Clark squatted by the man he had shot, then reached down to pull off the mask. The robber’s eyes were open, but unseeing. Clark had never killed anyone before, and he didn’t know how he would feel about it. He was surprised by the fact that he felt nothing at all. It was simply something that had needed to be done and he had done it.
“Damn, boy, you know who that is?” the driver asked. Then, answering his own question, he continued. “His name is Bates. Corey Bates. I seen a poster on him in the stage office back in Concordia. Looks to me like you just earned yourself five hunnert dollars.”
“Five hundred dollars?”
“Yes, sir, five hunnert dollars. That’s the bounty on him.” The driver chuckled. “That’s near ‘bout a year’s pay for me, and you made that much in just a few seconds.”
“I never thought about him havin’ a bounty,” Clark said.
“Then if you wasn’t after the bounty, what was you doin'? I mean, you come in here with your gun blazin'. Not that I’m complainin’ or nothin',” the driver said. “I figure you come along just in the nick of time.”
“I don’t know,” Clark said. “I just happened to be riding through when I saw him holding up the stage, so I did what I thought was right.”
“Well, sir, doin’ what you thought was right just earned you five hunnert dollars. If you’ll give me a hand, we’ll throw his carcass up on top of the stage and you can turn him in to the sheriff when we get to Bonanza City. He can put through the reward for you.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know, the way you come ridin’ in here like you done, I guess I just figured you was one of them men who hunted down outlaws for the reward that’s been put on ‘em.”
“I never considered anything like that,” Clark said. “How does one become such a person?”
“Son, you just do it,” he said. “Course, some folks that does things like this ain’t much better than the men they are chasin', so if you get into that trade, you need to be careful lest you don’t become an outlaw yourself.”
It took two days for the sheriff of Bonanza City, Idaho, to authorize the payment of the reward money to Clark. He thanked the sheriff profusely, then, sticking the money and a handful of wanted posters down into his saddlebags, rode out of town, still heading west, but no longer in a purposeless drift. He was now riding in pursuit of his new profession, and although he did not think of it in that term, he was now a bounty hunter.
It was sometime later when Clark rode into the town of Eberhardt, Nevada, hot, thirsty, and with a mouth full of dust. Tying up in front of the Red Dog Saloon, he patted himself off as best he could, then went inside. There were at least a dozen customers, all engaged in what seemed to Clark to be simultaneous conversations.
“Beer,” he ordered, slapping a dime onto the counter. The bartender delivered the mug and started to slide a nickel back in change, but Clark waved it away. “No,” he said. “This one is for thirst. I’ll need another one to enjoy.”
Clark downed the first beer, then picked up the second and turned his back to the bar to look out over the saloon in a casual study of the men just to see if any of them fit the descriptions of any of the posters he had out in his saddlebags. It was then that he began to catch bits and pieces of the conversation.
“Mr. Fiddler said he got near six hundred dollars.”
“And he’s sure it was Dewey Gibson?”
“Yeah, he’s sure. You might remember that Gibson used to ride for one of the ranchers here about. Mr. Fiddler recognized him right away. ”
Clark had never seen Dewey Gibson, but it was a name he recognized, for his name and a likeness was on one of the reward posters he was carrying.
Clark called out to the bartender.
“What robbery are they talking about?”
“Dewey Gibson robbed Fiddler’s Mercantile this morning,” the bartender said.
“He always was a no-account,” someone said.
“Well, he ain’t a no-account no more,” one of the others said. “They’s a three-hundred-dollar reward out for him now.”
“This morning, you say?”
“About two hours ago.”
“Interesting,” Clark said. He finished his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then walked down the street to Fiddler’s Mercantile. After talking with Fiddler for a few minutes, Clark went out in pursuit. Unlike the first outlaw, who he’d happened across by accident, Clark was purposely after Dewey Gibson.
He hadn’t tracked Gibson too far before he noticed that Gibson’s horse had broken stride badly. It was easy enough to read the sign. Gibson had been so anxious to put distance between himself and the town where he’d stolen the money that he’d ridden his horse into the ground. The four-hour lead he had on Clark was meaningless. Clark would catch up with him before nightfall.
Clark found Gibson’s horse by early afternoon. Ironically, with rest, the horse had recovered, but Gibson had been so desperate that he’d abandoned it and was now proceeding on foot. Clark took a drink of water, poured some into his hat for both horses, then began walking, following Gibson’s footprints across the hot, desert sand.
The sign was as easy to read as if it had been printed in a newspaper. Shortly after abandoning his horse, Gibson had been so frightened that he’d started running. He’d managed to run for about half a mile; then he’d walked for another couple of miles. Then the desert had begun to extract its toll from him. Gibson had started throwing things away, his spurs, his shirt, and finally an empty canteen. Clark left the shirt and spurs, but he picked up the canteen, thinking that if he found water he would refill it, giving him an extra canteen. In this heat, an extra canteen could be a lifesaver.
