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The Killing Trail
Dally Press Gazette
Desert Destinations
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His eyes began shifting again up and down the trail - taking in everything, remembering every tree and scrub bush and dead limb that he saw. Now that the deer was out of sight, he saw nothing that was living except for his own horse, which was tied in a thicket of aspens down the slope to his right, out of sight from where the game trail coursed its way through the heart of the mountains. He had spread some oats on the ground before he scrambled his up to his present position, and he could see that the animal was still content enough. But he again cursed under his breath and wondered where the hell Muley Johnson was and why he hadn't already lined himself up in the sights of the Sharps. Hard Willy was anxious to get the job done and get on back to town, and he knew that he would have to tend to the horse again at some point, one way or another. But I'd jest as soon do it when this business gits finished fer good, he thought. If Muley came by while he was scrambling up or down the scree to take care of his horse, Hard Willy knew that he might be seen and that his plan could be ruined. But he also knew that by leaving his position now, he risked the chance of missing Muley's passing along on the trail altogether, and that would be even worse: He would then have to wait for days before he would have another chance - another shot at Muley - and he wanted Muley Johnson dead right now. In fact, Hard Willy knew that if his plans didn't work out today, he would have to wait a full two weeks for another shot at Muley Johnson - and he didn't like the thought of that at all. Muley lived in a cramped log cabin that he had built himself at the edge of a small stream near the base of the north face of Three Fingered Jack. Every two weeks, Muley would ride his lope-eared mule, with a second mule in tow behind him, into Sisters for supplies - salt, a couple of pounds of heavily salted bacon, some flour, hard tack, and a bottle of the hardest redeye he could find - and the chance to visit with a plump woman. He would stay the night at the Hotel Sisters, then make the full day's journey back to the cabin with the two mules.
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Most of the people who lived in Sisters thought that Muley was a prospector because on at least two occasions during the past year or so, he had traded for his supplies with river gold. But no one had ever heard of much gold being taken out of any river or stream bed anywhere in the Cascade range, which stretched from northern California clear up into Canada. The land was rich enough in water and game and trees, but it was dirt poor as far as gold was concerned - and more than a few hearty souls had worked a lot of claims in a lot of wild country through the years to get a feel for it.
At least, that was what most folks believed.
Exactly what Muley did when he wasn't riding into Sisters every other week for his supplies and a woman, then, was something of a mystery to everyone except Hard Willy Smith, who was convinced in his own mind that Muley guarded a big strike.
Of course, asking Muley what he was up to, or anything at all, was to risk being gut-shot with the big .58 caliber Remington revolver that he carried in a well-worn black leather holster stamped "U.S. Army" on the side. No one knew for certain whether Muley had served in the Army, although there was talk that he had been an officer in the great War Between the States, and he was about the right age. No one even knew for certain Muley's real first name. He was called Muley because that's what everyone called him behind his back. To his face, the few men who ventured to speak with him at all called him Mr. Johnson; they said it with some trepidation and left it at that.
But most everyone knew enough not to mess with Muley Johnson; even a simple greeting on the street could place a man at risk, depending on Muley's mood at the time.
Grizzled, with a pronounced limp in his left leg that gave him a decided list when he walked, as though he were about to topple over instead of moving along in a straight line, Muley Johnson was a mean snake of a man whose mere physical presence commanded respect or fear - or both.
He was a shade over six feet tall and weighed something more than one of his mules, from the looks of the well-toned muscle that rippled under his clothing. He always wore the same deeply soiled buckskin clothing, which contrasted sharply with the coarse, gray-white beard that jutted at increasingly odd angles from his weather-beaten face. A bushy mustache coursed over his upper lip like a spring stream gushing over fat falls. His hair was long, salt and pepper in color (although generally darker than his beard), and it covered his ears and ran well down the back of his neck; it hadn't seen a comb or a bucket of water with lye soap in years.
His nose was flat and a little right of center in his face, giving every indication that it had been broken more than once. A thick, deep scar that alternated between white and red and purple, depending on the weather and the time of day and the shade and angle and intensity of the light that was hitting his face, arched from his left eyebrow diagonally across the right side of his face and disappeared into his scalp.
