Stringer and the Wild Bunch Read online

  Kid Curry shook his head. “Not hardly. They’re both acting sort of mysterious right now. Sundance had to go east on family business a spell back. He hails from New Jersey. I don’t know why Butch went with him, or even if Butch did. Some say old Butch is down in Texas right now. Anyway, the rest of us still got to eat. So that’s how come I’m sort of in command at the moment.”

  Since the odds on anyone else making more sense were good, Stringer asked if any other members of the Wild Bunch were sort of disputing Kid Curry’s leadership at the moment.

  The pop-eyed owlhoot looked away and then explained, “Most of the boys are democrats. If they wasn’t sort of prone to think for themselves, they’d be herding cows or sacking feed for some regular boss. It just ain’t true that the Wild Bunch is some sort of infernal lodge with infernal rules and regulations. Suffice it to say I’m the boss of this here chapter of the Wild Bunch, and I’ll be vexed as hell if you don’t obey my every command.”

  Stringer saw no good reason yet to express his own reservations on that point. He was riding a strange mount, unarmed, and not too sure where to run if and when he got the chance to make a break for it. The low sun to their west told him which way north and south might be. He knew they were somewhere north of the main U.P. line. After that it was up for grabs. They’d been hairpinning through the sort of country that gave the Rocky Mountains their name, and it would surely be dark before he could get anywhere important.

  As if he’d been thinking along the same lines, Kid Curry said, “We’ll be holing up for the night soon. Do you figure we’ll have to tie you up after supper, old son?”

  Stringer grimaced. “I didn’t know that was for me to say.”

  “The boys will be expecting me to,” Kid Curry said. “Unless I can say I have your parole.”

  Stringer didn’t answer. He’d been raised cow by folk who took a man’s word serious, and while he’d seen more of this old wicked world than his more rustic relations, he still hated to break his word, unless he had to.

  Kid Curry waited, grinned slyly, and said, “That ain’t gonna work, Stringer. You can consider yourself my prisoner and get treated the same way or you can give me your word and be my bath wash.”

  Stringer had to think some about that. Then he laughed. “Don’t you mean your Boswell?”

  Kid Curry said, “I mean that friendly Scotchman who rid with Doc Johnson and writ down all them nice things about him so’s the world would never forget him. It wouldn’t have been modest for Doc Johnson to write all them nice things about himself, see?”

  Stringer laughed again. “Let’s see if I have this straight,” he replied. “You want me to interview you on the fly and turn in a favorable review on your activities?”

  Kid Curry nodded. “Just like that writer Bathwash done. I read a piece on me in the Denver Post a spell back that almost made me cry blood. It just ain’t fair to make up such mean things about a poor boy who never had a chance, see?”

  Stringer tried to keep a sober expression as he replied, “I feel sure you’re as decent, way down deep, as say Jesse James or Billy the Kid must have been. But just how am I supposed to submit your biography to my features editor unless you boys turn me loose sooner or later?”

  Kid Curry looked as sincere as your average habitual criminal as he told Stringer, “We got some riding to do afore we’re clear of the fuss we just stirred up back yonder. Once we’re up in the Hole in the Wall and I have time to study on what you want to put in the papers about me, I may even give you your money back.”

  Then he said, more ominously, “Of course, if I don’t like what you put down about me—”

  ‘That’s the only thing neither of us has to worry about,” Stringer quickly cut in. “I used to write advertisements when I was starting out as a journalist. You can’t be harder to sell than soft soap or rat poison.”

  Curry scowled at him uncertainly, and Stringer made a mental note that dry humor was not one of the ruffian’s stronger points. Curry’s tone was less certain than his words when he said, “There you go. You treat me right and I’ll treat you right. Do we have us a deal?”

  Stringer hesitated before nodding. “With one line of small print. I can see you and I seem to get along tolerable. But what if some of the others, well, spill hot coffee on me?”

  “They won’t,” Kid Curry said. “If they know what’s good for ‘em. I’ll spread the word you’re my guest. You can’t have no gun. I ain’t that stupid. But otherwise, the usual camp rules apply. So you have my permit to say no if somebody wants to corn-hole you, and if anybody hits you, I reckon it’s all right for you to hit him or her back.”

