|
"Arizona is a land of extremes."
This is the profound statement I uttered to my horse as I traveled into Mohave County. I was in search of a trio of bank robbers that had stuck up a bank in Prescott and then fled for the desert. My horse did not answer.
According to witnesses the trio looked like Californians, with their silver embellished tack and Mexican style California hats. If the three hadn't ridden together I might have already lost their trail, for the wind rapidly swept out their tracks when there was no shelter from it. I was losing ground, for at the last water hole all I found was mud, and I had to dig a little deeper and wait for the hole to fill up before I could travel on.
I found their campsite from the previous evening and it was easy to see what had transpired. A blanket had been stretch out between them, as evidenced by the remnants of food and cigarette ashes that formed a neat square on the sand. At first I thought they might have been dividing up the loot but changed my mind when I found several small denomination coins with the litter. They must have been gambling here last night.
Getting on my hands and knees I looked at the ground from close range and learned more. One man had been at the head of the blanket and the other two at the opposite corners. I could see this from where their boot toes dug in. They must have been playing a dice game. One man on a corner had lunged forward. This must mean there was an altercation with the shooter. There was no blood to be seen so the situation had not gotten out of hand, at least so far. If there was distrust over the game, how about the split of the stolen bank money? Might this not be the cause of a falling out of thieves? It sounded like it to me.
It was a cinch they knew the area, for in the afternoon they turned north into a gully that had a spring at the head of it. The little water that overflowed quickly sank into the sand and rocks, so other than a tiny patch of green there was no sign that it was there.
The animals knew, though, and I found the sign of most of the local animals with the exception of mountain lion. I figured that if a cat claimed that hole then the desert bighorns would not be visiting on a nightly basis. My mount and I drank, then rested a couple of hours and drank again. I had a water bag and a canteen, but they wouldn't last long if we didn't find another spring.
I figured I was one day behind them. There would be moonlight until about midnight tonight and I figured to made up for lost ground. So far they had headed straight for California and I was sure that was their destination. So sure that I almost missed some obvious sign. As it was, my horse was the one to pick up on it.
As we traveled through some sparse creosote brush he shied. This was prime snake country and I expected to find one near his feet but instead of that I found a bloodstain. The tracks skid there and as near as I could make out the last man in line must have made his play for the leader. He blew his chance, but the return shot wounded him.
His tracks booked it into the mouth of a small gulch with the other man's horse in pursuit.
Only one set of tracks came back out.
I gingerly made my way into the canyon, not anxious to see what I might find. I turned a corner and found two buzzards walking toward a dead horse. They were cautious and making sure no life remained. I shooed them off, but they were reluctant to fly, looking at me with beady eyes as if wondering when they would get a chance at me. I don't mind admitting that the foul birds give me the creeps.
After another hundred yards I found the remains of the would-be bushwhacker.
He must have lost his nerve and ran, for the other gunman chased him down and emptied his pistol into the man's back. The body had been left where it hit the sand, not even rifled.
He had been a medium sized man with a knife scar dunning down across one cheek. His clothes had once been good but now they were ripped and dirty. In his hand was a Baby Dragoon .31 with only one shot fired. It looked like he might have done better if he had stayed with his knife. His boots had the big California rowel spurs strapped on, further verifying his home base.
I dragged him to a hollow under some loose rocks and rolled these down on top of him. It wasn't much of a grave, but when a man goes down the outlaw trail he is lucky to end up with any grave at all. The only thing I saved was the little Colt pistol, for I hate to see a good gun ruined, even if it is outdated. I had no loading supplies, but the gun still had four chambers ready to go. In the dryness of the Southwest the charge will remain good for a long time. Back East in the mountains a cap had to be changed daily and the nipple cleaned.
A short craggy hill in the distance looked to be the next destination. If they should bed down there I would be seen following over their back trail. I didn't like the sound of that so I found what shade I could in the shadow of a boulder and waited for darkness. My horse finished his water right there. I had a half a canteen to go. We had to find more by the morning.
As darkness fell I started riding again. There was no light in the distance but I really didn't take these men for tenderfeet. With a half a mile yet to go I dismounted and led my horse, ready to cover his nostrils if he should start to whiney to the other horses.
It didn't happen. Nothing else did either. The men had simply ridden around the base of the hill and left me sitting back yonder. I lay up to catch a little sleep before daybreak.
When morning came it was one of the hottest kinds. I had a drink of water, and then gave the rest to the horse. The bank robbers were forgotten for the moment - I had to find water. Desert sheep had bedded down here on occasion but there was no sign of a water hole. There weren't any likely spots on the desert floor, either. A deer trail skirted the base of the hill apparently headed for a hill in the distance.
Was it worth trying? If I went to the other hill and found no water I would really be in trouble. But what the heck, I was in trouble now, so I got up in the saddle and walked the horse to the next peak, a distance of maybe three miles. At the base the trail went up and I knew I was on the right track. Sheep tracks joined those of the deer and on a shoulder of the hill I sound a wet seep. A small amount of green vegetation grew on its sides, hidden from outside view by the rocks.
To speed things up I dug a hole at the lower end and water immediately started filling it in. My mount and I were fully sated with water, at least for a while. On my map it looked like we would cross a river in another day's travel and I was sure the outlaws would head for it. When I next cut their tracks, though, they had turned north.
I figured that the men were just naturally cautious. They had to expect someone would come after them after the hold-up so they were making it difficult for any follower. If they were heading for the Juniper Mountains then perhaps they were going to make a big circle and hit another Arizona bank.
Most outlaws upon making a score will head for a watering hole and spend the loot as fast as they can on booze and women. Then they wake up one morning stone-broke and in need of more ill gotten gains. The crooks that break this pattern are the ones that are hard to catch. If this pair was of the last type then I had my work cut out for me.
I almost missed the spot where the horses turned off. They had been moving in a straight line, and then suddenly veered sharply to the northeast. I looked around to see what the reason was. Either they acted on a whim or they had lined up a series of peaks and turned when they came into line. I memorized the lay out as best I could in case I wanted to find this spot again.
The tracks once again headed for a series of low hills, but I was so far behind now that I rode right ahead. The men had gone into a large cut that ran between the hills and then took a small notch that ran north. They were no longer riding in line but rather twenty to thirty feet apart, as if discussing something as they rode along. It must have been a controversial subject for when I came round a rock there was a pool of water in the otherwise dry streambed that had a man's foot sticking out of it.
He had been shot in the back of the head as he bent down to drink. So, now there was only one left. One thing about it, if he shot his partners so readily he would have no qualms about cutting loose at me. From here on in I would have to be doubly cautious.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
