Chapter 4: The Bounty Hunter
Further downstream Mark continued to fight the swift moving river while at the same time trying to control his own panic. Seconds later he was cascading down a channel of whitewater and into a swirling pool below, his lungs burning in a desperate need for air. As he felt his feet hit solid bottom, he propelled himself upward until he was once more above water, coughing and choking. The current continued to churn about twisting him in all directions, trying to pull him under again.
Suddenly he felt something brush up against his back and he twisted around to see a large limb bobby in the water. Instinctively, he grabbed at it with numbing fingers and managed to pull himself once more above water. The icy cold slapped against his face, blurring his vision. His arms quivered as he tried to hold onto the branches.
Mark attempted to call out, but water quickly filled his mouth, choking him in mid shout. He felt his tenuous grip slipping. With determined resolve, he kicked frantically until he was at last able to haul himself far enough forward to hook an elbow over the side of the log and drag his head and chest clear of the water. Exhausted, Mark rested his cheek against the rough bark, breathing heavily. His energy spent, he could do no more than hold on tight as the current pulled him along an unknown path.
After a search of the immediate area, Lucas and Micah made their way back to collect the horses. It was then they came across a pool of fresh blood on the ground near the edge of the river. As Lucas knelt down and examined it, he could see a trail of blood leading off into the woods. Lucas surmised the blood to be from the one he pegged up in the rocks. Several sets of hoof prints were found in the soft soil nearby, heading up river.
"With that much blood loss, he won't be getting far," Micah said matter-of-factly.
Lucas scanned the area." How many do you figure?" he asked.
"Three, maybe four," Micah replied. "They lit out in quite a hurry."
Lucas nodded his head in agreement wondering what the blazes had provoked such a brazen attack. He gripped the rifle tightly. "Well let's just hope they've had enough for now," he said grimly. Right now his main concern was his son. They mounted up and quickly headed downstream.
Meanwhile, some miles away a small band of men rode hard through the late afternoon. But after a time one of them started to fall behind.
"Hold up, Lloyd,"
The leader of the gang swung his horse about and doubled back. Slumped over in his saddle, the injured man held a hand to his side. It was soaked in blood.
"You gonna be all right, Smitty?"
The man gritted his teeth in pain. "I don't know. I got hit pretty bad."
"We gotta keep moving," Roark shouted back over his shoulder.
"We'll move when I say," Lloyd snapped back. Still furious with Roark's stupidity it was all he could do to keep from grabbing him off this horse and wringing his fat neck with his bare hands.
Retrieving a canteen, Lloyd offered the injured man a drink. With shaky fingers he took a sip. Lloyd could tell he was in a bad way. "Thanks."
"We'll cross the river just ahead and swing back around. We can be at the camp by dawn. Think you can make it?"
"I'll make it," Smitty said gritting his teeth as he tried to straighten up in the saddle.
With some difficulty they made it across the river but Smitty nearly fell from his horse twice in the effort. He gripped the saddle horn tightly as he tried to keep up with the rest of the men.
Still worried about the two lawmen they had crossed paths with earlier and the possibility of an entire posse in the area, Roark grew more agitated as they rode. Glancing back over his shoulder he noticed the injured rider began to lag behind once again. "I'm telling you Lloyd, he's slowing us down too much."
Roark's growing paranoia was starting to grate on Lloyd's nerves. "Shut up! This was all your doing to begin with."
They pushed on but were eventually forced to slow the horses to a walk to accommodate the injured man. Finally, Smitty, unable to hang on any longer, fell from his horse and rolled down the slight incline.
Lloyd reined to a halt and jumped down. Carefully he rolled the outlaw over onto his back. He could see Smitty's side was completely saturated in blood. He was pale and having trouble breathing.
The outlaw looked up at him. "I'm hurt pretty bad, Lloyd," he groaned. "I need a doctor."
Lloyd shook his head. "You know there's not a saw bones around for fifty miles, and even if there was, we couldn't risk it."
The outlaw leader seethed in anger. Smitty was one of his best men. A small trickle of blood oozed from the man's mouth. Cursing, he said "You're no good to me like this."
