Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

Moseley nodded. Then he smiled. “Funny thing, Dan, the reason Meriwether hired those men is that he thinks I’m afraid of you.”

For a while Wells just sat and stared at the sheriff and said nothing.

Then, finally, “If you ain’t, Vic, you should be.”

Moseley heard the words and felt a shiver run down his spine, as if snow had just fallen on his grave.

Chapter 16

Sam Sawyer could see well enough to recognize the Gila River twisting like a serpent through the valley floor below him. Beyond the river rose the skyward, timber-covered peaks of the Mogollons.

He was sure it was the Wells place that lay on the slope below him, a flat ledge of rock that weather and time had carved out of the mountainside.

He screwed up his eyes, straining to see more.

A corral beside a dugout—maybe. A small adobe building—maybe. A hog rooting around at the rim of the ledge where it overhung the river— maybe.

To his chagrin, he knew he could be looking only at a sheer rock face and a grazing elk.

If a sharp eye is the mother of good luck, right then Sam figured he was an orphan.

Beside him a cricket played fiddle in the grass and the sun burned in a sky the color of faded denim. The day was stifling and only the river and the mountains looked cool.

Sam considered his options, then summed them up when he decided he had only one—he’d have to get closer.

A lot closer.

The downward game trail would stop at the river, the water low at this time of year, so long after the spring melt.

He’d take the path to the river and make another decision then, when the landscape came into focus.

Sam followed the trail downward until he could make out the riverbank, fringed with cottonwood, alder, willow, and a few maple and ash, the trees underpinned with brush and scattered wildflowers.

Here, under the blue sky, the Gila flowed bright and slow and trout glided elegantly along its shady moss banks.

There was a crossing nearby, only a couple of feet deep, marked with river rocks. Sam ignored that and walked west for a hundred yards, keeping to the trees, away from prying eyes.

He stood in the shelter of a cottonwood and, closer now, studied the sunbaked rock ledge. The place was more in focus, but to Sam it looked as though he saw it through water.

There really was an adobe building. He’d been right about that. And he thought he could make out the rough timber doors to a couple of dugouts. The hog was really a hog and still rooted on the rim, but beyond that he could make out little.

Of the skewbald pony there was no sign. Nor was there any trace of a woman and child who could be Hannah and Lori.

Sam squatted and rocked back on his heels. He could hole up here in the cover of the trees until nightfall, then scout for Hannah and the pony.

It seemed like a plan, but Sam was gloomy. Prowling around in the dark wasn’t a job for a man with bad eyes and the rheumatisms.

He settled down to wait, wishful for a smoke, but not daring to light a cigarette.

* * *

“What the hell are you?”

The voice came from Sam’s left and he turned his head slowly.

The man watching him was the size of a grizzly, his huge, shaggy head supported by a bull neck, roped with muscle. The big man’s eyes were mildly amused, but, shortsighted as he was, Sam saw cruelty in the man’s stare and an unheeding brutality in every massive inch of him. He led a beautiful sorrel horse with a silver-mounted Mexican saddle and bridle.

“Howdy,” Sam said, smiling. He stood. “And I’m right pleased to meet you, seeing as how I’m just passin’ through an’ all.”

The man was dressed in greasy buckskins, his guns carried butts forward in a thick black belt with a silver CSA buckle.

“What the hell are you doing here, skulking in the trees?” the man said. His voice sounded like a rusty gate hinge badly in need of oil.

“Well,” Sam said, trying his best to sound like a pilgrim, “I was headed for Silver City where I hope to prosper in the restaurant business, but I reckon I must’ve taken a wrong turn. I decided to rest here for a spell.”

“Silver City is due south,” the man said. “You’re headed due east.”

“Ah,” Sam said, “so that’s where I made my mistake.”

“I got a feeling you’re making another,” the giant said. “Where’s your hoss?”

Sam blinked and said, “Yesterday mornin’ he got spooked by a rattlesnake and bolted on me and I ain’t seen him since.”

The man nodded, as though agreeing that horses and rattlesnakes never could get along. But then he said, “You’re a liar.”

Now, Sam recognized that as fighting talk, but he was in no position to take offense. The man was a big target, but he was nowhere close enough for accurate shooting—at least on Sam’s part.

“Sorry to hear you say that, mister,” Sam said. “I take it that you ain’t exactly an amiable man.”

“Your name is Sam Sawyer, a bust-up puncher out of Texas and low-down. You came here to steal the skewbald pony my brother took in Lost Mine a few days back.”

Seeing the surprised look on Sam’s face, the man said, “Vic Moseley told us all about you.” He glanced around him. “Where’s the Indian?”

“Ankle got busted,” Sam said, knowing he could be counting the rest of his life in seconds. “He headed home, hurting real bad.”

“You lyin’ to me?”

“No, I ain’t. It’s the honest truth.” Sam made a sign on his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“What am I gonna do with you?” the man asked.

“Let me go? Then I’ll bid you good day and continue on my way.”

“No, that ain’t gonna happen.” The big man smiled. There was no humor in the grimace, just cruelty. “I could take you back to brother Dan.” He snorted and chopped his yellow teeth together. “He could eat you like he et the Comanch’.”

The man dropped the reins of his horse and pulled a bowie from the sheath on his belt. “Or I can see how you look skun. Be fun to watch your guts fall out.”

The writing was on the wall, and Sam prayed that the man would come closer. He needed to be within spitting distance.

Taking a chance, he said, “You ain’t gonna skin nobody, you piece of trash.”

Draw him close. Draw him close.

The man took a single step toward Sam, grinning, his thumb testing the edge of his blade.

“My name’s Jeptha Wells,” he said. “That name is famous all over the territory. Now you know me, don’t it make you sceered?”

“Never heard of you,” Sam said. “I don’t pay much mind when folks talk about riffraff and tinhorns.”

Sam’s strategy worked.

Stung, Jeptha Wells bellowed in rage and ran toward the older man, his knife low and ready.

Luckily for Sam, Wells’s heart was set on a skinning, not revolver work. Sam dived to his right. His shoulder slammed into the ground. It didn’t hurt right then, but he knew it would later.

As he fell, he pulled his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. His right shoulder was numb, but he was able to push his gun straight out in front of him.

He pulled the trigger.

Against all the odds, his aim was true.

Hit high in the chest, Wells staggered back a step, his face ashen from shock. He knew right then that he’d taken a killing shot, and now it transformed him into a dangerous, wounded animal.

A terrible roar of rage, and then the big man made a header for Sam, the bowie up for a plunging death stroke.

Sam had a split second to think about it—fire again or get the hell out of the way. He chose the latter.

Fear made him spry. A moment before Wells would have landed on him, he rolled quickly to his right. But he’d forgotten how close he was to the river. He tumbled over the bank and hit the water, scattering fish.