Comanchero trail, p.2
Comanchero Trail, page 2
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘Who was the young lady I saw you with in town?’
Sherman shot Kittredge a sudden sharp look.
‘Is she some relation of Waggoner?’
Sherman’s eyes held those of Kittredge for a moment longer. ‘She’s his granddaughter,’ he replied. ‘She’s called Patricia but folks call her Trashy.’ What might have been the beginnings of a smile lifted a corner of Sherman’s mouth.
‘You know,’ he added, ‘it’s goin’ to be interestin’ havin’ you along.’
‘I haven’t spoken to Waggoner yet,’ Kittredge replied. ‘What makes you think I’m gonna accept even if he does offer me a job?’
The suggestion of a grin remained on Sherman’s face. ‘Because you ain’t gonna just forget what those Comancheros tried to do to you. I’d say you almost got a personal stake in what happens round here now.’
‘Those Comancheros ain’t likely to forget what we did to them either,’ Kittredge remarked.
Sherman moved towards the door. ‘Better see Mr Waggoner,’ he said.
During the days that followed Kittredge spent a long time in the saddle. He had no illusions about Waggoner’s real reason for hiring him. Whatever uses Kittredge might have around the ranch, he was being hired mainly for his gun. Kittredge had no qualms about that. As Sherman had implied, he had a personal interest, since those gunnies had bushwhacked him. And that was something quite apart from Miss Trashy. He had watched out for that young lady the first day he spent at the ranch but he had not seen her. He decided that it might be a good idea to familiarize himself with the Rafter W range and what lay beyond.
It seemed a fine spread with plenty of grass and water. Out to the north and east there were other ranches – notably the Scissors – while to the west the land rose gradually towards a range of low hills. Riding south it was a different story. The rich pastures gradually gave way to long stretches of bunch-grass country before the desert began to make its presence felt. Kittredge didn’t ride any further but he knew that the country beyond became wild and raw. He had ridden there before. Eroded by sun and wind, the land was jagged and broken with only odd patches of green indicating the presence of an oasis. Tall spires and battlements of red rock raised their impregnable heights to the burning sky and canyons cut into the tablelands like gashes across the face of the earth. An army of men could hide up in that untamed wilderness, which was one reason why the Comancheros roamed unchecked.
Kittredge drew rein and built a cigarette. The sun was burning in the sky and he knew how it would be once he really got into the badlands. Sweat trickled down his back and he took off his bandanna to wipe his brow. He smoked till the cigarette was half-finished, then drew his binoculars from his saddle-bags. Slowly he let his eyes sweep the landscape, trying to fix it in his mind because he knew it might be important to know it later. A buzzard flew overhead, casting a shadow.
He had almost completed his examination of the terrain when he spotted movement and a plume of dust. He trained the glasses on the area for just a few moments before lowering them, aware of the danger of reflections. Those few moments were enough for him to identify a wagon, which was being pulled by a couple of mules. It had disappeared from sight but after a time he picked out the dingy whiteness of its canvas against the dull red background as it emerged from the concealment of a cluster of rocks.
‘What the hell,’ Kittredge muttered to himself.
He touched his spurs to the buckskin’s flanks, being careful not to reveal himself, and rode in the direction of the wagon. He took shelter behind some bushes a short distance away from the trail where he figured the wagon would pass by, and settled down to wait.
Presently he heard the rumble of wheels and, accompanied by a high-pitched whistle, the wagon came into sight. Kittredge could now get a proper look at it. The wagon was dusty and dilapidated and the canvas was torn in places. Scrawled across it in faded letters were the words: Doc Grattan’s Travelling Medicine Show and Mobile Trading Emporium. The wagon was pulled by four tired looking mules and high on the driving seat sat a thin and lank man of middle years with a white goatee gathered to a twisted point. Despite the heat he wore a long black coat and on his head a tall stovepipe hat, from which long strands of white hair fell to his shoulders. He seemed to Kittredge like an apparition. The man was whistling tunelessly a melody which Kittredge eventually recognized as a song which had been popular in the Civil War: ‘Eatin’ Goober Peas’, which, after a break, became ‘Sweet Lorena’.
