W A N T E D

by Steve Kaye

Gurney sat in the heat of the noonday sun, his back to the hill crest above him. In one hand he casually held a Colt Peacemaker; in the other a stick which he used to doodle in the hard scrabbled dirt. Pushed back on his head, his worn, stained hat produced rivulets of sweat that escaped down the back of his neck. He was counting to one hundred and seventy-five and was only a third of the way there. He counted slowly. He glanced down the hill to his horse, ground hitched in the shadow of a rock, and stared longingly at the canteen tied to the saddle horn. Mentally, he shook his head. Water was still half a day's ride ahead, and he couldn't leave yet. His horse snorted softly, stomping at a large spider skittering across the dirt. Gurney ignored the animal.

At last, his counting done, Gurney rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself the few feet up to the crest of the hill, peering carefully over it. Below was a stretch of rocky desert that disappeared into a shimmering haze of deep arroyos. Beyond was an indistinct blue line that suggested cool vegetation. Methodically, he searched for movement. After a few moments he spotted a rider and horse, hardly noticeable except for the dust trail they kicked up. He had counted too quickly. The rider had not progressed far enough through the stretch of desert. If Gurney began down the hill now he would be seen. And the man he was trailing was too deadly with a gun to give that much of an edge. The rider was heading for an arroyo, probably in search of shade. Gurney decided to wait and start down the hill only after the man disappeared from view. That might be a mistake, too, he thought wryly. If the rider had sensed Gurney, or had seen him, the move into the arroyo could be a trap. He might ride headlong into the muzzle of a gun.

Gurney eased his narrow frame back away from the crest of the hill, slid downhill until he could stand without being seen. His horse snorted, reminding him of the canteen. Reluctantly, he gave in to the heat and his thirst and took a short swallow of water. The trail had been a long one, he and the rider - Andrew Hall - seemingly dancing around one another. They had missed each other in Setback. In Mariposa Gurney was a day ahead of Hall, then somehow ended up a day behind him in Glaston. Glaston was where he had found the saloon girl, beaten and half dead. With three teeth newly missing, a bloody mouth and swollen black eyes, she pointed out Hall's trail and spat down it. The people of Glaston had called Hall a mad dog. He knew then that Hall had to be stopped. For weeks, Gurney had treated the chase like a game, enjoying the mental exercise of it. But Hall had suddenly become desperate, quickly losing his taste for their circular hunt. It unnerved a man to be trailed by someone bringing death. A feeling Gurney knew well.

Finally, Gurney climbed into the saddle and urged his horse up and over the hillcrest and down the steep slope. The pair slowly made their way over the loose rocks, the horse picking its own path. At the bottom, the animal spurted forward in a burst of nervous excitement. Gurney let him have his head for half a mile then reined in, not wanting the sound of hoofbeats to echo across the still desert. Gurney decided not to venture into the arroyos. Instead he followed the cracked, dry gullies from above ever mindful of the fall of his shadow. It was a risk to follow Hall this way. The arroyo might veer off suddenly, or split, leaving Gurney cut off with no way to continue the trail. He would have to go back to find a way into the arroyo, and that would cost him much time. He did not want to lose the trail. Hall was too deadly to let roam freely. He had tried to kill Gurney twice already, nearly killed one person and had killed another in his desperation. The first was the saloon girl. The second unfortunate was a store clerk in White Rock who had stepped into the street at the wrong time to be run down by Hall hastily galloping out of town. Hall had not stopped, and never looked back. Gurney was not a man to involve himself with others. He had little use for people and steered clear of them. But he did not want others harmed because of his actions. The hatred in Hall was too deep now. He would not quit no matter the cost. It had to end.

The deep arroyo fractured only a few times, and never veered too sharply. Gurney followed slowly, carefully. Then, a mile or so ahead, a horse and rider emerged from the ground into shimmering heat. Gurney instantly dropped from the saddle and pulled his mount down into the hot dust, holding the animal's nose against a sudden nicker. The rider did not pause or look around, but hurried on to a line of trees now closer and more distinct. Like marsh reeds, the heat waves hid Gurney as he waited. After a blistering fifteen minutes, Gurney remounted and trotted off in pursuit through scattered shrubs of boxwood and greasewood. When he reached the treeline Gurney paused and listened. The stubby pine offered a little shade that he absorbed gratefully. Through the narrow grove, Gurney could see Hall walking his horse. They would be out of the trees soon and onto rolling, grassy hills. Beyond were several more thick groves of trees - taller pine, ash, and others. Gurney wanted to ride down on him, but his horse was played out. They both needed water and rest and shade. But Hall would not stop. He was a man possessed. He would kill his horse at this pace. The trick, Gurney thought, is to keep up with him without killing mine.