The few teeth that remained in his mouth were yellowed and broken, and he picked at them constantly with a long, dirty finger - a habit that so incensed a bartender over in Bend one time that he had the gumption to tell Muley to keep his hands out of his mouth and on his beer glass or leave his bar altogether.
The man obviously didn't know anything about Muley Johnson.
Muley eventually left the bar, of course, but only after shooting the bartender in the foot with his big Remington and clubbing another half-dozen men to the floor with his ham-like fists - or so the story was told in Sisters.
It was a story that Hard Willy, at least, had heard and believed.
Hard Willy knew for a dead certain fact that Muley Johnson was not someone to be taken lightly.
Tough, hard men in Sisters - and there were more than a handful - would cross to the other side of the street when Muley was in town, just to avoid his path. Respectable women would duck inside the doorways of shops or even into the homes of strangers rather than risk an encounter with Muley Johnson. Hard Willy himself had been at the stables a time or two when Muley dropped off or picked up his animals; like prize fighters circling a ring, they had once squared off with their eyes - each warily sizing up the other, each showing no fear, no emotion.
But Hard Willy knew that in a fight, Muley Johnson had the strength to break a man in half.
That was the single reason why Hard Willy Smith was sitting in wait with a Sharps carbine in his hands, more than five-hundred yards above and behind the game trail that Muley would travel.
If, in fact, Muley was even coming today.
Hard Willy considered his situation again as his eyes moved in rapid-fire fashion along the trail below, scanning every crack and crevice, every tree and bush, every rock and bare spot of ground that he could find.
He had known Muley - known of him, really - for more than two years now and had started to track his comings and goings in town during the past three months.
A man who carried gold that had been taken from a stream bed, after all, was a man who warranted some close attention.
Muley would arrive in Sisters before sunset every other Monday. He would check in at the livery stable, delivering his mules for the night, and then limp over to the Hotel and get a second-floor room that overlooked the main street of town. The rest of the night he spent in his room, always ordering a steak and a bottle, always sending down for one of the women who worked the saloon below. In the morning he would leave the hotel by first light and shuffle across the street to the general store, where he would order two weeks worth of supplies. He would limp down to the stables then, return in minutes to the general store with his mules in tow, load up his supplies on the trailing mule, and ride slowly, almost casually, out of town.
He didn't talk much to anyone; he wasn't friendly with the owners of the livery or the Hotel or the general store, and he never asked for the same woman (although, because only a handful worked the hotel, he had seen all of them more than once since he had first started his two-week ritual more than three years previously). He never said hello when he arrived, and he never said goodbye when he left. He just came and went, like the movement of the wind in the trees.
As Hard Willy had it figured, Muley Johnson should be on the trail heading back Sisters on this very day - the second Monday since Muley was last seen in town. There was no question in Hard Willy's mind that Muley was out there somewhere.
Whether this was the right trail was a matter of some speculation, however, and Hard Willy rolled that thought around in his mind once more as he again considered every angle and every decision that brought him to this spot on this day with a Sharps carbine in his hands.
Hard Willy knew it was possible that Muley might take a splinter trail to get to his cabin, or that he might simply change his route from time to time to break up the routine of the trip. But Hard Willy had scouted and planned and covered every angle that he could conceive; for better or worse, it all came down to this spot, on this day, at this moment.
The plan was simple enough: Back-shoot Muley Johnson, bury him far enough into the forest and deep enough into the ground so that his body wouldn't be found by man or wolves or mountain lions, and then take the time to find the stash of gold that Hard Willy was certain Muley was hiding back in his cabin.
For a time - a short time, in fact - he had considered simply waiting until Muley left for Sisters and then searching the cabin until he found the gold. But Hard Willy was a man who played the odds, and he didn't like the odds of Muley Johnson being left alive to look for the man who would steal his gold. Hard Willy had seen Muley break a man's arm with a single blow in the Sisters saloon one night after the man wasn't quick enough to get out of Muley's way as he walked through to the Hotel; he figured that a dead Muley was the best kind of Muley to steal from.
In Hard Willy's mind, at least, Muley Johnson was simply too dangerous to remain alive.
