Dead Warrior by John Myers Myers Page B

Nevertheless, the gambler spurred him past my camp at the water hole, over the so-called road and into the grass beyond. It appeared that I would be losing the man’s company as abruptly as I had gained it until I saw him throw himself off. Next I heard the shot, and a few minutes later he joined me, carrying his rifle.
    “I’d like to look at that bottle you were talking about,” he said.
    I needed that drink and the two that finished the quart. “Do you do things like that often?” I asked, when I had located my few remaining cigars.
    “There are some advantages in having lived with the Indians.” He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift upward. “Otherwise I’d never have known the Blackfoot for son of a bitch.”
    It took me a moment to phrase my next remark so that I wouldn’t sound critical. “I didn’t know you were going to scalp the fellow.”
    “I just remembered that in time,” he told me. “Those Cheyennes might not have known what I was saying — though probably most of them know enough Blackfoot for cussing purposes — but they could guess what happened when they saw me waving Indian hair.”
    After nodding assent, I remembered the other thing which had puzzled me. “Why did you bother to ride your horse beyond the trace?”
    “It won’t do much good,” he replied, “but it may take them a little while to decide just where I’m heading.”
    “But I thought we’d shaken the Indians.”
    “I’m not worrying about the Cheyennes; that is if we scat out of here as soon as your off-leader has rested a little. I’m thinking of the posse.”
    “What!” I looked to see if he was serious. He was. “They couldn’t possibly bother you after what you did.”
    “Nobody asked me to horn in,” McQuinn said, “and it’s a cinch that nothing I did here in No Man’s Land will reverse my outlaw standing in Borro County, New Mexico.” His eyes narrowed just a trifle. “Maybe I should have asked earlier, but does this stage carry passengers?”
    Although I didn’t take to the idea of a posse crawling up my back, we were in alliance. “Your horse carried double for a ways,” I said, “so I reckon the coach can manage it. Is straight ahead the best direction?”
    “It’ll take us to Texas, which is where I was heading for in the first place. As a matter of fact, I’d be there now if I hadn’t had to leave Centipede in such a hurry that I was forced to hunt my food along the way.” Climbing up to the driver’s seat, the gambler pointed at the horse I’d lately ridden.“Now if this line likes to oblige its passengers, you’ll harness him up, and we’ll move along. The Indians will have squirmed out of gun range pretty soon, leaving the way clear for the bloodhounds of the law.”
    Sundown was close at hand, but we pushed ahead until it had given away to twilight, and dusk in turn to full night. Around nine o’clock we camped where a trickle of water crossed the trace, but we were rolling again at white dawn.
    McQuinn rode with me at first, but after a while he retired to the coach, to make up some of the sleep he had recently done without. I was therefore alone when I caught sight of a small, square wooden building. As we neared this edifice, I could see nothing but a little, glassless window. When I had driven beyond it, though, I perceived that the box had a larger hole. The doorway itself was low, narrow and crudely framed. More noteworthy was the sign above it.
    RUSTLERS ROOST , the letters stated. WHY DON’T YOU?
    “Hey, Terry,” I called down to the coach, as I reined in. “We’re somewhere or other.”
    Waiting for McQuinn to wake up and get his bearings, I discovered another sleeping man. This one was stretched out under a shelter open to all four winds. In addition to him it covered primitive kitchen arrangements and a squaw busy plaiting leather strands into a lariat. She looked at me as if I didn’t exist, but after a moment she paused in her work to shake the