The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Read online

‘Why, Señor Blaxall.’

  That didn’t come as a surprise. A door slammed downstairs. Manuela said she must go. That would be her mistress and she would be fired if she were caught here alone with Spur. She hurried from the room.

  Spur thought about what she had said. Then his mind flicked and, not for the first time, wondered what the Kid was up to. He also wondered how Ben was making out. He decided he had stirred matters up enough for the time being. He propped the one chair under the door handle, lay down on the bed, pulled his hat over his eyes and slept.

  Chapter Nine

  It was coming near dusk.

  Cusie Ben rode into town on a sweating, dust-caked horse. Man and beast looked as if they had come a long way fast. He came in openly along Main, because, after the happenings of that day there was no longer any point in concealing his connection with Sam Spur. Ben was a little mad with himself. He was a self-acknowledged master of his many crafts and he felt that day he had not only failed Sam Spur, but himself also.

  He had trailed the wounded man east, trailed him clear to his destination and had been spotted when he didn’t want to be spotted. To him that meant he had failed. He rode his horse to the livery, gave it a good rub down and spread a blanket over it. He ordered the old liveryman to water and bait it when it had cooled down. The old man was surly because he didn’t like taking orders from uppity Negroes who wore guns and looked like they could whip their own weight in mountain lions.

  Ben washed the dust from him at the pump in the yard, knocked the dust from his clothes with his battered hat, picked the dust from his nose and walked to Spur’s hotel. In the lobby was a pretty and extremely indignant white girl who protested dirtily at his daring to enter the place. He ignored her and tramped up the stairs. He then opened doors till he found Spur’s room. He guessed it was Spur’s room because he couldn’t open the door. He heard Spur’s voice demand who he was. He replied and the door was opened.

  When Spur saw him, he didn’t say anything, but went to a drawer, produced a bottle and handed it to Ben. The Negro wrenched off the cork, drank deep, sighed, shuddered appreciatively and drank deep again. He politely wiped the neck of the bottle with his hand, rammed the cork back into the neck of the bottle and handed it back to Spur. Spin: returned it to the drawer and Ben said: ‘I sure needed that.’

  He sat on the bed and pushed his hat to the back of his head. Spur didn’t have to be told that something big had happened or Ben would not have sought him out openly. He waited. Ben would tell it in his own way and in his own time.

  The Negro told his story with all the fine detail of a tidy mind, with all the fluency that belonged to a man who knew his subject well. Ben could track anything living; he also had perfect recall of any country he rode through. He had a better feel for country than any man Spur had ever met. Spur had known him lead unerringly through pitch dark to a spot on open prairie in a way that would have foxed the smartest Indian alive. His respect for Ben as a hombre del campo was immeasurable.

  Ben had picked up the man’s trail and followed it easily and fast. The fellow was hurt and he was scared. He wanted home and security as quickly as he could make it. The sign had been followable from the saddle of a fast-trotting horse. It had led Ben straight for the hills. He was aware that he might be riding into danger and when he reached broken country, he had acted accordingly, left the sign and circled, picking it up every now and then to make sure that he was traveling in the right direction. Even so, he had been spotted. It was his fault. He should have taken things more easily. But he reckoned time was short. Too many killings were on his mind, Spur wanted results, He took the risk with his eyes open.

  Spur nodded approvingly. He would have done the same. What had Ben found?

  A mine. A new mine. Two or three shacks had been erected hastily. There had been some half-dozen men there. He had spotted one wounded man beside the man he had followed. He reckoned he had found one of the hideouts. But it didn’t do him much good because he’d been spotted by a man with a rifle a hundred feet higher in the hills than he was. For a few moments, he reckoned he was a gone coon. That rifle had sure warmed him up a mite. He hightailed it out of there, got on his horse and broke down timber out of there. Before he’d gone a half-mile there seemed to be riders after him from all over. That told him that there were more men camped out in the hills than the ones he’d seen at the mine. Spur could read into that what he could.

  ‘Did you recognize anybody?’ Spur asked.

  ‘Nary a one.’

