Only a moment before, Jince Johnson had been dozing in the saddle, weary from the long miles behind him, then feeling a sudden tensing of muscles of his horse named "Chicken" brought Jince out of it. Pulling his black flat crowned hat lower over his eyes, he studied the terrain with his watery eyes. His legs, sensitive to every reaction of the horse he loved, had warned him. If he needed more, he had only to look at Chickens ears, tipped forward now, and the flaring of Cickens nostrils. Whatever it was, his horse didn't like it one bit. Jince named his horse Chicken because the horse was afraid of water, one time they had to cross a stream and Chicken laid a trail of droppings all along the way. Chicken did what ever Jince asked of him although at times with the reluctance of a mule. Soft footing it along the dusty trail, Jince approached the grove of Macoun apple trees with wary attention. He let his right hand drop back to loosen the strap that held his Colt six gun in place on the long rides. There was almost no change in expression on Jince's face except that the scar under his right cheekbone from the time his squaw had cut him by mistake with the head of an errant arrow seemed to deepen and his eyes grew more intent. The trail he followed led along the base of a rocky ridge scattered with blueberry bushes and apple trees and boulders broken off from the crest of the ridge and toppled down the slope. Jince's horse named Chicken stepping daintily, walked slowly amongst the apple trees.
"Hold it, boy." Jince spoke gently as he brought his horse to a stand. Not but a few yards away lay the sprawled figure of a man. Jince sat his horse named Chicken, his eyes sweeping the area from side to side looking for any signs of danger. The man laying beside the trail was dead. No examination was required to demonstrate that. No man could take a bullet in the chest without dying. Also, he was lying on his back with the sun in his eyes. No tracks showed near the body except those of the dead man's horse, which stood nearby. From the size of the hole in the dead man's chest, the bullet had gone in from behind. Jince turned in his saddle, measuring the distance, and his eyes found a large brush covered boulder some fifty yards away. The killer had not taken any chances. Jince still sat on his horse. The killer had been smart to take no risks, as the man on the ground was no pilgrim. His face showing grim strength and the seasoning of many suns and the winds from long trails. He also wore two guns, and there were not many men who did.
Jince walked his horse closer, careful to disturb no tracks. He noted the chain loops hanging from the strap button of the dead man's spurs, looking from them to the horse, taking in the ornate Santa Barbara bit and the elaborate hand tooled tapaderos that hooded his stirrups. "California," Jince said aloud. "He came a long way to get killed." Dismounting, he walked over to the horse. It shied a bit, but when Jince spoke it hesitated, then reached for him with its nose, cautious but friendly. "Your owner," Jince told himself, "must have been an all right man. You certainly haven't been abused." He scratched the horse on the neck, his eyes taking in all the details. The rawhide riata suspended from a loop near the pommel attracted his attention. "Eighty or eighty-five feet, I'll bet! I've heard of ropes like that. California, you were a hand!" Texas riders stuck to hair ropes thirty five to forty feet long and they worked close to a steer before making a toss. It needed an artist to handle such a rope, but he had heard talk of the California vaqueros who used ropes this long.
Walking over to the dead man, Jince went through his pockets. Dust was heavy on the man's clothing. He showed evidence, as did his horse, of riding far and fast. The horse was a tall black, heavier than most Texas cow horses, and was obviously well trained. He was a horse who could stand long miles of hard riding, and by the looks of him he had done just that. "Riding to see somebody," Jince guessed, "because from the look of you, you never ran from anything." Making a neat pack of the man's pocket belongings, Jince tucked them into a hip pocket. Then he took the dead man's guns and hung them from his saddle horn. The nearest town was too far away to carry a body, and there would be coyotes. "I mean the four legged kind." Jince, like many a long riding man, often talked to himself. "You've already run into the two legged kind." Jince found a shallow place where the ground was not too hard, dug it out a little with a stick, and laid the body neatly in the trough he hollowed. Covering the rider's face with his vest, Then scraped dirt over him, caved more from the bank above, then piled on juniper boughs and rocks. When he swung to the saddle again he was leading the black horse. Starting away, he took a route that led past the brush covered boulder. A minute and pain staking examination told him little. He was about to leave when he saw the place where the killer's horse had been tethered. Something caught his eye and he studied the rough side of the rock, scowling thoughtfully.
The horse had waited for some time, judging by the hoof marks, and evidently had tried to scratch himself on the rock.Jince gathered several tiny fragments of wood from the rough surface. Dry and hard on one side, they were fresh and unweathered on the other. Carefully he picked off several of the bits of wood, scarcely more than shreds, and put them in a cigarette paper. Hours later, when the shadows reached out over the little town of Fahey, Jince Johnson ambled Chicken down the town's dusty main street to the livery stable. The black trotted behind. Sitting in a chair tipped back against the outer wall of a saloon was a man who watched his arrival with some attention. As Jince pulled up at the livery stable the man turned his head and apparently spoke to someone inside. A moment later the doors pushed wide and a man in a white Stetson hat stepped out and looked to where Jince was stepping down from Chicken. Stabling the horses, Jince rubbed them down with care, fed and watered them himself. A stable hand, chewing tobacco methodically, strolled over and watched without comment. "Come far?" he asked, finally. "Quite a piece." Jince said in a tired voice."What's doin' around town?" He added. "Nothin' much." The hostler looked at Jince's lean, hard face and the two Colts. "Huntin' a job?" "Could be."
"The Sherrif is hirin'. If a man's handy with a six shooter it won't hurt none." "There's two sides to a fight. What about the other?" The stable hand's eyes went to the black. "You usually carry two guns and two horses?" Asked the Stable hand "You look to be a Texas man but that ain't no Texas outfit." Jince forced a smile. "That'll give you something to keep you from sleeping too sound. Something to think about, Rainy." Astonished, the stable hand stared at him. "How'd you know my name?" "Pays a man to keep his eyes open, Rainy," Jince replied. "When I rode up, you were digging chew out of your pouch. Your name's burned on it." The stable hand was embarrassed. "Why, sure! I forget sometimes it's there."
Jince walked up the street, kind of estimating the town and what to be weary of. Quiet, weather beaten, and wind blasted, Fehey was a town that needed to be tamed. There was a telegraph and pony express office along with a few saloons, and a general store. Only the saloons, a cafe, and the hotel showed signs of life in a town deceptively dead. Horses at the hitching rails awaiting thier riders returning. In the alley ways a stray dog or two, Jince had seen many such towns before. A wrong word while sitting at a poker table in one of the saloons and anyone could explode into shooting. Finding the dead man that was killed on the trail and the fact that at least the Sherrif was hiring gun hands meant there was more than was visible. After booking a room at the two story frame hotel with a half readable red sign that said " HO EL CALIF NIA", he went to the cafe to get him some vittles and a stiff shot of rot gut. Ordering, Jince sat at a long wooden table and ate his grub. The slatternly red headed woman who served him manifested no interest in the silent, leather faced young man with two Colt firearms. She had seen them come and go before and helped prepare a few for burial after they were gone. Jince ate thoughtfully, turning over in his mind the problem that brought him here. Somewhere in the town of Fahey was a shoot ya in the back cold as they come killer. Now Jince didn't come to this town for justice, he was just passing through seeking only the right thing to do. If the man he had found and burried had a family they should be told of his fate and grave site. The Sherrif was a kindly sort, you knew that you liked him right off the git go.
( This is about the time I get more interested in eating dinner than writing about this sherrif so I'll call him Andy Taylor for now and to all have a good night !)
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