At the edge of the trees he stopped and watched Hall pushing on. Patiently, Gurney filled his hat with water and held it for his horse to drink. They rested an hour then followed Hall's trail through the parted grass. About a mile into the next grove of trees he saw Hall's dead horse. The killer was on foot now, lugging a forty-pound saddle. Again Gurney did not want to start riding hard. There were too many places for Hall to hide; too many spots for an ambush. He would wait until they had passed through the thick woods and catch Hall in the open.

After an hour of walking, Gurney smelled woodsmoke from a cookstove. It was a warm, inviting smell, and a cold chill rippled through him. He was suddenly filled with fear. He mounted his horse and trotted after Hall. By the time he reached the edge of the woods he was about half a mile behind Hall. He could see the man crossing the wide, grassy expanse beyond the trees toward a small house. Hall ignored the house as he got closer, veering toward a rickety corral and two chestnut horses. Hall got a rope around one of the chestnuts and was pulling it toward his saddle when a boy came out of a small three-sided barn waving his arms.

Gurney spurred his horse and raced down into the valley. Hall slapped the boy with his big hand, knocking him down. A man and a woman converged on the scene yelling, although the sound barely carried to Gurney. Hall drew his gun and fired at the boy. The man had stepped in front of the gun and collapsed as Hall fired. Watching helplessly from his galloping horse, Gurney could only yell and fire his Colt wildly. Hall turned and fired at Gurney then put the gun to the woman's head. Gurney slid from his horse in mid-stride and tumbled next to a large rock. Using it for cover, he peered over it to see the woman and the boy dragging the unconscious man around the corner toward the front of the house, Hall hiding behind them. "Hurry it up," he yelled, taking quick, careful looks over his shoulder toward the front door. "Step out, Hall!" Gurney called.
Hall laughed with raspy cackle. "You got some nerve chasing me down."
"I'm tired of this running," Gurney told him. "One way or another we end this today. You've got to be stopped. You've hurt too many people."
The man moaned softly and the boy stopped to look at the large, bloody wound in his father's shoulder. "Dad?"
With a snap of his wrist, Hall smacked the boy with the barrel of his gun. "Keep going." The boy was brave. He had proved that trying to stop the horse-stealing Hall. Now he showed it by fighting back tears. If the father lived, he would have a young man to be proud of. They were at the door now.
"Leave them out of it, Hall."
"And give you a clear shot?" Hall said, backing into the house. "I ain't that many ways stupid. You don't get an even chance with me, Gurney. I'll give it to you in the back if I have to."
Hall slammed the door shut. After a moment Gurney heard the woman scream. It was a sound filled not so much with fear but with anger. Gurney left the cover of the rock and ran to a clump of tree stumps that faced the front of the house. Just as he reached cover, he heard thick oilpaper tear and two shots ring out. Hall had ripped through the cabin windows to get a better shot. "I'd burn us out if I was you, Gurney," Hall offered, laughing. Gurney would not do that, and Hall knew it.
"You're in a bad spot, Hall. They can't have that much food or water in there. I can wait."
"You won't be waiting long. If you don't ride out of here, I'll send one of these good Christian folks out with a hole in their belly. Which one you think'd do more crying? The boy or the woman?"
" I can't believe you'd do that, Hall," Gurney said, lying. Over the past few weeks that was exactly the kind of cruelty Hall had developed. Hall fired several shots, chipping away at the tree stumps. Gurney curled up and waited for it to end. "How do I know you won't shoot me when I go for my horse?"
"You don't!"
Gurney's horse stood off about twenty yards, still within line of site of Hall's position. He was a dead man unless he could keep Hall away from the window. "Hello, the house!" Gurney called. "Keep your heads down. I'm going to be shooting."
"And keep away from them trees! I don't want you sniping at me from cover. Ride on out where I can see you for a long ways."
Gurney wiped the palm of his hand on his trousers. He checked his loads, then got his holdout gun from inside his boot. It offered four small-caliber shots, but it would make enough noise to gain him a few more seconds to reach his horse. With a yell, Gurney stood up and fired at the house, keeping his shots shoulder high. He ran for his horse, hopped on, and spurred the animal to a gallop just as he fired his last futile bullet. Hall returned fire now, but his shots too were useless. Gurney set his horse on angle that took him, after half a mile, out of Hall's site. Again he slipped from the animal at full gallop. A rock caught him in the knee as he tumbled. A gash opened up and began bleeding through torn trousers. Ignoring the pain, Gurney ran back toward the house reloading as he ran. As he neared the house, he slowed and worked his way around back where there were no windows. At the corner, where the corral met the house, Gurney paused to listen. He heard footsteps on the narrow front porch. Light steps. "He's gone," Gurney heard the woman say. More footsteps. Heavy ones and light ones walking together. Gurney heard a soft grunt, then the scuffling of feet.
"If your old man dies, it's your doing, boy," Hall was saying. "I'da never shot him if you hadn't tried to stop me."
"Please leave now." The woman's voice was barely controlled rage.
For a moment there was silence, then he heard Hall turn and run for the corral. From the corner of the house, Gurney watched as Hall caught up a horse and pulled it violently toward the corral gate. The horse shied as he tried to put the saddle on, turning slightly. With Hall's back to him now, Gurney jumped into the corral. The sound alerted Hall, who dropped the saddle and drew his pistol. He fired a wild shot just as the two men collided and tumbled to the ground. Gurney rolled to his feet and kicked at Hall's gunhand. The pistol fired again then skittered across the corral. Gurney kicked again and caught Hall in the head. Hall bellowed, a bloody cut blossoming above his right eye. Hall scrambled to his feet, then drove his head into Gurney's stomach. Gurney tumbled backwards. He righted himself just as Hall landed a hard left hook. Gurney tasted blood and felt his head go numb. He swung back, missed, then caught another jab from a grinning Hall. The men were not evenly matched. Hall outweighed Gurney by twenty-five pounds and had several inches reach.
Gurney feinted, getting inside Hall's long reach. He jabbed hard twice at Hall's midsection then slammed his head up into the man's chin. Hall stumbled backwards, tripping on his feet and landing heavily. Gurney pressed forward, caught a boot in the shin, and dropped to one knee. Just then he noticed he had been tricked. Hall had used Gurney's punches to work his way back to his gun. Hall was in reach of it now as he threw himself sideways and scooped up the weapon. Grinning, he turned and leveled the gun without ever seeing that Gurney had already drawn and fired. The grin froze on the man's face. He looked down at the hole in his chest, eyes glazing. In his last moment of life he raised his gun again and tried uselessly to pull the trigger.