The man reached out and grabbed Lloyd frantically by the arm. "But you can't just leave me here to die!" he started to protest but ended up coughing up more blood and gasping for breath.
"Sorry Smitty, but you knew the score." A few seconds later Lloyd watched his eyes close and his hand fell lifelessly to the ground.
Lloyd stared down at him for several long hard seconds, his mouth turned down into an angry thin line. Finally he flipped the dead man's coat open and emptied his pockets. His stuffed a small wad of money into his shirt pocket and remounted giving Roark a furious glance. The paranoid convict had cost Lloyd a good man today and the sooner they finished with their business, the happier Lloyd would be. Leaving Smitty's body in the tall grass, the remaining outlaws remounted and headed due west.
After nearly a mile of intense searching, Lucas stood at the river's edge looking at the water forlornly. Mark seemed to have disappeared completely. Long shadows crept across the ground as the afternoon quickly waned. Micah looked over at his friend somberly. From the tense set of his jaw, Micah knew what Lucas was thinking. They would only have an hour or so of daylight left after that it would be nearly impossible to continue the search.
Lucas had hoped Mark had somehow made it to shore. But as time past without even a trace of his son, the worry on his face was evident. Without a word said between them, they continued the search.
It was only when Lucas spotted something bobbing in the water a short time later that his hopes finally rose. "Micah, over there!" Lucas beckoned, catapulting over several boulders with long scissor leg strides, his rifle still gripped tightly in hand.
Reaching the spot, Lucas stopped short and stared with fixed eyes at the object wedged against the rocks. It was Mark's hat!
Bending over he slowly retrieved it as Micah approached. Lucas stood up and called out several times to his son, straining to hear a response. But only the rippling sound of water passing by gave him an answer. He made a thorough search of the area continuing to call out Mark's name but to no avail.
Somberly he made his way back over to Micah and handed the hat to him but not before the old marshal noticed the look of pain and disappointment in his friend's eyes.
A little ways down stream the river twisted around between thickets of trees and Lucas decided to cross over and search the far bank on foot leaving Micah with the horses on the other side. Finding nothing, he crisscrossed back ending farther downstream.
With the horses in tow, Micah pace was further slowed when he was forced to make a detour after discovering a section of the river trail had been washed out. Once he found his was around the block, he spotted Lucas about a hundred yards ahead. He had stopped again and was kneeling down near the edge of the riverbank. Then, to Micah surprise, Lucas quickly stood up and disappeared into the rocks. The hairs on the back of Micah's neck stood up. Something was definitely up.
Up ahead while Lucas had been searching for signs, movement along the tall scrub brush near the river suddenly caught his attention. A stranger on horseback was slowing winding down a narrow path heading straight towards him. Moving stealthy out of sight, he took a position next to a large boulder, his rifle poised.
The rider approached the clearing slowly, scanning the river cautiously as if looking for something.
Lucas quietly watched as he neared. Several yards from where he was concealed, the stranger halted then slowly dismounted, tethering his horse behind a thicket of scrub trees. Taking his worn hat off, he wiped the brim and then ran his fingers through dark scraggly hair as if in thought before replacing it back on his head. Dressed in dark clothes covered in dust, it looked like he'd been on the trail for some time. A six piece was strapped to his right thigh.
As he approached the riverbed, his hand rested cautiously on the butt of his gun, the safety strap released. The stranger appeared perplexed as he looked around, as if expecting to find something but didn't.
Lucas rose from his hiding place and aimed the rifle. "All right, mister! Hold it right there!" The man froze at the sight of the rifle barrel aimed directly at him. "Hand away from the gun, mister. Nice and slow!"
The stranger looked down at his hand resting on the Colt .45 and back at Lucas. "Sure, mister," he said, but his fingers tightened over the handle of the gun.
Lucas was in no mood for games. Without further warning, he shot off three rounds, landing them precisely where he wanted, two on the outside of each foot, the third dead center between the stranger's legs.
The man froze, his hand hovering over the gun. "I wouldn't try it if I was you, mister, the next one won't be a warning." Lucas advised strongly.
Deciding he had no further advantage, the stranger slowly complied, raising his hands in the air. "Got a pretty itching finger there buddy."
