantly. Drawing back from the gap he made his way to where Troop had gone. It took precious minutes. There was a lot of loose shale and detritus underfoot which made walking difficult. Parsons made the passage as swiftly as possible. Without warning he found himself out in the open. Bright sunlight hurt his eyes. He blinked away the tears.

  ‘Move it, Luke, this ain’t a goddam picnic.’

  Parsons glanced in the direction of Troop’s voice. Troop was mounted up. He was leaning forward, offering the reins of Parsons’ horse. Parsons took the reins and swung up on his own mount.

  ‘That way,’ Troop said. He was pointing across the shallow basin they were in. There was an opening in the black rock. ‘We follow that it should take us clear away from this part of the beds.’

  ‘I hear shooting?’ Parsons asked.

  Troop only nodded. Over his shoulder Parsons could see two figures sprawled on the black rock. The grey uniforms were stained with blood. More had been splashed onto the rock itself.

  ‘Figured they were being smart tryin’ to sneak in the back way.’

  Parsons took the reins of his horse.

  ‘Let’s go before more of ’em get the same idea.’

  They walked their horses across the basin and through the narrow opening in the rocks on the far side. Now the shooting had stopped the overall silence became ominous.

  Parsons, bringing up the rear again, kept throwing glances over his shoulder. He was expecting to see the grey figures slipping through the rocks behind them. And he was sure that someone would start shooting any second. Facing a man with a gun was one thing. It was never easy — but at least it was in front of you. Visible. Offering at least the opportunity of striking back. But this was the worst kind of situation. Where the enemy was unseen and unheard for the most part. Where he could pick his place and time. It left a man feeling naked. Exposed. Left without any kind of a chance. It was the time when the bullet could come from anywhere. At any second. Parsons was sweating heavily and he wished he could rid himself of the itchy spot between his shoulders.