Beyond the Crimson Skies

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  Beyond the Crimson Skies

  Paul Lederer writing as Owen G. Irons

  ONE

  The sky was on fire and the world was growing dark. The sun was not dying without a whimper. It threw angry confused colors against the clouds, complaining as the far mountains sucked it down to wither and wane behind their towering, snow-capped peaks.

  Kendo was not going down without a fight either; he had it in mind to stain the earth with the dark crimson of the traitors’ blood.

  He rode on, the hoofs of his horse making only muted, seemingly distant sounds against the muddy, buffalo-grass-dappled soil underfoot. There was not a light to be seen anywhere across the long plains. Few settlers had even tried to make a start on this remote high prairie, fewer still had made a go of it. There were no settlements that Kendo was aware of. Yet on this night, as much as he wished to avoid civilization and its watchful eyes, he wished that he might somehow find a place to rest.

  Where he might find someone with enough skill to draw the bullet from his back.

  It had promised to be a tough job to begin with. Frank Pierce was the boss’s name. He had it in mind to drive a herd of fifty horses out of Cheyenne to Drew Link’s new DL ranch along the Idaho line. Good stock was still hard to come by in the north country, but Pierce had them in abundance; Link had none, and his cattle ranch was not going to succeed without them. Link knew Frank Pierce from some previous dealings and he had written to Pierce for help, promising to pay top dollar for saddle horses, even if they were only half broken.

  Things began to fall apart almost immediately. Frank Pierce was no longer a young man, and he had gotten himself thrown by an ornery bronc and broken his hip as a result. Frank had two sons, but the older, Marcus, was only fifteen, Frank was not willing to let him try to ramrod a rough crew of men on a 300-mile drive. He was less willing to let Drew Link down. They had a deal, and Frank Pierce had given his word.

  ‘Kendo,’ Pierce had said from his bed, ‘it’s up to you. Link needs those ponies bad. I need the money. Counting on this sale in advance, I have overextended myself buying those Herefords. The horses I don’t need are grazing on the grass the Herefords will need when they get here. I’ve got to drive this herd through to Idaho Territory, or.…’ The old man’s watery eyes briefly turned away. ‘I need to have those horses pushed to Drew Link’s ranch.’

  ‘I understand,’ Kendo said sympathetically. ‘But why me, Mr Pierce? You have older hands who have been working for you a lot longer.’

  ‘Yes, and some of them have been working for me long enough to expose their shortcomings,’ Pierce answered sharply. His hands, resting on top of the blue coverlet tightened a little. ‘Just do it, Kendo. There’ll be a bonus in it for you.’

  Pierce offered Kendo six men for the job, but Kendo bargained him up to eight. It was a long and dangerous drive across hostile territory and he wanted as many sure guns as he could take along. Six hands should be enough to handle the herd, but Kendo wanted two men with keen eyes for outriders, their only task to prevent raiders from hitting them. Fifty saddle-broken horses were worth much in this country at that time. Two extra riders were not that much to ask to prevent Pierce from losing his fortune on the hoof.

  Kendo walked from the shadows of the house on to the front porch of the big white house, looking toward the sun as it fell blazing toward the western horizon. He crouched down, tipped back his hat and pondered.

  First, he needed men who were good with horses, and he had a few in mind. The Collier brothers up from Kansas had both been wranglers on a Texas ranch. When the last cattle herd had been driven to the railhead at Wichita, the two blond brothers had taken their pay and kept riding – north to Wyoming, claiming they had spent enough of their lives already looking at the rear ends of cattle.

  Hatha, he also wanted on the crew. A Bannock Indian, he was solitary and silent unless someone made mention of the Nez Perce, which tribe he hated with a ferocity he never fully explained. After fifteen years among the whites, Hatha still rode without a saddle, with only a striped blanket thrown over his paint pony’s back. It was his third paint pony. Hatha said he did not trust a horse with only one color. Again, he never explained if this was spiritual, tribal or just a personal quirk.