Kittredge watched in some amazement as the wagon came closer, then he became aware that he was faced with a slight difficulty. How was he to reveal himself to the newcomer without startling him unnecessarily? The matter was taken out of his hands when his horse, taking fright at the scent of the mules, suddenly decided to neigh, sidestepping and shaking its head at the same time. When Kittredge looked up the wagon had stopped and the strange driver was standing on the front board with a .50-calibre Sharps rifle pointed at his chest.
‘Ride on out, friend!’
The man’s voice was strangely deep and melodious and he spoke with a Georgia accent. Kittredge rode clear of the bushes.
‘A body don’t naturally hide unless he means mischief,’ the man said.
‘If I’d meant mischief you wouldn’t have got this far,’ Kittredge replied. ‘I been watchin’ you a long time.’
‘Makes me wonder why you ain’t got anythin’ better to do.’
Kittredge decided that the best thing was to be entirely straight with the man.
‘I ride for an outfit called the Rafter W,’ he said. ‘Just scoutin’ the territory.’
The man’s arm relaxed a trifle. ‘The Rafter W? Would that be Seb Waggoner’s spread?’
Kittredge tried not to show his surprise at the driver’s mention of Waggoner.
‘You know it?’ he said.
The man’s eyes had strayed to Kittredge’s horse, checking the brand.
‘Sure, I know it. How’s that granddaughter of his?’
It seemed to Kittredge there was a gleam of amusement in the man’s eyes. ‘Ain’t got to meet her yet,’ he said. ‘But Sherman’s doin’ fine.’
The man’s arms sank lower and he let the rifle dangle from his hand.
‘Sherman’s a good man,’ he said. At last he put the rifle down and held out his hand. ‘Name’s Grattan,’ he said. ‘Cass Grattan.’
‘Dean Kittredge.’
‘You headed back for the Rafter W?’
‘Sure. I think I seen everything now.’
Grattan smiled. ‘Includin’ me. I’m surprised you ain’t come across me before.’
‘Like I say, I’m new. What about you? Where are you bound?’
‘For Arrowhead eventually. Might take me a time to get there.’
Kittredge looked over the wagon. ‘What’s your line of business?’
‘Just what it says. Medicine, horse-doctorin’, cure-alls, general tradin’. Come, take a look inside the wagon.’
He climbed somewhat laboriously down from his perch and when he moved Kittredge observed that he favoured one leg.
‘Leg wound,’ Grattan said. ‘Manassas. Kinda put me out of the war from the start. Leastways as a combatant.’
Kittredge slid from the saddle and followed him to the back of the wagon. Taking hold of the drawstring, Grattan opened the flap. Kittredge hadn’t known what to expect but the scene inside took him by surprise. The interior held a jumble of objects, some of which he would have been at a loss to explain. There were pelts and furs, blankets, mirrors, beads, items of clothing, feathered head-dresses, wood and stone carvings, antiquated trade guns – rifled caplocks and flintlocks – pots and pans and other utensils, and a litter of small items which might have been toys. Above all there were bottles stacked in boxes and crates and lined up on shelves; Kittredge could not see how they didn’t just fall to the floor and smash. Hanging from hooks attached to the canvas wagon cover were some gaudy costumes.
‘Oh yeah,’ Grattan said. ‘You can add actin’ to that little list I gave you.’
He looked Kittredge up and down. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever trod the boards? A fine figure of a man like you would make an acceptable Greek hero or a passable Romeo. How are you with the classics?’
‘Can’t say I know ’em too well,’ Kittredge replied.
‘Well, if you’re ever in Arrowhead or any of the other towns in this god-forsaken corner of our otherwise fair land, look me up. There could be a whole new career just waitin’ for you.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Kittredge said.
Together, he and Grattan returned to the front of the wagon and Grattan, with some difficulty, climbed back on to his seat. Kittredge stepped into leather. Before riding away he turned back to Grattan.
‘Seems to me like you can’t be doin’ a lot of trade where you’re comin’ from.’
Grattan gave a crooked smile. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘Besides, I can find business anywhere. It’s just what you’re used to. Figure I could strike a deal with a rattlesnake if I put my mind to it.’
Kittredge laughed. ‘That include the Comancheros?’ He didn’t expect an answer. ‘Take care, old-timer,’ he said.
