The Pursued Page 9

  “Don’t fuss so, Powers.” She smiled. “There’s no need. I will be happy with a home and you in it, whatever shape it’s in.”

  He mounted up and reached down to take her hand.

  “It is a rough and ready place there at present, Mary. A working place for men and cattle. I will not have it so for you. For you it will be a home where you may hang curtains and tout fine crockery. You shall invite ladies from town to come calling and not be ashamed to have them there. You take care now, Mary. It won’t be long, you have my word.”

  She blew him a kiss and Powers turned his mount and rode away. He knew the past few weeks had been eventful for her. The sad death of her brother and his own arrival on the very day the preacher was buried. Almost as if the one person she loved had left and at that very moment another arrived to take his place. He knew she considered him a fine and handsome man, even at twelve years her senior, and he knew they would be well suited. She would make him a good wife, he was certain. It would be a good marriage.

  As he rode away, his thoughts wandered over the strangeness of it all. How a note from a young girl had set him off to find his old friends, only to find them dead or full of bitterness. It was as if that damned money was cursed and ended up as millstones around their necks, bringing wealth but no happiness for any of them. Only he seemed to have come out of it well enough. The one shining light of the whole affair had been his discovery of Mary and she was truly worth all the lost Confederate gold in the world. But then he put such thoughts aside as he considered the plans he had for his return to the Diamond and a Half.

  He planned to extend the property by purchasing more land. There was a creek running through the nearby countryside and the land alongside was good and fertile and although mostly owned by smallholders, each farming twenty to sixty acres, he reckoned he could convince them all to sell out to him. The ranch house itself was a practical, four roomed, flat-topped adobe house with packed dirt floors at present. There was a parlor, a bedroom, kitchen and a store room in the main house and he intended to expand the place to include an office area and more living space. To lay tiles over the floors and put up a shake shingle roof over the new extensions. Out back was a bunkhouse and a corral for stock where he hoped to add an adobe walled barn.

  His wedding gift to Mary would be a bay window in her own special private room, where she could look out across the prairie to the mountains in the distance. At sunset, he knew it would be a spectacular view and he saw the window as a constantly changing picture that Mary could enjoy.

  She had enlivened him and filled him with such plans. He saw some way into the future now and he was surprised to note how stuck in his ways and limited in his vision he had become. Powers wondered whether he deserved such luck. Maybe even now, this late in his fifty-second year, there was the prospect of children and someone to inherit the ranch.

  With such thoughts and dreams filling his mind, he rode on, camping alone along the trail, until he came within reach of the Diamond and a Half boundaries.

  It was early evening by the time he reached the last hill that stood between him and a view of the ranch house. Powers was full of anticipation at seeing the place again and putting into action all his plans. He crested the grassy mound and looked down at his ranch. The buildings lay at the foot of the slope and on the edge of the prairie that stretched away to the east and was lost in the darkening horizon. Smoke came from the bunkhouse chimney and he guessed the evening meal was being prepared. Lamplight shone in orange bands out from the bunkhouse windows and across the dusty corral where he could see unsaddled ponies feeding on a bale of hay. It was already dark below, while up here he had the last of the setting sun and Powers felt a lift in his heart as he eased himself in the saddle.

  He thought it was a June bug that flew past him. A fat hum and the feel of a whirr of activity like wings beside his cheek and it came from just over his left shoulder. Then Powers heard the following booming report roll toward him and knew instantly that it had been a lead slug that just missed him. Instinctively, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and leaped from his horse. He landed heavily on the grassy knoll and rolled over the crest, away from the sound of the gunshot. He lay among the wheatgrass, waiting and wishing he could have reached his rifle before he quit the pony.