"It gets that way when I've got someone taking pot shots at me." Lucas continued. "Now, nice and easy, with your left hand, reach over and toss the gun aside," he instructed.
The gunman complied, tossing the weapon on the ground a few feet away. He raised both hands again, with palms up. Lucas motioned for him to step back, and the stranger moved several paces away from the gun. Lucas advanced and kicked the gun further out of reach.
The stranger just smiled slowly back with hard glassy eyes. "What ever you say, mister. Not looking for any trouble." He had a long face and pointed chin covered in several day's growth of thick whiskers. On the right side of his face he had a scar about three inches long extending from the corner of his lip across his cheekbone. Lucas eyed him with suspicion, his rifle still held at the ready.
"Didn't mean to spook ya, mister," the stranger said. The muscles on the right side of his face where the scar cut across didn't seem to work as well, causing his smile to look twisted and deformed. "Heard gunfire a while ago and decided to check things out."
"And how do I know you weren't the one doing the firing? Where are your friends?" Lucas demanded.
"Whoa, buddy. Wasn't me! I had nothin' to do with it." Then he grinned widely. "But I think I know who might've been responsible."
Micah rode up with the horses in tow, the double barrel shotgun held in the crook of his arm. "You got a problem here, Lucas?" he said dismounting.
"Nothing I can't handle, Micah."
The stranger turned his attention to Micah, noticing the glimmer of silver from the badge affixed to the Marshal's chest. "Well, well appears I've got me some competition." The stranger nodded towards Micah. "Afternoon, Marshal," the gunman said, his hands still raised in the air.
Micah looked at the stranger, puzzled. Cocking his head to one side he asked, "Do I know you?"
"In a way. Let's just say our work takes us in similar circles."
"Who are you, mister?" Lucas demanded.
"Names Jud Broudy"
As soon a he heard the name Micah's eyebrows rose. "Broudy!" he said with some distain.
Without looking away from the gunman, Lucas asked. "Know him, Micah?"
Micah snorted. "Of him, sorry to say."
"Didn't know I was so popular, Marshal….?"
"Torrance," Micah filled in. "Let's just say your reputation has proceeded you."
Broudy smiled. "Why Marshal I don't know if I should take that as a complement or not."
Lucas gave Micah a curious glance and the marshal went on to explain. "Lucas boy, this here is Jud Broudy, paid for hire federal bounty hunter, to use the term loosely. 'Course most of his captures seem to come in slung sideways over a saddle."
"Occupational hazard Marshal," Broudy replied.
"Seems to happen an awful lot whenever you're around as I hear it. Especially, when there's a big reward at stake. Trouble seems to follow you around son."
Broudy shrugged. "Just business. Don't get paid if they get away." Then added in a slow drawl, "But I assure you, Marshall, it's all nice and legal."
"Hmmph. Barely!" Micah muttered.
The bounty hunter merely shrugged his shoulders. "Poster says dead or alive. I get paid either way Marshal. Besides, my way it saves those nice citizens the cost of a trial.
"I don't see any badge," Lucas added.
Broudy grinned. "In my kind of business, mister, it doesn't necessarily pay to advertise." Then he gave Lucas the once over. "You got a name mister, or you gonna let that rifle do all the tak'in?"
"McCain. Lucas McCain."
"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" Broudy mocked.
"Enough small talk!" Micah interjected. "What's your story?"
Broudy's gaze shifted from the Marshal back to Lucas. He pointed to his vest pocket. "Mind?"
Lucas nodded. "Slowly."
Broudy's eyes narrowed, not liking Lucas's tone. He reached into his vest and slowly pulled out a folded piece of paper with two fingers handing it to Micah. Micah examined it. It was a wanted poster with a thousand dollar reward: Dead or Alive.
"Been chasing an outlaw for the past several months by the name of Lloyd Corbain."
Micah nodded. "I've heard of him. Also heard he doesn't usually ride alone."
Broudy shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "You're right about that. He usually has at least four or five men riding with him. I trailed him across the Texas border into New Mexico. Thought he might be heading into Arizona Territory or possibly down into Mexico. He's got connections in both places. He was spotted up near White Creek, but he must have been tipped off because he lit out in a hurry. I've been scouting a trail for them the last couple of days. When I heard gunfire a ways back I thought I might have another lead." He looked at Micah suspiciously. "Didn't expect to run into competition though. You got an interest in Corbain, Marshal?"