Although the man probably wasn’t that old, Kittredge was somehow thinking of him that way. Grattan smiled a gap-toothed smile and spat into the dust.
‘Since you mention the Comancheros,’ he said, ‘and because I wouldn’t like to see a young fella like you get into anything he’d do better to avoid, I’ll give you a bit of advice. Watch out for an hombre goes by the name of El Serpiente.’
‘Funny sort of name,’ Kittredge commented.
Grattan paused. ‘So long, young’un,’ he said. ‘I’ll look out for you. Give my regards to Sherman and old Waggoner.’
He leaned out and spat again. ‘Oh yes,’ he added. ‘And Miss Trashy too.’
He jerked on the reins and the mules took the strain. Kittredge watched till the wagon was hidden by a cloud of dust, then he set his spurs to the buckskin’s flanks and began the ride back to the Rafter W.
It was late when he arrived and there were no lights inside the bunkhouse. He was just finishing feeding and currying the horse when there was a noise outside and the stable door opened. Instinctively Kittredge spun round, his gun in his hand, before he recognized the figure of Sherman.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I guess it just comes natural. Kinda forgot where I was.’
He dropped the gun back into its holster.
‘That’s OK,’ Sherman said. ‘Just as long as you take the time to make sure you know who it is before you start shootin’.’
‘You’re up late,’ Kittredge said.
‘Couldn’t sleep. I heard you ride in. How far did you get?’
‘Pretty far. Just about where the country starts gettin’ really rough.’
‘See anythin’?’
‘If you mean Comancheros, nope. But I did run into somebody. He sends his regards, by the way.’
In the gloom, Sherman’s face looked puzzled, then he smiled.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Doc Grattan and his crazy wagon.’
‘Yeah. Right first time. He sure seems a strange old buzzard.’
‘You’re right. Remind me to tell you about him sometime. But just now I got some news for you. You’d better get some sleep because you got an early start in the mornin’.’
Kittredge slung his saddle up on the rack.
‘Yeah? What you got in mind?’
‘Not me. Mr Waggoner. Seems his daughter wants to pay another visit to Arrowhead and you’re the man to accompany her there.’
Kittredge remained calm. ‘Sure, if that’s what Mr Waggoner and Miss Trashy want. But why me?’
Sherman shrugged his shoulders.
‘Just make sure you bring her back safe.’
‘What, should I expect trouble?’
‘Nope, but you’ve seen how things stand around here. If it was down to me, I reckon I’d keep Miss Trashy right here on the ranch, but she likes to have her own way and her grandfather lets her have it.’ He turned to go.
‘Oh, and one other thing. You might be the one ridin’ shotgun on Miss Trashy, but you can be sure Waggoner will have his boys on the watch for her. You might not see anythin’ of ’em, but they’ll be around somewheres.’
The door opened and closed and Sherman was gone. Kittredge waited for a while before making his way out of the barn. Outside it was a clear, balmy night with a sky full of stars. A gentle breeze had arisen and he felt its cool breath on his cheeks. He stopped to look up at the sky and breathed deeply. Then he went inside the darkened bunkhouse.
Chapter Two
High above the scarred landscape, the man known as El Serpiente sat on a ledge watching the scene beneath. Behind him the stone houses of the pueblo merged into the shadows of a huge cavern fringed with cedars. Sunlight glinted on the waters of a stream flowing through the box canyon 1,000 feet below. The place was well chosen as a hideout. There was a rough, difficult path up the side of the mesa from the canyon floor, but it was well hidden and easily defended. The mesa itself was a maze of canyons and deep grassy valleys, the ideal place to hide and keep stolen cattle. The whole place was remote and impregnable.
Right now, looking through his binoculars, El Serpiente could see a group of his men driving another small herd of cattle towards the mesa. Satisfied that negotiations with the Comanche must have gone well, he laid the binoculars aside and glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Coming towards him was the lithe figure of his woman Carmelita, carrying some washing. As she approached he grabbed her by the waist and the washing dropped to the floor. She made to pick it up but he pulled her close to him, kissing her hard on the lips. His fingers strayed across her tight blouse. For a few moments his hands closed on her taut breasts, then she succeeded in pushing him aside.
