The Last Waterhole Page 8

  Move!

  Relief flooded through her, bringing with it strength. She snatched her hand from the pony’s muzzle. Fumbling, her fingers like those of someone already dead, she unbuckled the flap and thrust her hand inside the soft leather. The knife was there. She bit her bottom lip, hope soaring, brought the knife out and snapped open the blade. Then she bent down and sliced, sliced, sliced through the hobble’s tough leather.

  Sensing her excitement, the pony turned its head and whickered.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Cassie whispered.

  She slipped the knife into her pocket, jerked the end of the reins to undo the hitch and swung lithely into the saddle. Rawhide trailed from each ankle as she thrust her feet into the stirrups. Saying a silent prayer that the outlaws had taken that whicker to come from one of their own horses, she nudged the pony’s flanks with her heels and urged it into the trees. If she could get through them, out the other side into open ground . . .

  The trees closed in. As the pony leaped forward, a branch snapped. The sound was like a gunshot. Cassie’s mouth opened wide in a silent gasp of horror.

  Behind her someone yelled, ‘Christ, the woman’s gettin’ away!’ and seconds later the undergrowth crackled under pounding feet and there was another loud bang. This time it was a gunshot. The bullet, aimed at the horse, ricocheted off a stone and howled into the sky.

  Then Cassie was lying flat along the racing pony’s neck, the hairs of its streaming mane flying in her narrowed eyes as she spurred recklessly for the relative safety of the open ground that lay beyond the edge of the trees.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An hour after sundown. To the west, the last of the light was still flaring red in the skies above the Guadaloupe Mountains, but perceptibly fading. As dusk crept over the plains like the shadow of a storm advancing from the east, Bobbie Lee and Will Blunt saddled the sorrel and the skinny blue roan and broke camp. It was a clear night with just a faint breeze, but Bobbie Lee had a feeling in his bones that boded ill. Those disturbing thoughts were in his mind as they cantered out of the hollow and pointed their horses south. As they did so, Blunt gestured urgently with his hand. Bobbie Lee looked across the open plain and saw the perfect orb of the rising moon.

  ‘Helps us,’ he said. ‘Gibb and his men will be gazing north. Any not doing that’ll be too busy chasing strays to see us, but with that moon there’ll be nowhere for Van Gelderen to hide.’

  ‘That may be, but somehow I can’t see a feller that mean allowing us to roam free,’ Will Blunt said, and then Bobbie Lee knew that his vague uneasiness was justified.

  As they rode they could hear distant yips and hollers, and the angry bellowing of cattle as Gibb and his crew worked to get two thousand reluctant animals up on their feet and moving. With those sounds in their ears they rode steadily, ruminating on what might lie ahead but moving swiftly across country until they reached the spot Bobbie Lee had earmarked. In that undulating region the shadows were long. On their western flank the Pecos River glittered under a veil of thin mist.

  They pulled in under the cottonwoods. Bobbie Lee dug out his field-glasses, squinted through them, got the focus right and peered north. Despite the fading light he could see the dust cloud already billowing, the dark shapes that were riders on the flanks of the extended, rolling mass of the slowly moving herd. Shifting the glasses, he looked for any sign of movement that would reveal the presence of two riders in the area behind the herd. He looked until his eyes watered with the strain, but saw nothing

  ‘I think we figured this all wrong,’ Blunt said.

  For a few moments Bobbie Lee said nothing. He was thinking back over the decisions they’d made. The way they’d worked everything out. They’d been right about the herd. They knew for certain the man in buckskins had taken Ed Morgan’s name and his job, and Cleet was using a stolen tin badge to work it so he could justify being close to Harlan Gibb at all times. Maybe they should have gone along with the big rancher, faced Cleet and let Gibb decide who was telling the truth. But that would never have worked. Cleet had more people to back up his story. Bobby Lee had already admitted he was the Caprock Kid, and been recognized as such by the cook – and in any case, Cleet and his companion could not be found. So Will had pulled a gun and they’d made their escape and if that hadn’t settled Gibb’s mind, then nothing would.

