Bluff City Page 3

  The claybank stopped not twenty feet away. It was lathered with sweat and breathing heavily. The rider half hung over the pommel, his arms and legs as limp as wet rags. His buckskin shirt was stained scarlet.

  Jesse Stark voiced a nervous laugh. He cautiously advanced, his Remington trained on the rider. When the man did not rise up and blaze away, Stark exclaimed, “It is really him, and he is really hurt!” Stark laughed as he poked the limp figure with the Remington. “Baine, can you hear me?”

  Crooked Nose Baine did not answer.

  Stark gripped a wrist and tugged, but the body did not slide off. He found out why. Baine’s belt had snagged on the saddle horn. That was the only thing keeping him in the saddle.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Stark said. Unhooking the belt, he tugged anew, and grinned when Baine thudded to earth.

  “Why, Neville. You are bleeding like a stuck pig,” Stark addressed the still figure. He nudged it with his boot, then hooked his heel under an arm and rolled the body onto its back. Baine’s hat came off.

  “Damn,” Stark said. “It’s too bad you’re dead. I would surely have loved to buck you out in gore.”

  Shoving the Remington into his holster, Stark knelt. “Might as well go through your pockets. Never can tell but you might have something worthwhile.” But he soon discovered the buckskin shirt had only one pocket, the pants none, and when he stuck his hand in the shirt pocket, his palm flat against Baine’s chest, the pocket was empty. He was about to take his hand out when he gave a start.

  Stark’s mouth fell in astonishment. Careful of the blood, he pressed his ear to Baine’s chest and listened. Sadistic glee lit his face. Straightening, he let out a whoop. He pressed the Remington to Baine’s temple and held it there for all of ten seconds.

  “What am I doing?”

  Stark lowered the Remington and let down the hammer. “I want him to suffer first.” He rose and turned toward the gully, but promptly stopped. “Wait. I don’t have any water.”

  The claybank moved slightly. Stark glanced at it, and whooped again. A bound brought him to the saddle. Eagerly, he helped himself to Baine’s canteen and shook it so the water sloshed. It was half full.

  Stark hunkered, opened the canteen and proceeded to trickle water onto Baine’s eyes and cheeks. At first it had no effect. Then Baine’s eyelids fluttered, and he stirred and groaned but went limp again.

  “Don’t you die on me, you son of a bitch.”

  Stark pried Baine’s mouth open. He touched the canteen to Baine’s lips, allowing water to dribble out.

  Baine sputtered and coughed and groaned louder.

  Bending down, Stark eagerly asked, “Can you hear me?”

  “Who?” Crooked Nose Baine croaked. He did not open his eyes. His breathing was labored.

  “Take a gander and find out,” Stark said, tossing the canteen aside. “I want you to see what is coming.”

  Baine’s eyelids fluttered anew and this time stayed open. “Stark? Is that you or am I delirious?”

  “It’s me, all right. The one you always treat like dirt. The one whose friends you turned into maggot bait back there in that two-bit town.”

  A feeble spark of vitality brought a hint of recognition. “How? Where? The last I remember, I was shot.”

  “More than once, it appears. As for the how, let’s just say the Almighty must have taken pity on me. The where is easy. West of Whistler’s Flat a ways.”

  “How did I get here? I don’t remember much.”

  “That’s a pity,” Stark said. He examined the buckskin shirt. “The slug went clear through. You’ve got a hole in you about as big as an apple. I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for your chances.”

  Baine’s eyes had closed again.

  “None of that,” Stark said. “I need you to lend an ear.” He stuck two fingers into a bullet hole and squeezed.

  A gasp escaped Crooked Nose Baine and he opened his eyes. “What are you doing? That hurts like hell.”

  “It is supposed to.” Stark removed his fingers. They dripped blood and gore, and he wiped them on Baine’s shirt. “Stay awake or I’ll do it again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then let me educate you. It’s as sweet as sugar, and it’s mine to take, and before I am through you will beg me to put you out of your agony.”

  With visible effort Baine said, “You want to have revenge? Is that what this is all about?”

