Upon hearing Cap out with only a few interruptions of profanity, he tugged at his whiskers some and called one of his hands over. Upon questioning, the hand told us that two horsemen had come by the camp that morning and stopped to eat. They had tried to trade horses, but the JA hands had suspected what they were and sent them on their way astride the horses they came in on.
“Which way were they headed?” Cap asked the JA man.
“Where in the hell do you think?” the whiskered man interrupted before the other could answer.
Cap looked perturbed and was pulling irritably on his killer mustache, but he kept his voice calm. “Colonel, when I catch them I might ask them where they were headed.”
Texas seemed to have a colonel or a captain behind every bush, and I began to feel a little left out. I began considering a title for myself. This was my first acquaintance with Colonel Charles Goodnight, and despite the fact that I was never to know him well, I got the impression that he was a man who felt great impatience with the portion of the world outside his operation. I was more than a little surprised that he would curse so much and seem to have so little respect for a Ranger of such reputation as our staunch captain, and sheriff of Wheeler County no lessâa man of two titles.
“They sure as hell didn't go up my canyon, so they'll have to ride up the Tule. At the head of the Tule the old Comanchero trail forks three ways. They could go west to Las Escarbadas, northwest to the head of the Trujillo and Puerto de las Rivajenos, or southwest across Double Mountain Fork and to the Yellow Houses. You should split your men and send one bunch up the Palo Duro and across to the Trujillo. The other bunch can ride like hell to Las Escarbadas. You ought to be able to head them off or catch up to them.” Colonel Goodnight eyed the cap rock to the west like he could see them traveling right then.
“What if they go south?” Cap asked.
“Well then, you can chase them some more, but it's been my experience that most bandits are headed for Fort Sumner or Las Vegas, and your average bandit is just smart enough to know that he needs to go west and not south to get to either one.” Goodnight sounded like he was lecturing a ten-year-old.
“I came through that country and didn't go just like you tell it,” Cap said.
“Yeah, and you like to have killed yourself too. Not many men have any sense of direction or the skill necessary to navigate such a country beyond the bounds of its known trails, and I doubt your bandits are any exception.”
I could tell Cap started to relate the bandits' actions concerning the taking of our saddles and firearms as evidence of their unusual abilities, but he thought better of it considering the nature of who he was conversing with. Instead, he tipped his hat and started to turn his horse around.
“We bid you good day, Colonel, and leave you to the romantic undertaking of building an empire.”
Goodnight squinted in the sun and gave him a look that would sour corn on the stalk. He hollered back over his shoulder at one of his men. “Farrington, saddle up and go with these horse racers and catch their bandits for them.”
“To hell with you, Colonel. I am perfectly capable of catching my own bandits,” Cap snapped back at him.
“Well, go on then. You're impeding my progress in this construction.” Goodnight waved us off and took his digging bar back up.
On his way back to the posthole he had so recently left, he spit and cussed everything in general, from the weather, cattle prices, lawyers, and bankers to bandits, and the incompetent vigilantes who chased them. As we rode off I heard him telling a couple of his men to head up the Palo Duro and over to the head of the Truijillo to look out for the bandits that we were bound to miss.
I rode off thinking that he must have thought a lot of the two men he was sending, or else he didn't think much of us. For some reason, I decided I liked the cantankerous devil, but Billy rode by me cussing Goodnight under his breath. I think Billy just didn't like too much authority in any one location, namely in his location.
We crossed the Tule at Mackenzie Crossing and made our way up the canyon for several miles. Not long after sunset we began passing the scattered, bleached bones of what must have been hundreds and hundreds of horses. The varmints and such had scattered them over a broad swathe of the canyon floor, but in the mouth of a side canyon the bones were still piled thick.
I was soon informed that the remains were Mackenzie's Bone Pile. It seems that about seven years before, Colonel Ranald S. Mackenzie had come through there in possession of about a thousand Indian ponies captured when he surprised the Comanches in Palo Duro Canyon. Fearing the warriors would follow and retake the horses, he ordered his men to shoot the lot of them.