Back-shooting wasn't an issue for Hard Willy, either. Muley Johnson was not a man to warrant a fair chance when gold was at stake; that was the kind of stupid mistake that could get a man killed, and Hard Willy didn't want to be the one left dead on the trail when this was over. Instead, he wanted to be rich. He wanted Muley's gold and was willing to kill to get it. He would shoot Muley dead, search the cabin until he found the gold, head back into Sisters after a day or two, say nothing for another few days, and then ride over to Bend or across the mountains into the capitol city and casually unload the gold without drawing any suspicion to himself.
Hell, it would be weeks or even months before Muley would even be missed, he figured. Oh, someone might mention that Muley hadn't been seen around for a while, but no one would lose any sleep over it; every man jack in town would probably be relieved, in fact.
Hard Willy even considered that it would be a good touch if he would bring up the fact that old Muley hadn't been seen around town for a spell; he might even volunteer to ride over and check to see whether Muley was all right.
That would take the suspicion off him, he figured, and Hard Willy chuckled aloud at the idea. But his laugh was covered by another falling rock from the mountain that clattered down to the cirque and splashed into the water below, and his mind again shifted to the fact that Muley Johnson was still nowhere to be seen.
"Dammit, Muley, but yer making me mad," Hard Willy muttered. "You keep this up and I might jest aim a touch off center and make you suffer a good long time a'fore I finish you off."
But no one was there to hear Hard Willy, and Hard Willy himself was already thinking about other things.
Chief among them was the oppressive heat, and then he thought about anything at all that would take his mind off the heat.
He took a leisurely drink from his canteen and thought about a long, cool bath at the Hotel Sisters.
He thought about the winter wind in his face as it swept in from the distant mountains and lashed across the meadow just outside of town, where he worked sometimes as a ranch hand on a big cattle spread near the base of Black Butte.
He thought about the time that he took two months on a whim and rode his horse across the pass, through the heart of the great fertile valley, and into the Coast Range beyond - just so that he could see the ocean pound into the western edge of the world he knew. He didn't move camp for three full days and just stared at the wide expanse of blue rolling water, inhaling the cool salt air into his lungs. It took him another two months after he finally returned to the mountains to get the sight fully out of his mind.
Hard Willy shook his head and thought next about gulping a tall beer in the Sisters saloon.
All the while, his eyes were scanning the game trail below.
All the while, he was waiting for Muley Johnson.
All the while, he was counting the piles of gold that he was sure he would find at Muley's cabin.
It was damn tough, in fact, to think of anything else.
As far as Hard Willy was concerned, river gold was worth Muley Johnson's life. Life was nothing more than a series of trade-offs anyway, and this was an easy one: a man's life for a stack of gold. When he considered the fact that the man at risk was Muley Johnson, Hard Willy could only smile and nod his head, his eyes and his mind focused on the trail.
He started to laugh aloud at the thought.
He didn't hear the falling rock until it was too late to move.
A large boulder, kicked loose by the searing heat that had baked the moisture out of the mountain's face, skipped only once against the east side of Three Fingered Jack after it broke free from a ledge a thousand feet above the spot where Hard Willy Smith was waiting and watching for Muley Johnson. It turned slowly in the air, generating tremendous speed as it fell, before crashing with a high-pitched, bone-rattling explosion into the pile of rocks that had sheltered Hard Willy from being seen from the trail below. The boulder shattered with the force of a cannon shot, showering the area with big chunks of splintered, jagged rock.
Within seconds, Hard Willy's legs were pinned beneath a slab of rock that crushed his lower body into the loose pumice of the mountain. As he lurched with the blow, his Sharps carbine clattered over the edge of the slope and slid more than twenty feet down the scree toward the trail below before it slowed and then stopped, the brightly polished barrel glinting in the sun.
Hard Willy, still lying on his belly, tried for an instant to pull himself out from the dead weight that now pinned him to the mountain. But his legs were crushed - broken and useless - and he didn't have either the strength or the force of will to move the great weight of the rock.
The realization of what had happened hit him at the same time that he passed out from the shock and the sudden roaring pain that shot through his entire body.
All content is (c) William Florence, 2004. All rights reserved.
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