Shoot Him On Sight Read online

  SHOOT HIM ON SIGHT

  by William Colt MacDonald

  Ace Books 1966

  Scanned and Proofed by Highroller and RyokoWerx

  I

  Only a stupid fool would have allowed himself to be trapped in such fashion. It wasn't entirely my fault, at that. My horse had picked up a chunk of rock in his right hoof and gone lame, which slowed me up all to hell, before I could pry it loose. Meanwhile, the posse had gained on me and the trail had got too hot for comfort. I'd headed for the river bottoms hoping to shake them off, when one jasper with a faster pony than the others had forged ahead and with a lot of luck managed to down my horse with a long rifle shot. I'd hit the ground running, just before my pony crashed down. There was no doubt about it, I was set afoot muy pronto, and there behind me, closing in fast with wild yells of triumph, was the bustard who was responsible for my downfall. I saw him lift his rifle for a second shot and caught the vicious whine of the slug as it nipped a chunk out of my bandanna, below one ear. Close, that one!

  I stooped to my dead horse, jerked the rifle from its boot and triggered a fast shot in the hombre's direction. No one was more surprised than I was when the bullet found a mark. I saw the fellow go toppling from his saddle, roll over a moment with the dust billowing up behind him, then climb slowly to his feet and start limping back toward his pals who were coming a hundred yards to the rear, shouting like a tribe of mad Comanches.

  Even then I had a moment of satisfaction in the fact I had stopped him, without having another killing laid at my door. Momentarily my luck took a turn for the better when I saw that the fellow's horse had continued running in my direction, slowing to a trot as it came near me, its reins dangling. I expected it would shy away when I reached for the reins, but it didn't. Maybe after the long chase it welcomed a bit of a breather.

  The next instant I was in the saddle and on my way again. I cast one reluctant backward glance at my dead pony. My coat was rolled behind the saddle, but I had my Winchester and the .44 in my holster. Digging in my spurs I began to gain on the yelling horde at my rear. They'd started unleashing lead now, but I was moving too fast to provide a good target; the slugs were flying high overhead, but their nasty bee-like humming only made me dig in the spurs harder. Actually, spurring wasn't necessary. I'd inherited a good horse that needed but little urging, a lean chestnut with good wind.

  Hoping to shake off my pursuers, I headed away from the river again, the late afternoon sun shining brightly in my face now. Again, I was headed west, always west, in my effort to shake off what seemed a never-ending chase. No sooner had one pursuit dropped off, it seemed, than another was on my trail.

  And no wonder, what with the number of "wanted" bills offering a reward for my scalp. Mister, I'm telling you, I was scared most of the time, night and day.

  The wind whipped into my face as the chestnut thundered on. The yells of the posse sounded fainter now. I glanced back once when their shooting stopped. I'd out-distanced them considerable by this time.

  Ahead lay a line of hills, rocky bluffs beyond and what looked like a series of broken canyons. With the sun lower now, perhaps I could cut through a canyon and shake off the posse. It was worth trying.

  I cut around one of the lower hills. There wasn't much growth here. Almost what you'd call semi-desert country. A few cactus and cat-claw lifted heads from the sparse grass; here and there a mesquite tree waved lacy foliage in the breeze. And, over all, the darkening sky with the sun still closer to the horizon.

  I pounded on. The horse was tiring, slowing down now. Now and then flecks of foam blew back on me. Trouble was, my tracks were plain to follow, so long as daylight lasted. The way grew steeper. Finally, between two rugged sandstone bluffs I spied a break in the rocks—the canyon I'd been looking for. Once through, and on the other side, I'd have a good chance of slipping away again. I reined the pony around a huge rock the size of a small house and headed for the narrow rift in the sandstone bluffs. Their steep ochre sides hemmed me in as I proceeded, more slowly now. There was a slow gradual incline, the floor of the canyon littered with loose rocks. Once the chestnut stumbled and I slowed some more, not liking the idea a-tall, but finding some satisfaction in the fact that neither could the posse make good time, once they'd located the hoofprints leading into the canyon.