‘You carry on drinking,’ she said. ‘I have things to do and then I make myself ready.’
Gonsalez grinned. ‘You do that,’ he said.
Quickly she walked away, not bothering to collect the washing. Gonsalez watched her with lust in his eyes as she entered an ancient grey, two-storey house and then vanished from his sight. Once inside she breathed deeply as she readjusted her garments. She wiped her hand across her mouth as if to remove the taste and smell of Gonsalez’s liquor-tainted breath. She had succeeded in escaping him but it was only for a short period of time. Soon he would be finished drinking and then. . . . She didn’t like to think about it.
It hadn’t always been this way but it seemed a long time ago since things were any different. Gonsalez had changed. She knew he had other women, but she didn’t know whether he treated them as badly. He had changed so much that she no longer recognized him. He had become corrupted by all the killing and thieving. The living had been good once but it was no longer enough for Gonsalez, even though he was now the boss of his own outfit and the reputation of El Serpiente was growing, from the Rio Grande to the Sangre de Christo mountains.
The only obstacle now to his ambition, as far as Gonsalez was concerned, was the man who had financed his operations, Jensen Crudace, the owner of the Spanish Bit. Crudace had been a useful ally but now Gonsalez saw him as an obstacle. One way and another, things were coming to a head.
Kittredge was kept waiting by Miss Trashy. He had been expecting to drive the buckboard, like Sherman, but it seemed Miss Trashy wanted to drive herself and was taking the one-seater buggy. When she eventually appeared he felt it was well worth the wait. She had done her auburn hair up, revealing the lines of her neck. She wore a long blue dress with white gloves and the effect was to make her appear more mature, more sophisticated. For a moment she stood looking down on Kittredge from the veranda and he could only admire how lovely she looked. Just in time he recalled himself and, taking her outstretched hand, he helped her down the steps and into the buggy. He climbed into leather, then she snapped her whip. The buggy moved forward and he rode slightly behind in order that the dust of his horse would not disturb her. As they passed out of the yard he turned his head to see Sherman watching from the bunkhouse door. He nodded but there was no response. For a few moments Kittredge felt rather silly but when they had passed out of the immediate vicinity of the ranch house he began to feel better.
It was a sunny morning. Little white cloudlets drifted through the azure. Ketteridge was congratulating himself on his good fortune. To be this close to the lady who had drawn his attention that afternoon in Arrowhead seemed almost too good to be true. The sunlight fell on her hair and sprinkled highlights among its auburn tresses. She was not wearing a bonnet. From what he could tell, she seemed to be very competent at driving the buggy.
They went along at a crisp pace and it wasn’t long before they had turned on to the main trail into Arrowhead and were passing the spot where Kittredge had been bushwhacked. Almost by force of habit his eyes skimmed the terrain but it was a peaceful scene with no signs of anything untoward. The outlying houses of Arrowhead hove into view and before long they were turning into Main Street. So far they had not exchanged any words.
Kittredge was expecting her to halt outside the general store or the clothing emporium, but instead she carried on past them before pulling the buggy to a halt outside an establishment bearing the words: Ma Kennedy’s Eating House. Uncertain of how to proceed, Kittredge dismounted, quickly tied his horse to the hitchrack, then approached the buggy. Miss Trashy held out her hand and he helped her step down.
‘Mr Kittredge,’ she said, ‘I understand you are not a drinking man. Perhaps you would care to join me for morning coffee?’
Kittredge wasn’t sure whether she was being ironical, whether she might be making fun of him. Perhaps there was even an element of criticism in her words. She seemed to be talking straight.
‘I’d be right honoured,’ he said.
She gave him the hint of a smile. He wondered what he should do next, but she relieved him of further speculation by turning on her heel, mounting the steps to the boardwalk, and entering the café. Inside it was cosy and welcoming. The tables were neat with blue-checked tablecloths and flowers in little vases. The place was empty and Miss Trashy made her way to a corner table by the window. Kittredge pulled out her chair and she sat down while he hesitated before sitting down opposite her. Sunlight coming through the window illumined her face and Kittredge noticed for the first time a delicate sprinkling of freckles above her nose. It touched him. Miss Trashy was at once both a lovely woman and a girl. In their current context, she was considerably more poised than he.
