The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle Read online

  “How d’you figure that?” Robley asked. He had believed he was a good man on a trail, yet he had seen very little since leaving town, while Bowdrie had ridden right along, only occasionally pointing out something he had seen.

  “Twice he’s swung too far west, and he’s swung back until he’s lined up on that butte. He’s travelin’ fast, so if he knew about that trail, he’d be usin’ it. He wouldn’t be afraid of meetin’ anybody in this rain. Far as that goes, the trail isn’t used much, anyway.”

  The three men rode on. Sam Butler had seen more than Robley, but not as much as Bowdrie. Tom’s eyes were hollow from lack of sleep.

  “He’s got some help somewhere ahead,” Bowdrie commented, “or else he’s a damn fool. No man in his right mind would run a horse like he has his unless he knew there was another waitin’ for him. He’s headin’ right into that wasteland of the Horse Thief Mesa country.”

  The sun lifted over the brow of the hill and threw lances of sunlight across the sagebrush levels. Ahead lay the waste of Tobosa Flat, a flat stretch of creosote bush, tobosa, and burro grass. Here even the showers of the previous night had not settled the dust.

  It was very hot. Their passing raised a dust cloud. If the man they pursued was watching his back trail, he knew he was followed. Then Bowdrie spotted the bush and rode over to it.

  “Tied his horse here. Prob’ly either a stolen horse or one he just got hold of. It doesn’t like him and he doesn’t trust it. He tied fast instead of ground-hitching, an’ when he started to get back into the saddle, it acted up. But let’s see what he did when he got down from the saddle.”

  They trailed boot tracks to a nest of boulders on a low hill. There the man had knelt in the damp sand while watching his back trail. Had he seen them? They had not reached the dusty part at that time.

  “Maybe daybreak, or right after. The first time he could see good, he stopped to look back.” Bowdrie indicated a mark in the sand near where he had knelt. “Carries a rifle. Judging by the print of the butt plate, it could be a Winchester or a Henry, but that’s just guessing.”

  He indicated the length of the man’s stride. “Six feet tall, I’d say, weighs about one-seventy. Got a run-down heel on his right boot, and pretty badly run down. By the look of his tracks, I’d say he had something wrong with that leg. Else he’s got an odd way of walkin’.”

  He went back to the bush where their own horses waited. He picked a black hair from the mesquite bush. “Black mane an’ tail. From the stride I’d say about fourteen hands high. We’ll have a picture of him real soon.”

  Butler agreed. Then he added, “You’re like an Injun on a trail. Part of that trail back there I couldn’t even see, yet you kept right on a-goin’.”

  “Instinct, maybe,” Bowdrie said. “You pick up little things. Man on the run will usually keep to low ground until he wants to look back.”

  The desert became wilder and more barren. The mesquite thinned out and there was more burro grass. Even that became less and then they dipped down into a sandy draw littered with boulders. The man they followed had slowed to a walk here and Bowdrie did likewise. Pausing, he held up a hand for silence.

  Nothing.

  They rode up the slight incline and then the roan stopped suddenly, nervously.

  Across the small, still pool of Pistol Rock Spring stood a bay horse; however, Bowdrie was not looking at the horse but at the sprawled body of a man. He had been shot three times through the stomach by somebody who could use a six-gun. The three holes in his chest might have been covered by a silver dollar.

  The coffeepot lay on its side, most of the contents spilled into the sand. The dead man’s gun was in its holster, and not far from the tethered bay was a saddle, but no rifle or scabbard.

  “The man we followed must have killed this man for his horse,” Butler suggested.

  “No,” Bowdrie said, “this is the man who killed Irwin. His partner waited here, shot him, and rode off with the loot.

  “Look. See that run-down heel? An’ the height and weight are about right. The other gent sat right over yonder. He let this man pick up the coffeepot in his right hand and then he shot him.”

  Bowdrie walked around the fire and the pool. There were the prints of boots, pointed toward the pool. The man had squatted here, his back against the rock, and from there he had killed the newcomer.

  He glanced around. Tom Robley was staring at the dead man; he looked pale and shocked. “That’s Jim Moody!” he said.