  After these three the choice became more difficult. There were men who were good at their jobs but with a tendency to be bunkhouse brawlers. Kendo wanted no trouble within their ranks along the trail. There were others who were frankly too old to ride 300 miles without growing weary, as handy as they were on the home ranch, There were a couple, like Frank Pierce’s own sons who were simply too young and inexperienced.

  Kendo rose and made his way toward the bunkhouse where smoke rose lazily from the iron stovepipe to blend with the settling gloom of twilight. He continued to turn the problem over in his mind as he walked past a startled cottontail rabbit which bounded away from his boots.

  The truth was there were not eight men he fully trusted. Perhaps not even six.

  Men came and went. Where they drifted in from was often anyone’s guess. No one dug deeply into a man’s past this far west. If a hand did his work and caused no trouble, that was good enough. And all a rancher could expect. There were no schoolboys on the Wyoming range – nor would they have lasted long.

  No, these men had calluses, spoke slowly and carefully, kept to themselves and took great care of their guns. Kendo knew none of them well, any more than they knew him or his own background. It was just as well.

  Entering the bunkhouse, Kendo found most of the men sitting around the dinner table, smoking after their meals had been finished. Dinner had been beef, beans and fried potatoes as it was nearly every night except Sundays when Cooky made fried chicken for them. No one ever complained about the monotony of the meals, it was a better situation than most of them had been in for a long time as far as eating and sleeping out of the weather went. Eyes lifted to the door as Kendo entered.

  Rex McColl was standing, his arms folded, leaning against the far wall. The narrow wrangler wore a thin black mustache and a constant half-smile of scorn as if he felt himself superior to every other man on the ranch, and had only landed among them due to circumstances. His friend, Charlie Weeks sat on a bunk nearby, cleaning his pistol. Neither young nor old, the yellow-haired man considered himself a crack shot. He burned dozens of practise rounds through his .44 daily.

  Facing these two was Bo Chandler. His dark eyes shifted slowly toward Kendo. Chandler was a big man with sloppy appearing muscles; but Kendo knew there was strength beneath the apparent flab on his shoulders. Chandler considered himself to be ranch foreman although Frank Pierce had never assigned him the job.

  These three Kendo had no liking for. They had ridden in together at about the same time Kendo had arrived. From where, he could not guess, but you could almost smell trouble on their backtrail. Bo Chandler ambled over to where Kendo stood, planting himself directly in front of – and too close to – Kendo.

  ‘The boys want to know if the drive’s still on now that the old man’s broke his hip.’

  ‘It is,’ Kendo told him, not backing away from Bo Chandler. ‘Mr Pierce has put me in charge of the drive. Wants me to pick out seven men to ride with me.’

  Bo Chandler frowned. ‘Why you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you go over and ask him?’ Kendo went on, speaking up so that every man could hear him. ‘Come morning let’s start pushing all the ponies into the corral. If you can’t get them all, that’s all right. The boss wants fifty head for sure, though. That’s what he’s promised to deliver to Drew Link over in Idaho. Any pony that doesn’t look quite fit, leave it behind. Same with any that have forgotten their manners.’ He looked steadily at Bo Chandler.

  ‘We don’t want any troublemakers along on the drive.’

  ‘Who’s going?’ Aaron Collier asked from his place at the table.

  ‘You are, and your brother.’ Kendo glanced at Billy Collier who nodded, sipped at his coffee and exchanged a glance with his older brother. ‘I’d like you to travel with us, Darcy,’ Kendo said, to an old trailsman who wore a fringed buckskin shirt and faded blue jeans.

  ‘Kinda old for this, isn’t he?’ Bo Chandler asked, as he turned to study the lanky man with the long graying hair.

  ‘Only if he thinks he is,’ Kendo answered, but Darcy Pitt had already nodded his agreement.

  ‘Who else?’ Rex McColl asked, still leaning lazily against the wall.

  ‘I want Hatha with us – anyone seen him?’

  ‘The Indian’s not much for socializing,’ Darcy Pitt drawled. ‘He’s probably around. As you know, he usually sleeps out.’

  ‘What about me?’ Bo Chandler said belligerently. ‘You still need three men. Why not me, Rex and Charlie Weeks here?’

