Wayward Wind (4 page)

“This here’s all right.” The riders stopped and bunched around a horse that danced nervously. A man swore softly and yanked
on the reins. Another man lifted a coiled rope from his saddle.

The listener judged the riders to be not more than thirty yards away.

“Throw the rope up over that thar limb above yore head.” The riders shifted so the command could be obeyed. They crowded the
nervous horse beneath the limb, their positions close beneath the tree, the hooves of their horses clicking on the stones.
“Get ’em under that ’n be quick about it. We been atrailin’ this bastard three days, ’n I got a thirst.”

The deep voice had a familiar ring of gloating to it that pierced the memory of the man lying in the grass. He cursed silently.
What the hell were Clayhill riders doing over on the other side of the Blue? They must be a hundred miles from Clayhill land.

“The old man said hang ’em as a warnin’ to anybody athinkin’ they’ll squat on that range.” Saddle leather creaked as a rider
stood in the stirrups to toss the rope over the limb.

On the shelf above the trail the man’s mind worked furiously to sort out the information he’d just heard. The slimy old bastard
was spreading out west. It was the only direction he could go now that Logan Horn had bought the south range.

“We ain’t ort to be adoin’ this so secret like. It ain’t no crime to hang a horse thief. And that’s what ya said he done.”
The voice held obvious distaste for the job they were doing.

“Nobody’s askin’ you. We’re adoin’ it like the ole man said to do it. If’n yore so womanish, ya can hightail it back to the
ranch ’n draw yore pay. Then, by God, you’d better hot-foot it out of the country if’n ya ain’t got shit for brains.”

The voice of Clayhill’s foreman was heavy with sarcasm, and anger stiffened the man lying in the grass. He remembered the
time several years ago when that same voice had urged the crowd to hang his half brother. Dunbar hadn’t been foreman then—just
a paid gunman hired to do the old man’s dirty work. The hatred the listener felt for Adam Clayhill choked him. With an effort
he swallowed it down, lest it goad him into being careless and doing something foolish.

“Quit yore jawin’, Dunbar, and get on with it.”

“Goddammit! Don’t be givin’ me no orders. I’m aramroddin’ this here outfit.”

The concealed man was sweating, and he wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. Once he’d witnessed a legal hanging and
felt the murderer got what he had coming, but this was a lynching. This was a dark and ugly bunch carrying out the orders
of a rich, powerful, old sonofabitch who was too rotten to live. Goddamn that old cuss! he fumed. He should have killed him
a couple of years ago when—He held himself still, blocking that time from his mind as he took stock of the odds. Against three,
even four, he might have a chance, but with six… If he drew down on them, they’d be sure to shoot the luckless homesteader
they were going to hang. Poor bastard would probably rather be shot than hanged anyway, he decided, and pulled his rifle up
beside him. He strained his eyes to sort out the shadowy figures of the Clayhill riders. He’d have to be careful to not shoot
the horse out from under the nester.

“Pull that horse out easy ’n let ’em down! I want the sonofabitch to hang thar ’n think ’bout that slash he put in my leg.”

“That ain’t no way to hang a man, Dunbar! Do it quick, if’n yore agoin’ to, ’n get it over.”

“Shut yore mouth! I’m arunnin’ this show.” There was a snarl in the deep voice.

The listener heard the creak of a rope taking strain, then the jerking of it as the hanged man kicked and struggled. Hell!
The only chance now was if they’d leave and he could cut him down.

A horse took off on the run back up the trail and Dunbar laughed. “Goddamn yellow belly!” he yelled, his voice thick with
irritation.

There was a sudden pounding of hooves as if the other riders were anxious to leave the grisly scene, too. Dunbar looked over
his shoulder at the man kicking at the end of the rope. “Choke, goddamn ya!” He spurred his horse cruelly; the animal sank
back on its haunches and leaped to follow the others.

The listener moved out of the grass and shimmied down the bank like a shadow. He held no liking for lynching a man, and there
was a slight chance he could reach him before he choked to death. He ran soundlessly on the leaves and grass, keeping back
from the rocky trail until he reached the tree. He went up it with swift agility, crawled out on the limb, and with a quick
slash of his knife cut the rope. The body tumbled to the ground. He grasped the branch and swung himself down. He bent swiftly,
loosened the noose, and pulled it up over the man’s head. His knife slit the cloth that held the gag in his mouth. Almost
at once he heard a hoarse gasp.

