the Outlaws Of Mesquite (Ss) (1990) (7 page)

Red, who rode in the middle, his horse carefully roped to the other two, carried a huge armful of western forget-me-nots and purple verbena mingled with a few bunches of lilac sunbonnets.

The town stared, then it cheered, and the Herrings glowered. Up the street they went, followed by the crowd, and halted before the Simms's home.

"Oh, Nesselrode! You're wonderful! You got my flowers!"

"Yeah." He dismounted stiffly and began taking the flowers from the arms of the three surly outlaws.

Red's head was wrapped in a bloody bandage torn from a shirt. Ben's arm was in a sling.

"Got 'em. Better get 'em in water. They may be wilted some."

If Jenny noticed the Herrings it was not obvious.

"Oh, Nesselrode! I knew you could do it! I just knew you could!"

Joe Herring glowered. "Huh! Nesselrode!

Kotched by an hombre name of Nesselrode!"

The Cactus Kid turned and his eyes were deadly.

"I never shot a man with his hands tied, but you mention that name again and you'll be the first!"

The sheriff came pounding up with two deputies and took the prisoners.

"Well, what do you know, Jenny!" he exclaimed.

"This cowpuncher of yours caught the Herring boys!"

"The Herring boys?" She smiled prettily. "Oh, Sheriff, will you ask your wife to come over and help me decorate? I don't know whether that verbena would go better in the parlor or-was The sheriff bit off a chew.

"You catch the three meanest outlaws west of the Rockies," he said to the Kid, "and she wants to know whether the verbena will look better in one room or t'other!" He spat. "Women! I never will get 'em figured out!"

The Cactus Kid grunted, and dug out the makings.

He was unshaven and the desert dust was thick on his clothes. He was half dead from his long ride and lack of sleep.

Jenny appeared suddenly in the door. "Oh, Nesselrode? Will you help me a minute, please? Pretty please?"

The Kid looked at the sheriff, and the sheriff shrugged. "Yeah," the Kid said, low-voiced. Then he looked up. "Coming, honey!" he said.

*

The Ghost Maker
Author's Note:

In the early days of riding and ranching, very few of the horses were more than half broken. And likely they would start bucking the moment a cowboy swung his leg over the saddle. Consequently, he wanted that pointed toe of his boot to slip easily into the stirrup, and the high heel to prevent slipping too far.

The usual practice was to bring horses in off the range to one fellow in the outfit, usually one who was a pretty good rider, who would do what they call "break the rough string." He would saddle up these unbroken horses and ride them until they stopped pitching, and that horse was considered broken.

The animal would be left there for the next cowboy to have his own little time with him, because very few of the cowboys liked a horse that wouldn't buck. And most of them did buck in the morning, especially when it was frosty.

A thoughtful rider always took his bit to the fire and warmed it some before he put it in the horse's mouth.

Or sometimes he'd get it warm by wearing it inside his shirt for a while.

Mararty Mahan, tall in the saddle of his black gelding, rode in the Grand Entry Parade of the Wind River Annual Rodeo, but beside him rode fear. Tall and splendidly built, clad in silver and white, Mahan was a fine-looking rider, and the crowd, which looked down to applaud, and to whose applause he responded with a wave of his Stetson, knew he was one of the greatest riders the West had seen.

For two years he had won top honors in the Wind River show. At a dozen other rodeos he was considered, by performers as well as spectators, one of the finest all-around cowboys riding the tanbark.

Yet today fear rode with him, and hatred and contempt rode beside him. The fear was in the memory of a day and a horse; the hatred was in the person of big Yannell Stoper, the hard-faced roughneck of the contests, who rode beside him in the parade.

"How does it feel, Pretty Boy?"

Yannell sneered. "How does it feel to know you're through? You know what they'll say when they find out? You're yellow! Yellow, Mahan! Just as yellow as they come! That Ghost Maker will show 'em today! You mark my words!"