  Butler came over and looked at the dead man’s face. “That’s Jim, all right. He was always a pretty good hand. Shot dead, an’ he never had a chance.”

  Butler looked up. “Why, I wonder? Why would his own partner kill him?”

  “Money. Moody held up Irwin an’ killed him, but for all this second man knew, Moody was seen. But he didn’t care. Moody pulled off the hold-up, now this second man has all the loot. He’s got twelve thousand dollars and he’s scot-free.”

  “And we don’t know anything about him,” Butler said.

  “We know a couple of things. He’s a dead shot with a pistol, and he’s left-handed. Also, he was somebody who knew Jim Moody.”

  “Left-handed?” Robley asked.

  “He sat with his back braced against that rock, waitin’. He smoked cigarettes. Now, you just take a look at those two stubs of cigarettes and the burned matches. They are on the left side of the fire. If he was right-handed, they would be on the right side.

  “He waited, smokin’, and he flipped the cigarette stubs an’ matches into the fire. Some didn’t make it.

  “Somethin’ here I don’t understand. The killer took Moody’s saddle. He was ridin’ a bronc saddle with an undercut fork. That saddle was dropped right over yonder an’ you can see where the fork butted into the wet sand. He also took the rifle Moody had.”

  “It figures,” Butler agreed. “So far as I know, Moody never rode over this way. He rode for the Circle W away the other side of town. He never rode in except to see his girl. I doubt if he knew anything about this part of the country.”

  “Somethin’ else that’s curious. That mark to the right side of his right boot. That mark was made by a holster touching the sand. Now, if this gent is left-handed, why does he wear his gun on the right side?

  “Unless … unless he wears it for a cross-draw? If he wore that gun in front of his right hip an’ had his right side toward a man, he could draw almighty fast.”

  Tom Robley’s head came up sharply, his eyes filled with a dawning realization. Bowdrie stared at him. “Tom, d’you know anybody like that?”

  Robley flushed. “I ain’t sure,” he muttered. “I just ain’t sure.”

  Bowdrie looked down at the dead man, but in his mind he was studying the young deputy. Robley had been acting very strange. His reaction to this situation was odd, and had been so from the beginning. Since they had found Jim Moody’s body he had seemed upset, almost frightened.

  What could Tom Robley know? Did he have a clue they did not possess? Always, in any criminal situation, human passions and feelings are involved, and Bowdrie knew too little of the townspeople and their relationships with each other.

  Bowdrie mounted and began casting for a trail. He knew he had his work cut out for him. The killer did not intend to be followed and was using every trick in the book. He had brushed out the tracks where his horse had stood waiting, so there were no identifying tracks. Nearby there was a wide, rocky shelf several acres in extent where he would leave no tracks. Searching for the place where he left the rock shelf, Bowdrie found nothing.

  After two hours of fruitless searching Bowdrie sat his saddle looking out over a waste of scattered tar bush, yeso, and tobosa. There was no trail.

  Tom Robley suddenly broke the silence. “I’m headin’ for town. Nothin’ more to be done here.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back toward town.

  Butler stared after him. “Now, what’s eatin’ that youngster? Never seen him cut up so.”

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nbsp; Bowdrie was concerned with the matter at hand. Moody was dead and Robley would report it in town. But what did he know about the man they must now pursue? That he was utterly ruthless, left-handed, and knew this desert well. The rock shelf was no accident. The man had planned well. That was indicated by his choice of a meeting place. Bowdrie gestured toward Moody’s body. “He was a tool, Butler. The real criminal is the man who killed him. He worked all this out ahead of time.”

  Bowdrie was searching for more than an obvious trail across the desert. He was trying to find the trail left by the man’s secret thoughts. Each move the man made helped to outline his character. His cold-blooded planning indicated he did not intend to leave the country. If he had so planned, he would have paid less attention to his trail and just kept going.

  He had been looking, looking … His eyes caught at something tangled in the cat claw. It was a low clump of the brush growing close to the ground. One of its vicious thorns had caught …

  Burlap!

  He held up the thin strand to Butler. “Wrapped his horse’s hooves in burlap sacking so’s it would leave no trail. No wonder we couldn’t find where he left the rock shelf.”

