Feud On The Mesa (22 page)

The liveryman’s coarse, florid features creased up into a smile that nearly completely obscured small, porcine eyes. “Just lookin’ for old Homer. Me and him usually share a cup of coffee in the morning. Been doin’ that for years, me an’ old Homer.”

Rufe had a feeling about the liveryman, but he neither knew the man personally nor had anything except that small feeling, so he scooped up reins and led his horse out front.

They did not have to wait long. When Hartman’s animal arrived, the cowboy who brought it looked closely at Rufe, but spoke to the old cowman. “You know what you’re doing, Pa?”

Hartman smiled for the first time. “No,” he told the young cowboy, “but that don’t have Tomean much. Mostly, in my lifetime, I’ve been doing things I wasn’t sure about.” His eye turned kindly. “You send your brother back to mind the ranch. You and the other boys hang around town until this here is settled, and don’t fret about me.”

For Rufe, the mystery of Jud’s disappearance seemed to be a case of pursuit. It had seemed to be that ever since Rufe’s last glimpse of his partner,
lunging out through the saloon doorway behind Arlen Chase.

He knew that neither Jud nor Chase had fired a shot, because, thus far today, there had only been one gunshot around town—the one that had resulted in the death of Bull Harris. He also knew that Chase had the advantage of being familiar with Clearwater, while Jud was not. Also, Chase was familiar with the desert cow range on all sides of Clearwater.

Rufe led the way up the alley behind the livery barn, located the shed where he and Jud had put Ruff and Chase’s
cocinero
down in the bootleg hole, and took Hartman inside, just in case Jud had re-turned to this place with Chase.

Hartman knew the hole. He said that just about everyone else in the countryside knew about it, and remembered the old-timer who had at one time made some of the finest whiskey in the entire territory down in that hole.

But neither Chase nor Jud was there.

Hartman, it turned out, was also very knowledgeable about the town. They made a very thorough and painstaking search of it—without turning up any sign of either Rufe’s partner or Arlen Chase.

Hartman shook his head about this. “They ain’t here. No way under the sun for’em to be here, and us not have found them this morning.”

Rufe considered, and decided that, if Jud had pur-sued Chase out of Clearwater, the most logical route for Chase to have taken would have been back in the direction of his camp atop of Cane’s Mesa, because he would believe he had men up there to reinforce him.

There was another consideration. Whoever that had been hours earlier Rufe and Jud had seen coming down off the mesa in bright sunlight should by
now be fairly well along on their way to town— which should put them between Chase, pursued by Jud, and the top of the mesa.

He explained all this to Evart Hartman. The cow-man stoically listened, then turned and without a word led off back up toward the northwesterly desert beyond Clearwater, tipping down his hat, now that the full heat of hot daytime was over the land, and even a wide hat brim did not help a lot, because brilliant sunshine bounced up off millions of mica particles in the soil and sand, but the hat brim was better than no protection at all as they rode to the edge of town, then headed forth into the desert.

Rufe sashayed back and forth, but, as Evart Hart-man pointed out, there were always fresh-shod horse tracks this close to Clearwater. Unless Jud’s animal had very unusual shoes, his tracks would be indistinguishable from all those other tracks, and Hartman was correct.

Rufe was anxious without being actually very worried. Jud was a man who a harsh existence had formed to survive under almost all adverse conditions, but particularly under the variety of conditions he was now involved in.

What puzzled Rufe was where Jud could have gone in his pursuit of Arlen Chase, and, most of all, it puzzled him that there had been no gunfire.

Of course, by now the pursuit could have put Jud and Arlen Chase a considerable distance from town, by now there could be gunshots, and no one would hear them in Clearwater.

E
vart Hartman knew the countryside they were traversing even though he had never run his cattle this far west. He also recalled meetings with Amos Cane, and recounted a few of them as they rode upcountry When Rufe chided him for doing nothing about conditions on the mesa, Hartman did not deny that he had heard talk around town; what he
did
deny was his right, or the right of anyone else, to go charging out over the countryside like some damned silly Don Quixote, trying to right wrongs which would turn out to be, in nine out of ten cases, pure gossip.