  The way twisted and turned, and glancing overhead I saw the sky had darkened considerable. Bits of plant life clung precariously to some crack in the rock. There was little to be seen but sand and loose chunks and stone and the towering bluffs overhead, my pony's hoofs on the rocks echoing from the canyon walls.

  Once I thought I heard a yell far to the rear, and I swiveled in the saddle, glancing back, but I saw no one. Well, it was to be expected that they'd gained on me by this time, but they'd be coming as slowly as I'd been traveling. Once through this canyon and I'd be in open country where I could once more start to make time. The chestnut was tiring, but so were the mounts of the posse by this time. Yep, I'd make a clean getaway.

  And then I was caught up short. My lousy luck abruptly turned against me. Rounding another bend in the canyon, I saw what lay ahead, and a sort of groan parted my lips.

  "Blast and damn the luck!" I swore.

  Now I was really blocked! Ahead were no more turns with openings ahead. It had been my damnable luck to choose a box canyon with no way through. My heart must have dropped to my boot-tops as I studied the furrowed sandstone wall ahead of me. A man on foot might make it to the top, though it would be right steep climbing, but a horse-never.

  Even while I was studying the situation, trying to figure a way out of the trap, I caught the faint sound of horses' hoofs and voices echoing along the canyon walls. My heart started going pumpety-pump and my breath came faster. I was really in for it this time, and there seemed no way of dodging the outcome.

  What to do? Try to rush the gang coming through the canyon? Somehow, that didn't make prime sense. I was outnumbered. I might make to get one or two, but I hated killing, even when forced on me. In the long run they'd get me if I tried to turn back. With all those reward bills out for my arrest—"Dead or Alive"—I wouldn't have a cow's chance against a pack of coyotes—not with that gang on my trail, eager for blood money.

  Abruptly I saw the only way open. I slipped down from the saddle with a "S'long, hawss, and thanks a lot." I patted the animal quickly on the neck, dropped reins over its head and then, rifle in hand, scrutinized the furrowed cliff ahead, seeking the best path to the top. Path, there wasn't any; I'd have to make my own.

  I started to climb, clutching knobby protrusions in the rock, getting risky footholds on bits of stone imbedded in the canyon wall. A stunted bit of mesquite growing from a crack in the rock provided something to grip hold of. Gradually I made my way to the top, nearly falling a couple of times when sandstone or earth crumbled beneath my feet or handhold. Carrying the Winchester didn't make it any easier, either. Several times I had to pause to catch my breath. I glanced down once, just once, and saw I had proceeded quite a way, too far to risk any falling now. I didn't feel like looking down again.

  A withered-looking yucca near the top gave me the handhold I wanted and I hoped it wouldn't come out by the roots when I seized it. Thank God it held firm and a moment later I lay gasping at the top, flat on my back.

  And not a moment too soon!

  From far below there came a sudden triumphant yell: "There's Tiger-Eye's hawss!"

  I rolled on my stomach and peered cautiously through some scanty grass to the canyon floor below, then drew stealthily back as I figured they'd be glancing up in a minute. The voices came clearly from below. In a brief glance I'd seen only a half dozen riders. Where were the rest? There must have been twenty or so on my
track earlier in the day. The voices again:

  "But where'd Cardinal get to?"

  "Climbed up that wall, likely."

  "Uh-uh!" Another voice: "He'd have to be a humming fly to make a climb o' that sort—"

  "Too damn' steep for climbin'," someone said.

  "You know what, pards," someone else cut in, "I figure Cardinal realized he was trapped and he's hid up in some cave along this canyon. I noted several likely openin's as we come through."

  "That's right likely," a rough voice agreed. "Let's track back and see what we can turn up."

  "Hell's-bells," a man grumbled. "With just the few of us, that's a-goin' to take time. I don't see why so many had to go back to town, leavin' us to do the trailin'. Didn't take no dozen galoots to get Tiger-Eye to the Doc—not for no measly scratch in the laig—"

  "They'll be back," a rider explained. "Some of 'em swore they had to get somethin' to eat in town. And Zeke figgers to get old man Berry and his hounds. Zeke allows them hounds can track anythin'. Let's start lookin' for caves. We'll get that Cardinal killer yet."

