I did not want the name of gunfighter. I’d no wish to end up like the men around me, gunmen dead in a lonely place, unmourned, with only the uncaring wind and the trees to whisper of their passing.
Nor did I want to kill ever again, though even as that realization dawned on me, I knew inevitably there must be more killing, more dying, before I got back my boss’ money and once more crossed the Red and saw the familiar barns and corrals of the SP Connected.
Above me, a passing smear of thin cloud drew a brief veil across the sky and I heard a fish jump in the creek. Over by the cottonwoods, bees hummed among the wildflowers and at the fire the sizzling bacon in the pan spat and sputtered, filling the air with a down-homey smell that reminded me of cold Sunday mornings and Ma Prather in her gingham apron, round cheeks flushed, serving up hot buttermilk biscuits and coffee steaming from the old fire-blackened pot that stood day and night on the ranch house stove.
Would I ever sit at her table again?
It wasn’t difficult to fire the odds facing me and come up with the answer, especially now that Bass Reeves was heading back to Arkansas with his prisoner.
It was Reeves’ voice that interrupted my thoughts and brought me back to the stark realities of the present.
“Dusty, come over here and eat,” he said. “It could be a while before you get the chance again.”
I had no appetite, but I stepped round my dead horse and joined him at the fire. Reeves had taken the frying pan from the nervous outlaw and was holding it just above the flames. There was a half a loaf of stale sourdough bread among Bully Yates’ supplies and this he cut into thick slices, laying each one on top of the bacon to absorb a goodly amount of fat. That done, he placed a few strips of bacon between two slices of bread and passed it to me.
“Eat, boy,” he said. “It will settle your stomach.”
Truth to tell, I had to force myself to bite into the sandwich, but I managed to chew it up some and gulped it down.
Reeves made a sandwich for himself and as the outlaw who had fried the bacon watched it disappear down the lawman’s throat he asked: “What about me, Bass? You came on us so sudden, we hadn’t et.”
“What’s your name?” Reeves asked the outlaw.
“It’s Ellison, Jim Ellison,” the man said. He took off his hat, uncovering a mane of wavy black hair. “There are them as call me Curly, on account of this.”
Reeves nodded. “Heard of you. Heard you killed a man down on the Brazos a spell back.”
“In a fair fight,” Ellison said, bristling. “He was coming at me with his gun drawed.”
“Maybe so,” the lawman said. “But that’s not the way I heard it.”
“Then you heard wrong,” Ellison said, jamming his hat back on his head.
“Well, Jim,” said Reeves, nodding toward the frying pan, “There’s a bait o’ bacon left, so help yourself. But the bread is all gone.”
“Here, take this,” I said, offering my sandwich to the outlaw. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Thought you looked a bit green around the gills, boy,” Ellison said, eagerly taking the bread and bacon from me. He carefully peeled away some bread from where I’d bitten and threw it on the fire, then, his mouth full, added: “But you showed me something with the Colt’s gun.” He nodded toward the men I’d killed. “Sam and Lew were no pilgrims but you done for them both as nice as you please.”
“They were coming at me with their guns drawed,” I said.
Chapter 6
After Ellison had eaten, Reeves got a set of shackles from his saddlebags and roughly locked the outlaw’s hands behind his back.
We had no way of burying the dead, having no shovels, so we laid them out as decent as we could, side by side, their arms crossed over their chests.
Reeves had stripped the men of their gun belts and these he hung over the horn of his saddle.
When he stepped beside me again, he looked down at the four dead men, then at me and asked: “Dusty, you got any words to say?”
I shook my head at him. “Bass, I don’t have any words. When we buried a puncher on the trail, Mr. Prather always read from his Bible.”
“Well, we don’t have one of those,” the lawman said. He turned to Ellison. “You, get on over here.”
When the man stepped closer, Reeves said: “You got anything to say over your hurting dead?”
Ellison shrugged. “We rode together but I never liked a one of them.” He shook his head. “I got nothing to say.”
“So be it.” Reeves sighed. He raised his hat an inch off his head and said: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Then he turned on his heel and went back to where his horse stood.
It was little enough to say over dead men, but I reckoned it was a lot truer than most eulogies.
Wolves and coyotes would soon find the bodies and scatter the bones. In time, scorched by heat and frosted by snow, the bones themselves would become dust and blow away in the prairie wind until there was no trace of them remaining and of the four dead men nothing would be left . . . unless their restless spirits lingered on and haunted this place.
“Choose a horse for yourself, Dusty,” Reeves told me. “The rest of them are now the property of Judge Parker’s court.”
I picked out a big black with a white blaze that looked like it could run and got my saddle out from under the dead buckskin.
Over by the fire, the wounded man had been silent for a long time. Now he groaned, his knees jerking up as pain that was beyond bearing hammered at him.
Seeing this, Reeves nodded. “Seen that afore, how a gut-shot man kicks like that. It means his time is very short.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Stay with him, Dusty. Then ride after Lafe Wingo and the others.” He smiled. “I wish you all the luck in the world and I sure hope you get your money back.”
I forced myself to smile. “I plan to get it back, Bass.”
The lawman nodded. “Just be mighty careful. Wingo and the Owens brothers will be no pushovers. Every one of them is good with a gun and they’ve killed plenty of times before. And another thing”—his eyes were troubled—“when you get to Texas, don’t tangle with Victorio if you can avoid it. Best you ride a hundred miles around Apaches than get in a fight with them because chances are you’re going to lose your hair. If they catch you”—he nodded toward the dying outlaw—“you’ll die like him and maybe a lot worse. However they kill you, the last thing you’ll hear on this earth is your own scream. Remember that.”
“All I want is to get Simon Prather’s money back,” I said. “I don’t plan on tangling with Apaches if they’ll give me the road.”
“That’s the way, Dusty.” Reeves grinned. “Al though, when I come to study on it, I’d say Lafe Wingo and the Owens boys are a shade meaner than any Mescalero, including Victorio his ownself.”
The afternoon was wearing on, but there still remained one thing to be done.
Reeves stepped over to the bodies and found Amos Rosenberg’s ring on Bully Yates’ little finger. He held up Yates’ hand, removed the ring and slipped it into the pocket of his vest.
He walked back to his horse and tightened the girth, then helped the manacled Ellison into the saddle of his mustang.
Reeves gathered up the reins of his sorrel and walked toward me. He stuck out his hand and I took it. “Luck, Dusty,” he said. “It sure was a pleasure to ride with you.” He smiled, half-embarrassed. “You played the man’s part and you helped save my skin today and that’s a thing I won’t forget.”
The big lawman dropped his hand. “You know, young feller, if’n I was Lafe Wingo, I reckon I’d be right worried right about now if I knew you was on my trail.”