“And I’m Ponderosa Pine,” the old-timer said, introducing himself through gritted teeth as Bo probed the wound. “Given name’s Clarence, but nobody calls me that ’less’n they want’a tangle with a wildcat.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Bo said with a dry chuckle. “Good news, Ponderosa. That bullet didn’t break your shoulder. I think it missed the bone and just knocked out a chunk of meat on its way through.”
“You sure? It hurts like blazes, and I can’t lift my arm.”
“That’s just from the shock of being wounded. We’ll plug the holes to stop the bleeding, and I think you’ll be all right.” Bo looked up at Gil Sutherland. “How far is the nearest town?”
“Red Butte’s about five miles west of here,” Gil replied. “That’s where we were headed when they jumped us. This is the regular run between Red Butte and Chino Valley.”
“Let’s get Ponderosa here on into town then. He needs to have a real doctor look at that wound, just to be on the safe side.”
“That’s assumin’ there’s a sawbones in this Red Butte place,” Scratch added.
Gil nodded. “Yes, there’s a doctor. Don’t worry, Ponderosa. We’ll take care of you.”
“Ain’t worried,” Ponderosa muttered. “Just mad. Mad as hell. I’d like to see Judson and all o’ his bunch strung up.”
“Who’s Judson?” Bo asked as he used a folding knife he took from his pocket to cut several strips of cloth from the bottom of Ponderosa’s shirt. He wadded up some of the flannel into thick pads and used the other strips to bind them tightly into place over the entrance and exit wounds.
“Rance Judson is the leader of the gang that was chasing us,” Gil explained.
“Him and those varmints who ride with him been raisin’ hell in these parts for six months now,” Ponderosa added.
Scratch asked, “If folks know who he is and that he’s responsible for such deviltry, why don’t the law come in and arrest him?”
Gil Sutherland shook his head. “We’re a long way from any real law out here, Mr. Morton. There’s a marshal in Red Butte who does a pretty good job of keeping the peace there, but he’s not going to go chasing off into the badlands after Judson’s gang. That would be suicide, and he knows it. We all do.”
Bo finished tying the makeshift bandages into place. He straightened from his crouch, grunting a little as he did so. “Old bones are stiffer than they used to be.”
“Tell me about it,” Ponderosa grumbled. “And I’m quite a bit older’n you, mister.”
“Let’s get you in the coach,” Gil suggested. “It won’t be all that comfortable, but it should be better than riding up on the box.”
“Wait just a doggone minute! I signed on to be the shotgun guard, not a danged passenger!”
“I’ll ride shotgun the rest of the way,” Bo said. “Where’s your Greener?”
“On the floorboard where I dropped it when them polecats ventilated me, I reckon.”
Gil said, “I don’t think Judson and his men will make another try for us. You don’t have to come with us into town.”
“We don’t mind,” Bo said.
“Truth to tell, all this dust has got me thirsty,” Scratch added with a grin. “You got at least one saloon there, don’t you?”
“Several,” Gil admitted.
“Then what are we waitin’ for? Let’s go to Red Butte!”
Chapter Two
Once they had loaded the still-complaining Ponderosa Pine into the stagecoach, Bo climbed onto the driver’s box next to Gil Sutherland, leaving his horse tied at the back of the coach. Scratch mounted up and rode alongside as Gil got the vehicle moving.
“Used to be a Butterfield coach, didn’t it?” Bo asked as he swayed slightly on the seat from the rocking motion. He had Ponderosa’s double-barreled scattergun across his knees.
“How did you know?” Gil said.
“You can still see some of the red and yellow paint on it in places.”
Gil grunted. “We didn’t strip the paint off on purpose. The sun and the dust and the wind in this godforsaken country took care of that for us.”
“We?” Bo repeated.
“My father was the one who started the stage line. It runs from Cottonwood to Chino Valley and on over to Red Butte, where the headquarters are. There’s another line that runs from Flagstaff down to Cottonwood and then on south, but there was no transportation from Cottonwood west to the Santa Marias until my father came along. Chino Valley and Red Butte were growing fast because of all the ranching and mining in the area, so he thought it would be a good gamble that they’d need a stage line. He figured some other settlements might spring up along the way, too.”
“Sounds like a worthwhile gamble,” Bo said with a nod. “How’s it working out?”
Gil scowled and shook his head. “Not so good.”
“Because of those outlaws? Folks are too scared of being held up to ride the stage?”
“Well, it didn’t help when Judson and his bunch started raising hell, but that’s not all of it. Those other settlements never sprang up. There’s just Chino Valley and Red Butte. And the mines played out, for the most part. There’s only one still operating at a good level.”
“So there’s not as much business as your pa thought there would be.”
“That’s right. It’s been a struggle to make ends meet.” Gil’s voice caught a little. “It didn’t help matters when my father got sick and died.”
Bo looked over at the young man with a frown. “You’re running the stage line now?”
Gil shook his head again. “My mother’s in charge. I do what I can to help, just like when my father was still alive. I’ve got a younger brother, too, but he—” Gil stopped and drew in a breath. “Let’s just say that he’s not much for hard work and leave it at that.”
Bo didn’t say anything in response to that. Clearly, there were some hard feelings between Gil Sutherland and his little brother, and they might well be justified. But Bo knew it usually didn’t pay for a fella to stick his nose into family squabbles.
Gil drove on in silence for a few minutes, then said, “Thanks for pitching in back there. Judson’s bunch would have caught us in another minute or two, and there’s no telling what they might have done, especially when they found out they weren’t going to get much in the way of loot.”
“It looked like you were about to stop and let them catch up,” Bo said.
“That’s right, I was. I knew we couldn’t outrun them, and the way Ponderosa was only half-conscious and bouncing around on the seat, I was afraid he might get pitched off and break his neck. I was hoping they’d just take the mail pouch and let us go.”
“Is Judson in the habit of doing things like that?”
Gil shrugged. “They’ve killed a few men during their holdups, but only when somebody tried to fight back. Like when they hit the bank over in Chino Valley last month.”
“They’re not just stagecoach robbers then.”
“No, they’ve rustled cattle and run them south across the border into Mexico, they robbed the bank like I said, and they raided the Pitchfork Mine and stole an ore shipment that was about to go out. They’ve stopped the stage half-a-dozen times, I guess, even though they’ve never made a very big haul at it. Killed a driver and a guard, though, so nobody wants to work for us anymore. Ponderosa and I have been taking all the runs ourselves lately. Now he’s going to be laid up for a while, more than likely.” Gil sighed. “I don’t know what we’ll do. Shut down, I guess.”
Bo didn’t say anything to that either. He had some thoughts on the matter, but he kept them to himself for the time being.
The creek that Bo and Scratch had seen from the top of the hill turned out to be a narrow, shallow stream, not much more than a twisting thread of water in a gravelly bed. As Gil drove across it at a ford, he said, “This is Hell Creek. Not much to look at, but it’s the only water this side of the Santa Marias and it never dries up, no matter how hot the weather gets.”