  “Him or her?” Stringer asked.

  Kid Curry grinned. “We got plenty of her-critters hiding out with us up to the headwaters of the Green. I said we was mostly democrats, not a bunch of queers. I’ll fix you up with one of the gals, once we get there. It ain’t true that Sundance’s woman, old Etta Place, is the only good-looking gal who ever pined for a life of romantic adventure!”

  Curry laughed almost boyishly and added, “Stick with me, and I’ll show you a right good time, newspaper boy.” Then he sort of took the edge off his words of cheer by warning, “Make a break for it afore I tell you I won’t mind, and I’ll likely blow your kneecaps off and leave you staked face up across an ant pile. That’s what I done to the last son of a bitch who tried to double-cross me, hear?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A pale moon was rising above the inky ridges to their east, just in time, when Kid Curry led them all across an open stretch of loose scree. None of their mounts left hoofprints in the fist-sized lumps of frost-shattered granite. Their mounts had enough trouble trying not to slide on down the mountain. Stringer rode with a gentle hand on his own mount’s reins. He knew all he could do if the brute lost its footing was to try and fall on the high side and hope for the best. The scree they were dislodging with every hoof step made ominous noises as it rattled down, down and down some more into the mysterious darkness below. A million or so years later they’d made it to the far side, which would have seemed a lot nicer if the far side of the loose scree hadn’t consisted of bare bedrock sloping almost thirty degrees to an even steeper drop-off.

  Kid Curry didn’t feel as sure of the route he’d chosen as he acted. He waited until they were all on firmer ground in the trees to the north before he let out his breath with a wheeze and’ declared, “I’d like to see the law cross that stretch of asshole pucker in broad day.”

  Another owlhoot laughed and said, “We ain’t left a hoof mark for the last couple of miles, and for that they’ll surely thank you, Kid. You sure are a fool for ridge running, and nobody but a fool like me would consider riding after you and the other mountain goats.”

  Kid Curry announced he was slicker than any mountain goat, and led them on. Stringer saw no indication they were following even a game trail as they wound through brooding fir and moonlit outcrops of rounded granite. He’d heard there was an unmapped outlaw trail running all the way down to Mexico between the more or less north-south ranges west of the Divide. But he didn’t see how this could be it. He could only hope Kid Curry wasn’t lost. He knew he was, and unless someone was starting to unscrew the stars up yonder, they were due for some rain before moon-set.

  He didn’t say so. Some of the others seemed uncertain of his status, to judge from occasional growls he heard, and he was now riding in the middle of the single-file column as they snaked on along the contour line of the steep east-west slope, with the only man who’d talk nice to him well out front.

  The stars were gone and the moon was shining mighty dim by the time they heard roaring rapids ahead and reined in by a white-water stream. Kid Curry shot a thoughtful glance up at the sky and announced, “It’s already raining up in the Rabbit Ear ranges. Come morning they’ll play hell finding hoof mark one in these parts. But we’d best play fox and hounds with the bastards whilst we have the chance. We’ll wade down a ways afore we cross over.” “D
on’t you mean, up, Kid?” one of his followers protested. “I agreed to rob trains with you, not to commit suicide. Our ponies might make her upstream against that considerable current. But riding downstream is just asking ‘em to lose their footing, with the water this high.”

  “Let’s hope the posse shares your gloom, Arkansas,” Kid Curry replied. “Given a fifty-fifty choice, assuming they trail us this far, they’ll likely head upstream instead of downstream. That’s why we’re heading down, see?”

  Then, without waiting for an argument, Kid Curry rode into the almost stirrup-deep white water and, sure enough, headed down the mountain with moonlit foam washing halfway up his pony’s rump. After some cussing, all but one of the others followed. Stringer understood why one independent thinker chose to head upstream, alone. But he didn’t feel Kid Curry would understand if he headed that way. So he headed downstream as well. It was a good thing he was a good rider. In no time at all he and his mount were in trouble. The pony’s steel-shod hooves kept slipping on the slick submerged rocks neither of them could see. It was only by shifting his weight in the saddle skillfully that Stringer managed to keep them both more or less upright, because the poor brute’s rump was a lot higher than its forequarters, even when it wasn’t slipping and sliding, with the current trying to move them a lot faster.

