The Hell Bent Kid Read online

  Took a little water for coffee, figuring on a late start because of poor sleep. Still there was half light with the light coming slowly, as if rain was due.

  My doughball was in the spider and I threw a strip of bacon after it. It was a poor fire of a few yucca stems, grass and trash.

  I felt of the spider and it was only warm, with wind blowing the yellow fire from under it and coals not formed yet. So I sat down to wait with my back to the little rise of ground, pushing my coffee pot nearer. Still I could not come fully awake.

  I watched Jimmy for a minute, worrying his nose among grass and stems, off back from the rise. Then I believe I dozed off, woke up with a jump. I must have slept a half hour. The pot was blacked up, fire near out and the stuff in the skillet sad-greasy.

  The ground rumbled behind me. Then I heard a bawl, then saw about four or five strays off to the north, rose up, whirled and saw the Boyds.

  The Boyds were on in advance, and behind them was about three, four hundred cattle, like ghost cattle, because even then they was a good piece off. They were drifting easy, coming on me like rain gathering and approaching. The wind was fairly loud, with long quiet spells, and dust heavy over to the west.

  The wing riders were two other men, one I judged to be a Boyd, a little to the rear. I counted about five men, and I suppose they might have had a sixth, a clean-up man pushing the bunch easy from behind. They must have been night-moving that herd for water or have gotten a very early start.

  I got hold of my rifle and as I picked her up was glad to know how carefully I had cleaned her the night before. I let her hang loose in my right hand, using my thumb to set back the hammer ready to work the first shot fast. I had never seen such strong odds.

  On my right Tom was fast in coming up. I knew him right away for he was the dudy one of the two, with tapaderos that almost touched the ground. He was swinging his trick pony hard so that his pockets scooped dust as they say, and I remembered his wavy, yellow hair and his fast, long legs and smile at the schoolhouse dance where he was all shirted up in white with new, store pants, and his fast stepping feet that charmed the girls.

  Then Otis came up on the left much slower and remembered him, too, at the schoolhouse dance where I had killed Shorty Boyd, his quiet manner and his thin, kind looking face that fooled you and his dry, sharp way of talking.

  But now both the Boyds looked as I had seen myself—eyes like holes in a pan of dust. They must have had a hard night and hard times before that gathering the ruckus of steers out of the hills and shaping them up and getting them started. With that many men I knew they were after more strays and long on the move since then for the hills were miles off.

  Tom put his hand to his mouth and yelled to Otis—“You see what I see?”

  Otis moved up a little on his mare—unusual to be riding. She was crossing her forefeet among stones in a dainty way as she slow-walked. I saw both their hands move and with the wind lulling I could even hear a cylinder click. They had possibly been turning a stray or so with a pistol shot that morning or had run into a prairie dog town with plenty of snakes, so by hand and feel they were throwing the live shell one-away.

  I raised my muzzle a little.

  In the quiet that seemed to come it was plain when Tom said: “Watch it. He’s a sneak-shot.”

  Otis said: “I’m watching it.”

  I stood there. The Boyds did not move but the cattle did. They came on slow. In the light, changing wind and the dust drift they were like a dream. With dust ghosts behind and above them, blowing and nodding and then sloping down fast so they hid part of the mass out of which a bawl now and then would come, they now smelt water clear. Tom’s horse moved a little and he slapped his morale down hard like a shot and the horse jumped a little. One old poker I recognized began to gallop in and out of the herd at edges, but Otis called him and he came up behind. I got the thought then that there were no calfs nor mothers in the mill, with here and there a bloody crest showing the bulls had been fighting. And those steers needed water bad, had been hard driven all night, and had possibly the jumps and were unsluggish having been light fed in dry canyons for weeks.

  As both Boyds started letting me have it, yelling above the shots as if to put poison in the slugs, I ducked down, then whirled once when one of Otis’s came too close and felt the crease and the shock of something behind the crease wound back of my right thigh. But I concentrated on the herd leaders, and carefully shot high on, and my shots took the right effect, for I could see the chips fly from the horns of one baldy.