The light in the canyon was dimming fast and the bleached bones almost glowed with a light of their own. You wouldn't think a grown man would be scared of a few horse bones, but I admit that the hair on the back of my neck stood up a little as we passed the eerie graveyard. Some of the others must have felt the same thing, because they were unusually quiet until we left it all behind.
About an hour after dark we stopped to rest and water the horses at a spring Cap knew. Somebody started to make a fire, but Cap like to have had a fit. He claimed that the outlaws could be camped nearby, and no man in his outfit was going to risk ruining the expedition on account of wanting to boil a little coffee. Those old Rangers were of a determined sort, so no one argued much. We settled for what little cold rations we had along, and a sip of brackish water.
When every man had lain down in his blankets to catch a little shut-eye, I could just make out Arrington squatting on his heels in the moonlight and looking to the west. I don't know if he was looking for campfires in the dark, expected the bandits to charge down upon us, or was just planning out his brilliant campaign against outlawry. It must take that kind of thinking to get a title in front of your name.
I didn't ponder on the subject for long. I'd only slept about three hours in the last two days, and I was dead set and determined to do a little catching up. It wasn't that I was any less fervent to catch the bandits. I just always believed in leaving the worrying to the higher-ups, because position has responsibilities and worries all its own. Let all the leader types stay up all night fretting and planning. Come morning, I was going to boil myself a pot of coffeeâall the captains, colonels, and horse-shooters in Texas be damned.
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
T
he bandits fled up the Tule and then west to Las Escarbadas just like Goodnight predicted. For years I had heard about Las Escarbadas, or “The Scrapings,” but there wasn't much to them except for the water seeping into several pits dug in a desolate draw. The West was full of romantic-sounding place names that made you want to get up and travel. When you got where you were going you usually found that the only thing significant about the location was its ability to keep you from dying of thirst, or that the finding of it let you know that you weren't entirely lost.
While our thirsty horses sucked up their fill, we argued over the freshness of the bandits' tracks. Most agreed, from the amount of water yet to seep back in one of the pits, that the outlaws were only an hour ahead of us at the most. As you could see farther than that ahead of you at times in that country, Cap told us to be ready for a horse race at any moment. Billy, riding his famous War Bonnet, and several other men with good horses pushed to the front of our posse, ready to run down the outlaws when we spotted them.
We never came into sight of them that day, but at daybreak the next morning we spotted smoke coming up out of a wide shallow draw to the north. We were a good four miles off when we spotted the smoke, but we smelled the sheep at about the same time. The bandits' tracks led straight toward the smoke. It seemed that even a sheepherder's camp in the middle of nowhere was prone to visitors.
When we had neared to within a quarter of a mile, Cap had us dismount and walk. Just back from the lip of the draw a couple of the men took the horses' reins while the rest of us began bellying up to the point where the ground fell away so as to avoid skylining ourselves. Sure enough we could hear sheep bleating, and the ground over which we crawled was ate off short and covered with their droppings.
Just about when we were beginning to have enough of sneaking up on sheepherders, a shot was fired and then two more. Thinking our bandits had seen us, and that we were under fire, Cap rose to his feet and waved us forward with the barrel of his gun.
Instead of a bold cavalry charge, we huffed and puffed our way the last few yards up the rise, and skidded to a halt. Below us about four hundred yards away was a wagon and a camp surrounded by sheep. The outlaws' two hipshot, worn-out horses stood teetering off to one side, and what looked like one dead man lay by the campfire still in his blankets. An outlaw with a pistol in his hand stood over the dead man, while a pack of sheep dogs barked furiously at him. Someone who we presumed was the other bandit came out of the wagon cursing and shot one of the dogs.
Some of our boys were a little edgy and took the shot as a sign to open up on their own account. Despite the fact that less than half of us had rifles, we all began to bang away. At that range with pistols a man stood little chance of hitting anything, but we did manage in our first volley to kill another dog, and terribly distress a herd of about two thousand sheep.
The outlaws were obviously professionals, as they didn't waste time returning fire with their short guns, but instead raced for the sheepherders' team of wagon horses staked nearby. Some of our crowd managed to speed them along some by hitting close enough to them to dust them a little.
