The Palo Duro Trail

Chapter 21

Dag wanted to know how Flagg recognized the bootprint as Horton’s.

“He cut the sole on a boot scraper,” Flagg said, “nicked the sole, just before we left Deuce’s.”

“I saw the nick,” Dag said, as he finished saddling Firefly.

“I ought to be going with you, Dag. Could be dangerous.”

“I’d rather you stay with the herd, Jubal. I’m taking Lonnie with me.”

Even as he said it, Lonnie Cavins rode up on a sorrel gelding, Socks, fifteen hands high with four white stockings and a blaze face—a strong young, horse, with a sound chest. Lonnie had a Sharps carbine jutting from its scabbard and wore a Colt six-shooter in .45 caliber. Another pistol dripped from the saddle horn, a matched Colt. He looked, Dag thought, with his beard and unruly hair clumping from under his hat, like a dirty pipe cleaner all covered with soot. He was as lean and as homely as a dried string bean, but the man was quietly fearless and could use each and every weapon he had close at hand. His pale blue eyes betrayed no emotion.

“Good choice,” Flagg said. “Cavins can shoot with the best.”

“They called him ‘Dead Eye’ in the war,” Dag said.

“You boys better take some grub with you, and make sure your canteens are filled. Oh, here comes Jo now.”

Jo came over with two paper packages. She handed one to Cavins, one to Dag.

“Some hardtack and jerky,” she said. “Felix, be careful, won’t you?”

In that mysterious grapevine that seemed to have no source or conveyance known to mortal man, half the camp knew about the stolen horse and who the thief was. Men walked up to wish them luck. Their faces blurred as Dag acknowledged them, impatient to start tracking Horton. Tracks aged, he knew, and it could rain and the wind could come up and wipe out all trace of Nero and Horton.

“We’re going, Jubal. Thanks, Jo. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Goodbye, Felix,” she said, her voice choking up on her so that she had to bite her lip and turn her head.

Dag turned his horse and he and Cavins rode out, following the clear tracks on the ground as if they were markers on a map. For some reason, he did not wave goodbye.

“Vaya con Dios,” Flagg said, as he watched the two ride out on the hunt for Horton.

The tracks led them over hard ground, but were easy to follow. Dag kept looking ahead and on both sides of the game trail Horton had taken. The landscape was bleak, rocky, strewn with several varieties of cactus and islands of grass.

“At least we got the sun at our backs,” Cavins said.

Dag turned to him and put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Cavins nodded, and they continued for another half hour or so. The land started to rise, and the only sound was the ring and clank of their horses’ iron shoes on stone.

Then, as they were starting up the shallow slope, Cavins reached over and touched Dag’s shoulder. He pointed straight ahead to the top of the knoll.

Dag swallowed hard. There, lit by the sun, his black hide glistening with shots of brilliant light, stood Nero, standing hip shot, gazing down at them, his ears stiff and twitching, his tail flicking at flies.

A rifle shot shattered the silence like the crack of a bullwhip. The sound reverberated in every direction and hung in the air with ominous echoes. Dag felt as if someone had driven a dagger into his heart as he saw Nero go down. The horse kicked its legs for several seconds, then stiffened and lay still.

Dag swore under his breath.

Cavins jerked his carbine from its boot and hunched down in the saddle.

It took Dag a moment to get his bearings. It just wouldn’t sink in, that fateful moment when Nero twitched from the shock of the rifle bullet and went down. He shook his head.

Cavins ticked his horse’s flanks with his spurs and started forward, up the slope.

“No,” Dag whispered, drawing his pistol. “Don’t go up there, Lonnie. That’s what the bastard wants.”

“Damn it, Dag!”

“Take a wide circle to the right. I’ll circle left. Did you hear where the shot came from?”

“Way off to the left.”

“That’s what I thought. Horton is waiting up there, somewhere. He’s hid out and he’ll pick us both off if we show up top of that rise.”

“Why don’t I circle left with you, then? No use in me going right.”

“You’ll make a full circle and we might come at him from two sides. Watch yourself, hear?”

“I’ll see you,” Cavins said, and turned his horse to the right.

Dag let him get some distance before he backed Firefly down and started making his wide circle. He was breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He choked back tears as he thought about Nero up on the hill, his beautiful mane rustling in the breeze, his tail flat and lifeless, fanned out on the ground like a stain.

What kind of a man could kill such a fine horse as Nero? Dag wondered. What kind of skunk? And for that matter, what kind of person could murder another human being for money? The lowest kind. Such a man did not deserve to live, but did he himself have the courage to take another’s life? Even take life from a man like Horton?

Dag wrestled with these and other thoughts as he continued to circle where he thought Horton had been when he shot Nero. Then he started closing in on the ridge. He made a crucial decision while he still could see Nero’s body up on the top of the slope. He holstered his pistol and slipped the heavy Henry Yellow Boy from its sheath, then eased out of the saddle.