  To my ear came the creaking of saddle leather as the men remounted, turning their ponies. Their voices began to die away. I'd heard enough, as I edged back from the brink and, somewhat stiffly, rose to my feet. What next? My eyes sought the surrounding country, as though the solution lay there, as it probably did, one way or another. What I'd heard I didn't like. Hounds to track me down. Nice thought. Anyway, that fellow I'd hit—Tiger-Eye—had had only a scratch, though if I were ever captured, I'd likely be charged with attempted killing and seriously wounding. Give a dog a bad name and so on.

  The sun was below the horizon by this time, only a faint orange light lingering in the lower sky, but I could see ahead of me a dwindling off of the bluffs as they flattened out to more level terrain. Then I noticed something else: the river farther along swung in a sharp bend to reach the flatter country. On this side there was relatively little vegetation, sprouting from the sandy, rocky soil, but across the river, there were trees and brush where a man might hide out for a time. That offered some slight hope. Then I thought of the tracking hounds again. At any rate I'd never get far afoot, so the river and hide-out looked like the best chance. I started out.

  I made my way along the top of the bluffs, until I'd come to a narrow declivity that in a short time carried me to the level. Awhile later, peering through the dark gloom, I found myself on the low banks of the river and heard the soft gurgling in the silence. River? That was scarcely the name for it—just a slow sluggish stream, some twenty or twenty-five yards wide. I doubted it was very deep at this time of year, though when the rains came it was doubtless transformed to a raging torrent.

  Making my way along the bank for another ten minutes, I came to a narrow plank bridge and started to cross over, then paused. It was possible that wading across might throw tracking hounds off the scent. There'd be footprints left near the bridge if I crossed that way, but similar sign would be easily seen where I entered the water. Anyway, that was my only hope—to get across and hide in the brush.

  I made my way from the bank and stepped into the stream, immediately sinking over one boot-top in the muck. My second step brought a similar result, but I kept on, each step being heavier than the last. I found firm footing, but as I'd guessed, the stream at its deepest came only slightly above the knees. Progressing halfway I found myself pretty well soaked, though I'd managed to keep guns and cartridge belt dry. Shortly, I found the way a trifle firmer and a few minutes later I had mounted the sandy bank and was making my way into thick brush.

  Somewhat shaky from weariness, I sank down to a sitting position, drew off my boots and emptied them of water and sand. For the moment I left them off until I could catch my breath, while I reached to one shirt pocket for Durham and papers. I rolled a cigarette and found matches in one hip pocket which were slightly moist. After several tries I managed to light one and drew gratefully on the smoke. Then it dawned on me that there was a sort of vacant spot in my middle; I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast. Well, I'd just have to pull my belt a little tighter, until the present problem was solved.

  Abruptly, I stiffened. From downstream a way came the sounds of approaching riders and the barking of hounds. Hurriedly I stubbed out my cigarette and drew on my boots. The posse had returned sooner than I'd expected. I edged back deeper into the brush and got to my feet, then peering through some gnarled branches I saw lights. Some of the riders were bearing lighted lanterns. They drew closer. I caught the sounds of horses' hoofs clumping across the plank bridge, though some of the men and dogs remained on the opposite bank. Through the thick gloom I caught shadowy glimpses of moving figures. A voice spoke grumpily to the hounds.

  Whether they found my tracks where I'd entered the water or not, I never knew. But I reckon they did, as within a short time, the riders and dogs on the opposite side of the stream made their way across the bridge. My ears caught the gradually approaching sounds. They were closing in on me. Fast!

  Momentarily, terror overtook me. I had but one frantic thought, to dig deeper into the brush which proved to be a veritable jungle of spiny growth and twisted mesquite, yucca and cat-claw, creosote bush and prickly pear cactus. Branches and spines caught at my clothing, though even in my fear I'd retained sense enough to move as stealthily as possible.

  I was twenty-five yards from the stream bank now. Ahead of me loomed a huge clump of prickly pear cactus, though it was too dark now for me to distinguish outlines. I only knew it seemed to offer shelter for the time being. Sharp spines caught at my face and hands as I burrowed in toward the bottom where there was a shallow depression. Several of the huge flat prickly pads were snapped off in my frantic digging in. Finally, I could go no farther and sank down on the earth, the huge plant surrounding me, covering me, sheltering my exhausted, shaking form.