Amidst the gunfire, Cap was calling our horses forward. The handlers were having a hard time leading them because of all the ruckus. Cap was soon hollering for us to cease firing, and after the boys had shot their guns empty once again, he finally convinced them to mount up and take the fight to the bandits.
All but Billy started for their horses, and he remained kneeling on the ground with his Sharps to his shoulder. By the time I hit the saddle both of the bandits were racing bareback out of the camp on fresh horses. They were slowed considerably when they entered the herd of sheep.
Billy continued to hold his aim while we came thundering up behind him. Cap was yelling something about the distance being too great for accurate marksmanship just about the time Billy touched off his cannon. That Sharps rifle roared and coughed smoke and one of the outlaws and his horse went down in the middle of the sheep.
Strange little war cries went up from our bunch as we charged down the slope toward the camp. I managed to be near the lead, but I held my fire. I'd lost my pistol after betting it on the race, but I still had Billy's old Winchester. My fellow compatriots were less inclined to save cartridges, and continued to shoot from the backs of their horses. I wondered if I wasn't in more danger from behind than in front of me.
The surviving sheep dogs had decided to hold the herd against the prevailing tide of anarchy. They raced furiously around the bleating, milling animals, and the bandit still on horseback had hell getting through the woolies. The other bandit and his downed horse were lost in the stir of wool and dust.
Just as we raced past the camp and veered around the edge of the herd in pursuit of the mounted outlaw, I caught a glimpse of a man standing beside a dead horse in the middle of the sheep. I pulled up my horse and somehow managed to get down off him with my Winchester still in my hand. A bullet cut the air near me, and I struggled to steady my aim while at the same time holding on to one rein of a maddened horse that threatened to drag me off.
Visibility was poor due to the dust, and the bandit in the herd was no longer in sight by the time I could still my horse long enough to shoot. Something knocked my leg from under me, and I knew he was still there. I hit the dirt with my whole foot and lower left leg throbbing like it had been hit with a sledgehammer.
I flopped myself around in the dust and fought to aim my rifle from a prone position. I was too close to the sheep, and down low like I was I couldn't make anything out. Despite the fact that I had no clear target, I rose to my knees and fired two rounds somewhere close to where I thought I had last seen my adversary.
While I held my fire and cursed my throbbing foot, several of the posse rode back and dismounted around me. Gunfire was thick there for a bit as they poured it to the bandit in the herd. I don't know if they could see any better than me or were just shooting to be shooting. The sheep continued their racket even after the gunfire finally quieted down. I took the time to examine my wound, and to determine how much of my leg had to be amputated.
There wasn't any blood, but the band of my left spur had a shiny dent in it, and the heel of that boot was gone. I was considerably relieved, because the heel off a fancy Ft. Worth boot is a small price to pay to save a limb. I would have danced a little celebration right then, but the fact that there was still a bandit in our midst distracted me from the elation of keeping one of my legs.
Andy came tearing up to me astride a lathered horse. “Are you hit, Tennessee?”
“I'm all right, but you had better get down from that horse.”
Realizing that he was the tallest target in the neighborhood right then, Andy scrambled down out of the saddle and took a post beside me.
“Don't worry, I won't let them take us,” he said dramatically.
The only gun he had been able to acquire was a one-shot derringer about the size of your palm, and he was squinting out of one eye and aiming it toward the herd when he spoke. His peashooter popped even before I could point out the ridiculous nature of his weapon and pose.
“You couldn't hit that herd of sheep from here with that thing.”
“Can too. I've already hit one.” As proof he pointed out one of the animals on the edge of the herd that was humped up with blood slowly staining the wool of its side.
“Yeah, well, you weren't trying to hit the sheep, were you?”
“They already got the other bandit.” He evaded my question.
“Who did?”
“He and the captain shot at each other on the run until they were both empty, and then Dale Martin ran him down and roped him.”
“Is he still alive?”
“They drug a little hide off of him bringing him back.”