  ‘Well your cover’s off, Ben,’ Spur told him. ‘You’re now as liable to get your head blown off as me. It might be an idea for you to head for home. What further use can you serve?’

  The Negro dickered a grin.

  ‘A sight harder to blow two heads off than one,’ he said.

  ‘I’m paid to risk mine,’ Spur told him.

  Ben said: ‘Was there cash money in it when you saved this nigger?’

  ‘Now you’re talkin’ like a damn fool an’ you know it,’ Spur said angrily.

  ‘Different fellers,’ Ben said rising, ‘has different ways of findin’ their fun.’

  ‘Where you goin’?’

  ‘Ketch up on sleep.’

  ‘They’ll look for you at the livery. Sleep here.’

  ‘An’ have that white missy have the vapors? I’ll just fade, Sam.’

  Spur grinned.

  ‘Blaxall’s yard might be the safest place.’

  Ben said: ‘You ain’t too far wrong at that.’

  He walked out.

  Five minutes passed and Spur stood deep in thought, watching the street. Dark figures moved through the deep shadows and the patches of light. Death waited out there for him and Ben he didn’t doubt.

  There came a tight tap on the door.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Softly—‘Manuela.’

  He drew his gun, stepped to the door and opened it a crack. Something was thrust into his hand and Manuela hurried away into the darkness with a light tapping of feet. He closed the door, lit the lamp and looked at the small square of paper in his hand.

  The hand that had written the note was not used to the pen. It was almost illegible.

  ‘Back of the livery now.’

  It could have come from the Kid. But he had never seen the boy’s handwriting. He thought about it and didn’t like it, but he couldn’t afford to let it go without taking action. He badly wanted contact with the Kid. He might have the information that could tie this business up tight.

  Where did Manuela fit into this? Was she on the side of the angels? Hell, there was real risk here. He hated indecision and here he was caught totally undecided. He needed a cover to carry this out, he needed the Kid. But he didn’t know where to locate the Kid.

  He thought of Mike Student. How far could he rely on the man? He had no proof that the fellow wasn’t working with tike opposition. No, Student was out. If he took him along, he could be just another gun pointed at his back.

  But he had to go. It was necessary to contact the Kid mid this might give him the lead he needed even if the note wasn’t from the Kid.

  He knew he would go and the thought brought out the sweat on him.

  Going to his saddlebags on the bureau, he took out a small pocket Colt, loaded it and thrust it under his belt. That gave him ten shots. Maybe he’d need them like he had never needed them before.

  He wondered whether a shot of whiskey would make him feel better, but he turned the idea down. He wanted his head clear.

  He had to go, but that didn’t mean he’d walk in there and make himself a sure target. He’d go in there like Ben would. Take his time and look over the lay of the land first.

  He left his light burning, closed the door to his room silently behind him and went silently down the corridor. At the far end was a sashed window. He prayed it worked. He tried it gingerly, found it didn’t make too much noise and opened the lower half to its fullest extent. He stayed still for a moment, listening,
hearing the soft murmur of voices from below. That would be the diners. He would be expected for dinner soon. Throwing a leg over the sill, he looked down. Below him was a sloping roof. Beneath that would be the kitchen. He had to land on that roof without arousing the suspicion of anybody in there.

  He threw the other leg over the sill, turned and gripped the sill with both hands. Lowering himself to the fullest extent of his arms, he found greatly to his relief that his toes touched the roof. He let go his-grip on the sill and crouched down. He reckoned he hadn’t made a sound.

  He looked over the edge of the roof and could see nothing but a beam of light from a window and patches of darkness tm either side. The lighted spot seemed clear, but he thought he’d better not risk going down through the light in case he was spotted. He turned and went backward down the roof, felt for the edge with his feet, then lowered himself gingerly once more. It wasn’t easy to keep his grip on the sloping roof and it failed him at the last moment. He dropped no more than a few feet, but his feet landed on some irregular object there in the darkness. He lost his balance and fell clumsily. There was a deafening clatter as he measured his length on the ground.