  Maybe, Bobby Lee thought, that was when everything started to go wrong. Their thinking had gone south, and they’d been so certain Van Gelderen would do the same they’d ridden in that direction to put themselves behind the herd.

  He sighed.

  ‘If you were Van Gelderen, holding a valuable hostage, knowing damn well her pa and another man are out there looking for you – what would you do?’

  ‘Stay out of sight,’ Blunt said. ‘Or if I had a fair idea of the whereabouts of the people hunting me, ride like hell in the opposite direction, put distance between us.’

  ‘And what would you do,’ Bobby Lee said, ‘if there was a big horse fly buzzing around your ears annoying the hell out of you?’

  ‘Swat it.’

  ‘Or, if you were going someplace else, get someone to do it for you.’

  ‘Someone,’ Will Blunt said, ‘unlikely to miss.’

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Bobby Lee said, ‘but I’ve got a sudden itchy feeling in the middle of my back.’

  What they hadn’t accounted for, the gunman realized, was the effect of the booming shots when he pulled the big rifle’s trigger.

  He’d ridden slow and steady from Van Gelderen’s campsite until he was below the herd, picked a spot on the western bank of the Pecos and swum his horse across. The way he had it figured, Janson and Blunt would stay on the opposite bank.

  He was right. His clothes were almost dry when he’d spotted them approaching the river. Now they’d eased their horses back into the cottonwoods. Sangster caught a brief flash of light, the wink of the setting sun on glass, and reckoned one of them was using field-glasses. They were watching the herd – or watching for something. But if they looked across the river to his position they’d be gazing into the setting sun – glasses or no glasses – while he’d have the sun at his back and a couple of easy shots at clearly visible targets.

  Problem was, two shots from the powerful buff’ gun were likely to spook the herd – and that would ruin Van Gelderen’s precious plans.

  Hunkered down in a grove of alder, cigarette glowing in his cupped hand, Sangster debated his dilemma. Shoot the bastards with the big gun, and to hell with it? – or get close enough to . . . to what?

  A six-gun at close range was just as likely to cause a stampede, especially if he needed more than a couple of shots to do the job. He had a knife in his boot, but could he get close enough for a silent kill? Hell, he was no damn Injun and, even if he got there, one of the men he was going up against was the Caprock Kid.

  Call the whole thing off?

  Maybe. Van Gelderen would be no worse off, the herd would be moving, and in a couple of days it’d be just where he wanted it.

  The snag was that would leave Janson and Blunt on the loose, and it was never a good idea to cross Van Gelderen. If the man sent you out to blow a couple of fellers out of the saddle – that’s what you did. One way or another. And, looked at coldly, logically, the only way that could be done without spooking the herd was to get close.

  Maybe, Sangster thought, the six-gun was the best option. He lifted his head and looked north. The breeze was blowing in his face, the herd more than a mile upwind with noise all around them. Maybe the crack of a six-gun would go unheard. Or maybe – and here a sour grin crossed Sangster’s face – maybe he should think about getting himself one of those Remington bean-shooters Blunt had pulled on Harlan Gibb. A couple of pops and the job’d be done.

  But he didn’t have one – and now there were a whole lot of maybes tossed into the pot and suddenly Sangster’s guts were crawling with nerves.

  With a soft, muttered curse, he stubbed out his cigarette
, climbed to his feet and went to untie his horse.

  As he swung into the saddle he could see in the fading light that Janson and Blunt were still waiting in the cottonwoods. Aware that they could at any moment look in his direction he swung west and, using the shelter of a small rise, made for the river in a wide, swinging circle. When his horse slithered down the bank and splashed into the water he was some fifty yards below the cottonwoods, the stand of trees between him and the two men.

  He made the crossing without raising the alarm, out of the saddle and up to his neck in water, clinging to the slick horn, his boots and weapons held high out of the river. When he clambered up the opposite bank he was, for the second time that night, streaming muddy water. His socks squelched as he slid his feet into his boots.

  He spat in disgust. Strapped on his gunbelt. Checked his .45. Jogged to the trees and tethered his horse out of sight.

  Now what? Risk the snap of branches by stumbling blind through the woods, or play safe and circle around in the open?