He turned his ear and leaned into the breeze, listening for a sound. He heard nothing, but that was no guarantee Dunbar wouldn’t
come back. Grasping the man by the arms, he yanked him to his feet. Bending so he could get his shoulder beneath the victim’s
armpit, he started propelling him toward the upper bench.

“Move your feet,” he hissed. “I can’t carry you up that bank.”

Grasping painfully, the man stiffened his legs and with all his strength forced them to move. They staggered up the steep
embankment. By the time they’d reached the top, the tall man was also straining for breath. Roscoe nickered softly when they
reached the campsite and his owner whispered for him to keep quiet as he let the suffering man sink down onto his blankets.
He reached for his canteen, uncapped it and put it in the man’s hands.

“Can you drink?” He sank down on his haunches beside him.

“Gawd! Oh, Gawd… I th-thought it was the end.”

“It almost was. It was a good thing Dunbar wanted you to choke slow or you’d be dead.”

“I’ll ki-kill ’em. I’ll kill ’em—”

“What’s this all about?”

“ ’Bout an ol’ sonofabitch named Clay-Clayhill who wants the whole fuckin’ territory for hisself…”

“I heard them say you’re a horsethief. I’ve got no use for a horsethief, but if you’re to be hung the law should do it.”

“If stealin’ back my own horses makes me one, I am.” The man drank slowly, his muscles jumping nervously, his trembling fingers
feeling his neck gingerly.

“Are you all right, now? We’d better move out of here. If they come back and find you gone they’ll know you had help. I pick
my own time and place when I buck those odds.”

“Did they take my horse? He’d a put up a fight to stay with me.”

“I don’t know. I was too busy cutting you down to notice, but there was some commotion with a horse.”

“I’m obliged to ya. Name’s Griffin.”

“Cooper Parnell.”

“How’d ya happen to be here?”

“I’m tracking a mare that was stolen from me a couple days ago.”

“I never thought I’d be obliged to a horsethief. I’m shore glad ya was here.”

“So am I. That Dunbar’s a sonofabitch.”

The man slapped his empty holster. “Bastards took my gun and my knife, but if my horse is loose, I can whistle for him and
he’ll come. My throat feels like a hunk a raw meat.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. He was almost as tall as Cooper
and just as thin. It was too dark to see the man clearly, but Cooper was almost sure that he was much younger than his own
twenty-six years. “I thank ya, mister.”

Cooper shook his hand. “I’ll saddle up. If you’ve got a pucker left, you’d better try for your horse and we’ll get back up
in the hills and get some sleep. Come morning I’m going after my mare.”

After the second whistle the horse came down the rocky trail, dragging his reins and nickering softly. Griffin called to him
and the horse scrambled up the incline.

“Damn, I’m glad to see ya, boy.” The horse nudged him. He rubbed the side of its face affectionately and felt blood where
the bit had torn the side of its mouth. “You fought ’em when they tried to lead ya away from me, didn’t ya, old friend?” There
was a huskiness in the whispered voice. “They caught us with our britches down, Firebird. It’ll not happen again. Are ya all
right? Ya took a tumble when they lassoed us.” He ran his hands over the horse’s sides, rump, and down over his haunches.
“Ya’ve got a few cuts, but nothin’ too bad for what we had done to us. An angel was sure asittin’ on our shoulder tonight.
We owe this here gent aplenty.”

Cooper watched. Watchfulness was no new thing for him, and he was still somewhat leery of the stranger; but he was of the
opinion that you could measure a man’s worth by the way he treated his horse or his dog. The horse was a sorrel with a light
mane and tail. It was deep chested, had strong legs and powerful haunches. Cooper prided himself on being knowledgeable about
horse flesh, and he realized that this was a damn good horse. But what would a squatter be doing with such a valuable animal?
They usually rode broken-down old cayuses.

With his bedroll tied on behind his saddle, Cooper mounted and rode out without a backward glance. Ordinarily he didn’t turn
his back on a stranger, but he was sure the man was without a weapon. He heard the creak of saddle leather and the soft thud
of hooves on the dry grass and knew Griffin was following.