  Things got worse before they got better. The mountain stream ran faster where it pinched between a stretch of steeper banks. Stringer almost lost his hat to a tree branch. More than one now lay in wait above the rolling water. It was tempting to duck low and stay there. But he knew a rider with his belly to the horn would have a time shifting his weight enough to matter. So he only ducked under the thicker branches and pushed the others out of the way with his free hand. Once he saved both himself and his mount from a ducking by hanging on hard when the pony put a hoof down wrong. Then they were steady again, or as steady as horse and rider could be on such treacherous footing.

  Stringer heard a cry of anguish behind him and yanked hard on the reins to halt and brace his own mount for what might be coming. It was a near thing when another pony bumped into them, floating and flailing, to bounce off and continue downstream, its wet saddle empty. As the spilled rider passed, making even more noise, Stringer let go his reins, grabbed an overhead branch with one hand, and just managed to snag the man’s shirt with the other hand. The panic-stricken owlhoot grabbed Stringer’s free arm in both hands and hung on for dear life, coughing and retching.

  “I got you, damn it,” Stringer said. “If I wanted to go swimming with you, I’d say so. See if you can hook a foot with mine in the stirrup and I’ll try to haul you up aboard this bronc.”

  The half-drowned rascal did as he was told. It wasn’t easy. He was the skinny consumptive they called Slim, and he was no stronger than he looked. But after considerable cussing, Slim was sort of sitting sidesaddle on Stringer’s lap.

  “I don’t know about you,” Stringer said, “but I’ve had enough of this fool creek.”

  Slim agreed, and together, they worked their mutual mount up the bank. They wound up on the far side, at least, but Kid Curry still might have objected had not a couple of the others followed Stringer’s example. Kid Curry must not have wanted to ride all the way to the Grand Canyon alone, for he rode up out of the wild water as well, calling out, “When you’re right you’re right. Ain’t you glad, now, I didn’t tie that old boy’s hands like you thought I should, Slim?” The wet and shivering Slim slid down from his awkward perch on Stringer’s wet jeans. “I owe you one, newspaper boy,” he said. “For this other crazy bastard must think I’m a damned old trout, and he knows I got delicate lungs.”

  One of the others led a spare mount over and told the soaking-wet lunger, “I hope you didn’t have nothing you value aboard that pony you was riding, Slim. It’s long gone, even if it ain’t drownded by now. Get aboard this old mare and try not to fall off no more.”

  Slim mounted up. “I never fell off nothing,” he protested, “damn your eyes. Was it my fault that gelding decided to go swimming underwater like a damned old pearl diver?”

  “All right, we’ve had our fun,” Kid Curry said. “Now we’d best move on.”

  So they did. Stringer felt even more turned around as he saw they were headed more west than north now. They still seemed to be following a cross-slope contour line. He squinted at the mental map of the Rockies he’d thought he had in his head. He saw he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know these hills as well as he’d thought when another rider asked Kid Curry where in the hell they were going.

  Their leader called back, “Hole in the Wall, the easy way. We got us the Rabbit Ears due north, and I just hate to be riding above timberline with the law on my ass. That’s how come we got to go around instead of over, see?”

  Someone else protested, “I just caught me a raindrop with my hat brim, and I’m already wet enough from that fool creek, Kid.”

  “Don’t break out your slickers, boys,” Kid Curry replied. “I told you all when we started out that I knowed this country good. Stick with me and I’ll have you warm and dry in no time.” It was more like an hour, and the rain was coming down hard enough to force everyone but Stringer and the unfortunate Slim into their slickers by the time Kid Curry called out, “Here we are. What did I tell you?”

  Since it was now almost pitch-dark, more than one of the other train robbers demanded to know what in thunder he was talking about. Kid Curry dismounted. “Stay put whilst I shed some light on the subject. The clay footing around here is sort of treachersome when it’s this wet.”

