We started on with the cattle. Was the man who branded that critter a rustler? A cowhand slapping his boss’s brand on a maverick? It was no youngster, but a full-grown animal that he had cut and branded … A bull that was making trouble?
More than anything, I wanted to go looking. But Hinge and Roper were up on the mesa holding cattle, and we had more to drive to them so reluctantly I turned away. Meanwhile I tried to remember if I’d seen anybody with that kind of a rifle.
There were a sight of different gun types around in those days, and I could recall four or five I’d seen with those points on the butt plate, set so’s they’d kind of fit against the shoulder. A Sharps of one model was fixed that way, and there was a Ballard, too. And some of the James Brown Kentucky rifles. “You know a man with a rifle like that?” I asked Tony. Fuentes shook his head. “Not that I recall, amigo. I have seen such rifles, but not here.”
We were turning our cattle to climb the mesa when we heard a shot. It was sharp and clear in the afternoon air, a single, flat-hard report, and an echo, racketing against the rock walls. Leaving the herd, I jumped my horse past it and scrambled for the rim. As I topped out, I saw our herd scattered a little, heard a pound of hoofs and saw a horse racing away in the distance, a wild whoop trailing back.
A second shot, close by, and I saw Joe Hinge sprawled on the ground, saw him trying to rise, then slip back down. Roper, rifle in hand, came running. I took one glance after the fleeting rider, then raced up to the cattle and dropped from the saddle.
Joe Hinge looked up at me. “Tory Benton! Damn it, I never was fast with a gun!”
18
“Ben? What happened?”
He stared at me, his face flushed with anger and shame. “Why, damn it! I went over the rocks, yonder. Wasn’t aimin’ to be gone more’n a minute, but that dirty coyote must’ve been holed up somewheres, watchin’.” Ben shook his head. “Soon’s I was out of sight he come up. I heard the sound of his horse and figured it was you or Fuentes. Next thing there was shootin’. Only thing I heard him say was, ‘If they’re buffaloed, I’m not! I’ll show ‘em!’ And then the shot.”
“Was it Benton?”
“It was his voice. I didn’t get back in time to see more’n his back, but he was ridin’ that blaze-faced sorrel he rode when we saw him before. I took a shot, but he was too far off and movin’ too fast.”
Fuentes was on his knees beside Hinge, plugging the hole and trying to make him easier. Fuentes was a good hand with a wound-I saw that right away. “Ben, we need a wagon. You want to go for it?”
“Yeah.” Roper turned toward his horse, standing a few yards off. “Damn it, I had no business leavin’ him. Hell, I—“ “Forget it, Ben. Hinge is a grown man. He’s the boss here. Nobody needed to stand guard over him.”
“I’ll kill him!” Roper said vehemently.
“Don’t butt up against him, Ben. It isn’t worth it. Tory’s fast … If you do go after him, remember this. He’s too fast for his own good … He doesn’t take time. If it comes to a shooting between you, make your first shot count. I’ve seen his kind, and with them the fast draw is everything. Seven times out of ten his first bullet goes right into the dust in front of his target. Just make sure he doesn’t get a second shot.”
“The hell with him!”
“Leave him to time, Ben. His kind never lasts long. Now how about that wagon?” When Ben was gone, we moved Joe to a place slightly below the level of the prairie. Then, with slabs from the edge of the mesa, I built a screen to wall off the wind. We covered him over with his saddle blanket, and then we waited. “One damn hothead,” Fuentes said irritably. “He’ll get some good men killed, blowing off like that.”
“Let’s make sure it isn’t Joe,” I said, scanning the horizon. Unless I was mistaken, Tory Benton would ride right on back and make his brag about what he’d done. That he had beaten Joe Hinge to the draw and killed him … Well, Joe was going to live! He had to live! Yet it was a long way to the ranch and a long way back with a wagon. I swore bitterly. Yet I had an idea what would happen. Tory would go back and tell his story. If Balch was smart, he would fire Benton on the spot. But there was another chance that some of his men would be for cleaning house, finishing what they had started before we had a chance to retaliate. For that reason, I had stayed with Hinge and Fuentes rather than going for the wagon myself. Going to my horse, I shucked my Winchester. Tony glanced at me, but offered no comment. Nor was any needed. He knew as well as I what might happen, and I think Ben Roper did too.
Gathering a few sticks, I prepared a fire for the night, glancing from time to time over the rim at the canyon below. If we were just down there … Any place but this mesa top, with small concealment and no shelter. Joe opened his eyes and looked around, then started to rise. “Take it easy, Joe,” Fuentes said. “You caught a bad one.”
“Will I make it?”
“You’re damn right!” I said flatly. “Just take it easy.” Then I said, “Joe? Think you’re up to being moved? We’ve sent for a wagon, but I mean now … down into the canyon?”
He looked at me. “You think they’ll come back? It was Tory shot me. Damn it, boys, he never gave me a chance. Just rode up and said if they wouldn’t do it, he would, and then he drew on me.”
We waited for him to continue. “Hell, I can shoot, but I never was no gunman! He just shot me down, and then Ben topped out over yonder and Benton taken off, yelling. I never figured on him shootin’. He come ridin’ up—“ His voice trailed off weakly and he closed his eyes. Then they opened. “You got a drink of water? I’m bone-dry.”
Fuentes picked up his canteen. He held it while Joe drank. Then Joe slowly closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them. “I’m up to movin’ boys, I don’t like this here no better’n you do.”
There was water down there, fuel, and some shelter could be rigged if it started to rain. And down there we could at least heat up a place for him, but keeping a fire up on the mesa in the wind wouldn’t be easy. We brought up his horse and lifted him into the saddle. Joe was a typical cowpoke. He had spent more years up on the hurricane deck of a bronc than he had afoot, so he latched onto the old apple with both hands while we led the horse down the cliff.
Glancing at him, I saw his face had gone white. But his lips were drawn thin and tight and he made no sound. There was nothing but hooves against rock and the creak of the saddles as we went down, Fuentes leading, me coming right along behind.
Once on the ground near the cottonwoods I’d seen, and among the willows, we got busy and made a bed for him out of willow boughs, leaves and such-like. Knowing there would be no buckboard wagon there much before morning, we rigged up a lean-to above him. We staked out the horses, and gathered fuel for a fire. Hinge was mighty quiet, sometimes asleep, maybe unconscious, and sometimes wandering in his talk. He kept mentioning a “Mary” I’d never heard him speak of when he was himself.
“Be gone a while,” I said, “come daylight. I’m going to gather our stock and drift it down this way and give it a start toward home.” “Si,” Fuentes had been turning the idea around in his own head. I was sure of that. “If the buckboard comes we can bring them in.” Fuentes slept and I kept watch, giving Hinge a drink now and again, easing his position a mite, sponging off his forehead or his lips with a bandana. Hinge was a good man, too good a man to go out this way because of some hotheaded young no-account. Mentally, I traced Ben Roper’s route as he rode toward the ranch, trying to pace him, trying to figure out when he would arrive and how long it would take him to return. We had our fire in a sort of hollow where there were some rocks, and we let it die to coals but kept it warm. It would be a comfort to Joe if he happened to awaken.