  They started, slowed and almost stopped as if to get ready for the real rush. If they had come on square at me, I would have been a blood spot and the Boyds would have died in seconds. As it was, the herd started, slowed, then turned a quarter with the long ground slope in front of them where I stood. The brothers were the most surprised men I ever saw.

  They were busy getting turned, trying to give their mounts a chance to balance against the rush. The steers rampaged off to the right. First I saw Otis and his horse lifted up, then dropped, then lifted again. I heard him scream among the howl and drum of the steers. Then I saw the steers climbing Otis and his horse, and he was out of sight somewhere under his horse and among the dust. I saw his horse killed. Tom had been quicker and was out of the way.

  With the men and the horses and steers mingling and the ground near shaking with the rush, and the dust rising, a strange thing happened. This was that a red scut of blood like a hell-red rainbow came up from the center, shooting to the sky, then bending over and fanning away south. Some horn had slashed a big artery in a cow or horse. Times later I told a Mex about it, and he rolled his eyes and said it was the Whip of God. Said he had seen similar. It is possible he had.

  The way Otis screamed at first, then a low whimpering, while the steers angled off from me to my right in the natural dip of the land had me paralyzed. Then the red mess they made of Otis’s horse. For there was so many cows pronged on her with others behind coming fast that the mare was lifted up and rolled back, being ripped to pieces on top of the heads and horns. It was very unusual for Otis to be riding that little mare. I pitied her. I was sorry for all. This was more than I had figured.

  I stood there watching. Tom Boyd seemed to double back and then go on. He was trying to turn the cows toward the higher bushed places to brake them. But his double-back had been for Otis, and to yell to the others to help. They came and pulled Otis from under his dead horse, what was left, and a dead cow. Otis was in bad shape, looking half dead.

  They first set him on another horse without paying me mind, but then he slumped and they laid him across his stomach and a cowhand, coming from back, led him south toward their remuda. Tom turned and stared at me. I saw him fooling with his gun, but he did nothing with it. He looked at me and I think he called me every name I had ever heard. Then he started talking low to the men. They were talking, looking at me, then looking at what I first thought was an old tarp or wagon cover lying near Otis’s horse. Then I saw it was the old hand I knew who would never jab cattle again. I thought to myself, yes, the Boyds started it, and Otis may be hurt but if somebody is killed it would not be one of the Boyds, oh no.

  They left the man right there. I thought they were going to rush me for a while, but then all rode off. I still waited. Sure enough back soon came what I supposed was their best shot, a middle-age Mex who had grown up on the Boyd place. He got behind a rock and began to throw at me with a hard-hitting carbine. I took cover, but was not too careful, as he must have been excited, had probably been scolded too much.

  This went on for about an hour. I just let him shoot. His trigger finger must have gotten tired. But then I got tired, for it got to be considerable strain. I had hardly shot, so he got careless. When he crawled for a high spot under fair cover I caught him in the elbow and must have damaged him badly. He shot a few more times, then got on his horse and rode off fast, holding his right arm tight against him.

  I wondered what Old Man Boyd
would say to his sons about the spooked herd.

  4

  Lohman Starts across the Dry

  When I turned around I knew how much they must have hated me in the way they had shot Jimmy. Of course, it might have been a mistake. But I don’t think it was. And who shoots a man’s horse?

  Jimmy was still alive, but he kept trying to raise up on his forelegs and then he would flop back. The wound was deep in his back just even with the sheath. At my first thought of water to ease him, I looked at the water hole. The unherded cows had not touched too much of it. Two were still standing looking at it and I scared them off with their tails up.

  Trying to make up my mind about Jimmy, I began to wonder when the Boyds would be back. On the ground was the crumped-up body of the old cowhand, and I walked over to him and turned away and back. Much of him had been mashed flat.