  It had been a Sharps carbine, he was sure of that. The old fifty-caliber, he thought. He had been side to three quarter on to the shooter and it was that which probably saved him. Six inches to the right and he would no longer have a head. He guessed the range at six hundred yards off to his left and looked in that direction: a clump of tumbled boulders, rising gloomily in the darkening sky in that direction. The shooter had to be among the rocks. He drew his .44 and fired two shots at the rocks just to keep the shooter’s head down. Keeping down low in the grass, he began to work his way along the crest, making toward the boulders.

  Powers could hear the barking of dogs and shouts coming from below as cowboys heard the shooting and came out of the bunkhouse to discover the source. Another shot whirred past him, the boom of the Sharps following. He fired back, moving crabwise along the crest. He could make out nothing among the shadowed boulders and waited for the flash of the carbine so he could center on the bushwhacker. It had to be Red’s killer, maybe even Bubba’s too. Someone was after them but he had no idea who it might be.

  Then suddenly, Powers felt himself lifted. Punched and swung around as if one of his old sparring partners had caught him a healthy blow in the chest. He fell backwards, numbly feeling a distant pain in his shoulder. Then he was rolling without control, the slick wheatgrass under him, causing his sliding stunned body to roll over and over. He tumbled downward, the shadowy world spinning around him as he bounced and pounded down the hill. Finally, he stopped and the world stood still.

  Slowly, he regained consciousness and saw a swinging lantern, followed by shouting voices as men gathered around him. Then the voice of Demas: “Don’t worry, Boss. We’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

  Demas had been with him from the start, when Powers had first bought the property from an Englishman who couldn’t take the life and had decided to return home. They understood each other well enough and Powers knew that Demas would always take him at his word and would not doubt him, whatever he said. His loyalty was unquestioning and unquestioned.

  Demas Bright was a quiet man with a lined and weatherworn face that made it hard to ascertain his exact age. He might have been in his forties or even older than Powers, it was hard to tell. His hands told the story, though; the skin of his palms were as hard as thick leather and the fingers broad from heavy work. He had been in and out of the saddle from childhood and the life had brought him both calmness and a tough resilience. The men liked the top hand for his steady sensibility and measured understanding. He never shouted or raged but it was understood that any misconduct would be met with more than mild disapproval. One blow from those hard fists was like being struck by a three-pound hammer. Rarely used but when they were, it was to good effect.

  Demas Bright rarely took off the deeply creased black hat that he wore and he seemed to live perpetually in a pair of cut down high-heeled boots and spurs. Even now as he stood before Powers, who was lying on the bed back in his own room, Demas still wore his hat and boots but the only other article of clothing he had on was his patched pink long johns, so suddenly had he been called.

  Demas had come into the bedroom with a whisky bottle, a bowl of water and towel and set them down on the nightstand next to the bed. “Here,” he said, cracking open the bottle.

  Powers duly took a long slug and felt the liquor warm his insides. He drank again and waited for the alcohol to dull the constant pain. “Okay,” he said, keeping hold of the bottle by the neck. “Do your worst.”

  Demas ripped the shirt open and began to dab around the meaty hole in Powers’s left shoulder. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “You’ll live. One of the boys is fetching the Doc.”

  “Hurts like hell.”


  “If he had been a hundred yards closer it would have been a lot worse. Likely taken your arm off.”

  “Damn that, Demas! Six inches to the right and it would have been fatal.”

  “I had a couple of the boys go up there and they found the casings. A Sharps all right, maybe six, seven hundred yards out from you.”

  “Where’s the rest of the bunkhouse? Should be another ten hands at least.”

  “They’re still out on the drive, won’t be back for another week or two.”

  “They’re still out there?” Powers asked in surprise. “Kind of a long time, isn’t it?”

  “Aw, come on Boss, those boys got to raise a little dander after the drive. They’ll be back soon enough.”

  “So how many are we left with right now?”

  “There’s me and three others, two here and one out riding the line.”

  There was the ring of jingle bobs and young Lee Stoffer came into the room. Powers remembered him from the day in the diner when he brought the letter from Glenn’s daughter.