Mahan said nothing, his face stiff and white. There was too much truth in what Stoper was saying. He was afraid-he had always been afraid of Ghost Maker.

Yannell Stoper had reason to know. Three times hand running, three years before, Marty Mahan had beaten Yannell out for top money, and Stoper was not a man who took losing lightly. His animosity for Mahan developed, but he had detected no flaw in the other rider until that day at Twin Forks.

It was a small rodeo, just a fill-in for riders of the stamp of Stoper and Mahan, and neither of them had figured on much trouble. Marty had won the calf roping without even extending himself, and Stoper had taken the steer wrestling easily. Both riders had allowed the lesser names to come in for money in other events, pointing themselves at the bronc riding.

Marty Mahan had been his usual devil-may-care self until the names of the riders and their mounts were posted. Marty Mahan was posted as riding Ghost Maker.

"What a name!" he said, grinning. "I wonder who thinks them up?"

Red Blade shrugged. "This one deserves his name!" he said wryly. "You should do top money if you top off that horse! He earned his name up in Calgary!"

"Calgary?" Yannell noticed a subtle change in Mahan's voice, and had turned to watch him. "This Ghost Maker from up there?"

"Sure is!" Blade spat. "Killed a man up there two seasons ago. Mighty fine rider, too. Man by the name of Cy Drannan. Throwed him an" then tromped him to death! Caught him in his teeth, flung him down, then lit in with all four feet! He's a reg'lar devil!"

"A big zebra dun?" Marty asked. Stoper recalled afterward that it had seemed less a question than a statement.

"That's right! An' pure poison!"

Marty Mahan was taken suddenly ill and could not ride. Yannell Stoper thought that one over, and curiously, he watched both Marty and the dun horse. Mahan had come out to see the bronc riding, but he seemed pale and hollow-eyed. Yannell studied him shrewdly and decided that Mahan was sick all right, sick with fear. He was afraid, deathly afraid of the big dun!

And Ghost Maker did his best to live up to his name. Bud Cameron asked for the horse when Marty could not ride. Bud was thrown, lasting scarcely two seconds on the hurricane deck of the squealing, sunfishing devil of a dun. He hit the ground in a heap and staggered to his feet. Amid the roar of the crowd. Mahan leaped up, screaming!

His voice was lost in the thunder of shouting, lost to all but Stoper, who was watching the man he hated. He saw that scream was a scream of fear, but of warning, too! For the zebra dun, neck stretched and teeth bared, knocked the puncher sprawling and lit into him with both feet. They got the maddened animal away from the fallen man, but before nightfall the word was around.

Bud Cameron would never ride again. He would never walk again. He was crippled for life.

Big, tawny, lion-headed Yannell Stoper had no thought of Bud Cameron. The breaks of the game.

What he did think about was Marty Mahan, for Marty was afraid. He was afraid of Ghost Maker. It was something to remember.

At Prescott and Salinas, Mahan beat Stoper out for top money, but Ghost Maker was not around. He was piling riders down in Texas and killing his second man. Stoper made sure that Marty knew about that. After Marty won at Salinas, Yannell congratulated him.

"Lucky for you it wasn't the Ghost Maker,"

Yannell said. Mahan's head came up, his face gone pale. "I see he killed another man down in Texas!"

Mahan, his face white, had walked away without speaking. Behind him, Yannell had smiled grimly.

This was something to know.

Yannell Stoper had his own ideas about men. A man who was afraid of anything was a man who was yellow. It was just in him, that was all. He did not know that a man who can face fists is often deathly afraid of a gun, and that a gunman may shrink from the cold steel of a knife. Or a man of utmost cowardice before some kinds of danger may face another kind with high courage. To Yannell Stoper a man who was yellow was yellow, and that was final. And to his satisfaction, Marty Mahan was yellow.

It was a fact to be remembered and to be used.

Yannell Stoper was big, rugged, and rough. In a lifetime of battling with hard broncs and harder men he had rarely known defeat, and never known fear.