  Now the herd was like a dust cloud and I figured that all would have their hands too full for a while to bother about me. Also so much hand gun shooting made men careless about a rifle and that and its range and accuracy always gave me something of an advantage. They knew that. But then the thought rose up—would they be back at all? Did they need to come back, and did they have that figured? I knew the waterless miles behind me, and possibly the same before. And no horse. Was that why they killed him or tried to, that is? I knew I would have to kill him.

  I began to get fairly scared.

  I looked at Jimmy. I did not want to waste a shell. Decided I had better let him go out slowly. But when I got my knife and kneeled down beside him to open a neck artery, he threw his head over my knee, looking at me, so I gave up. Moving back then, I shot him with the rifle.

  I looked at the hills and the low rising ground to the north. The hills looked small and low. Near as they might look to one who wanted to get there, they were probably three times as far.

  My limited size can was a thick pool at the bottom, after draining out for the morning coffee. Cleaning it with grass and sand as well as I could, I filled it, and then did bleed Jimmy after all, taking about a quart from his neck in a tin bottle that once had oil in it. This would possibly be for both food and drink.

  I hated to leave the saddle, so I packed it which was foolish, but cut the two saddle bags in half, carrying one, leaving the other.

  In the one bag I put the little food I had and few little things and took my rifle. What I left with Jimmy was a lot—his grain sack, half full, box of small spare rifle parts, some clothes, tent half, rope bridle and hackamore, and heavier cooking stuff. Of course, I took the spider along with the water can.

  Seemed good sense to head north toward the hills. Behind me I knew it was dry for miles. Before me the land got greener and water seemed likelier. Also, I hated to turn back. There was a good chance of getting to the Cimarron by second or third night, but I hoped to hit water before.

  I started and did pretty good till noon. But my mouth got dry, even with wetting now and then from the can. After a noon rest, I started again. It was maybe two or three to judge by the shadows. The high plains was mostly grass but dry. A lot had been grazed off or pounded down, so bare stretches were frequent.

  Just about night I looked at the hills. They seemed not much nearer. About seven when I bedded down, figuring on a big sleep to prepare for what was to come, luck was with me. There was a knob of rock stuff near and a pool with a handful or two of water in it. I dug around thinking it might be a plugged spring. This was not likely, seeing it was a plains pool, though with high ground near. It had some shade and proved to be just a rain leftover. I recalled I had seen distant rain in the morning.

  The blood I sipped at and did not try again. Too much salt and the following effects did not seem good. So I poured out the blood and half filled the bottle. I had two fair drinks from the pool besides. The water situation now could have been worse.

  Middling was how I felt the next morning. First thing, as usual, I looked well around me for the Boyds. No sign of Boyds but later I saw some distant riders to the south and tried to flag them down. I was chancing they were Boyds, but hoping they were not. They paid me no mind. Ate no breakfast, knowing that would build a thirst.

  I walked that day and well into the night. The hills got some nearer. In the next morning, it was hard for me to move, but when I stood up, I got down again quick behind my grab of bush. A big party of Indians was moving slantwise across my trail about a mile and a half on ahead. They had no baggage nor squaws with them and were moving fairly fast.

  It was plain what they had in mind. But they eased my fears about the Boyds returning. Besides knowing what I knew of Old Man Boyd—that he would trim down his sons for what I did to them and keep their minds occupied—I knew that now the Boyds would have other matters to think about.

  If these were Comanches I was watching, and I thought they were, they were looking for two things. That is, two things besides trouble. They wanted horses and cattle, and it would almost have to be Boyd cattle.

  Walked that day and well into the night. The hills got some nearer. In the morning, again it was hard for me to move. I looked at the can. What was inside did not look like water. But I got it down. My throat seemed pretty badly swole. I thought of my bacon slab, or even a dab of cooking grease I had left. I tossed the idea around quite a while because I was so hungry—Chew a section of fat for wetness. Then go crazy with the salty dryness. I finally decided against it.