  He felt as though he had broken a leg and dislocated his spine, but this was no time to be fooling around with trivialities. He heaved himself to his feet and ran, dimly conscious of feminine voices raised in alarm in the kitchen behind him. He hadn’t covered a dozen yards when he ran into something about knee height and went down again hard. He heard a door open. A woman screamed. He got to his feet and ran on. He angled right and ran into a fence that was waist high. He turned right along this and stumbled onto a pile of trash that seemed to consist mainly of cans. This made a handsome clatter that filled the night. He picked his way around this, stumbling and cursing, not feeling at all like an heroic federal marshal. He came to an alleyway and saw the light on the street beyond, slowed his pace and strolled down it.

  When he reached the street, there was a fair amount of traffic about, a buggy, a wagon, men walking. It was still early. He crossed the street casually and altered the alleyway on the far side. At the end he came to the southern limit of the town, went on and found himself among scattered brush and a few stunted trees. Now he circled, going wide of the town. If the Kid was at the livery he was surely going to be pretty impatient by the time Spur reached there.

  Sometime later, Spur came out onto flat clear land, then stumbled down into a dry wash and angled toward town again. Pretty soon he came in sight of the black squat shapes of the buildings. The sound of the animals in the corral guided him toward the livery.

  Now came the tricky bit. If the Kid was around, where the hell was he?

  Spur dropped fiat and Indianed his way forward, crawled to the right of the corral and came in sight of the small cabin in which the old liveryman lived. Beyond he could see the lamp burning outside the barn.

  He must have waited five minutes, before he heard the soft fall of booted feet. A figure loomed up not ten yards from him. He thought he knew the shape. He waited for the figure to come nearer. He was right—the slender slight form could only be the Kid’s.

  ‘Kid,’ he called softly. His gun was in his hand, just in case. The boy stopped.

  ‘Who is it?’ he demanded in a whisper.

  ‘Spur.’

  The Kid came forward.

  ‘What the hell kept you?’ he said.

  ‘No sass,’ said Spur, ‘or you’ll feel the weight of my hand. You think I could walk here across the street. How was I to know the note was from you?’

  ‘Who else would write you a note?’

  ‘Somebody who wants me dead.’

  ‘The way I feel about you right now that could be me.’

  Spur rose to his feet and said: ‘Just keep your mouth shut for a few minutes and get out in the open.’ He led the way north and the Kid followed muttering under his breath that it was all a waste of time. When he thought they were a safe distance from the corral wall, Spur stopped and said: ‘Just tell me what happened to you an’ if you learned anythin’.’

  ‘Learn anythin’,’ the Kid said in disgust. ‘All I done is ride my butt off.’

  ‘Start from after the trial,’ Spur ordered. ‘You went to the saloon an’ drank more’n was good for you. You went into a side room to sleep it off.’

  The Kid chuckled.

  ‘So you know that much. I fooled ’em I reckon. A coupla fellers come in and start talkin’.’

  ‘Names.’

  ‘Frank Dooley. Shad Carson. Gunnies, the both of ’em. You know the kind. They’d cut their granny’s throat for a dollar. They was sent. See it a mile off. They said I looked a handy Kid and they knew a man who was hiring. Me, I smelled somethin’. How did they know I was useful with a gun? Did they know who I really was? They talked some an’ the drift of it was they thought I was just a gunny on the loose. Thought I would hire cheap to do some ridin’ and guardin’. They didn’t say what I was to guard. I said after payin’ my fine, I was broke, so I was ready for work. But it was all too easy. I thought, hell, I ain’t afraid of two cheap punks like this. I could outdraw ’em if they both had a bead on me.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ said Spur, ‘you’re tough. Take that as read. Now get on.’

  ‘One day …’ the Kid said through his teeth, trying hard to sound his toughest, ‘I’m goin’ to git real mad at you, Spur, then I’m goin’ to quit foolin’ around.’

  ‘All right,’ Spur told him. ‘You’re scarin’ the pants off me. Now, go ahead.’

