Hell's Gate (Ben Blue Book 8) Read online

  For no rational reason I gave Smoke a gentle but firm kick and we plunged down the trail to hell.

  Chapter 19

  We plunged down the trail and into the last place in the world I wanted to be, but I had the idea I could overtake Mathers if I could stay out of the middle, I could catch up with him along the edge. I didn’t expect the dust to be as heavy along the sloping bank.

  Right away we were in it up to the fetlocks. It was just like powder almost without weight. The particles merely floated everywhere on any current of wind. They were kicked up by the hooves and kept afloat by our passing. What little wind we created took the dust high into the air and then let it drift down.

  A walking pace created less dust, but I would never intercept Mathers at such a pace. I settled on a slow lope. Keeping as low as my size would allow, I created less air resistance than if I’d been upright. If we kept moving at that pace, maybe we’d stay ahead of the choking dust.

  I heard Mathers’ horse blow and snort, not far away, but they were hidden by the dust. I couldn’t see a thing where they were. Then they started moving away. They were lost… totally lost. Mathers couldn’t tell north from south. It was worse than a snow storm. At least in a snow storm you had wind for a reference. If I knew which direction the wind was blowing, chances were good you’d know if it changed and adjust to the change.

  But Mathers and his horse were totally lost. We slowed to a quick walk and then we stopped and listened. The sounds were coming back toward us. That poor animal was almost screaming in panic and fear. If Curley lost control, that horse would run itself to death trying to get out of the dust. I was surprised the animal hadn’t started trying to buck the extra weight off. He may not have enough strength left. He may only be getting half the air he needs.

  Then I saw something I hadn’t considered before. An ancient wash had cut through the bank. It could have been the main water source for the lake. It was wide and deep. I had no idea how far into the lake it had carried enough water to cut such a channel. It could go on for a mile or more, and it could be two feet deep or it could be twenty feet deep. Either way, it would be filled with dust. And it would either cause the horse to stumble and fall, or it could consume horse and man both.

  Ben, I told myself, this was a bad idea… when will you quit trying to do it all? I knew his chances of getting out of this mess were slim to none. He would die here and justice would be served, but I had to try to take him in. When he made a break for it, I took it personal… It was not a shining moment in my life.

  What I knew was I wasn’t going any farther… I’d not risk the life of this fine horse or my own, just because a prisoner escaped. I had too much to live for. That’s when I heard them coming back. Curley wasn’t going to stop because I pointed a gun at him and told him to. Truth be known, I doubted if he could stop… the horse was in control and Curley wasn’t making any decisions. So instead of pulling my gun, I pulled my rope and built a loop. If I had a chance, I’d try; otherwise I’d call it over and go back empty handed.

  Listening, I could tell they were behind me and moving away. I was in the process of turning to head back when they broke out of the dust. The poor animal was plumb loco with fear. What was a shiny bay a half hour ago was a sweat soaked and dust plastered beast flinging its head trying to shake the dust packs from its nostrils.

  The panicked animal bolted and came right at me. As they passed by, Smoke was in motion and I let go of the loop. It landed where I wanted it to, and my big gray was sliding to a stop, with all fours digging into the loose dirt. The rope went taut and Curley Mathers was snatched from the saddle just as his once good horse disappeared into no telling how many feet of dust… I almost wished I had let Curley go down with it. I could imagine his horse kicking and struggling to get a footing. But there was no sign of movement and there was no sound.

  Curley was a model prisoner coming out of that hell. He didn’t complain about the dust or the fact he had to walk. His red rimmed eyes were like burning embers, which had been sunken in a dust caked face. He just stared straight ahead, as he followed along behind at the end of the rope… He knew he had gone into hell and came out again only to face it once more on a gallows.

  Going back up the bank at Hell’s gate, I had to practically drag Mathers. It wasn’t that he was resisting. He was a beaten man stumbling along wherever he was pulled. I climbed out of the saddle and took a look at my big gray. He looked almost like a dun. Then I looked down at myself and saw that I was completely covered with tawny dust.