  “Any sign of that bushwhacker?” Demas asked.

  “Nothing. Whoever he is, he’s good. Not a sign except for the brass he left. He stuck to the rocks so there’s nothing we could track. Probably why he chose those boulders, even though they were at long range. We may find something more come daylight, though.”

  Demas looked over at Powers. “Lee here is a good boy, Boss. We’re real glad you hired him. He’s proving to be a real fine cattleman.”

  “Glad to hear it. How’re you doing, Lee?” Powers offered him his good hand and Lee shook it, smiling.

  “I’m fine, Mister Brent. Nice to see you again.”

  “Wish it was under better circumstances,” said Powers.

  “Yeah, sure is a damned shame about that. Any idea who did this?”

  Powers shook his head tiredly and Demas waved the boy out. “Lee, take Jimmy Bob and go check the corral, set some kerosene lanterns up out there. Make like we’re covering the whole place. Don’t want any more surprises.”

  “Okay, Demas.” The boy tipped his hat and hurried out.

  Powers waited until the boy was gone, then he caught Demas’s wrist tightly before he could lay on the damp towel again.

  “Anybody here use a Sharps, Demas?” he asked.

  “No, not a one.”

  “There’s somebody after me and the others. The men I went to see. All of them are dead bar one, and he’s in prison so it can’t be him who’s doing the killing. Now they’re after me, whoever they are.”

  “Has to be something from the past. Something that involved all of you.”

  “Sure.” Powers winced as Demas pulled his wrist free and continued to clean the blood away. “But what exactly?” he asked.

  Powers did not admit it except silently to himself but he could only guess it was the wartime atrocity they all took a part in. It was the first thing that jumped into his mind. But no one had survived that and without survivors or witnesses to their activities, he couldn’t see how a grudge could be borne. There was the gold, of course. If one of the others had talked, it may be that some southern diehard Confederate group was on a vengeance kick for loss of the stolen loot. Unlikely, but possible.

  He thought it was time to tell Demas his other news. He wasn’t sure how Demas would take it but he had to be told. “I found me a woman, Demas. I’m going to marry her.” He paused, trying to judge Demas’s reaction. “She’s a good woman. A hard worker, she won’t be no problem around here.”

  “Why that’s real good news, Boss.” Demas stopped his dabbing and looked at him with genuine pleasure. “I’m right glad to hear that. It’s about time.”

  “I had plans, though. I wanted to build her something here before I fetched her. Now, with this.” He waved the bottle at his shoulder. “It’s going to be hard.”

  Demas shook his head. “Don’t you worry, we’ll make a show of it for her. We have three good fellows working here now and if we hire in, we’ll get whatever you want done, done right.”

  “Thanks.” Powers lay back exhausted on the pillows. His head ached and his shoulder throbbed painfully. He guessed that by the time the doctor had finished with him, he’d ache even more.

  “Can you get me some writing things?” he asked. “I’m going to have to write to the lady and let her know it might be a little longer until I come fetch her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As he looked around the busy Quartermaster Depot, Cole knew the only way to get out of Yuma Territory was to be totally ruthless.

  They needed weapons and clothes. The few garments that the poor late Caroline had found them were ill fitting and old. The rough clothing had got them this far but it was time they wore something that made them look more than just a bunch of desperate saddle bums.

  He separated the men, telling them to wander around the warehouse section and find out what they could then meet up again by the stone reservoir where he waited.

  The Depot was a busy place, full of activity, with men and wagons pulling loads up the track from the river. As the freighter ships entered the mouth of the Colorado and docked, their cargo was unloaded onto the quay and then transported up to a giant storehouse. Six months’ supplies were kept here, enough to equip all the US Army forts in Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah and West Texas. The place was bursting with military. Cole had little fear of their discovery as escaped convicts among all the milling crowds of soldiers, sailors, teamsters and civilians that bustled around the docks.