Of course, Rufe could have pursued this, could have shredded that argument to pieces, but right at the moment he needed Evart Hartman, and he did not care a damn about the things folks should have done.

They were a considerable distance from town. The buildings and rooftops were still abundantly discernible, but sounds were deadened by the distance, when Rufe made another wide pass from west to east, seeking fresh trails, and this time he found promising sign. Even the old cowman studied it with interest, and afterward raised his head to
gaze up along the bluff faces toward the top out of Cane’s Mesa.

“I expect we should have figured Arlen’d do that. Only place he figures to find friends.”

Rufe had already considered this, and he had also considered something else—up ahead, there had been someone coming down off the mesa. Before Chase could race up there, he was going to encounter those other people.

The encounter evidently occurred while Rufe and Hartman were discussing the chances of Chase’s reaching his cow camp with Jud on his trail. Suddenly, up ahead some distance, several men shouted indignant, but wholly indistinguishable, words. Rufe did not wait; he gigged his horse, and reined back and forth through the underbrush. Evart Hart-man, some little distance rearward, loped ahead, too, but with caution, and also with a six-gun in his right fist.

They did not find the horsemen until someone up ahead heard them coming, and bellowed for his companions to get down, to get to cover.

Rufe halted in a long slide when he heard that outcry. He knew that voice. It belonged to horse-killing Charley Fenwick!

While Rufe puzzled over that, Evart Hartman walked his horse on up the last 100 feet, still holding his balanced pistol, looking ahead through the man-high underbrush, and said: “Seen anyone up there?”

Rufe hadn’t. He was in the act of dismounting when someone up ahead through the underbrush hoorawed a loose horse. It was an old ruse, and, while it had undeniable benefits, it failed this morning simply because the hoorawed horse and the men who had sent it stampeding through the
underbrush to stir up anyone who might be out there sent the horse in the wrong direction. They sent it stampeding due southward, while Rufe and Evart Hartman were not only more westerly, but they also happened to be almost as far northward as the hid-den men with Charley Fenwick were—although neither Rufe nor Hartman knew that this was true, until that loose horse broke away and went charging southward.

Evart made a slight clucking sound, lowered his Colt, and made a motion for Rufe to follow him in ab-solute silence. They left their animals hidden in un-derbrush and zigzagged through thorny brush until old Hartman sank to one knee, head cocked, and motioned for Rufe to slip in beside him.

Up ahead, on their right, they could hear men mumbling. Rufe detected Fenwick’s voice again, and shook his head. The last time he’d seen Fenwick the cowboy had been chained in Elisabeth Cane’s barn.

Finally something occurred which helped explain what was happening on ahead through the under-brush. An angry voice, made sharp by someone’s incensed condition, said: “What’n hell you’d let him get away for? He’ll fetch up his partner and a lousy posse!”

Rufe and Hartman exchanged a look, then Hart-man dropped low as another, less furious voice said: “Hurry up with the horses so’s we can get out of here. He can’t do anything by himself, anyway, and by the time he gets back….” The rest of this remark was lost as the speaker either turned his back in the direction of the two listening men, or just let his words trail off.

Someone back where Rufe and Hartman had left
their horses made a mountain quail call. It was realistic enough, except that Rufe knew that call. He tapped Hartman’s shoulder, jerked his head, and began withdrawing back in that direction.

Jud was down there, calmly smoking a cigarette, when Rufe, leading the way, came around a tall, thorny stand of underbrush. Jud gazed over, and shook his head dolorously. “What took you so damned long?” he querulously asked.

Rufe introduced Evart Hartman, and Jud nodded, still looking irritable. When Rufe said—“What’s going on up there?”—Jud answered almost laconically.

“I almost had Chase, when the whole blasted ball of wax gave way. He rode up onto them.”

Hartman interrupted. “Rode up onto who?”

“Elisabeth bringing Fenwick and the other one with her down to town to the jailhouse.” Jud shrugged. “Just as well she never made it, eh? Any-way, Chase threw down on her. I saw that much, but, before I could get any closer, Chase freed Fen-wick, gave him her pistol, and handed her carbine to the other feller…and, hell, I lost out.”

Rufe was intrigued. “Where’s Elisabeth now?”

