Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

Charterhouse sank his spurs and the pony lurched into a swift burst of speed. The night was split apart by a shot, then a second, both whipping wide; Shander yelled and his crew came beating out to the porch. More explosions blasted the shadows. Charterhouse, drawing into the protecting darkness, heard a vast volume of swearing as that unruly crew fought their pitching horses. He had this much grace, this margin of safety and he rowled the sturdy beast beneath him unmercifully. Yet, pointed due eastward, he caught the peaked outline of Shander's barn right beside him and there flashed across his mind another expedient. If he kept going straight, they would pick up the drum of his flight or catch his silhouette against the horizon; if he swung now—

Obeying the impulse, Clint shot for the barn, rode against a side wall and stopped dead. The deep gloom folded about him. A few riders sped by easterly and then the bulk of the party pounded past. Somebody yelled an order to spread out fanwise. Another rider veered near and skirted Charterhouse no more than ten feet away. Then the thud and jangle of their progress dimmed, leaving him safe for the moment.

But as he gathered the reins and decided to ease gradually away in a southerly direction, he discovered himself trapped. Voices advanced from the house and a tardy horseman came around from the other end of the barn and jogged circularly about the ranch, apparently on guard against surprise. The voices came nearer. Two men talking. One was Shander, whose irritable tones began to carry distinct meaning.

"I never trust anybody. He may be one of Nickum's damned spies, for all we know. That palaver in the saloon between the two could easily have been faked. You got to remember old John knows all the tricks of the trade. We're not up against a greenhorn."

"Sure. But this Charterhouse probably was telling a straight yam." That, Charterhouse decided, was Curly. "I take it so. He just got scared and figured to pass out. I give him credit for guts, the way he pounded Louey down. I could use fellas like that."

"I don't trust anybody," repeated Shander, seeming to be nearer. "But he didn't hear anything important, if he was Nickum's man. Nickum already knows you and me are hooked up. All our cards have been exposed except one, which is how many men you've got collected. I want that held secret. You see to it nobody rides away from you. Keep a strict hand on your gang."

"Well, what's the next play? I got thirty-five tough nuts, and I can't keep 'em entertained by playing duck on a rock all day in Dead Man. Those fellows want to see action. Elsewise they'll pull freight."

"Everything depends on what happens in the morning," countered Shander. "Once Nickum is knocked over, the gate's wide open to us."

"Where's it going to happen?"

"Same place his kid was killed. On the trail to Angels, beside Red Draw where the trees thin down. Remember those three rocks in a row? That's the spot. Him and Haggerty will be coming alone. About ten in the morning, figuring them to start from Box M Ranch at eight, which is Nickum's habit."

"How'd you engineer this business, anyhow? What makes you so sure he'll be riding along there?"

"That's all taken care of by the other party. Let's go back to the house."

Charterhouse waited until their talk dwindled away. Then, knowing that any longer delay would narrow his chance of safe flight, he pushed the pony along the barn wall until he came to the corner. The mournful whistling of the riding guard approached. Some of the pursuers were straggling back. Charterhouse quelled a strong impulse to break and run, silently cursing this laggard riding guard who slid in front of him and slowly curved to the north. A shout came out of the distance, answered by another. Charterhouse slipped on into the open, scanning every inch of the shadows between barn and house. The Mexican cook walked out of a back door and dumped a pan of water. The sound evoked a clear call from a returning man.

"Say, he musta ducked into a hole around here! It ain't scarcely reasonable he coulda fell off the edge of the earth so sudden. How about looking around the yard? Anybody done it?"

Charterhouse was three hundred feet away and increasing the distance at a pace that seemed slower than crawling. He began to sweat, expecting at any moment to have them catch sight of his fugitive silhouette and come charging down. They were alive and excitable back there, like a pack of hounds trying to catch the scent of a rabbit. Lanterns bobbed; a strong party circled the barn rapidly; he felt rather than saw a second party driving straight at him. His horse walked down the lip of an arroyo and hesitated. Charterhouse drew a long breath, swung with the arroyo and increased speed. Presently he pulled out of the arroyo and cut a circle in the desert and never stopped until Shander's place was a mile southward, light still winking through the fog.

"Time to pause and consider," he mused. "I'm in a bad hole. One side or the other, it's open season on me. If I had the sense of a cooked flea, I'd turn and put the boundaries of this doggoned county away behind. So they are going to kick old John Nickum down the chute? Well, what of it? I don't owe him any favors. If he considers he don't need anybody's help, then I sure haven't got a call to butt in. No sir, I ought to turn."

Common sense told him to retreat. Therefore he did exactly the opposite thing, squared himself by the high, dim stars and settled into a steady jog eastward. Soon after he had crossed the deadline again, bound for the timbered ridge.

"Less than twelve hours from now—and hell to pay prob'ly. Well, I'm getting my wish."

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From his hide-out in the trees a few hours later, Clint Charterhouse looked down into a small meadow sparkling with dew the early morning's sun had not yet dissipated. A cabin, a barn and a corral stood here. Wisps of smoke rose from the cabin and a cow browsed at the end of a picket, bell clinking melodiously in the still, fresh air. Out of the barn stalked a cattle dog whose baying had been in Charterhouse's ears all during the night; and the dog crossed to the cabin to sit on its haunches and stare directly upward at the trees. The door opened. A wizened and shabby old man stepped out with a tin pail. For a moment he lifted his head to the sky and nodded at the fine, crisp air as if he found it good; then he went over to the cow and knelt down to milk. It seemed to Charterhouse that the fellow walked awkwardly, with a great deal of hesitation, and his impression was confirmed a little later when, milking done, the man rose and came back, stumbling over some small tuft of earth.

"Kind of feeble," guessed Charterhouse. "And none too safe, if he's alone. Must be the one they called Bowlus."

The man stopped at the doorway and swung about to face the hillside. His high-pitched voice took Charterhouse by complete surprise. "If you're hungry, come on down to breakfast."

"Hell, what's given me away?" muttered Charterhouse. He thought a moment, sharply studying the clearing. The old fellow spoke again.

"Don't worry none. It ain't the first time I've had visitors on the dodge. Come on down."

Charterhouse chuckled and stood up. He brought his horse to the edge of the trees and went down alone. A closer inspection of the man erased his humor. The poor devil was blind, or nearly so; that explained the stumbling, and also the guide ropes that lay on the ground and extended out from the cabin to the barn and to the corral.

"Can't see as good as I used to," explained the man, feeling Charterhouse's inspection. "My dog does that for me. He's been a- fretting most of the night, and so I knowed you was making a dry camp yonder. I'm Bowlus and there ain't a drop of unfriendliness in me for man or beast. What I know, I keeps to m'self. I can't see you and I don't know what you look like. So I wouldn't be no help to a posse at all, would I? And I'm too old to be shot for harboring folks like you. So we're both safe. Come in."