Our brief conversation ended when the other bandit called out from the herd, “I'm shot to pieces. If you boys will quit shooting I'll come out.”
“Come ahead,” Cap's voice called back at him.
He managed to limp out of the sheep in pretty good fashion for a man shot to pieces. He had thrown down his gun and our men had tied him up with a catch rope in no time. Cap appeared on horseback with Dale Martin, and they were leading the other bandit at the end of a rope behind them. The two criminals were reunited, and we all made our way back to the campsite.
I was one of the last to arrive on account that Andy had to go catch my horse for me. When we got to camp we found that every single man in our crowd had stopped to gather around the campfire in silence. They were as quiet as a church mouse when I rode up. Billy was standing next to the captain at the center of the circle the men had formed, and I looked at him as I shoved my way beside him.
“What the hell is the matter?” I asked.
He never even answered me; he just pointed a finger at where everybody was staring. I looked down in that direction and I saw the murdered sheepherder's body beside the fire. The blankets were disarrayed and did little to cover the condition of the corpse. A dark, ugly bullet hole between the victim's shoulder blades was still oozing a thick rope of blood, but the gore wasn't what had us all speechless.
“Well, I'll be damned” was all that I could manage to say.
There wasn't just one body in the blankets but two, and they were naked as the day they were born. It wasn't their nakedness that had everyone silent, but their positions in relation to each other.
“Those two must have been really close friends,” somebody finally managed to say.
“You don't reckon they were shot and just landed that way do you?” another asked.
The bottom body was face down with the other laid atop it in similar fashion. It didn't take me long at all to have seen more than enough, and I walked away with several of my friends in a similar state of mind.
“You don't reckon they're still attached do you?” Andy asked as I left.
The prisoners were seated on the wagon tongue with a guard watching over them. The interrogation was a little slow coming as most of us were still wearing confused looks on our faces, and our attention was half diverted. Cap came forward and stopped before the two prisoners. Neither one of them would look him in the eye.
I didn't recognize either one of them, but I hadn't been in the country long. It seemed that most of our crowd knew one of them. He was a clean-cut young man dressed like a cowboy. He was fair-haired and couldn't have been much out of his teens.
The other man was a grimy sort like you could see in the last remaining dregs of the buffalo hunters hanging around Mobeetie or Fort Griffin. You couldn't tell where the dirt on his face ended and his whiskers began. He was the one Billy had shot down in the sheep herd, and the same lowdown devil who had knocked the heel off my boot. Despite his claim to have been shot to pieces, his only wound was a bullet hole in the leg. Granted, that Sharps took out a pretty good-sized chunk where it exited, and his britches' leg was heavy with blood.
“Where's the money at?” Cap asked.
The catch ropes had been removed, and their hands had been tied behind their backs with pigging strings. The older man reared his head back to swing a long, greasy lock of his hair back from his face. He met Cap's gaze, but not boldly.
“What we've got left of it's in our saddlebags.”
Somebody had already caught up the bandits' original horses, and the saddlebags on each were soon removed and brought before Cap. He continued to eye the prisoners while a couple of the boys dug around in the saddlebags. A rough count was made of the contents, and only about three hundred dollars was found, there being only two small bags of coin and one bundle of paperbacks.
“I told you we only had our cut of it,” the older bandit repeated.
“I'm figuring that what you stole split five ways comes up to a hell of a lot more than what you've got here,” Cap said coolly.
“We were robbed,” the bandit said.
An angry murmur went up amongst us, and we began to crowd in a little. The bandit glanced around frantically, his eyes wide.
“I'm telling the truth. I swear it.”
“I'll bet they figured we were close and buried it somewhere along the way,” someone said. It has always been common knowledge that bandits and pirates would rather bury good money than spend it.
“He's telling the truth,” the younger bandit almost whispered without raising his head. He had a strong accent, maybe English.
“Who robbed you?” Cap asked.
“We got robbed on our cut.” The older again spoke.
“You split the loot on McClellan Creek?”
“Yeah, and that damned . . .”
The younger bandit raised his head and quickly cut him off. “You keep quiet, Lem. Do you hear me?”