He pointed Firefly toward the place where Nero’s corpse lay and slapped its rump hard with the flat of his hand. The horse galloped off in that direction, scattering rocks and making a racket as it galloped away from him. He levered a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle and, hunched over, started running toward the top of the ridge.

When he cleared the ridge, Firefly was still on the run. That was when he saw the silhouette of a man rise up from the ground, holding a rifle in his hands. The man brought the rifle up to his shoulder and tracked the running horse.

“Horton,” Dag yelled.

Horton turned in surprise and swung his rifle toward Dag.

“Drop it,” Dag yelled.

The man fired straight at Dag, without hesitation. Dag ducked even more and heard the bullet sizzle the air like an angry hornet.

“You son of a bitch,” Dag yelled as he stood up. He lined up the rear buckhorn sight with the front blade sight and squeezed the trigger. The butt of his rifle bucked against his shoulder.

Before Horton fell, Dag saw a puff of smoke, a belch of orange flame and felt a sledgehammer smash in his left shoulder. He spun around from the impact and saw clouds race by in a spiraling whirlwind. He pitched down and struck the ground. His rifle slipped from his hands and clattered on the rocks.

He heard a yell from somewhere as he fought against blackness and oblivion. He lay there, the breath knocked out of his lungs, and felt his head settle and his vision return. He reached out, grasped his rifle, and stood up.

“You got him, Dag,” Cavins yelled. “You nailed the bastard.”

Blood streamed from Dag’s shoulder. He staggered toward the figure of Cavins standing over a dark shape on the ground. He squeezed his left arm against his rib cage, out of some instinct, perhaps, to stop the bleeding. He gritted his teeth against the pain that now seeped from his arm into his shoulder, down his back and up to his head.

He staggered up the rocky slope to where Cavins was standing over the body of Horton.

“You got hit?” Cavins asked.

“Yeah,” Dag said, through clenched teeth.

“Let’s have a look.”

“Is he dead?”

“Plumb dead. You got him in the ticker, Dag.”

Cavins laid his rifle down across Horton’s legs. Horton’s shirt was soaked with blood, but his heart was no longer pumping and flies boiled over the wound.

“You took a bullet in the arm,” Cavins said, “but it went on through, kind of creasing you. Lot of blood and some ground-up meat, but he missed takin’ your arm off or hittin’ a big vein or such.”

He untied the bandanna around his neck, shook it out, then folded it flat. He tied a tourniquet above the wound, knotted it, and then reached down and found a small stick, which he placed inside the knot. He tightened that, then took a couple of turns until the blood stopped gushing out.

“You’re gettin’ pale, Dag. We got to get you back and put some liniment and a proper bandage on you.”

Dag’s face was pale and he felt dizzy. The arm did not hurt so much now, but he was giddy, and a little bit addled. He looked around.

“Find his horse, Lonnie. We’re packin’ Horton back. Can you do that while I go over and pay my respects to Nero?”

“Sure, Dag,” Cavins said quietly. “You go right ahead. I’ll pack this piece of shit.”

Dag looked up the hill and saw the hulk of Nero and started walking toward it. He laid his rifle down on the ground like a man bewildered, but going through the motions of life. The breeze was fresh and warm against his face, but it cooled the sweat that bathed his cheeks and forehead, that trickled down from under his hat.

Nero lay lifeless on the ground, his mane fluttering, his big brown eyes glassy and frosted over with the mist of death.

Dag knelt down and patted the horse’s neck, bowed his head. He thought of all the rides he’d had with the animal, and the loyalty and trust Nero had shown him. His eyes misted over and he fought back tears as he ran his fingers through Nero’s mane.

“You were a good horse, boy,” he choked. “I hope you go to good pasture where the grass is high and green and have the company of your own kind. I am goin’ to miss you, Nero boy, and I hope you miss me too.”

Then Dag crumpled up and began to weep softly. After a minute, the sobs came from a deep place and he couldn’t stop them. He put his head on Nero’s neck and rubbed his back with soft strokes.

“Damn, it ain’t right,” Dag husked, and stood up, the sobs lessening now, some semblance of reason returning. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, closed them to squeeze out the last of the tears.

“So long, pard,” he whispered, and the tears came back again, choking him, uncontrollably.

He looked up at the sky through wet eyes and saw the clouds and the blue ocean and thought he heard Nero whinny from some far place, but it was only an illusion. The wind rose and blew against him. The scent of Nero wafted to his nostrils, not the scent of the dead horse, but the one that was still alive in his mind.

He did not look again at Nero, but started walking back down the slope, the wind at his back, and the acrid stench of death filling his nostrils and strangling his hammering heart.