  Stevens and Coaker had taken Mathers to the horse trough for a dunking. I led Smoke to the spring and rinsed him with water from the barrel, then I dumped a bucket on myself. I felt better, and I suspected that Smoke felt a little better… He had done big job out there.

  We stayed around Hell’s Gate for about a half an hour. Some of the things we had left in camp were never found. It was mostly pots and pans, blankets, and a ground sheet. We’d just accept the losses and move on. A few Navajo families were a wee bit better off. After all, whether Claybrook or I would talk about it or not, we were on their reservation.

  They put Mathers on Bob Cutter’s horse, and we headed for Junction City. I figured we had a little better than sixty miles to go. That meant two days on the trail. Two days before we could arrest Copeland and recover the money lost in the hold up, the money that had cost too many lives. But it was money that belonged to Patty Anne’s grandpa and her two best friends.

  I didn’t worry about the ranch, Tom Grayson… Gracy was a good foreman and ran the ranch as well as anyone could. We had a good crew. They were a tough bunch, who wouldn’t tolerate anybody messing with anything that belonged to the MB. But I missed Patty Anne and the little ones, and I missed Maria’s cooking… I reckon I was a little bit homesick.

  The closer we got to Junction City, the more anxious the prisoners got, except for Johnny Speers and Curley Mathers. They both seemed to be dead men already. They had both accepted their fate. Some of the others bore watching. We would bind them hand and foot for the one night we would spend on the trail with them.

  Their nerves were raw, they snapped and yelled at each other, and kept an eye on where we were at all times. It would be a miracle if any of them escaped the gallows, so their only chance was to escape before they faced it. With that in mind, we doubled the normal watch.

  There were six of us, so we set the watches for two hours each and two men to a shift. That way none of our crew would be as likely to fall asleep, as they could on a three hour watch. It was a good bet that few of the prisoners would be doing much sleeping. There wasn’t much chance of an attack from the outside, so the men could concentrate on what was happening in camp. Due to lack of firewood or burnable material, the fire was kept low, but it should have been enough to keep an eye on things.

  I had little worry that Mathers would even try to escape, and Johnny Speers had accepted his fate. But Speers was also an opportunist, and he would run if there was half a chance. My fears lay with the other four, they were still alive and that meant they were a flight risk. Fagin O’Dowd was pretty much shot up, but if he could get on a horse he would stay there. Parsons was on edge, he’d be one to watch. Rio Sanchez was dinged up but nothing serious, he was quick and crafty, with no regard for the others. If there was any kind of distraction, Sanchez would be gone.

  But the one I worried most about was the silent one. Jesse Peters wasn’t a flashy gunfighter nor was he a tough looking hombre. What he looked like, was a big Texas diamond back laying in the shade of a bush waiting for something to come within striking distance. His hooded black eyes never stopped moving, and his expression never changed. While others were bemoaning their fate and snapping at one another, Peters never said a word… not one word for nearly a day and a night. He was as hard to read as Rubio.

  It was nigh onto three o’clock, when something pulled me from my uneasy sleep. I get that way, when I know I’d have to get up soon. I opened my eyes and took
in the whole camp. Then I started checking each sector in detail. The prisoners were directly across from me, and I unconsciously counted the sleeping men. The bedrolls were there but one seemed to be empty. Picturing the order in my mind, I counted them left to right. It was Parsons of the fancy horse hide vest.

  By the time I was on my feet, my eyes had started adjusting to the dark and I could see the form of a man pointing at something on the ground. I was hoping that whoever it was would be pointing at Parsons. I threw my gunbelt over my shoulder and carried my rifle as I headed around the fire in my sock feet. When I had the fire behind me, I could tell it was Sandy Corbel standing there pointing a six-gun at Parsons or somebody wearing his vest.