  “Mister, I have yearned for this ever since Abilene. You remember Abilene, don’t you? A dance hall girl called me a lousy dancer because I tromped on her foot and broke a toe. I was drunk, and I slapped her some, and you came up and laid the barrel of your pistol across my head. Remember now?”

  “She was a friend of mine,” Baine said weakly. “You about beat her into the floor.”

  “That didn’t give you call to pistol-whip me,” Stark said, emotion darkening his features. “The high-and-mighty Neville Baine.” He snickered and poked Baine, hard. “Since that night I have nursed a hate for you. Some might call that pointless, but I have always been a good hater. I found out all I could about you, in case I ran into you again. Can you guess what I found out?”

  “Let me die in peace.”

  “I want you to hear this. I want you to know I know.” Balling his fist, Stark mashed his knuckles into the wound, causing Crooked Nose Baine to grit his teeth and arch his back. When Stark stopped, Baine sank back, beads of sweat sprinkling his brow. “Do I have your attention? Good. Because the truth is, Baine, you are a fraud. Oh, you’re hell on wheels with a six-shooter. No denying that. But you’re not the badman everyone makes you out to be. You’re not snake-mean, like they say. Fact is, you’re a kitten.”

  “And you’re loco.”

  “Am I? Then explain something. Explain why it is that in all the shooting affrays you were in, every single one, it was always the other hombre who went for his shooting iron first. That gunfight in Salina? Those three leather slappers you sent to hell were beating on some farm boy. That time in Wichita? Those mule skinners were forcing themselves on a woman. In Abilene when you pistol-whipped me, it was a woman again.”

  Crooked Nose Baine was silent.

  “And now, here in Whistler’s Flat, you did the same thing. You were helping those folks, weren’t you? When you saw the butcher get shot, you jumped in to stop us. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Baine started to close his eyes.

  “Don’t you dare!” Stark growled, and jabbed the wound. “You’ll hear the rest of what I’ve got to say whether you want to or not.”

  “Have your fun,” Baine said.

  “You are a fraud, mister. A fake. You with your big rep. Hell with the hide off, they say. Dabbles in gore like no one else. Bad medicine. The curly wolf of curly wolves.” Jesse Stark snorted. “All of it hog-wash. You are no more fearsome than that puppy I saw back in town. Oh, you act tough, but that’s to fool folks. To scare off the peckerwoods who want to add a notch to their handle.”

  “Are you done?”

  “I reckon so. No comment?”

  “Think what you want, but you don’t know the half of it. Now go away and let me die, damn you.”

  Stark drew his Remington and held it where the stricken man could see. “I figure you have some life left in you. Not much, but enough that you can do a lot of suffering before you breathe your last.”

  Baine scowled. “I expected as much from the likes of you.”

  “There’s one thing I want to know before we get to it.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You will be there ahead of me. But tell me why, first.”

  “Why what?”

  “Don’t play dumb. Why do you do what you do? Why go around sticking your nose into trouble? You’re not a law-dog. You’re sure as hell not a preacher. So why go around helping folks at the risk of a window in your skull?”

  “There are some things,” Baine said slowly, “best kept to ourselves. I’ve never told anyone why I do what I do. I sure as hell am not going to tell a no-account, cultus, four-card flush like you.”

  Stark’s face twitched in a spasm of rising rage. “There’s nothing counterfeit about me, as you’re about to find out.”

  “Men like you are vermin, Stark. You prey on people who never did anyone a lick of harm. You kill and you steal and you enjoy it.”

  “Is there a point to this? Or are you trying to goad me into putting a bullet in your brainpan?”

  “My point,” Baine said, “is that scum like you make a misery of life for everyone else. Your kind should be exterminated.”

  Smirking, Stark said, “Your exterminating days are over. You had your chance at me in Whistler’s Flat. If you had been a shade quicker I’d be lying in the stable with my pards.”

  “It’s not my first regret,” Baine said.

  Rising, Stark straddled him and hefted the Remington. “I once beat a man to death. It took him an hour to die.”

  “There is one thing.” Baine’s voice was growing weak and he had to whisper.

  Jesse bent lower. “What?”

  “This,” Baine said.