  He swung to the saddle. “Sam, that gent, whoever he is, won’t be wanderin’ around. He won’t travel fast with that sackin’ on his horse’s hooves. From here there’s just three trails that lead to water. To Horse Thief Mesa, to Casa Piedras, or to someplace on the upper Cibolo.”

  “My guess would be either of the first two. He wouldn’t be gettin’ noplace goin’ up to Cibolo.”

  Bowdrie agreed. “You take the Casa Piedras trail. I’ll head for the mesa. Scout for some of that burlap fiber, or tracks. If you see any, holler or give a shot.”

  They separated and Bowdrie began painstakingly to search the desert, yet scarcely ten minutes had gone by when he heard a long cowboy yell from Butler. When he rode over to him Butler pointed out a thin thread of burlap caught on some prickly pear.

  For an hour they followed at a walk, picking up occasional smudges or signs of passage. Suddenly the trail they followed merged with a cattle trail and the ground was torn by their passing.

  Butler swore. “Lost him! Too many critters come this way.”

  “We’ll follow along. He’ll get rid of that burlap soon, I think.”

  A mile farther they found it, half-buried in hurriedly kicked-up sand. Bowdrie picked it from the sand, shook it out, and brought it along. From time to time as they rode he turned it over as if trying to read something from the sacking itself. Then he stowed it in one of his half-empty saddlebags.

  In Casa Piedras Bowdrie called to a Mexican boy. “Want to feed and water these horses? Then bring them back and tie them here.” He tossed the boy a bright silver dollar.

  Bowdrie glanced at a horse hitched nearby as Butler joined him on the walk. “That steel-dust’s wearing a bronc saddle with an undercut fork,” he commented, “and the horse has been ridden hard.”

  “Let’s eat,” Butler suggested. “I’m hungry as a Panhandle wolf!”

  It was boardinghouse style, and Bowdrie seated himself, turning a cup right-side-up, then reaching for the coffee. Another hand reached at the same time and only Chick’s dexterity prevented the pot from being upset. Bowdrie looked around into a pair of frosty blue eyes. The man had reached for the pot with his left hand. Chick smiled.

  “Help yourself!” he suggested. “Coffeepots are bad luck when they are upset.”

  Sam Butler nodded sagely. He speared a triple thickness of hotcakes and lifted them to his plate. “Sure is. Wust kind of bad luck.”

  The frosty eyes turned ugly. For an instant they flickered to the badge on Butler’s chest, then shifted to Bowdrie.

  “Uh-huh,” Bowdrie agreed. “I knew a gent once who got drilled right through the heart whilst holding a coffeepot in his right hand. Never had a chance.”

  “Sho nuff?” A big blond cowhand at the end of the table glanced up. “A man surely couldn’t let go of a pot fast enough, could he?”

  “That’s what the murderer figured,” Bowdrie replied. “This just happened a few hours ago, over at Pistol Rock Springs.”

  The cowhand stared but the man with the frosty blue eyes continued to eat. “Been to those springs many a time,” the cowhand said. “Who was it got hisself killed?”

  “Name of Jim Moody. He robbed the stage station over yonder last night, shot John Irwin, then cut across country to the spring. His partner was waitin’, an’ the way he was ridin’, I figure Moody expected his partner had a fresh horse waitin’. Instead of that he got lead for breakfast. This partner of his shot him, took the money, and lit out.”

  “Now, that’s a dirty skunk if I ever heard of one!” the blond cowhand said. “He ought to be hung! Hell, I knew Jim Moody! He used to spark that Boling gal from over the way. Seen him at dances, many’s the time.” He turned to the man with the frosty blue eyes. “Sho, Al! I reckon you won’t be none put out. I’ve heard tell there was a time you was sweet on that Boling gal yourself!”

  Al shrugged. “Talked to her a few times, that’s all. Same as you did.”

  Something clicked in Bowdrie’s brain. Al … Al Harshman, a rancher. The ambitious one.

  Al got to his feet. “I’ll be ridin’,” he said, to nobody in particular. Then he asked, “How much did he get away with?”

  “Twelve thousand,” Bowdrie replied, his face inscrutable. Al was wearing his gun on the right side, butt forward, and pulled slightly to the front. “But he won’t have it long, Harshman. He left a plain trail.”