Gurney turned from the corral with a noticeable limp and moved toward the house. The woman had come to the door, shotgun in hand, the mouth of it pointing unsteadily at the approaching man. Gurney paused a moment, watching the deep fire of the woman's eyes, her anger and her hatred. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth then pushed past her. The boy had come to the door hefting his father's Navy six with skinny arms. "You just hold up, mister," the boy ordered, voice quavering and creaking on the edge of manhood. Gurney did not pause, but shouldered into the dimly lit house. It was a two-room affair. A narrow bed crowded one corner - a place for the boy. A handmade table, chairs, and a counter butted up to a heavy iron woodstove defined the kitchen. Two more chairs were wedged into another corner behind which, Gurney noted with some surprise, stood some shelves filled with books and the few colorful porcelain objects the woman had salvaged from her long journey west. A curtained doorway opened into a small bedroom. Gurney pushed back the curtain to find the man in bed, propped up by his good arm. The other arm was crudely bandaged at the shoulder. Blood had soaked through the wrapping. The man held a Colt, cocked and pointed steadily. Gurney stopped. "That needs changing," Gurney muttered with a nod of his head. The man did not move. With a sigh, Gurney unbuckled his gunbelt and let it slip to the floor. The injured man relaxed some, but did not shift his gun until his family hurried into the room.
Gurney moved to the bed and began removing the bandages. His were practiced hands, though rough, and he quickly had the dressing changed.
"If you lie still you won't bleed so much. The bullet went clean through. You'll be fine. But tomorrow your whole body will ache, and you might develop a fever." He turned to the woman. "You did as well could be expected."
Anger flared in her. "Didn't have the time to do it proper, what with all the lead flying!"
Ignoring her, he said, "You cleaned it well. Keep it clean and let him rest." Gurney stooped and scooped up his gunbelt then left the room. The woman turned violently and followed. Coming to a full boil, she said, "That's all? You shoot up my house, near kill my husband, and that's all?!"
"I am sorry," Gurney said plainly. "I'll need a shovel."
"What?" Gurney nodded toward the corral - at Hall.
"You're not burying that killer here!"
"Ma?" the boy said nervously, coming to the door at the sound of his mother's voice.
"I won't have that monster here," she said. "Do you hear? He would have killed Aaron but for my husband. Would have shot him dead just for being a boy. He would have killed all of us. Take him with you and collect his bounty."
Gurney shook his head. "There's no bounty. Not on him."
"Then take him to town. I won't have him on my land!"
"How far is town?"
"Two days' ride," she said, but Gurney saw that was a lie. It was twice that distance if he was any judge. He shook his head again. "No. I'll need a shovel."
She raised the shotgun as he turned toward the open-sided barn, made sounds for him to stop. But Gurney ignored her knowing she would not fire.
Armed with a shovel, he hoisted Hall onto one of the chestnuts. The horse shied but did not buck. Gurney led the animal to a small hill a few hundred yards from the house. He chose a spot just on the far side of the hill and began digging. It took him the rest of the afternoon to dig the grave and refill it, with Hall's body deep inside the ground. He took a few stones and piled them to mark the grave, then turned without saying a word. The man deserved none.