  When I approached, I could hear Parsons begging for his life and Corbel didn’t seem to be hearing him. Sandy stood statue still like a duelist with his feet spread sideways. His right arm extended, and the hammer was drawn back. The trigger had been squeezed, and if he eased his thumb, even a tiny bit, Parsons’ brains would be splattered across the immediate landscape.

  Coming up on him from the rear, I told him softly, “It’s all right Sandy. Just ease that hammer down… you can watch him hang… you can stay for the trial… I’ll square it with Charlie Clark and Sam… Just don’t be a fool. You pull that trigger, and he wins. He’s going to die anyway… That’s what courts are for.”

  Parsons had the good sense to shut up while I was pleading his case. He just knelt there with his eyes clamped tight and I could see the shine of tears on his cheeks.

  “Ben, he stood like I’m standing and pumped bullet after bullet into Kelly…And before I could do anything, I was shot down. I couldn’t stand it if he was turned loose… I’d have to kill him right then and there.”

  “You do that, and I’ll hire you a good lawyer.” And I would.

  Sandy was coming to his senses and lifted his Colt, but as he was easing the hammer down, it slipped and sent a .44 piece of lead flying in the direction of the big dipper. I heard somethin out in the desert. It could have been anything from a maverick steer to a Navajo sheep. The camp was awake and sleeping men were jumping to their feet looking all around trying to find the problem.

  “It’s alright fellas…” I told them in a loud voice. “Mister Parsons was plannin’ to take a moonlight ride…. But Sandy Corbel told him there wasn’t enough moon light to enjoy himself. So Mister Parsons changed his plans.”

  “Who was your partner on watch?” I asked Corbel.

  He thought for a second and said, “Coaker.”

  I looked over the half lit faces trying to find Coaker’s, but it wasn’t to be found. I was about to ask if anyone had seen him when Flynn took exception to the fact that Jesse Peters could sleep through all the commotion.

  “Here… You… Jesse Peters. If I’m not gettin’ me beauty sleep, ye’ll no be gettin’ any.”

  With that he shoved the sleeping man with his boot, and rolled him over. As the blanket moved and the face appeared, it wasn’t Peter’s dark and surly face but the youthful tanned face of Davy Coaker. He’d been stabbed under the heart with a thin long bladed knife.

  A quick check showed that Peters’ horse was gone. That must have been what I heard out in the desert. He must have been leading it until he heard the shot and then lit out. I had my boots and hat on in no time and was throwing the saddle on Smoke.

  “You can’t trail him in the dark.” Claybrook scolded. “Wait till you got some light to work with.”

  “He’s crafty, and he’s counting on me waiting. I know where he started, and I’ll have enough moon to follow on foot, till it gets light. It’ll give me that much of a start. Have someone pack my bedroll and I’ll catch up… Keep going, the sooner we get this bunch in their cells the better I’ll like it.”

  I was in the saddle and heading to where I’d heard movement earlier out in the dark. When I got close to where I thought he should have started, I dismounted and began casting about for tracks. I was maybe a hundred yards short, but sound can be deceiving at night. I figured it was twenty minutes well spent. This wasn’t an area of true desert. The soil was dry for sure, but it wasn’t sand. It was more like a thin cracked layer of crust atop a loose poor soil waiting only for rain to bring grass and flowers.

  The grass that was there grew in clumps and bunches of clumps, and it showed precious little green coloring. The usual dry country brush and cactus were present. It wasn’t prime cattle country, but given enough land and a little water it could be raised there.

  With so little ground cover, and the light color of the crusty soil, the little bit of moonlight went a long way. The ground under the crust was a shade or two darker than on the surface. That made it possible to follow at a fast walk. Peters was pulling away from me, but not as far or as fast has he would have if I’d waited.

  Jesse Peters had seen me go after Mathers in that dusty hell, so he knew I’d be coming after him. He was desperate to get away, and that meant either losing himself, or losing whoever comes for him. In this country, there was no where he could go without leaving a trail. So he would have to stop the pursuer. And that meant me.

  I could expect an ambush, so I’d have to keep weary of anything that would give him cover and would present an easy target. Something like riding through a gap or a pass. There were no high mountain passes, but broken country can have its share of gaps and convenient rock formations.

