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The sniper's trail was easy to pick up. It should have
been, for after all, he was leading my horse. I almost left the trail and went
directly to Drisco's ranch, but it was a good thing I didn't. The unknown gunman
cut off the trail on the opposite side from the ranch and headed northeast. This
had me scratching my head, for it was totally unexpected. The fellow was full of
surprises; for he had left his spent brass where it landed, and it turned out he
was shooting a 32-20.
The 32-20 was popular with ranchers and farmers for
shooting varmints that raided the fields. It was a favorite of the sheep men
because it shot fairly flat and kept the coyotes at bay. That is, as far as
coyotes can be kept at bay. When they make up their mind that they want
something they can usually find a way to get it.
This caliber was also popular in the East. Perhaps
this man had not been out here that long. Stores are closer in the East, as
well, so not as many shooters handloaded there. Out West a lot of men carried a
nutcracker reloading tool in their saddlebags. Naturally they were careful to
pick up all their spent brass cases so as to use them again. It could well be
that this man was a newcomer.
Two hours later I came to where his tracks entered a
trail and continued in a northeast direction. I guessed this was roughly the
border of the Navajo Reservation. The led horse was given its freedom here, and
I found him with his reins tangled in some brush. I was glad I had showed up. I
didn't know if he could have broken loose or not.
My target stopped on the trail and conversed with
someone on a big horse traveling in the opposite direction. When I say big horse
I mean one that was probably one that worked instead of being ridden. It had a
good pace and I had to guess it was a beast that normally pulled a wagon. That
was fairly common practice. Freighters didn't bring along a riding horse, they
just used one from their team. Most of these big ones were so gentle that you
didn't even need a saddle.
On a hunch I gave up the track I had been on and
followed the new one. This country was still too wild to have many coincidental
meetings. Bad business was afoot and I wanted to know the details.
An hour later I was more confused than ever. The track
of the man on the big horse seemed to be going in the direction of the Drisco
ranch. All the gunfighters I had met there kept fast mounts, just in case. The
cowboys rode ponies. I shook my head. I was getting spooky. Just the same, I
kept on this track.
When the big horse's sign mixed with that of a small
driven herd of cattle it was close enough to be sure the rider was indeed going
to the Drisco ranch. I headed directly for the ranch house.
When I knocked Ben Drisco's booming voice told me to
wait a minute. After what must have been longer than that he came to the door
and berated me.
"Well, have you wasted enough of your time and my
money?" he asked. "I knew nothing would come of your
foolishness." Anybody else that acted the way he did would soon be known as
what the English would call a 'pompous twit.' Swollen headed would be a similar
expression. But Drisco did not have a big head, not in the least. He sat there
in his office wearing work clothes that would be just as at home branding a colt
or bulldogging a doggie. And in fact you could often see him doing such things.
For he liked to brag to his crew that he could do anything they could do better.
Except gunfight. At any rate, that is why he would sometimes be seen riding drag
on a drive and eating more dust than the next two cowboys.
"Somebody killed a whole family of movers back on
the trail. I tracked up the shooter and I don't think he was one of your
men."
A look of disdain quickly passed over his face. Was it
in disgust at himself for being mixed up in such dirty business? His old self
quickly took over. "So what if it was? Didn't I tell you that your job is
to get rid of these intruders? If they get hurt in the process, so be it."
"A pretty little unarmed girl of fourteen? You
think we should have shot her full of holes? Somebody did. Do you really condone
such behavior?"
Drisco turned and looked out the window; at the far
reaches of this land that he had tamed over the long years. He wouldn't look at
me when he said, "We have to do whatever it takes." He was silent for
a minute and then said, "I had two boys. They're both buried right over
there side of their Ma. One of them died at the same time as his mother, in
childbirth. The other grew to be twelve, and he was big for his age. We got our
ropes on a maverick bull and tried to lay him down. Sammy got gored. I'd lost my
gun somehow, but I went berserk and I killed that bull with my knife. Just
jumped on him and kept stabbing. Kept cutting him long after he was dead; until
finally I cut the head plumb off.
"I'm keeping the ranch, no matter what the
cost."
I could see that I was dismissed, and I went out the
front door deep in thought.
Now that I had been off on my own for a couple of days
the crew really looked at me with suspicion. They weren't talkative before, but
now I was nearly avoided. Buck Hastings in particular looked upon me as a
pestilence. His was a look of hate; maybe even something more. He almost looked
worried about me, though why I had no idea. A guilty conscience? If he didn't
have one I was sure he should have.