Cooper rode cautiously along the dim trail at the edge of the timber. It was rugged, lonely country where the spruce and pine
clung to the hillside that sloped to the river. He’d been across the mountains into Utah Territory, bought a few horses, and
sold all of them, except for a beautiful little mare, to a Mormon heading for the Salt Lake. He’d gotten a damn good price
and was satisfied with the profit he’d made, which was as much or more than he’d have made if he’d driven them to Junction
City. The mare, whom he’d put to his stallion, Roscoe, would produce fine colts.

He still couldn’t understand how he could have been so careless as to let the mare be taken right out from under his nose.
He’d staked her out in a small meadow to graze while he and Roscoe went down to the riverbank to catch a fish. He’d been on
the trail two weeks. The mare, who was in foal, was growing gaunt, and he was getting mighty tired of rabbit and deer meat.
When he went to look for her after he had eaten his fill of river trout and had had a leisurely nap, she was gone. The rope
and the halter lay where he’d left her.

When he couldn’t find a print other than that of the mare, he was sure she had been stolen by a lone Indian. It had taken
him the rest of the day and part of the next to pick up the mare’s trail after he lost it in the river. Whoever had taken
her had been cagey. The riders had left marks on the rocks when they left the river, traveled up into the hills, then doubled
back and jumped the horse back into the water. Of course it had taken Cooper several hours to figure this out. By the time
he’d discovered where they had emerged from the river again, it was almost dark and he was forced to stop for the night.

Cooper didn’t stop until after he had worked his way upward among the pines for several miles. He had come out from under
the trees and now he turned to survey the area. He was backed to several large craggy boulders set among the trees, and there
was an open space in front of him. It was unlikely anyone could sneak up on them, especially if Roscoe was close by. Mountain
bred, with strong survival instincts, the horse would let him know if as much as a rabbit came near. Cooper dismounted and
began to remove Roscoe’s saddle.

Griffin pulled up a dozen yards away, sat his mount and waited. He made no move to get off his horse and Cooper’s lips quirked
in a grin. The man was trail wise. He was waiting for an invitation to share the camp, observing the strict etiquette of the
trail that proclaimed a man’s camp was his home.

“Get down, Griffin. We should be able to catch a few winks of sleep here without anybody slipping up on us. I doubt Dunbar
and his bunch will come back before morning. He’ll not want to make the trip down that trail alone. And I don’t think his
men had much of a stomach for the hanging.”

Holding his shoulders and neck stiffly erect, Griffin slid from the saddle, removed it and threw it on the ground. “A man
feels naked out here without a gun,” he commented uneasily.

“I understand the feeling. You’re welcome to trail along with me. As soon as I get my mare I’ll be heading for Junction City.”

“I’m obliged. I’ve got me some unfinished business with the Clayhill men.”

“You’re jumping back into it, huh?” Cooper sat down with his back to the boulder. “Did you file on your place, or were you
just squatting on it?”

“I was afixin’ to file. I was breakin’ in some horses to sell to raise money for winter supplies. Clayhill moved that bunch
up to hold the range ’n when I didn’t scare off they stole my horses. I got ’em back with the help of a friend a mine. They
come alookin’ for me and jumped me last night. You know the rest.”

“Did they get the horses?”

“No, by Gawd!” He paused and when Cooper didn’t comment, he said, “They’ll not find ’em.” There was a long silence. “That
land grabbin’ old buzzard’s not arunnin’ me off that land. I’ve had me all the hunger, thirst ’n cold of hard winters, dry
range ’n long dusty drives to last a lifetime. I’m ahavin’ my own hearth fire, grass with cattle on it, ’n horses alookin’
over my gate bars. I got me a place picked out to light on ’n I’m astayin’, by Gawd!”

“They might bury you there.”

“I’ll take some of ’em with me.”

“When the old man sinks his teeth, he doesn’t let go.”

“I heared tell of one time he did. The talk is he had a son by a Injun woman ’n run out on ’em. The kid was raised back East
by some of the old man’s folks ’n when he come into some money he come back ’n bought up everything to the south of ole Clayhill,
closin’ him in. That’s why he’s spreadin’ west. It’s said he hates that Injun like a polecat ’cause he bested him, and tried
to get him hung on a trumped-up charge. That ole man must be meaner than a rattler.”

There was another long silence, then Cooper said dryly, “Compared to that old man a rattler’s a… fishing worm.” He pulled
down his hat, folded his arms, and lowered his chin to his chest.