  He chose the longer, quieter way, creeping along the Pecos side of the cottonwoods so that the whisper of boots in the grass would blend with the soft lapping of the water. When he looked west the reflection of the night skies turned the river blood red beneath the veil of mist. Behind him the moon was beginning to throw its light across the plains, and already his shadow was moving ahead of him.

  Sangster drew back his lips as he saw it, and instantly hugged the trees. He was close enough now to hear the murmur of two men talking; saw through the last of the trees – with an urgent and worried glance – the darker shapes that could only be two riders, two horses. His six-gun made a sibilant sound as it cleared supple leather. There was a muted, oily click as he eased back the hammer.

  He froze, not breathing. Heard the creak of leather as one of the men turned in the saddle. A face gleamed pale in the moonlight. Not daring to wait Sangster clenched his teeth, lifted the six-gun high and stepped swiftly around the trees.

  ‘That’s all, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Don’t either one of you move a single damn muscle.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The last of the sunlight had gone. Above the Guadaloupe Mountains the sky was a dull red. The gunman had stepped out of the shelter of the woods and cunningly put his back to that lurid glow, but the light from the moon was already sufficient for Bobbie Lee to see his face. And the glitter of the pistol.

  He immediately recognized the weapon as a Colt .45 and, as he had done so many times before, Bobby Lee smiled inwardly at the amazing ability with which he had been blessed. It was the ability to take in the smallest of details in moments of great crisis, and while one part of his mind was observing, another separate part would be examining possibilities, looking for actions that would enable him to wriggle out of an impossible situation.

  The sound he had heard only seconds ago had been the cocking of that Colt .45. The pistol was now being aimed at a point just above the bridge of his nose by the man called Sangster, the man skilful enough with a firearm to gun down Ed Morgan, in cold blood, at a range of more than half a mile.

  This situation was dire.

  If he had gunned down Ed Morgan in that manner, what qualms might he now have that would deter him from pulling the trigger and blowing first Bobbie Lee, then Will Blunt, into the next world?

  None at all. And because there was no possible way that Bobbie Lee could draw his gun fast enough to beat a man with his finger already squeezing the trigger of a cocked pistol, the razor-sharp mind that was working on possibilities that did not exist began to look at reality – and found it to be an unsavoury and sobering task.

  ‘You stand there much longer holding that big pistol,’ Will Blunt was saying conversationally, ‘your arm’s going to get tired and what’ll you do then?’

  Bobbie Lee forced a chuckle. ‘He’ll swap hands. Faster than the eye can see. He’s a real tough character, this one.’

  ‘Long before that happens,’ Sangster said, ‘you’ll both be dead.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’

  ‘What d’you think? Target practice? You think I’m here to shoot your hat full of holes?’

  Bobbie Lee grinned and looked across at Blunt.

  ‘What I think is he likes shooting his mouth off – right, Will.’

  ‘A man who talks too much is putting off the main event,’ Blunt said. ‘This feller can shoot a man out of the saddle at a thousand yards, but when he’s forced to look that man in the eye his backbone turns to water.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Sangster said, ‘are these your last words I’m hearing?’

  ‘No, you tell me,’ Blunt said, and spat into the grass. ‘Squeeze that trigger, Mr Bushwhacker, and prove to me that I’m wrong.’

  Bobbie Lee felt himself stiffen. Talk had seemed to be the only way out. Will had come to the same conclusion and spoken first, but his last words seemed to have thrown away the advantage. He’d pushed Sangster too far; Christ, he’d reminded him what he was there for: he’d been sent by Van Gelderen to get Bobbie Lee and Blunt out of his hair – and Will had coolly told him to get on with it.

  Almost imperceptibly, the pistol’s barrel shifted. That was all it took, a slight adjustment to the aim. But now it was pointing at Will Blunt. Now Sangster’s teeth were bared in a savage grin and, even from ten feet away, Bobbie Lee could see his knuckle whiten inside the trigger guard.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Will said blandly. ‘Pull the trigger.’

  The shot rang out.

  Bobbie Lee’s heart leaped. His horse threw up its head and pranced backwards, rocking him in the saddle.