  The sun was coming up and I was able to follow the tracks like they were part of a well marked trail. As long as I was riding in open country, I felt comfortable pressing harder. The big gray had a lot of heart and the muscle to back it up. Now, we were gaining ground. Peters had been pressing his advantage all during the night time hours, but his horse had to be feeling the effects of the pace.

  Chapter 20

  By the time the sun was fully flooding our world with light and warmth. I could tell we were closing the gap. His horse’s strides were shorter and he was stopping from time to time to give it rest.

  I could take the advantage of the open ground and give the big boy a little freedom to find his own pace, and he did. We’d been moving along at a nice comfortable lope, but when I eased up, he found a whole new in-between speed. He was eating up ground at a pace only second to a full gallop.

  Reining him in now and then, I tried to save some of that energy and power for a run when it was needed. I pulled in to the shade of a volcanic rock formation, it was more for me than for him, but he could use some rest and a little water. I’d taken one of Flynn’s canteens, which gave us three to carry us until we found water. I gave him a hatful, and I took a couple swallows for myself.

  While he was enjoying the shade and water, I went out in the open to have a look at the tracks left by the Peters’ horse. It was almost a walking stride. And it wasn’t Peters’ choice. I could see where the rider had kicked the horse into a faster pace, only to have it slow down again. Now was the time for caution. He couldn’t outrun pursuit so he would have to stop the pursuit if he wanted to live to a ripe old age.

  The landscape was changing from wide open to broken by ridges, buttes, gulches, and those huge pieces of black volcanic rock. Many of those rocks have almost square sides, like split wood. It looked like they had broken along the grain…curious. I’d seen the lava runs that were like huge black snakes, but I hadn’t seen this before.

  Some of those blocks were no bigger than a box of matches, but some were as big as a hotel, with others piled on and around them. Any one of those piles would be a good spot to bushwhack someone.

  I would have to be one step ahead of Peters, or I wouldn’t be going home. Riding well away from those piles, gave me some amount of security. It wasn’t like I was staying as far as a half mile away. That would be too far to follow the tracks, but I rode far enough away to make for a tough shot. As I cleared those piles, I would go back and find the trail again.

  It was slow going, but at most he was only a few miles ahead of me. Then I saw a speck well ahead of me… It
was only a speck on a tawny landscape. I pulled out my field glasses and took a look. The best they could tell me was to confirm the speck to be something like a man on a horse. It could be a buffalo with a huge hump, but I didn’t think so.

  Kicking Smoke into a run, we proceeded to close the gap. I wanted to get close enough for a flat out run to the finish. If I could get close without his knowledge, I could run him down. From the way his horse was laboring, it wouldn’t be much of a run.

  It crossed my mind that he had taken Coaker’s six-gun and rifle, so he was well armed. Although, to hit anything from the back of a moving horse meant you were either a circus performer or you used up a lot of cartridges. I was counting on him not being a circus performer.

  As I got closer, I was able to see him clearer, but through the haze his horse looked ten feet tall. The way he was slumping in the saddle, he looked in worse shape than the horse. I wasn’t more than a couple hundred yards back and gaining ground fast.

  His head came up and he looked around, he had heard me. In regard to my earlier comment about shooting from a moving horse, I should add that the odds got considerably better the closer you got…. And I was getting close.

  Turning his head, he saw me. There was nothing left to do but try and run him down. I gave Smoke a bit of heel and we were off to the races. He was trying to get speed where there was none. Trying to turn and shoot was every bit as difficult as it looked, and thankfully he wasn’t any good at it. He shot five times, and then threw the weapon at me.

  I could have easily shot into him from where I was coming up on his left flank, but I didn’t come all this way to kill him. I came all this way to catch him. My rope had served me well the day before in the devil’s lake. So why not try it again. I could see him reaching for the rifle that would be in the boot. It wasn’t my intention to let him jack it, turn, and fire.