down.
Reeves made a sandwich for himself and as the outlaw who had fried the bacon watched it disappear down the lawman’s throat he asked: “What about me, Bass? You came on us so sudden, we hadn’t et.”
“What’s your name?” Reeves asked the outlaw.
“It’s Ellison, Jim Ellison,” the man said. He took off his hat, uncovering a mane of wavy black hair. “There are them as call me Curly, on account of this.”
Reeves nodded. “Heard of you. Heard you killed a man down on the Brazos a spell back.”
“In a fair fight,” Ellison said, bristling. “He was coming at me with his gun drawed.”
“Maybe so,” the lawman said. “But that’s not the way I heard it.”
“Then you heard wrong,” Ellison said, jamming his hat back on his head.
“Well, Jim,” said Reeves, nodding toward the frying pan, “There’s a bait o’ bacon left, so help yourself. But the bread is all gone.”
“Here, take this,” I said, offering my sandwich to the outlaw. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Thought you looked a bit green around the gills, boy,” Ellison said, eagerly taking the bread and bacon from me. He carefully peeled away some bread from where I’d bitten and threw it on the fire, then, his mouth full, added: “But you showed me something with the Colt’s gun.” He nodded toward the men I’d killed. “Sam and Lew were no pilgrims but you done for them both as nice as you please.”
“They were coming at me with their guns drawed,” I said.
Chapter 6
After Ellison had eaten, Reeves got a set of shackles from his saddlebags and roughly locked the outlaw’s hands behind his back.
We had no way of burying the dead, having no shovels, so we laid them out as decent as we could, side by side, their arms crossed over their chests.
Reeves had stripped the men of their gun belts and these he hung over the horn of his saddle.
When he stepped beside me again, he looked down at the four dead men, then at me and asked: “Dusty, you got any words to say?”
I shook my head at him. “Bass, I don’t have any words. When we buried a puncher on the trail, Mr. Prather always read from his Bible.”
“Well, we don’t have one of those,” the lawman said. He turned to Ellison. “You, get on over here.”
When the man stepped closer, Reeves said: “You got anything to say over your hurting dead?”
Ellison shrugged. “We rode together but I never liked a one of them.” He shook his head. “I got nothing to say.”
“So be it.” Reeves sighed. He raised his hat an inch off his head and said: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Then he turned on his heel and went back to where his horse stood.
It was little enough to say over dead men, but I reckoned it was a lot truer than most eulogies.
Wolves and coyotes would soon find the bodies and scatter the bones. In time, scorched by heat and frosted by snow, the bones themselves would become dust and blow away in the prairie wind until there was no trace of them remaining and of the four dead men nothing would be left . . . unless their restless spirits lingered on and haunted this place.
“Choose a horse for yourself, Dusty,” Reeves told me. “The rest of them are now the property of Judge Parker’s court.”
I picked out a big black with a white blaze that looked like it could run and got my saddle out from under the dead buckskin.
Over by the fire, the wounded man had been silent for a long time. Now he groaned, his knees jerking up as pain that was beyond bearing hammered at him.
Seeing this, Reeves nodded. “Seen that afore, how a gut-shot man kicks like that. It means his time is very short.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Stay with him, Dusty. Then ride after Lafe Wingo and the others.” He smiled. “I wish you all the luck in the world and I sure hope you get your money back.”
I forced myself to smile. “I plan to get it back, Bass.”
The lawman nodded. “Just be mighty careful. Wingo and the Owens brothers will be no pushovers. Every one of them is good with a gun and they’ve killed plenty of times before. And another thing”—his eyes were troubled —“when you get to Texas, don’t tangle with Victorio if you can avoid it. Best you ride a hundred miles around Apaches than get in a fight with them because chances are you’re going to lose your hair. If they catch you”—he nodded toward the dying outlaw—“you’ll die like him and maybe a lot worse. However they kill you, the last thing you’ll hear on this earth is your own scream. Remember that.”
“All I want is to get Simon Prather’s money back,” I said. “I don’t plan on tangling with Apaches if they’ll give me the road.”
“That’s the way, Dusty.” Reeves grinned. “Al though, when I come to study on it, I’d say Lafe Wingo and the Owens boys are a shade meaner than any Mescalero, including Victorio his ownself.”
The afternoon was wearing on, but there still remained one thing to be done.
Reeves stepped over to the bodies and found Amos Rosenberg’s ring on Bully Yates’ little finger. He held up Yates’ hand, removed the ring and slipped it into the pocket of his vest.
He walked back to his horse and tightened the girth, then helped the manacled Ellison into the saddle of his mustang.
Reeves gathered up the reins of his sorrel and walked toward me. He stuck out his hand and I took it. “Luck, Dusty,” he said. “It sure was a pleasure to ride with you.” He smiled, half-embarrassed. “You played the man’s part and you helped save my skin today and that’s a thing I won’t forget.”
The big lawman dropped his hand. “You know, young feller, if’n I was Lafe Wingo, I reckon I’d be right worried right about now if I knew you was on my trail.”
Reeves had said it all and I didn’t try to outjaw him. “Luck, Bass,” I said. “It’s a long ways to Fort Smith, so ride careful.”
“Always do,” the lawman said.
He swung into the saddle and caught up the reins of the outlaws’ horses. He started to ride out, a dejected Ellison following behind. Reeves touched his hat as he went past me. “
I nodded. “See you around, Bass.”
I watched Reeves and his prisoner ride through the valley, then disappear behind the hill that marked the dogleg where he would swing to the east.
The sun was lowering in the sky and the wind had picked up, rustling through the grass and trees and setting the creek to rippling. I stepped to the fire, fed it some more wood, stood there for a while watching the flames dance, then turned my attention to the dying outlaw.
He was looking at me, his eyes wild, whether from pain or hatred of me I couldn’t guess.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, knowing how lame that sounded.
The outlaw didn’t answer for a few moments, then said: “It hurts. It hurts real bad.”
I kneeled beside him and looked at his wound. His shirt and pants were black with congealed blood and when I lifted the shirt aside I saw the bullet wound in his belly, a gaping hole just below his navel.
There was no recovering from a wound like that. All this boy could do now was die.
“Do you smoke?” I asked.
The outlaw nodded and I rolled him a cigarette, lit it from the fire and placed it between his lips. Then I built one for myself.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The boy took the cigarette from his lips with a bloodstained hand. “Charlie Hunt,” he said. “I was named for an uncle who fell at Chickamauga.”
Pain slammed at him again and he gasped and quickly drew on the cigarette. “Oh God,” he whispered. “I’m