  As he clung to the taut reins, fought to keep his seat and watched in amazement, Sangster wobbled backwards. His arm lost all its strength and fell to his side. The pistol dropped from his fingers. His eyes bulged with shock, and the dark stain of blood was spreading across his shirt front. He tried to walk even as he was falling, and then he was staggering down the bank and there was a splash and a gout of glittering water shot into the moonlight as his legs crumpled and he fell flat on his back in the river.

  ‘You knew, Will,’ Bobbie Lee said accusingly. ‘But how the hell did you? And why not give me some sign, some warning, instead of baiting the man like that and almost giving me a seizure?’

  They were down off their horses. Will Blunt was holding Cassie in his arms. Her face was buried in his shoulder. Her right arm was by her side, her hand still clutching the Remington over-and-under .41 that had done for Sangster.

  ‘My powers of observation,’ Will said slyly. ‘You were fallin’ asleep listenin’ to him, but I saw her come walkin’ around them trees on that pony. I saw that little pistol in her hand. I was just about scared rigid, but she put a finger to her lips telling me to keep quiet as if everything was under control.’ He shrugged, grinning like a fool.

  ‘With that two-shot pistol,’ Bobbie Lee said, ‘I’d be lucky to hit the side of a mountain from the inside of a box canyon. Your little girl plugged him plumb centre.’

  ‘Some little girl,’ Will said, and let Cassie pull away from his grasp.

  ‘I heard those outlaws talking, Bobbie Lee,’ she said. ‘I knew what Sangster was going to do tonight – and I think I sort of know why.’

  ‘You sound unsure, but ain’t that the easy bit?’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘Van Gelderen wants us out of the way so he can get on with destroying Harlan Gibb. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘A big part of it. But not all.’

  ‘So tell us the rest.

  She had walked across to Bobbie Lee and now reached up to touch his face. It was almost as if she’d not expected to see him, ever again, Bobbie Lee thought – and that realization and her obvious pleasure at being wrong gave him a warm glow that took him completely by surprise.

  Not Cassie. She was gazing into his eyes, and a knowing smile parted her lips as his feelings became clear. She ran the backs of her fingers down his stubbly chin, lightly touched the tip of his nose, then stepped away and turned
serious.

  ‘As far as I can recall, Van Gelderen was talking to Sangster. He was saying you wouldn’t expect trouble because you believed all three of them – Murphy, Cleet and Sangster – were staying with the herd. But Sangster said you were only two thirds right, because he was coming after you.’ She frowned. ‘And then Van Gelderen said, when you were dead the debt would be paid in full. His exact words, I think, were “snuffed out with your last dying breath”.’

  ‘I have never in my life seen that man before he rode into the Halt,’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Then forget it,’ Blunt said. ‘His reasons for doing things don’t in any way excuse the things he’s done. I reckon that sounds like I’ve been eating some of that loco weed, doesn’t it? Well, I guess that’s because I’m still trying to figure out how Cassie got away from that bastard.’

  ‘Walked and rode,’ Cassie said. ‘They were jawing away, I cut the rawhide’ – she waggled a foot in the air to show them the leather strip dangling from her boot – ‘and left them chasing each other’s tails.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Will Blunt said, ‘you always could outride and outshoot the young males in the Halt.’

  ‘You mean Zeke and Ed Morgan,’ Cassie said softly. She was quiet for a moment. Then, as if recalling the young friend who had been cruelly gunned down had jogged her memory, she said, ‘Pa, did you find my Henry?’

  ‘Found the herd, met the rancher, used the second of those pistols to make a getaway, found your Henry in that godawful hollow – yeah, we’ve got it. We’ve also got a lot of catching up to do, and some serious planning.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘Gibb is busy moving his herd onto the Llano Estacado. What we’ve got to do is decide what the hell we’re going to do next.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  They talked around a small fire Bobbie Lee built in a circle of stones on the bank of the Pecos. Cassie shivered at disturbing thoughts and deliberately sat cross-legged with her back to the river; Sangster’s body had floated off into the mists, but had been slow doing so and in a silence made eerie by his death his gruesome memory lingered.