Micah shook his head. "Not at the moment. Matter of fact I was just on my way back home from Silver City." He paused, and then added. "From what I hear, Corbain and his men are a pretty tough bunch. Why aren't you riding with a posse?"
"I prefer to work alone. Less profit to split."
"Humph. Then you're a fool." Micah finished examining the paper and handed it back to Broudy. The bounty hunter stuffed it back into his pocket.
"Think it was Corbain?" Lucas asked Micah.
The marshal rubbed his jaw in thought. "Could be. We might have spooked him."
Broudy still standing with his hands in the air interjected, "Hey McCain! Mind if I have my gun back?"
Reluctantly Lucas nodded, lowering his rifle. Broudy picked the Colt up off the ground, dusted if off and replaced it back in its holster. He rested his gloved hands above the gun belt.
"You have a run in with Corbain?" Broudy inquired.
Lucas' lips thinned grimly. "Appears that way." Lucas quickly relayed what happened. "I hit one of them for sure. But my son fell from his horse into the water. We've been looking for him since. He's twelve. Have you seen him?"
Broudy glanced at the rushing water. He tipped his black hat back squinting against the sun's glare. "Sorry, can't say that I have. I'm not surprised, though. Wouldn't put it past Corbain, or one of his men, to try and bushwhack you if you were in their way." He paused then asked. "How far up did this happen?"
"Almost a mile," Lucas replied.
"That means they may still be close by."
Micah stepped closer to the bounty hunter. "Look Broudy, we got a boy missing and little time to waste. We could sure use your help in finding him."
Broudy rubbed the back of his neck. "Marshal, I'm sure sorry to hear your troubles, but I'm afraid I can't oblige"
Lucas' head snapped up. Before Broudy could react, Lucas took two strides over and grabbed Broudy by the shirt with a clinched fist. "What do you mean?" Lucas demanded, nearly lifting the shorter man off the ground. "Don't you understand? My son is in that river somewhere, and I mean to find him!"
"All right. All right. Take it easy." Broudy gestured with raised arms.
Lucas released him but as soon as he did Broudy withdrew his gun. Lucas made a move to raise the rifle.
"Easy, big man!" Broudy warned. "You won't be any good to your boy with a bullet in your chest!"
Micah quickly stepped between them, his mouth compressed with distain. "I should have known it would be pointless to ask you for any help."
Broudy straightened his shirt out, sending Micah a boyish, but menacing smile. He turned to Lucas. "I'm sorry about your boy McCain, really I am. My quarrel's not with you. I'm even willing to forgive you for that little misunderstanding back there. But I've got a job to do and neither you nor the Marshal here are going to get in my way."
Lucas clinched his fists in fury.
"Let him go Lucas, he's nothing but trouble!" Micah said.
Keeping the gun aimed at the two men, Broudy slowly back up the trail to where his horse was still tethered. "Good advise Marshal." Broudy replied. "I'd advise you to take it to heart yourself."
Without taking his eyes off McCain, he jerked the reins free from the branches. Then he swung up into the saddle, his gun still leveled at Lucas. "You just worry about finding that boy of yours McCain, and leave Corbain to me!" With that he turned and rode away, disappearing into the thick trees.
Lucas took a step forward to stop him but Micah put a hand on his sleeve. "Let him go Lucas," Micah repeated. "He's not worth it. But if he's planning on going after Corbain alone he may be getting more than he bargained for." Then muttered heatedly, "Not that he wouldn't deserve whatever he got from them!"
Lucas glanced over at Micah. There was certainly seemed to be no love loss between the two men. Though Lucas was curious about the bounty hunter, at the moment he had little time to waste on the man. Right now his concern was focused on his son.
Turning, he went back to the horses. Lucas stared at the empty saddle atop the sorrel's back and could feel a lump forming in his throat. He shoved the rifle back into the scabbard a little harder than intended. Micah could see the inner struggle Lucas was battling. Time was against them. But Lucas was a man who rarely gave up, and especially not when it came to his son.