  Kendo considered matters. He did not trust those three and didn’t wish to ride a long trail with the contrary Chandler. Neither did he think it was a good idea for them to be left to watch the ranch with the few men remaining and Frank Pierce laid up in bed. There was no sense in antagonizing Chandler any further. He nodded his reluctant assent.

  ‘All right,’ he finally agreed. He warned Bo, ‘Just don’t forget who’s in charge, Bo, or I’ll send you packing.’

  Bo Chandler open
ed his mouth to retort, but he said nothing. Still, a nasty gleam lingered in his black eyes. He nodded, turned away and went back to the corner of the bunkhouse where his friends waited.

  A little later as Kendo stood on the porch Darcy Pitt eased up beside him. The old plainsman wore moccasins and his movements were so stealthy as to be undetectable. If not for the smell of the black tobacco he burned in his corncob pipe, Kendo would not have even known that he was being approached.

  ‘That was a mistake,’ Darcy said in a near-whisper. He nodded toward the bunkhouse. ‘Those three were born to trouble: Bo, Rex and Weeks.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Kendo agreed. ‘What other choice was there? Pierce doesn’t want his boys along. That leaves Rush – and you know his leg is bad – young Dooley and Grant who is half blind these days if you ask me. And Cooky.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Darcy was forced to agree. He looked again to the bunkhouse. ‘Maybe it’s better to have them where we can keep a close eye on them anyway.’

  ‘You expect trouble?’ Kendo asked.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Darcy replied. ‘I was doin’ some figuring in my head. You know what fifty prime horses are worth out here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kendo said. He did exactly. He knew the price Frank Pierce had asked of Drew Link: $4,000. And Pierce was doing Link a favor. A few of their very good horses could have been sold for a hundred apiece, maybe more.

  ‘A bunch of hold-up men could make more taking the herd than they’d likely get from a stage stick-up,’ Darcy Pitt said, knocking the dottle out of his pipe by tapping it on his bootheel. He nodded toward the barracks. ‘And the rumor I hear … those three have had some experience in that line of work.’

  ‘It would take more than three men to grab the herd,’ Kendo said.

  ‘Maybe there are more,’ Darcy said quietly. ‘Have you thought of that?’ Then he nodded, put his pipe in his pocket and wished Kendo goodnight.

  Morning held bright and clear, with only a few mammoth white clouds drifting peacefully past. A light breeze shuffled the long grass. Most of the crew was already out gathering the horses. Kendo had given his instructions to Cooky who was to pack provisions for the drive. These would be carried by the ranch’s ten-year old gray mare. It was hoped she would follow the herd willingly so that no one would have to be assigned to take charge of her.

  Wandering toward the corral, Kendo looked over the few horses that had already been penned. He took a minute to remind Billy Collier to make sure none of them appeared lame or ill and that there was no mare heavily in foal among them. He had already told the ranch hands that, but sometimes men needed reminding. Knowing that they had only this one job to complete on this morning, a few of them might have gotten eager to finish the round-up and laze the rest of the day away.

  That done, Kendo checked the stock of ammunition, hoping that they would have no cause to burn all of it and then walked across the sun-bright yard for a last meeting with Frank Pierce. The old man looked no better. Still frail, his face was papery. His white hair was spread unevenly across his pink scalp. He shifted uncomfortably from time to time in his bed as they spoke. His hip was obviously causing him considerable pain. Kendo pulled up a wooden chair and sat near the old man’s bed. Pierce enquired about the weather, asked what Kendo’s plans were and was briefly answered.

  Pierce closed his eyes for a moment and said through dry lips, ‘You know, Kendo, I’ll be wrecked if this drive doesn’t get through. I’ll have lost my horses. The cattle are due to be delivered starting next month. If I can’t pay for them with the proceeds from this sale … well, I’ll be left with a lot of grass and little else to show for my twenty years on this range.’

  ‘I realize that, sir,’ Kendo said, handing the old man a glass of water from which he sipped.