  The hills, when the day got clear, seemed about forty miles off. I had to leave my saddle. Went ahead, hauling one bag.

  When I walked I got the fantods and saw Julia, my baby sister, the day she was arrow-shot. She was very clear to me and stayed a long time. Then I could see Shorty Boyd lying dead. I recalled how the whole thing started—with a glass of water I got for his girl. At her request.

  The water thoughts pushed everything else out of my mind, and I saw many filled glasses, and saw the ocean waves, too, which I had only seen in pictures.

  While stopping to rest, which I did a good deal of now, I began to notice my crease wound in the back of my thigh. When the sitdowns became more frequent I began to notice it more. I tried sitting on anything that came up from the surface of the ground with just one side of my rear.

  I started up again once after a long rest and saw new visions. Saw a tank wagon roll by with water dripping, and then a chuck wagon with a water barrel on behind, then a Mex riding with a skin full of wine on his horse.

  I looked at the slopes when my mind cleared and they and the jackpines were miles off. I followed a dry then, as it curved along, and found a puddle as big as a hoof mark. Lying down, it was hard to get at it with my mouth, but I think I got it with my tongue, if it was really there. Then I saw another and knew after investigating it was a mistake.

  Slept then and woke up cursing some, though I have never been a great hand to curse. But in my dream and later on my thinking I began to see how it was. I began to see there is a system in the world, and that people like the Boyds have it fixed for you and keep it fixed. If you have something worthwhile they will take it from you, for I had heard the Boyds early worked that way when the country was new. But if you have nothing worthwhile they will take even that, if they are a mind to.

  Because, I kept telling myself, they took my freedom first because Shorty Boyd got what he was asking from me, as everybody in their right mind said. Second they took whatever good name I might have had. Third, they took my horse by killing him. Fourth,—

  I could not think of Fourth because I was thickheaded. But when my mind got cleared and back on the track, I nearly found it. The fourth thing had not been taken yet, but would be possibly. Yes, the Boyds would take this Fourth thing.

  This is how I figured it. I said to myself I have nothing but these old clothes and this rifle. I knew they didn’t want those. So the Fourth thing is my life. They want that.

  I got to wondering then if I had figured it wrong. I thought it might be simpler. That it was just a case of the Boyds taking anythin
g that struck them worth taking. Now I had it. The Boyds were born takers. They were born to take from people who softly give.

  In my slow thinking I tried to remember something my father once told me about the way humans act. I tried to link this up with my thinking about the Boyds. I gave up. I told myself that if I got out of this, I would have long miles to think and hook up thoughts from here to Socorro. I fell asleep and dreamed and woke up shaking.

  I had dreamed over something that happened to me when my father took me to town years before. He had gone to a saloon to arrest a man and had left me in a harness shop. The Ketcham outfit took over the shop in cross-street fighting with the Grey Brothers who owned the Lazy H. Behind a barrel used for soaking leather I could see the street and the fracas. I saw two of the Grey outfit killed when they tried to run from a grocery to a saloon.

  Upstairs of the saloon was a dead prostitute. She had been shot trying to move from one window to the other over the porch roof. Her body was caught in the window. All you could see was her bustle shape. She was kneeling there half through the window with her back to us.

  The way the Ketcham men talked between shots at the Greys when they would throw a shot at her and the way her rear jumped when the slugs hit and what they said sickened me. I had never heard women talked about that way.

  When my father came for me, I became sick. He thought it was fright. I never told him it was the way the men talked about that dead girl. I wanted to kill them. I had never known what kind of men was loose in north Texas.

  Later I wished to tell my mother at home of this matter on my mind. But I did not wish to pain her, so said nothing.

  When you are down, going through difficult times, dreams hit you like this one. Gradually, I got rid of the horrors but they left a smell.

  In the long afternoon the shadows from rocks seemed to reach for me. I knew I had to make a few more miles that day but wanted to lie down and sleep. I got started in a while and forced myself.