  Harshman stiffened angrily and seemed about to reply, then turned toward the door. He glanced back. “I wouldn’t want the job of trailin’ him,” he commented. “He might prove right salty if cornered.”

  “When a man is murdered without a chance,” Bowdrie commented, “we Rangers make it a point of honor to hunt him down. A Ranger will get that killer if it is the last thing he ever does.”

  “Rangers can die.”

  “Of course, but we never die alone.” Bowdrie smiled. “We always like to take somebody with us.”

  When he had gone outside, Butler glanced over at Bowdrie. “How’d you know his name was Harshman?”

  “He looked like a harsh man,” Bowdrie replied, smiling.

  Strolling to the porch outside, Bowdrie sat down on the bench after retrieving the burlap sacking from the saddlebag. He began to go over it with painstaking care. The Mexican boy who had returned the horses stood watching, eyes bright with curiosity. “What you look for, señor?”

  “Somethin’ to tell me who the hombre was who used this sack. Nobody uses anything for long without leaving his mark on it.”

  The outside of the sacking was thick with damp sand; much more must have come off in his saddlebags, Bowdrie reflected unhappily. Stretching the fibers, he searched them with keen eyes. Suddenly the Mexican boy reached over and plucked a gray hair from the sacking, then another.

  “So? He had a gray or steel-dust horse, Pedro?”

  “The name is Miguel, señor,” the boy protested, very seriously. He bent over the sack, pointing at a fragment of blue clay. “See? It is blue. The sack has lain near a well.”

  “Near a well, Pedro? Why do you say that?”

  “The name is Miguel, señor. Because there is the blue clay. Always in this country there is blue clay in the hole of wells, señor. Always, it is so.”

  “Thanks, Pedro. You’d make a good Texas Ranger.”

  “I? A Texas Ranger? You think so, señor?” His expression changed. “But, señor, the name is not Pedro. It is Miguel. Miguel Fernández.”

  “All right, Pedro.” Bowdrie stood up. “Just as you say.”

  He glanced once more at the sacking, and suddenly, in the crease near the seam, he noticed a tiny fragment of crushed, somewhat oily pulp. He took it out, studied it, then folded it into a cigarette paper.

  “Wait for me,” he said to Butler.

  Swiftly he crossed the street to the store. A little
old man with gold-rimmed spectacles looked up. Bowdrie asked him a question, then another. The old man replied, studying him curiously.

  Bowdrie walked back to Butler. “Let’s go. I think we’ve got our man. I only hope we’ll be in time.”

  “In time?” Butler asked. “In time for what?”

  The Mexican boy caught his hand. “Señor!” he pleaded. “If I am to be a Ranger, you must know my name! It is Miguel! Miguel Fernández!”

  Bowdrie chuckled and handed him another dollar. “If you say so, Pedro! Miguel it is! Adiós, Pedro!”

  He swung to the saddle and started out of town, Butler beside him. “In time for what?” he repeated.

  “To prevent another killing,” Bowdrie told him.

  “Robley knew,” Bowdrie continued. “He guessed it when he saw the dead man was Jim Moody. He knew who it was when I said the killer was left-handed. He was away ahead of us.”

  “You think it was Harshman? But how could he have known about the money? For that matter, how did Moody find out?”

  The desert flat gave way to rising ground, the hillsides scattered with juniper. The sage had taken on a deeper color and there were clumps of grama grass. Chick dipped into an arroyo and skirted a towering wall of red sandstone, into a shaded canyon, then across another flat. The trail dipped again and they rode into the yard of a lonely ranch house. Nearby there were several pole corrals and three saddled horses.

  Bowdrie dropped to the ground. As his feet touched the earth, Al Harshman stepped from the door. Narrow-eyed, faint perspiration showing on his brow, he looked from Butler to Bowdrie and back. “Huntin’ somethin’?”

  “You,” Bowdrie said. “I am arrestin’ you for the murder of Jim Moody and complicity in the robbery and murder of John Irwin.”

  Harshman took a step into the yard. He was smiling, a taunting smile.

  “All you’ve got is suspicion. You can’t prove nothin’. I ain’t been away from here but that ride to town, where you saw me.”