  A gob of spit spattered on Stark’s cheek. Instinctively, he recoiled, then cursed and wiped a sleeve across his face. “You have sand. I will give you that. Which is good. It means you will take a while to die. A good long while if I do it right.”

  The first blow brought a sharp cry. But not the second blow, or any after that. Jesse Stark stood over Neville Baine and pistol-whipped him, chortling with glee the whole while, blow after blow after blow. Most were across the face, but Stark also whipped the barrel across Baine’s neck and shoulders and chest. Again and again and again, so many times that Stark lost count. So many times that Baine’s face and shoulders were a welter of blood-s
eeping slashes and swellings. So many times that Baine’s limp form became limper still.

  The only reason Jesse Stark stopped was to catch his breath. Flushed with pleasure, his chest heaving, he stepped back and admired his handiwork. “He looks dead, but I need to be sure.” He started to reach for Baine’s wrist.

  At that moment the claybank whinnied. Almost simultaneously hooves rumbled in the distance.

  Unfurling, Jesse Stark spun. A roiling cloud of dust partially obscured a dozen or more riders. He sprang to the claybank, swung on, and flicked the reins, but the exhausted animal only managed several slow, weary steps.

  “Damn it!” Stark fumed. “You are plumb wore out!” He resorted to his spurs, brutally raking the claybank as hard as he could while reining into the gully. At the bottom he vaulted down, quickly mounted the sorrel, and trotted along the bottom of the gully for over a hundred yards, to where the slope flattened and merged with the plain. As he broke into the open shouts erupted.

  The posse had spotted him and was racing to overtake him. Several rifles cracked in random cadence.

  Hunched low, Stark gave the sorrel its head and the animal fairly flew. He did not widen his lead, but neither did the good citizens of Whistler’s Flat gain. By now the sun was setting, and Stark rode straight into the sunset. It would annoy his pursuers, having to squint. In due course, though, twilight descended. The sorrel was tiring but Stark galloped on. Gradually the twilight gave way to the ink of night. The moment he had waited for had come.

  Reining to the north, Stark went a hundred yards and drew rein. He sat perfectly still, his ears straining, and grinned when the posse went thundering on to the west. In a few minutes the racket they made faded and the prairie lay quiet under the canopy of stars.

  “They’ll never catch me now,” Stark crowed, and patted the sorrel. “You did good. I reckon I’ll keep you.” He headed northwest at a slow walk, thinking out loud. “I’ve about worn out my welcome in Kansas. But where to go? What to do? Not that it matters much, so long as there are folks to rob and saloons to spend their money in.” He laughed gaily and breathed deep of the crisp night air. “Yes, sir, horse. Life can be as sweet as sugar.”

  Chapter 4

  There was the sun and the grass and the earth. There were buzzards circling high in the sky and flies buzzing noisly about the blood-caked form that had lured both like honey lured bears. Many of the flies had alighted but as yet none of the buzzards. Buzzards always liked to be sure.

  In this instance the buzzards were right.

  A groan came from the crumpled figure. A groan, and then a feeble twitching of fingers and hands. The trigger finger curled several times in reflex. The entire hand moved, but only an inch or so. The eyelids flickered, and opened. Blue eyes mirrored pain such as few ever experience.

  Neville Baine sucked a breath deep into his lungs and tasted his own blood. He tried to sit but could not. His entire body was aflame with pain. Licking his swollen lips, he willed his arms to move and rose onto his elbows. He looked down at himself. Dried blood was everywhere—spattered over his shoulders and his chest, and caked like paint lower down. His buckskin shirt was a ruin. The upper half had been ripped and torn to ribbons. So had the skin and the flesh underneath.

  Again Baine attempted to sit up, and this time he succeeded. His head swam, and when it stopped he gazed about him. He saw no one. For as far as the eye could see, he was the only living creature except for the flies and the buzzards.

  Bracing his legs under him, Baine stood. He swayed but stayed on his feet. A nicker came from behind him. He shuffled to the rim of the gully and stared down in bewilderment at the claybank. Unwilling to trust his legs on the slope, he tried to call the horse to him, but all that came from his throat was a jumble of guttural sounds. Swallowing a few times, he tried again. “Here, boy. Come here.”