  ‘It’s as if I’ve handed you my wallet to hold for me, Kendo. I trust you that much, but I also know that much can go wrong.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Pierce. I’ll handle it.’

  Could he? Kendo wondered, as he stepped outside again to watch Aaron Collier hieing three new horses into the pen. What if he did fail? The old man had gambled all on this drive. And it was an uncertain proposition.

  He walked over to the horse pen to watch the Collier brothers at their work. If not for the two or three years’ difference in their ages, they might have passed for twins – both freckled with reddish hair sawn off at the shoulders, both with slightly upturned noses and guileless eyes. Aaron, the older brother, chided Billy over something and both men laughed. Kendo walked on without stopping to speak to them.

  Into the yard now rode Big Bo Chandler and Rex McColl, pushing but two ponies – a blue roan and a leggy sorrel before them. They seemed to be in no hurry, or perhaps they were leaving the bulk of the labor to the other hands. Bo Chandler muttered something to McColl and the man with the narrow mustache shifted his scornful eyes toward Kendo and muttered something back. As they passed, Kendo wished again that he did not have to take these two and their pal, Charlie Weeks, along on the drive, but there had really been no choice in the matter.

  Darcy Pitt and Hatha came into the yard now, driving four horses and the scout lifted a hand in greeting. The old plainsman wore his long, graying hair tied back into a tail with a bit of leather thong. Hatha, expressionless as usual, glanced at Kendo, but the Bannock did not smile, wave or lift a hand in passing. His concentration was only on his work, his little paint pony shouldering a jittery roan which suddenly balked at being fenced in, turning the animal back.

  By noon, the work had been completed. Kendo tallied the ponies once again, double-checked for any infirm horses among them, and wandered back to the bunkhouse where most of the men waited dismounted.

  ‘All right, boys,’ Kendo told them. ‘Get your lunch and see to your gear. Two men stand watch at the pen so we don’t have any breakouts. Everyone will take a turn. Relief every two hours.’

  Later, as the men sat drinking coffee – Kendo had banned whiskey on this night and on the drive – he stood up and explained things to the hands.

  ‘This is the way we’re going to work it, men. Hatha and Darcy Pitt will be outriders, north and south, watching for any trouble.’

  ‘While we do the work,’ Bo Chandler grunted.

  ‘It’ll be easier to do if you don’t have to spend your time looking over your shoulder for Indians or other raiders,’ Kendo said, restraining his voice. ‘I’m going to take point. The rest of you on the flanks. The ponies might be a little frisky the first day or so, wishing to return to home range, but, like cattle, they’ll settle in after a while and want to stick to the herd.’

  ‘Are we expecting trouble?’ Billy Collier asked.

  ‘We have to. I haven’t heard of the Cheyenne or Shoshone kicking up’ – he glanced at Hatha who shook his head – ‘and it’s pretty well known that the Nez Perce are making their way toward Canada. But you never know. There’s always a few renegades.’

  ‘If Indians attack, there’ll be a lot of shooting,’ Darcy Pitt put in, around the stem of his pipe. ‘Indians don’t care if the herd scatters far and wide. In time the horses will find each other again. Indians just need to gather them as they come across them. If it’s whites, now.…’

  ‘What if it’s whites?’ Bo Chandler asked, with some belligerence.

  Darcy answered him. ‘Horse-thieves won’t want the herd scattered. There’s too much chance someone could catch up with them before they could gather the horses again. What they’d try to do, with as little commotion as possible, is to pick off their guardians – us – one by one.

  ‘All right,’ Kendo said. ‘Meeting’s over unless there are questions. No? Then double-check your weapons, turn in early, get some sleep. It’s going to be a long trail.’

  ‘How’m I supposed to get to sleep without my whiskey?’ Charlie Weeks complained.

  ‘No whiskey, Charlie. If you can’t sleep, I’ll let you take ceiling watch.’

  Aaron Collier laughed; his brother smiled. No one else found it amusing, especially Charlie Weeks, who gave Kendo a scathing glance before stalking to his bunk where he sullenly disassembled his Colt revolver before oiling it.

  Hatha had gathered up his blanket and rifle and started toward the door.