Dirty and sweaty, he returned to the yard. He stripped his sweat-stained shirt from his back, dropped his hat, and submerged his head and shoulders in the water trough. Dripping, he rinsed the shirt in the trough as well.
"You're going," the woman said suddenly from the doorway. She no longer had the shotgun.
"How's your husband?"
"Sleeping. But he'll be all right."
Gurney noticed his horse had returned and was in the corral. The boy had tossed it some hay and the animal was eating contentedly. Gurney turned the chestnut into the corral then gathered in his horse, hanging the wet shirt across the cantle of the saddle. From his kit, he pulled a clean shirt, donned it, and walked the horse back into the yard. He went to the woman, holding out a large leather wallet tied with a rawhide thong.
"This was his," Gurney offered. "There'll be some money in it. Take it. He won't be needing it."
The woman backed away a step. "He was a thieving killer. Give it back to those he stole from."
"This money ain't nobody's ma'am. Take it."
She watched the wallet as if it were her prey. Gurney could see her fight back the urge to grab for it.
"Ma!" Aaron called, running in from the corral. "Look what I found!"
Breathlessly, the boy held out a shiny round slice of metal. "I found it where that feller was killed."
The woman took the Pinkerton badge and stared at it for a moment, then offered it to Gurney. "This must be yours."
Gurney cracked a half smile. "No, ma'am. Not mine." He produced a few coins from his pants pocket and placed them in the boy's hand. "That man - Hall - had this in his pockets. I figure you could use a stake of your own, young fella. And hold onto this for your ma until she's ready to use it for your Pa."
The boy greedily took the coins and with less certainty the offered wallet.
Gurney climbed up onto his horse and paused to look down at the woman. Now that the fear had left her, she had softened. With a quick tap he urged his horse into a trot. Despite herself, the woman turned to watch Gurney ride away.
"Look at this, Ma." Aaron had the wallet open. Several bills peaked out, promising respite from their poverty. Ignoring the money, the boy held open a folded wanted poster. He gawped at the drawing on the paper. It bore the perfect likeness of a wanted killer - impossible to mistake - and a $200 reward. He showed it to his mother, who only glanced at it.
"I'll get the shotgun, Ma."
Gently, she held onto the boy's arm. "No." She took the paper from her son and tore neatly through the unmistakable likeness of Plait Gurney. She tore it two more times, then went into the house and tossed the pieces into the still warm cook stove.

Originally appeared in ThrillerUK, April 2002

Upcoming from Steve:
Valley of Hate and Saddled for Vengeance, western novels in hardcover from Black Horse Westerns (by Clay Burnham). Also, for a free online western story visit www.readwest.com click on The Death of Willie Blood Visit http://www.readthewest.com/ArchivePoetry.html to read the western poem, A Trail of Hard Men

HISTORICAL ROUTE 66 GATHERING

WWA author, Jim Marion Etter will discuss his books, GHOST-TOWN TALES OF OKLAHOMA and THUNDER IN THE HEARTLAND, on July 12, 2003 at Tucumcari, NM. He will be a panalist during a writers' seminar as part of the second annual International Route 66 Roadie Gathering, July 11-13. The event is sponsored by Route 66 Magazine and the Tucumcari Chamber of Commerce.

THE MINE IN MEXICO



by Fraser Williamson

"Molly, got any idea who robbed the bank"?
"Con Davis", the Sheriff told Stretch. "He was helped out of that canyon. We only found his horse."
"So you think he's headin for Mexico"?
"He's got friends in Segundo. Seems reasonable. He'll go through Hopefield".

* * *

Con Davis, after he robbed the Congress bank, headed in the direction of Mexico but cut back to where John Clay had told the hands to take Morgans herd. Clay had gone to see the Governor. Con would wait for Clay's return.