  I lay there shivering, wet and cold while voices and dogs came nearer. I could hear them crashing through the brush, breaking off small limbs and crushing the growth, and the hounds were making the night hideous with their barking. Sheer terror obsessed me.

  I heard the grumpy voice again, after some argument with two others: "Wal, if ye'd only had some article of his clothing so my dawgs would have the scent. Ye can't expect 'em to know for sure what we're after—"

  My spirits rose. Maybe my luck had changed slightly, unless some hound came too close and got inquisitive. I heard one go pushing through the brush a short distance away. Abruptly a gleam of light struck my eyes. There was the crunching of plant growth, and the lantern was swung from side to side. Then a voice: "Well, he ain't 'round here no place, that's for certain."

  "Howcome you're so sure?"

  "Cripes A'mighty, look at the size of that prickly pear clump. Ain't no human man a-goin' to make his way through that, 'thout tearin' his carcass all to hell. And I already searched to both sides—no broken branches nor nothin'."

  Almost I chuckled at that point. Both sides and the front, but not on the river side, where I must have left damaging "sign." The voices, the lantern, moved away. Cautiously I lifted a hand to my jammed-down sombrero and felt hundreds of spiny needles sticking in the crown where I'd plunged to hiding. My shirt was also covered as I learned later.

  For a short time anyway, I was safe. Voices, dogs, men moved farther up the stream. I could hear the hounds baying from time to time. Two or three times riders loped along the more open stretch beyond the brush and mesquite bordering the stream, then returned. The dogs sounded farther away now. Suddenly the noises became louder. I could hear men cursing angrily. Some sort of tumult arose, and I wondered what had happened. The grumpy voice of the old owner of the hounds was cursing louder than the rest.

  Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, while the angry sounds went on. While I was considering what my next move would be, I caught the sound of someone pushing toward the brush in my direction. I tensed, one hand slipping toward my Colt butt. Then a voice came softly through the night: "Johnny —Johnny Ca
rdinal. Where—?"

  I knew that voice! Miguel Serrano! Where in God's name did he come from? I replied cautiously, "That you, Mike?"

  "Come on out, Johnny, and make the hurry. Not much time."

  With some difficulty I extricated myself from the tearing cactus spines and clambered erect. Mike's shadowy figure confronted me in the gloom. Our hands met, clutched hard. "Mike, how in the devil—?"

  "You are one damn hard man to trail, Johnny. How long-nearly a year now—no, wait, not much of time. Let me talk. For most a year I have try to make the catch-up, but always you are ahead. From time to time I catch rumors. I push on. Today, when I pass through that town, they are making up a posse. I am ask to join. I agree, thinking I will be led to you and may help. Of all I am the only one to examine the stream bank where you left the water, so I know you are someplace near. I pretend to hear a noise farther on. I lead those men away—"

  "But what in hell is all the noise about farther on?"

  "The men make a cursing of the hounds. They can do nothing but sneeze."

  "Sneeze?" I didn't catch on.

  "Before I leave with the posse I go to the abarrotero— grocery store—and make the buy of a large sack of chili powder. In my so careless manner I manage to drop some. The hounds are overtaken with a sneezing, and will be no much good now. Some of the powder I have save to make of the sneezing 'round here if they show a curiosity—which I do not think. But, Johnny, we waste of time. The horse waits—"

  "Hell, Mike, I can't take your pony—"

  "That not of the necessary. I have two caballos—"

  "How in the devil—?"

  "Always since I follow you, I have the extra pony. It is for sale, you see, but the price is always too elevated. I bring him tonight in case we have the long chase. That posse, they think me a fool—but hurry!"

  We made our way out of the brush and mesquite, where a sort of roadway ran. In the starlight I saw two ponies tethered nearby. I could still hear cursing voices some distance off. Mike handed me the reins of one pony. It looked like a muscular buckskin in the gloom. I hesitated a moment longer. "But, Mike, how are you going to explain the disappearance of this horse?"