He had nothing but contempt for men who were afraid of anything, or who admitted doubt of themselves in any situation that demanded physical courage.

Now, on this day at the Wind River Rodeo, Yannell Stoper was ready for his triumph. It was a triumph that would mean much to him, one he had carefully engineered. For it was at S toper's suggestion that the contest officials had secured the string of rough buckers of which the Ghost Maker was one.

Here in Wind River, before the world of the rodeo and the eyes of Peg Graham he would expose the cowardice of Marty Mahan for all the world to see.

"He's here!" Yannell taunted. "Right here in Wind River, an' if you duck ridin' him here they'll all know you're yellow!"

They would, too! Even Marty had heard, or rather, overheard, the stories. He knew Stoper had started them himself, planting the seeds for the exposure, removing at once his rival for top rodeo honors and for Peg Graham.

"They say Mahan will drop out rather than ride Ghost Maker," a big rancher had said the evening before.

"He's scared of the hoss! Dropped out of a show down in Texas rather than tackle him!"

"He's a bad horse," Red Carver admitted, "but you never make a good ride on an easy one!"

Marty had turned away and walked back toward the hotel, sick and ashamed. For he was afraid. He had been afraid of Ghost Maker from the day he had first seen him on that lonely Nevada range where he had run wild. He had been afraid of him ever since he had seen the dun lift his head, nostrils flared, and then come mincing toward him, walking so quietly away from the herd.

A wild horse that did not run. That should have warned him, and if it had not, the reaction of his own mount would have, for his horse began to quiver and edge away, blowing with fright. An old rancher had told Marty once, "Kill him the second he shows he's a killer, or he'll get you sure!"

Real man-killers were rare, but there was in them something of a fiend, of a destroying demon that came on so gently, then charged with wide jaws and flaring eyes. And Ghost Maker was such a horse, a horse marked from birth with a vicious hatred of man or even of other horses, of anything that moved and was not of his own herd.

Mahan had been seventeen at the time he first glimpsed the Ghost Maker. He had felt his horse shy, felt the quivering fright in the animal.

Marty was younger then and he was curious. Above all, this wild horse seemed so tame, so friendly.

Suddenly the dun had darted at them, frenzied with killing fury. In a flash he had struck down Mahan's saddle horse. Marty had fallen free and the dun had rushed at him, but the effort of his gray to get off the ground distracted the maddened horse, and the stallion had wheeled and struck wickedly at the gray. Fighting like a very fiend incarnate, the zebra dun had attacked the gray horse and struck and slashed until the saddle horse was a bloody heap of dead flesh, hammered, chopped, and pounded until all life was gone and even the saddle was a ruined and useless thing.

Marty, crouching weaponless between two boulders, watched that holocaust of butchery with horror-stricken eyes, unable to do anything to protect the old saddle horse he had ridden.

And then, his killing fury unabated, the dun had come for him, lunging with slashing hoofs at the rocks, but unable because of the position in which he lay, to get at the boy.

For three fear-haunted hours the killer dun had circled those rocks. Time and again he struggled to get at the boy lying in the crevice. In those hours had been born an overwhelming horror of the horse. A horror that was never forgotten. Long after the horses had gone, led away by the dun on some whim of the wild, Marty had lain there, cramped and still, fearing to move, fearing to show himself in the open where the stallion might again come upon him.

Never again had he gone up on the range without a pistol, but never again had he gone to that section of the range. He had seen no more of the horse until that day in Calgary when the dun had shown itself under the saddle of Cy Drannan, Marty's best friend.

Marty had hurried to the rider and told him the horse was a killer.

"So what?" Drannan shrugged. "I've heard of killers but never seen one! I always figured I'd like to top one off!"

Cy Drannan, happy, friendly, a good companion and rider, died on the bloody tanbark that day under the lashing hoofs of a horse that was a cunning, hate-ridden devil.

Now that horse was here, in this show, and he was to ride him. He, Marty Mahan.

Peg Graham was waiting for him when the parade ended. Her eyes were bright.