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I looked around for watchers then adjusted the hat for the umpteenth time. Well, actually it was the hat of Adam Cross. It was too tight, and when pulled down snugly, it made the top of my head go to sleep. It was a good match for the coat that restricted the shoulders and the pants that nearly made me look like I was going wading in a stream.
As with so many enterprises, it had seemed like a good plan at the time. It had made perfect sense to be disguised as Cross until old man Nason made his move. We knew that Adam was not quite as tall, but other than that it looked like we had a good match. Now I was regretting the decision. I was chafed, getting a headache and feeling foolish besides. In short, the day was a couple of notches below average.
I was hauling freight on Adam's regular schedule. This was the third trip and no sign of Nason had been seen yet. The last two runs had been to the east, so maybe that explained the lack of activity. Today's run was west, an all day run. I would sleep over at Williamson's, and then retrace the route tomorrow.
The worst thing was, I wasn't much of a team driver. The horses back on the farm would go all day by voice commands, so there was no need for reins. The team in front of me (heathen brutes was my pet name for them) seemed to take a savage delight in doing things just wrong enough to make me look bad. They knew there was an audience in town, and they would take a corner just a little short and tip the wagon up, or they would just keep walking if I neglected to hitch the reins for just a second. They weren't dumb animals—they were plenty smart when it came to pulling practical jokes.
I pulled out of Kirbyville without undue embarrassment and headed down the trail. This was the same route that had been the scene of much of the excitement before I had become a Ranger. Since the known ambush points were known, this could well work to my advantage. Just the same, the open flat stretches were scanned carefully, for an immobile man in tan clothing could remain unseen even though in plain sight.
I stopped the team for a rest before we reached the rock face that previously housed a sniper. It was a likely place to use, but there was no sign of humanity to be seen.
The trouble was that the set-up didn't feel right. Unless I missed my guess, the enemy was near.
We traveled on toward the face, and as the wagon neared it, the more my attention was drawn to the spot that had housed the previous shooter. It was a long rifle shot now.
Adam's shotgun was in its scabbard on the back of the seat. It made a poor weapon to return long range fire, but it was a regular part of Adam's gear and had to be included. A rifle would have shown an offensive capability not normally there.
The danger was not in front. Suddenly a shot rang out, and a bullet cut a furrow across the rump of the near horse. Immediate confusion ensued. The horse jumped to the left, slamming into the off one. He apparently took offense and tried to push back. I was able to yard him to the haw side, but of course this put us off the trail. The horses didn't seem to care and simply picked up speed. When I tried to muscle the reins, we crossed the trail but were heading for rocks, so we had to cross back over.
While this was all happening I was trying to get a look around to find my assailant, but that was impossible. There would have been no way to shoot even if he had been located. The ride was way too rough. I had always figured my folks were too strict when they prevented me from hanging out with the teamsters when I was a lad. Now I was sure of it. Their colorful language must have been developed for just such times as these.
Feet braced and full strength back on the reins accomplished nothing, but one thing did. It was a rock that sat all by itself in an open area. How they zeroed in on that rock I'll never know. Perhaps they enjoyed their short cutting trick in town so much that they had to try it here. But when the wheel hit, the wagon came unglued, and the drag of the broken axle brought the horses to a halt.
I picked myself up from my landing spot on the ground and checked out the horses. They showed no signs of remorse, apparently having enjoyed the recent fiasco. Neither was even lame. The one with the grooved rear end was released and shooed back in the direction of Kirbyville. If Amos should spot him, he would know there was trouble out here.
I hoped the other one had been ridden bareback at some time in the past and hopped on. So far, so good. He acted like this was an everyday occurrence.
Unless Nason had ventured out here on foot, which was very doubtful, he had a horse stashed somewhere out of sight. There were two ravines on this side of the rocks; that would be deep enough. Otherwise, he must have left it on the other side.
The first one proved to be empty. We raced toward the second, and the barrel of a long rifle made an appearance. There was no time for defensive measures—the rifle cracked and my horse reared, dumping me on the ground. He had burned this horse too. The man was an uncanny shot.
No matter how fast he is, it takes a man a while to reload a muzzleloader, and I rushed the ravine on foot. It was empty. Somehow he had made an escape when I hit the ground. His only possible direction was to the rocks. I was almost up to them when another shot rang out. This time it hit at my heels, and I understood what he was trying to do. For some reason he was herding me to the west.
From cover to cover I went, constantly trying to find Nason's whereabouts. No luck. This changed on the other side of the hill, for there stood the horse I had been riding. Instead of going back to town he had circled the hill, perhaps to come to my rescue? I didn't know, but a more welcome sight had never been seen.
Once re-established on his back, I headed for an area I was familiar with—Navajo Wash. From the brush by the river I could watch my backtrail and for a change spot Nason before he bushwhacked me.
We were really tearing up the ground when I looked over my shoulder and saw Nason riding hell bent for leather and gaining on us. He was riding a fast, wait a second; he was riding a mule! It was a mule the likes of which I had never seen. It looked more like a thoroughbred racer that a work animal. Somewhere far back in my memory came the story of a southern boy with a racing mule that won all kinds of money running against local favorites. This must be the same type of animal.
The gap had closed considerably when we at last reached the greenery of the Wash. I swung down and hied my horse on, confident that he would stay by the river. I had lost sight of Nason. That was not good. The old man was like a cat and could be anywhere.
A shot echoed, and I knew that my horse had breathed its last. And I was starting to get mad. That horse had given its all for me, and now Nason had shot it for reasons only he could comprehend. Heading in the direction the shot had come from, I was sprayed by bark from a small tree. He was still trying to herd me. I rushed the spot where I thought he was, trying to beat the time it took him to reload.
He was surprisingly fast. I spotted the end of his barrel just as it spouted white smoke, and I emptied my pistol into that patch of cover, then dove into a low spot to reload. Now Nason's stentorian voice rang through the brush.
"Boy, you have sinned. You have stolen the girl that should have been our kin, and you will pay for your misdeed. I shall drive you into the desert where you shall wander from this day forth, ruing the day you wronged the Nasons."
The sound of footsteps in water told of his location. He kept talking as he tried to circle.
"You will die a withered shell of a man. The desert saps a man of all things, especially life. You will feel the wrath....."
The wading had turned to the struggling sounds of a man going down. I broke out of cover to see Nason waist deep in quicksand and losing ground. Upon sighting me he still had enough hatred left in him to try to shoot, but his lock was fouled and the rifle remained silent. He dropped it and pulled a knife from a neck sheath and threw that, narrowly missing my face. I tried to find a limb to extend to him but there was no time. The last I saw of Moses Nason was his angry face disappearing under the surface, there to stay forever in No Man's Land.
I had walked for an hour before Noah Cross came to my rescue.
"Is it over, Snake?"
"Yeah, Noah, it's over. Your grandkids can be safe in Kirbyville." He smiled his thanks and we rode back to a town full of friendly faces.
The End
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