With grim determination, Lucas gathered his reins and the big Black. "Let's go," was all he said as they set off once again.
A mile upstream Broudy scouted the area for the rest of the fading afternoon. Knowing Corbain he was sure the outlaw was using the river to try and hide his trail. His suspicions paid off when he eventually came across fresh tracks heading southeast towards the border pass. It made sense. Mexico was a day's ride and a good place to hide out. But a nagging instinct was telling him something different ever since he'd learned a certain convict by the named Roark had somehow escaped a prison transport wagon a few weeks earlier.
Broudy looked north to the Gila Mountains. Perhaps, Corbain's intent was in the other direction. After scouting around for some time Broudy got lucky and found where they'd crossed. Nearby he also discovered several drops of dried blood. His face twisted into a distorted smile as he crossed the river.
Sometime later in the fading twilight Broudy found a saddled horse without its rider and shortly after made a gruesome discovery. Crouching over the dead man lying in the grass, he tipped his hat back. He'd recognized him immediately. It was one of Corbain's men.
"Well, well, well, looks like that Sodbuster did me a favor. I won't have to kill you myself after all" He rifled through the dead man's pockets but found little of interest that would help him in his search. Broudy hadn't expected much anyway. Corbain was smart and was sure not to leave anything of value behind.
As darkness fell, Lucas was reluctantly forced to stop the search for the night. Somberly, the two men made camp. Micah knew there was little to say to ease his friend's worries and not being much for small talk, kept silent.
While Micah got a fire going, Lucas set about tending the horses. He took off the saddles and gave them each a good rub down. Lingering over the sorrel, he checked the horse thoroughly for any injury but the pony appeared to be in good shape. Once the horses were fed and watered, Lucas took Mark's saddle and sat it in front of the campfire. Without a word, he went about trying to repair the frayed cinch as best he could with some leather straps he'd retrieved from his saddle bags.
Micah prepared some food, but Lucas barely ate. Putting the saddle aside, he meticulously went about cleaning the rifle; then checked the firing pin mechanism and sites, making sure all were in order.
Micah sat quietly chewing a stick he'd whittled into a toothpick watching his friend. He waited patiently.
Eventually, Lucas set the rifle aside and accepted a cup of coffee from Micah. "What kind of man is Broudy?" Lucas finally asked.
Micah took the stick out of his mouth and rolled it around in his fingers in disgust. "He's the worst kind of lawman around, Lucas boy, the kind that gives the rest of us a bad name." He went on to explain that Broudy had once been a peace officer like himself, but had eventually gone into the business of collecting private bounties. It was more profitable than a marshal's salary that was for sure. And from time to time, as Micah heard it, Broudy had even taken on a few questionable private contracts. But it was the way he went about it that left a bad taste behind. "When it comes to "Wanted: Dead or Alive," in Broudy's opinion, dead was a much easier proposition."
But that wasn't what really bothered Micah the most. As a lawman, he had to take his fair share of outlaws in slung sideways. It was part of the job, but Micah had never found enjoyment in it. But from the stories he'd heard from fellow lawmen, Broudy was quite different. He seemed to relish in the chase as much as the reward and had a sadistic nature with his captures. Those that he did manage to bring in alive didn't seem to fair much better than the others.
"Course he always seemed to have a justifiable excuse as to the condition of his prisoners. I wouldn't put it past Broudy to play down and dirty to get what he wants and he's definitely not one to turn your back on."
Lucas, who had always valued Micah's opinion, took the advice to heart. But with a new trail for Broudy to follow, hopefully they had seen the last of the bounty hunter.
A silence followed. Lucas' face looked dark in the flickering fire light as his thoughts turned inward. Micah knew what he was thinking. "We'll find the boy Lucas, whatever it takes," Micah promised. It wasn't idle talk.
Lucas looked up with a wan smile. "I know," he said softly. Getting up, he walked over to the edge of the clearing and stood with his back to the campfire, both hands resting in his back pockets, staring out into the darkness. For the moment Lucas needed to be alone, and Micah respected that.