* * *

In Hopefield they learned that Con Davis hadnt been through in a year.
"Looks like we beat him to it", Luke Cameron said.
"Maybe not. He could have crossed elsewhere", Stretch said.
"We'll wait a while, see if he turns up", Molly said.

* * *

Across the border from Hopefield there was Silver mine on the road to Segundo. The owner, Rodriguez, was angry with his American overseer. "You kill too many of my workers, Stark. I pay you to keep them alive for as long as possible.
"I been doin' that Mr. Rodriguez. It's that blasted disease that's killin' them. Aint my fault".
"It'll take time to round up more peons for the mine. Meanwhile, use whoever you find and try not to let production fall".

* * *

One of the posse came to Molly. "Davis either ain't comin' this way or he's already over the border. We got work back home that'll earn us more than what were getting here. Were goin back".
"Tell the boys that tomorrow we'll take a ride to Segundo, and if Davis ain't there well go home".

* * *

Twenty-five riders. Stark sent a man back to the mine with instructions for his guards. He met the riders. "Howdy, Sheriff", he said, surprised to see the badge on the swell of Mollys breasts. Frank Stark said, "Ain't you folks on the wrong side of the border?"
"Who are you Mr. Stark?"
"Overseer of the Rodriguez Silver mine. Saw you comin'."
Stretch asked, "You see an American go by recently wearin' a white duster, and with full saddlebags"?
"Sure. I saw him. He come to the mine. Said his name was...."
"Davis," Luke Cameron said. "Con Davis."
"That's it. Davis."
"Know where he went"?
"Didn't go nowhere. He's up at the mine. What's he done"?
"Robbed a bank", Luke said.
"Any reward"?
"Two hundred dollars".
"OK. Follow me".

* * *

Molly and the posse didnt like what they saw. There was the smell of death with half-naked people kept in cages. "What's goin' on here"? Molly asked. "Why the cages"?
From the ring of rocks, guards watched Stark bring the posse to a halt. When Stark raised his hand they showed themselves, levering shells into their rifles. "Throw down your weapons", Stark ordered.
Some horses skittered, trying to turn. One succeeded, the rider setting off at a run. They shot the horse out from under him.
"You said Con Davis was here", Molly said.
"I lied".

* * *

They were herded into cages along with sick and dying peons. Stark had Molly brought to him. Make yourself comfortable.
"In these chains"?
"They can come off".
"Guess I know the price".
"Guess you do".
"Go to hell".
"Day or two in the mine'll change your mind".
"Don't count on it".

* * *

The men worked stripped to the waist, barefooted like the peons. They were beaten with canes if they didnt work hard enough. Their bodies were bruised and cut. Molly worked alongside the men, but Stark told the guards she was his. Each night they were searched for anything that could be used as a weapon, and Luke and Stretch were tied to crosses and caned and left to hang overnight for having knife-shaped slivers of stone. Next morning they were dragged to work in the mine again.

* * *

"Had enough"? Stark asked. When Molly didnt answer he said, "I want you to be my woman. Wouldn't want you to catch whatevers killin' the Mexes".
She wanted the men shed led into this trap to get back to Congress. She had to kill Stark. "I want my men out of those cages".
"No"!
"You can have me if my men come out of the cages right now. Lock them in a storeroom somewhere".
"Agreed".
"Then get me a bath, and see to it. When you come back Ill give you a bath".
Stark brought Molly a bath, then got the men out of the cages, and locked them in the main storeroom. He came back with the key, showing it to Molly and telling her where the men were. She was out of the bath and wearing a sheet from his bed. She smiled inwardly at the eagerness with which he got out of his clothes and into the bath, bow-legged and hairy.
The bath was short so after soaping his upper body she moved to the foot of the bath, She soaped each extended leg in turn then taking them both out of the water together, she gripped his ankles and tugged mightily so that his head disappeared under the water.
She'd expected a struggle, but he didnt come up out of the water struggling and spluttering. There was no movement at all. With the billy he carried during the day she held his body submerged, but he did not grasp it. It was hard to believe he was dead. She held him under until she was sure, dressed, strapped on his gun, and with the key and billy went to the storeroom.
He'd lied. Her men weren't there. They were still in the cages. One guard patrolled the cages. She came quietly up behind him but he heard her and turned to get thwacked savagely. A blow that drove the bone of his nose into his brain. He collapsed.
She took keys from his belt and released the men from the cages. While the slaves took vengeance on the sleeping guards, Molly and the posse headed back across the border.