  They all waited in the dark rain until they saw Kid framed in what seemed at first a doorway. Then they realized he’d lit an oil lantern in the adit of a mine, and it shed light on the wet mud all around. So they quickly dismounted and led their mounts closer. Stringer swore as his boot heel slipped on banana-peel wet clay. Kid Curry had been right about that too.

  They led the ponies in under the low overhang. As he tied his to a mine timber, Stringer, saw Kid Curry had joined him. “I give up,” he said. “If this isn’t the Hole in the Wall, what is it?”

  “Gold mine,” Kid Curry said. “A fool’s gold mine at least. From the looks of her, she was dug back in the sixties or seventies. Whoever dug her gave up years ago, but the timbers still look sound. Don’t go too far back, though. Ground water’s rotted the timbers a ways in, and I’d hate to lose you now. How do you like my story so far?”

  “You’re good,” Stringer said, truthfully enough. “I don’t know how the hell you could have planned on this rain to wash away all sign of your sins, and you must be half owl as well.”

  Kid Curry frowned. “Are you saying I got funny eyes?”

  Stringer assured him his eyes looked just fine. “I’m glad to hear that,” Curry said. “My dear old mother had sort of poppy eyes, too, and we always thought she was pretty. Whether I take after her or not, nobody but Sundance is allowed to make fun of my poppy eyes, and that’s only because he’s the only man I know who can draw half as fast as me. I’ve got to see about getting us a good fire going now. None of the others has a lick of sense, and I have to tell ‘em when to eat and shit.”

  Stringer didn’t argue. He unsaddled his mount and rubbed it as dry as he could manage with a damp saddle blanket. It wasn’t for him to say whether the poor brute got watered and fed. He moved deeper into the mine and found a dusty dynamite box to sit on as he watched some of the others trying to build a fire even deeper, with damp matches and considerable cussing. Stringer reached absently for his makings, felt how they were in his soaked-through shirt, and decided it wasn’t worth the effort. His tobacco and papers might be dry enough to smoke by sunrise, if they ever got that fire going.

  He knew his own matches were supposed to be waterproof. So he rose, ambled over, and hunkered down by the one called Arkansas. Arkansas had busted a mess of damp matches to no avail. But when Stringer offered to try, Arkansas seemed to take this as a personal insult. He’d been the one aboa
rd the train who liked to shoot at ceilings, Stringer recalled. So he kept his own voice calmer and more reasonable as he explained, “I’m not saying you don’t know how to build a fire, Arkansas. Anyone can see how fine you shaved that kindling. It’s just that, no offense, your matches are wet. I got some here made Mexican style out of wax.”

  Someone else said, “Let him try, at least. I got goose bumps on my goose bumps, and anyone can see you and your matches are both all wet, Arkansas.”

  There was a chorus of agreement. So before Arkansas could outright tell him not to, Stringer struck a light and thrust it into the kindling. “There you go,” he said as it caught fire. “I told you I admired your shaved kindling, old son.”

  As the others softly cheered, Arkansas scowled like the overgrown schoolyard bully he probably was. “I ain’t your son or any relation to you, you bastard. My mother and father married lawsome afore they had me.”

  Stringer let that go unchallenged. He had no other choice, since his own gun was miles away in a gladstone, while Arkansas was wearing a brace of double-action Colt Lightnings. Hoping it didn’t count when a man who called you a bastard had the drop on you, Stringer edged back from the fire, braced his back against the damp rock wall of the shaft, and saw that Arkansas had apparently forgiven or forgotten him in his eagerness to hog the fire closer than anyone with live ammo around his waist and a lick of sense might have wanted to.

  Another gang member produced a tin bucket and some provisions to put on the fire, and as the dank interior of the deserted mine warmed up, the mulligan commenced to boil and smell a lot more tempting than it looked going into the pot. Stringer hadn’t been thinking about supper, up to now. But he was suddenly aware he’d missed it aboard that fool train. Had things gone less exciting, he’d have likely eaten hours ago and been in his Pullman berth by now, with or without that gal he’d noticed traveling alone.