  The claybank stamped a hoof but stayed where it was.

  Baine tried to whistle, but could not pucker his lips. He started down into the gully, slipped, and fell onto his back. Ordinarily the fall would not have bothered him. This one racked him with torment. His vision spun and he came close to blacking out. He lay there until the spinning stopped, then marshaled every iota of strength in his body and crawled back up to level ground where it was safe to stand.

  Baine levered upright. As he rose he spied his black hat. Forgetting himself, he smiled. His mouth protested. His temples throbbed. Moving as if he were made of molasses, he picked up the hat and gingerly placed it on his head. The slight contact provoked waves of anguish that rippled clear down to his toes.

  Suddenly Baine went rigid. He fumbled at his holster. A moan escaped him when he found it empty. He twisted to the right, then the left. A gleam caught his eye. He managed several swift strides without falling. Sinking to his knees, he clasped the pearl-handled Colt to his bosom. “Thank you, Lord,” he said, and ran a hand along the barrel and over the cylinder.

  Baine knelt there a while. Then, with reverent care, he eased the Colt into his holster and rose. He turned, and nearly collided with the claybank. “Don’t sneak up on a person like that.” Elated, he placed an arm over its neck.

  Climbing on took twice as long as it should have. There was a delay when he spotted his canteen in the grass. It was only a third full and the water was warm and flat, but to him it was delicious. He allowed himself a sip, enough to wet his hurting lips and dry throat.

  Baine tapped the claybank with his heels. He had nowhere special in mind to go. He was content with whichever direction the claybank picked, and the claybank headed southwest. So southwest it was.

  Baine did not look down at himself. He did not want to know how bad off he was. He did not want to know if infection had set in. He pretended it was nothing, and in the pretending, found solace in the illusion that he might live through the day.

  The sun was hot but hot was good. Hot was alive. Every minute, every second, had become precious. Baine savored them as a starving man savors every morsel of food.

  The pain worsened. Baine had never hurt in so many places at one time. The bullet wounds hurt. The slash marks on his shoulders and chest hurt. But the worst was his face. It hurt so much he wanted to rip it off. Several times his hand rose toward it but lowered again.

  Evening brought a cool breeze. Baine did not make camp. Midnight came and went and still he pressed on. He held the claybank to a walk so as not to overly tire it. Along about four in the morning it lifted its head and repeatedly sniffed. Its sensitive nose had brought them to paradise.

  Trees framed a stream. Cottonwoods, mostly. Baine rode in among them and drew rein at the water’s edge. The claybank immediately dipped its muzzle to drink.

  Stiffly sliding down, Baine eased onto his belly, removed his hat, and submerged his entire face in the water. He held it under as long as he could. The relief it brought was exquisite. So much so that he submerged his face a second and a third time. Then, dripping wet, he touched his chin and both cheeks. Every spot he touched hurt. He ran his tongue over his lips, then over his teeth. Miraculously, none were broken or missing.

  Exhaustion claimed him. Rolling onto his back, Baine closed his eyes. The sound of the claybank drinking motivated him to get up. It took forever to undo the cinch and strip off the saddle, saddle blanket and bridle. He had a picket pin in his saddlebags but he was too tired to bother.

  Sleep claimed him almost instantly. Baine dreamed that he was a cowboy riding night herd. A rattlesnake spooked the cattle and he was caught up in the stampede. He tried to turn the cattle, but his horse was jostled and he was thrown to the ground. A seething wall of horns and hooves swept over him, trampling him into the dirt. He felt the stomp of every hoof. Hundreds of them.

  Suddenly Baine was awake. The new day was under way. He had slept for hours but he did not feel refreshed. He hurt all over, exactly as if he had been caught in that stampede. He willed himself to sit up.

  The stream flowed past his boots. Barely wider than a buckboard, it had the distinction of doing what many streams did not; it flowed year-round. It did not dry up in the summer months.

  The claybank was dozing.

  Baine opened a saddlebag. He had a handful of jerky left and he ate half. He washed it down with water and sat back against his saddle. He had no intention of falling asleep again but that is exactly what he did.