As soon as I could without attracting attention I had
scoured the vicinity of the ranch yard for sign of the man mounted on the big
horse. Those tracks were easy to spot, for an animal that heavy really sinks the
prints deep. I found them at the seep, a wet spot where two slopes converged
above a flat. There was always at least wet sand here. At this time of year
there was a pool of water that was a natural attraction for all manner of
beasts.
The man (teamster?) had stopped and talked to somebody
here. Try as I might I could not figure out who. The prints were in the water,
mixed with those of a few thousand cows and a mélange of wild animals. Where
the talker had traveled from the ranch was rocky enough that he didn't have to
stand in the sand. He was apparently aware of this, because he seemed to
consciously avoid leaving a clean footprint. My first suspicion was Hastings, of
course, because of his strange mannerisms of late. The feet were big enough to
be Drisco, but I was sure he was basically an honest men. I was still very
young, and didn't realize the wiles some actors can put on.
I went back to my duty guarding the trail and was
pleased to find that no traffic came along. I found out later that the men of
Kirbyville stopped all the newcomers well short of the danger zone and explained
the situation. That was fine with me. The fighters back at the ranch looked with
disbelieving eyes when I reported no contact. In their minds I was not to be
trusted.
As best I could learn none of these gunmen had shot up
the deceased family. I decided the man with the 32-20 must have been the
culprit. This crime should not go unpunished, but who was to do something about
it? Nobody that I could see. That left only one possible solution - me.
With the intentions of talking over the situation with
Ben Drisco I walked over toward the main ranch house. From the corner of a
storage hut a harsh voice stopped me.
"And where the Hell do you think you're
going?" It was Buck Hastings, and he reminded me of a cur with a bone in
his mouth. His hair was standing up, as if he were ready to jump into a fray.
The brim of his black hat was pulled down low over his forehead so that the evil
glare of his eyes was all that could be seen. His sneer actually made his mouth
look like that of a dog showing his teeth. He exuded evil, and it was directed
at me. His strangely slung Winchester was at the ready, awaiting only his nerve
impulses to go into action.
"I can't see that it's any of your business,
Buck." I answered him curtly, not caring how he took it. He epitomized the
stink of this whole operation. I had signed on thinking it would be a grand and
brave undertaking. I had come to understand that it was a job of playing bully;
an open chance to provoke barely concealed murders. I was sick of it, but my Pa
had told me a good man never quits. I was wondering if he had ever run into a
situation like this.
"It damn sure is. I don't like the way you're
shirking on your job, and I think you're molly coddling those damn nesters. What
are you going to do next, run to Ben and start a collection for them?"
"What I talk to Mr. Drisco about is none of your
business." I was getting hot. I had brushed off the strap on the hammer of
my 45 with a movement of my arm as he first spoke. Now I faced him fully in the
ready position,
A big voice boomed from the porch. "What's going
on here? Are you two birds loco? Isn't this place big enough for the two of
you?"
"No, Mr. Drisco," I answered honestly,
":I don't believe it is."
"Then he ought to be the one to leave," said
Buck Hastings. "He's too soft on newcomers and he's altogether too nosy.
This guy is a Snake in the grass."
"You got something to hide, Buck? Is that why you
want to get rid of me?"
Buck's lips curled fully back, "Why you..."
"STOP IT. " The old man had his dander up.
"Snake, I'm sorry, but I'm letting you go. It might no be your fault, but
you're causing trouble. Stop at the office on your way out and I'll give you
your wages."
Buck just couldn't stand to keep his mouth shut.
"And don't come on this land again or you'll end up dead, you hear
me?"
"Buck, I saddle my own broncs. If I want to tell
Snake anything I'll do it myself. Snake, I'll not ban you from my range. You
might not be safe riding through here with Buck around, but you're your own man.
Do as you please. Not pack your gear."
I went to the bunkhouse and was packed in one minute,
for I traveled light. I said adios to the hands that were there but not a one of
them even looked up. I think it was from fear of retribution rather than any
personal dislike of me. I saddled my black and led him to Drisco's porch, where
I was presented with a poke of coins. I didn't count them - just stuck them in a
vest pocket and said a curt "Thanks."
Not another word was spoken, and I rode off to the
east. I stopped briefly on a rise to look back. The two men were exactly as I
left them, just watching me go, showing no more emotion than horned toads in the
noontime sun.
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