The old marshal poured himself some more coffee, watching his friend. Micah had meant what he said. He owned Lucas his life in more ways than one and would gladly give his life without question to get the boy back.
Taking a sip of the bitter coffee Micah could still remember the day he'd first met Lucas McCain. At the time he had no idea the impact this tall Sodbuster with a rifle would have on him and how much he and his son would change his life.
Almost distractedly, he rubbed his right arm which remained stiff and practically useless at his side. Once Micah had been considered one of the best peacemakers around, but he had traveled down a long and bitter road since. So, even before he'd staggered out of North's Fork's Second Chance saloon that day, he'd been nothing more than an old, crippled and bitter drunk, a mere pathetic shell of the man he'd once been who had lost both his nerve and self respect. And that's when he met Lucas McCain. Rip roaring drunk and face down in the dirt. Lucas had literally scrapped him up out of the street. It had taken a fair bit of effort to sober him up.
When Lucas had found out about Micah's past, instead of scoffing, he offered him a job working on his ranch. Though Micah hadn't realized it at the time, Lucas had offered Micah something else that day, a second chance.
Micah had thought the Sodbuster was crazy and went along with idea thinking he'd have a push job. Boy, had he been wrong! If Micah had originally thought Lucas was just pitying him, the next few weeks proved just how sadly mistaken he'd been. Lucas wasn't offering charity, and made that clear in no uncertain terms. Micah had sweated more than he had in years. Lucas expected a man's work for a man's pay and wouldn't let Micah use his physical disability as an excuse for the mental baggage he'd been carrying around. If he didn't like it, Micah remembered him saying one particular evening over supper, he was perfectly capable of walking the fives miles back to North Fork. Lucas had refused to give him a ride back into town.
So Micah had stayed and over the next several weeks Lucas helped him battle the inner demons which came from years of drunkenness and self contempt. And it was during this time that Micah learned a lot about this big man behind the rifle. And the one thing he found out very quickly was how important the boy was to him.
But a marshal's past isn't always easy to leave behind. It had confronted him one day when a group of gunmen had come into North Fork in search of the former Marshal, intent on extracting revenge. When the local sheriff had initially tried to intervene and was killed, Lucas, feeling an obligation to a friend and his town, had gone to help, despite Micah's warnings and his son's concerns. But they'd been waiting in ambush for him.
What happened next had been a turning point for Micah. He'd arrived in town to find Lucas on the ground and something had just snapped inside him. No longer the drunken fool who had entered a few months earlier, the blood of a lawman boiled over and he'd had about enough. That day he decided once and for all to prove to himself that he still had it, or he'd die trying. He was through running from the demons of his past.
Somehow Micah had done what was necessary. And when it was all over, Mark was at his father's side stubbornly insisting on taking his father home to recover. It was then Micah realized just how strong a bond existed between this father and son team.
Later, when the silver-stared badge was offered to him it was if he'd finally found his way home after a long journey. And it felt good. Suddenly Micah had a town, his dignity and a good friend. But more importantly, he had his life back. He owed a lot to Lucas, and not once did Lucas ever ask anything back in return.
So as Micah regarded his friend, he knew he would easily lay his down his life for him. Lucas' son meant everything to him and Micah would do everything in his power to help get the boy back.
Lucas turned around to see Micah watching him. They spoke not a word, but seemed to have an understanding between them. He told Micah he'd take first watch, too restless to sleep.
"All right," Micah said, and squeezed Lucas' shoulder in reassurance before retiring to his bed roll.
Alone with his thoughts, Lucas kept vigil. In the flickering firelight, he distractedly fingered the wedding band he still wore after all these years. Though he'd accepted Margaret's death a long time ago, he'd never quite been able to take it off.
As the night dragged on he was trying hard not to worry. Mark was smart. Lucas had taught his son much about the wilderness. If he'd made it to shore, Mark would be following the river back, making sure he left a trail. However, with such a fast moving currents, Lucas worried his son was too tired or perhaps injured to help himself. But for now, Lucas refused to give up hope or accept any other possibility than finding his son safe and sound.
Micah relieved him later, but Lucas barely slept anxious for dawn. The night passed without further incident and by first light, the two men were up and quickly broke camp.