Skirmish on a Summer Morning
by Bob Shaw
A flash of silver on the trail about a mile ahead of him brought Gregg out of his reverie. He pulled back on the reins, easing the buckboard to a halt, and took a small leather-covered telescope from the jacket which was lying on the wooden seat beside him. Sliding its sections out with a multiple click, he raised the telescope to his eye, frowning a little at the ragged, gritty pain flaring in his elbows. It was early in the morning and, in spite of the heat, his arms retained some of their night-time stiffness.
The ground had already begun to bake, agitating the lower levels of air into trembling movement, and the telescope yielded only a swimmy, bleached-out image. It was of a young woman, possibly Mexican, in a silver dress. Gregg brought the instrument down, wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to make sense of what he had just seen. A woman dressed in silver would have been a rare spectacle anywhere, even in the plushiest saloons of Sacramento, but finding one alone on the trail three miles north of Copper Cross was an event for which he was totally unprepared. Another curious fact was that he had crossed a low ridge five minutes earlier, from which vantage-point he had been able to see far ahead along the trail, and he would have sworn it was deserted.
He peered through the telescope again. The woman was standing still, and seemed to be looking all around her like a person who had lost her way and this, too, puzzled Gregg. A stranger might easily go astray in this part of southern Arizona, but the realization she was lost would have dawned long before she got near Copper Cross. She would hardly be scanning the monotonous landscape as though it was something new.
Gregg traversed the telescope, searching for a carriage, a runaway or injured horse, anything which would account for the woman’s presence. His attention was drawn by a smudge of dust centred on the distant specks of two riders on a branching trail which ran east to the Portfield ranch, and for an instant he thought he had solved the mystery. Josh Portfield sometimes brought a girl back from his expeditions across the border, and it would be in character for him—should one of his guests prove awkward—to dump her outside of town. But a further look at the riders showed they were approaching the main trail and possibly were not yet aware of the woman. Their appearance was, however, an extra factor which required Gregg’s consideration because their paths were likely to cross his.
He was not a cautious man by nature, and for his first forty-eight years had followed an almost deliberate policy of making life interesting by running headlong into every situation, trusting to his good reflexes and a quick mind to get him out again if trouble developed. It was this philosophy which had led him to accept the post of unofficial town warden, and which—on the hottest afternoon of a cruel summer—had faced him with the impossible task of quietening down Josh Portfield and four of his cronies when they were inflamed with whisky. Gregg had emerged from the episode with crippled arms and a new habit of planning his every move with the thoughtfulness of a chess master.
The situation before him now did not seem dangerous, but it contained too many unknown factors for his liking. He took his shotgun from the floor of the buckboard, loaded it with two dully rattling shells and snicked the hammers back. Swearing at the clumsy stiffness of his arms, he slipped the gun into the rawhide loops which were nailed to the underside of the buckboard’s seat. It was a dangerous arrangement, not good firearms practice, but the hazard would be greatest for anyone who chose to ride alongside him, and he had the option of warning them off if they were friendly or not excessively hostile.
Gregg flicked the reins and his horse ambled forward, oily highlights stirring on its flanks. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead and presently saw the two riders cut across the fork of the trail and halt at the fleck of silver fire, which was how the woman appeared to his naked eye. He hoped, for her sake, that they were two of the reasonably decent hands who kept the Portfield spread operating as a ranch, and not a couple of Josh’s night-riding lieutenants. As he watched he saw that they were neither dismounting nor holding their horses in one place, but were riding in close circles around the woman. He deduced from that one observation that she had been unlucky in her encounter, and a fretful unease began to gnaw at his stomach. Before Gregg’s arms had been ruined he would have lashed his horse into a gallop; now his impulse was to turn and go back the way he had come. He compromised by allowing himself to be carried towards the scene at an unhurried pace, hoping all the while that he could escape involvement.
As he drew near the woman, Gregg saw that she was not—as he had supposed—wearing a mantilla, but that her silver dress was an oddly styled garment incorporating a hood which was drawn up over her head. She was turning this way and that as the riders moved around her. Gregg transferred his attention to the two men and, with a pang of unhappiness, recognized Wolf Caley and Siggy Sorenson. Caley’s grey hair and white beard belied the fact that he possessed all the raw appetites and instincts of a young heathen, and as always he had an old 54-bore Tranter shoved into his belt. Sorenson, a thickset Swedish ex-miner of about thirty, was not wearing a gun, but that scarcely mattered because he had all the lethality of a firearm built into his massive limbs. Both men had been members of the group which, two years earlier, had punished Gregg for meddling in Portfield affairs. They pretended not to notice Gregg’s approach, but continually circled the woman, occasionally leaning sideways in their saddles and trying to snatch the silver hood back from her face. Gregg pulled to a halt a few yards from them.
“What are you boys playing at?” he said in conversational tones. The woman turned towards him as soon as he spoke and he glimpsed the pale, haunted oval of her face. The sudden movement caused the unusual silver garment to tighten against her body and Gregg was shocked to realize she was in a late stage of pregnancy.
“Go away, Billy boy,” Caley said carelessly, without turning his head.
“I think you should leave the lady alone.”
“I think you must like the sound of your own bones a-breakin’,” Caley replied. He made another grab for the woman’s hood and she ducked to avoid his hand.
“Now cut that out, Wolf.” Gregg directed his gaze at the woman. “I’m sorry about this, ma’am. If you’re going into town you can ride with me.”
“Town? Ride?” Her voice was low and strangely accented. “You are English?”
Gregg had time to wonder why anybody should suspect him of being English rather than American merely because he spoke English, then Caley moved into the intervening space.
“Stay out of this, Billy boy,” he said. “We know how to deal with Mexicans who sneak over the line.”
“She isn’t Mexican.”
“Who asked you?” Caley said irritably, his hand straying to the butt of the Tranter.
Sorenson wheeled his horse out of the circle, came alongside the buckboard and looked in the back. His eyes widened as he saw the eight stone jars bedded in straw.
“Look here, Wolf,” he called. “Mister Gregg is takin’ a whole parcel of his best pulque into town. We got us all the makin’s of a party here.”
Caley turned to him at once, his bearded face looking almost benign. “Hand me one of those crocks.”
Gregg slid his right hand under the buckboard’s seat. “It’ll cost you eight-fifty.”
“I’m not payin’ eight-fifty for no cactus juice.” Caley shook his head as he urged his horse a little closer to the buckboard, coming almost into line with its transverse seat.
“That’s what I get from Whalley’s, but I tell you what I’ll do,” Gregg said reasonably. “I’ll let you have a jar each on account and you can have yourselves a drink while I take the lady into town. It’s obvious she’s lost and …” Gregg stopped speaking as he saw that he had completely misjudged Caley’s mood.