  He could see that the dock areas were well guarded. Heavily armed troops stood along the riverside approaching the dockyard and a pass was needed to enter and every wagonload was checked against a manifest. It seemed unlikely they would be able to stowaway aboard a vessel. After due consideration, Cole had more hope now for the wagons leaving the warehouses to distribute the clothing and weapons to the various forts across the country. He needed confirmation but he guessed that although in the main the wagons traveled in trains it was possible that one on a short trip might travel alone.

  Cole pricked up his ears as he heard the wail of a train whistle coming from the town. The Southern Pacific Railroad had reached the Territory thirteen years before and for Cole it was a preferable and faster route out of Yuma but they needed some ticket money to do that. If they could somehow get hold of cash then they could pay their way and travel in style.

  He considered splitting up with the rest of the men but his future plans meant that he would need backup so, for the time being, he would keep them near. And right now, it was pleasant enough in the shade of the reservoir where he stood. A cooling breeze blew off the water and the broad stretch of blue-green river shone and sparkled under the hot sunlight. Cole sucked on his empty corncob and waited patiently, enjoying the luxury of freedom.

  Slowly the men ambled back. From their reports, Cole was able to build a picture of the place. There was the depot quartermaster’s office and the separate officers’ quarters occupying large areas near the riverside, kitchens for the troops and a corral for the mule teams, nigh on a thousand animals Del Tate estimated, although Cole knew his arithmetical skills were not up to much. The wagon park was a huge area behind the storehouse and Little Willy Wise had managed to move easily among the wagons without being challenged. Joe Packer and the Mexicans, Rodrigo and Luis, had found a cantina on the outskirts of the complex and it was this that interested Cole most of all.

  “They have soldiers in there. Off duty soldiers?” Cole asked.

  “They do,” said Joe. “There were civilians in there too, even a couple of Indians.”

  “What’s out back of the place?”

  “There’s a low wall and a ditch. Some sort of canal that runs off the river. Looks and smells like an open toilet; it’s probable people from the cantina use it for just that purpose.”

  “Lets go take a looksee,” said Cole. “This sounds like it has possibilities. I want to get soldiers or civilians on their lonesome. Pref
erably drunk too. We get them when they’re out back in that privy area doing their necessaries and deal with them there, strip them of money, clothes and guns and lose the bodies in the canal.”

  The men made their way over to the low-roofed cantina, a rough looking building that was an integral part of the Depot’s crumbling adobe walls. With the Mexicans keeping watch out front, Cole and the others waited for their prey, leaning casually against the cantina side wall and gathered under a few scrub shade trees that grew there.

  They did not have long to wait. Soon, two soldiers in blue who had obviously overindulged, staggered out drunkenly and made their way to the canal wall, clearly intent on relieving themselves there.

  Joe Packer used his hands and Del Tate a large rock. Both of them made short work of the two soldiers. Their pistols and gun-belts were taken. Also, money and, to Cole’s delight, a pouch of tobacco, from which he immediately filled his pipe. The band carried on in that way until they had a fair poke of money and seven dead men lay submerged under the stinking waters below the cantina.

  “Can we get a drink now, Cole?” asked Little Willy. “Been a long while since I had me some whisky.”

  “No, boy. We have to get ourselves away from here fast as we can. It won’t be long before the prison guards miss us and figure it out. Right now, we get tickets for the train out of here.”

  “Where d’you aim to go?” asked Joe.

  “There’s a rich fellow I know who owns a whole lot of money and I mean to get me some.”

  “Are we all in on this?” asked Del Tate a little nervously. “Or you plannin’ on breaking up the bunch of us?”

  “Why sure you are, Del. We’re partners now, a team, what’s mine is yours,” Cole said winningly as he slapped Del on the back. “Besides, this fellow we’re going to see has more than enough for all of us.”

  “Just where does this money-pot hole up?” asked Little Willy doubtfully as he fiddled with the buckle and strapped on his new army-issue pistol and holster.