  ‘We rode south-east and met a herd of around five hundred head brought in by a bunch of greasers,’ the Kid said. ‘They was stolen south of the Border. The brands was fancy, all over the critturs. We took ’em over from the Mexes and drove ’em to a ranch used to be owned by a feller called Trask. You know him?’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘There’s eight of us. Mostly young fellers. All hardcases.’

  ‘Who ramrodded?’

  ‘Feller called Charlie Beddoe.’

  That shook Spur. He thought Beddoe was a big-time bona fide cattleman.

  ‘You hear much talk?’

  ‘You know how it is. Yarnin’ around the fire in camp. This Beddoe, he sure talked big. But he didn’t say much just the same. This feller Shad Carson, him an’ me got real friendly. I got him on his lonesome and buttered him up a mite. Kinda put it to him there could be a chance for a coupla enterprisin’ young fellers to make a piece on the side. He got scared. This outfit has a way of dealin’ with fellers workin’ for theirselves. There’s a big feller back of this. Runnin’ cows ain’t the all of it. No, sir. There’s thievin’ all over. Why, Shad reckons they held up bull- trains, stages, even stole a gold-mine off this Trask hombre. I tell you, this thing’s big. I don’t have no idea how big.’

  ‘Hear anythin’ about the man behind it all?’

  ‘Nary a thing.’

  ‘The name Blaxall mean anything’ to you?’

  ‘Never heard it before.’

  ‘Hear of anythin’ more bein’ planned?’

  The Kid cackled with delight.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I heard somethin’ real good. This’ll kill you. You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re goin’ to rub you out.’

  The Kid groaned with disappointment when Spur said calmly: ‘They tried that already. We killed one and wounded another.’

  The Kid said: ‘My luck just ain’t good. I thought I was goin’ to git you off my back.’

  Spur ignored him.

  ‘Kid,’ he said, ‘I want the man behind all this and I want the crazy killer who killed two men and a girl. I don’t think they’re the same man, but there has to be a connection. Did you hear anythin’ that could give me a lead?’

  The Kid stayed still a while, thinking.

  ‘There’s just one man they’re all scared of,’ he said at last. ‘Name’s Smith. Just Smith. Don’t seem possible a man with a name like that could be dangerous.’
r />   ‘You see him?’

  ‘No. I kinda think he’s in the hills at the mine.’

  ‘Why’re they scared of him?’

  ‘Ain’t too sure. ’Cept he’s plumb crazy. They say years back when he was up in the Rockies and run short of chow, he killed an’ ate his partner. Whatya know about that?’

  ‘You hear anythin’ more about him?’

  ‘He’s kinda like an animal. Men keep clear of him. You know, they seem kinda proud of him. They say he’s better at trackin’ an’ hidin’ than an Apache.’

  ‘What’s his weapon?’

  ‘Knife. Don’t never use a gun.’

  Spur felt a shudder run through him. This had to be the man he wanted. This man and the man behind him. The man who had used this animal to perform his killings for him. It was a good set-up. This Smith if caught would be treated as insane. He didn’t have to have a motive. If he could move like an Apache, he could have gotten into the saloon, killed Lily and gotten away without being seen. He had taken poor Mart Walker out into the desert and savaged him there in that dry wash.

  He switched his mind to the boy beside him. Was it safe to send the Kid back into that crew again? Was there anything to be gained by that? Couldn’t he make better use by bringing him into the open and swearing him in as a special deputy. He could use another gun around here. He had a feeling they were coming to the end of the road. He had to flush the man behind all this out into the open before Smith used that knife again. Or should he go into the hills after Smith, bring him in and chance proving a case against him when he had him behind bars?

  ‘Kid,’ he said, ‘how safe is it for you with this crew? Are they onto you?’

  ‘Naw, they don’t suspect me a-tall.’

  There was silence between them as Spur chased his thoughts.

  He jerked up his head, listening. His sharp ears had caught a faint sound he couldn’t identify. Between them and the town.

  The Kid went to say something, but Spur’s hand on his arm silenced him.

  ‘Kid,’ he whispered, ‘you were followed.’