“Up there,” replied Jud, dropping his smoke to stamp it out. “They got her for their hostage. That’s what I meant when I said the whole damned thing come unraveled.” He glanced at Hartman. “Any more fellers on their way?”

The old cowman shook his head. “No. But there’s the three of us…and if all they got is three guns….”

Jud studied the old cowman with a sour look, then turned toward Rufe. “Maybe we can hold them down while someone rides back for more men.” He pointed. “They can’t use the trail up the slope.” His
meaning was clear; that trail going up to the mesa was fully exposed.

Hartman did not appear very impressed. As he said, there were a dozen other routes away from this particular spot. Jud nodded. “Then it’s up to us to hold’em here, isn’t it?”

They ventured again back through the underbrush until they were close enough to hear men working with livestock. Shortly now Arlen Chase and his riding crew would attempt to escape, and Jud, still showing monumental disgust, gestured. “If you fellers will slip around yonder, one to the west, one to the east, I’ll drive in a couple of bullets from down here. That ought Tomake them defensive.” He looked at Rufe. “Just remember, I’m down here, if you get to throwing lead.”

If there was a better way, they did not see it right then, and because they did not seem to have very much time to accomplish their purpose before Chase and his riders made their break for it, Rufe turned away, as did Evart Hartman, leaving Jud standing morosely behind the big thorn-pin tree.

Rufe’s course was not difficult. All he had to do was avoid contact with the underbrush, and watch where he stepped in order to avoid dry twigs under-foot. He could hear an occasional voice up ahead, where Chase and his men were getting organized, but he did not pay much attention until he was between them and the uphill road leading back atop Cane’s Mesa. Then he began skulking in closer, hoping for a view of the secreted men with Arlen Chase. What he specifically wished to determine was where Elisabeth was. If there was to be a battle, he did not want her endangered if there was any way to avoid it.

Of course, there was no way to avoid it. When he finally caught a glimpse of movement through the lower limbs of underbrush, what he saw was three horses, saddled and being held by someone who he could not distinctly make out at all.

He shoved his Colt forward, wriggled in as close as he could at the base of a particularly hardy stand of buckbrush, allowed a full minute to pass, during which he thought Jud and the old cowman would be in place, then he sang out.

“Chase! Fenwick! We’re on all sides of you!”

He had more to say, but a nervous trigger finger up through the brush fired a gun in the direction of Rufe’s voice, and the bullet made a tearing sound, clearly audible, but two feet higher than where Rufe was lying.

Rufe held his fire, intending to sing out again. From off to the east, far out, Evart Hartman fired; at least that shot came from the area where Rufe was certain Hartman had gone, but otherwise there was no way for Rufe to be sure who had fired.

This second gunshot, though, stirred up a hor-net’s nest. Two pistols and a Winchester cut loose in the same direction as Hartman had fired from. Rufe pushed his six-gun ahead, aimed as best he could at the ground beneath where those three saddled horses were being held, and tugged off a shot.

The noise was bad enough, but when that slug tore into the gravelly hardpan, causing an eruption of flinty soil and sharp little bits of stone, which flew upwards, striking the nearest horse under the belly, the animal gave a tremendous bound into the air, and snorted like a wild stallion.

A man swore as the other two held horses also
violently reacted, and another man yelled for the horse holder to hang on.

Rufe fired again in the same way, his bullet exploding hardpan upward beneath those terrified horses, and this time two furiously swearing men fired back as they rushed over to help the horse holder.

Both those last two bullets also went high above where Rufe was lying. Nevertheless, it would only be a matter of moments before Chase’s riders figured out that Rufe was belly down out there. They would then lower their gun barrels, but right at this moment everyone through the brush was desperately seeking to control the frightened horses.

Rufe had no intention of allowing the men to get their animals under control, if he could help it. As long as they were fully occupied with their only means of escape, he was relatively safe from their wrath.

He wriggled away from his big bush and crept still closer. While he was crawling, Jud fired from southward, but high. So high, in fact, that the bullet clipped a dozen small branches from the tops of the bushes. Rufe saw this happen, saw the underbrush rip and tear as Jud’s slug bore through it.