Royce Lee was not a bounty hunter for the money. He did it because he thrived on the danger of hunting the most cunning animal of all: his own kind.
Though Lee was not yet middle-aged, his body ached from continual rigorous travel. The thick brown hair of his youth had thinned out considerably and he regularly found loose brittle strands when he took off his hat at night. Years earlier gray hairs had begun to show at his temples and now the gray hair covered most of the sides of his head. His skin regularly exposed to the sun was leathery in texture and extremely dark brown.
His face, more than anything else, showed the years of living on the edge, the countless miles traveled, and a dim reflection of each man he had killed. His eyes were gray and gloomy, his cheeks hollow. His mouth was normally dry and it hung open, as if perpetually prepared to vomit the poison of the evil he pursued and of the evil he himself had become. The most distinctive feature of his face was the long deep scar that reached from the back of his right jaw to the center of his chin. The Indian who had branded him for life had not been as lucky.
Lee knew, and cared for, nothing about women. He had never owned a home. He had never worked a regular job. Neither did he know nor care about how even simple things worked. He could not have herded a single cow. He could not have hitched a team of horses or repaired a fence on a ranch. He was a man completely out of touch with the world around him. Out of touch except in one respect: He was a master at knowing how a man thought.
How a man thought made him predictable. And a man’s predictability was his greatest betrayer.
Lee had captured or killed outlaws who were smart and those who were dimwitted; those who were fast and treacherous, and those who were slow and posed no threat at all. But each man was unique and challenged him in a slightly different way. Lee lived for that.
Almost from every aspect Lee was anti-social. He held no affection for people, places, or things. He preferred being outdoors far from towns, taking in stride the sun and the rain, the heat and the cold. Yet his occupation required information―information that sometimes could only be obtained by riding into a town. A quiet ride in, a few pointed questions, a quiet ride out. He did not drink nor smoke nor hire women for sex. Normally his mind was occupied with only one thought: What would be his prey’s next move, or three, or six?
Whenever the time came to end the chase, he did so with absolute resolution: one chance to surrender and live to face a jury and a rope. Or one wrong move that would end it all. Most had made the fatal mistake, which Lee had come to prefer. Dragging along a live outlaw sometimes hundreds of miles to face a jury was much more dangerous than leading the man’s horse with the body draped across the saddle. Yet he would dutifully deliver the outlaw intact when the man had surrendered.
What crime the outlaw had perpetrated against society held no interest for Lee. Nor did the size of the reward. The amount of cash he had collected from bounties over the years was substantial. But, other than the small portion required to keep him outfitted, the money meant little.
What mattered was the chase.
The twists and turns of his prey gave him something to contemplate and understand, something to counter and overcome. Lee was an expert at patience and persistence. He had captured or killed every man he had hunted. Not one had escaped. Not one.
XXIX.
Miles Stayton was a middle son of the Stayton clan. As a child he had noticed the attention of his father and mother centered on his older and younger brothers, particularly Travis the oldest and Little Joey the youngest. Although he had not questioned why that was the case, the relative lack of affection had caused him to turn inward. As a result he had grown up the most self-reliant and the most wayward of all the Stayton sons.
During his youth he had developed his own method to gain the family’s attention. He had found clever cynical comments caused his parents and his brothers to turn their heads in his direction. Whereas his motivation was to amuse the family, his remarks inevitably were taken as obnoxious. He had therefore become known as the smart aleck of the clan.
Yet Miles was one of the more intelligent sons and he possessed a knack for satisfying not only his needs but many of his wants. He had learned from an early age the fiercest competitor received what limited resources were available. What he wanted therefore he took, often at the point of a gun.
As all the Stayton sons, Miles had been introduced to guns at an early age. When he discovered how persuasive a weapon could be he devoted himself to developing skill and confidence in the expert handling of a firearm. Outside of his brother, Gil, Miles was the fastest draw of all the sons. That characteristic coupled with a volatile temper had sent four men to boot hill and had made him a wanted man in
By the time he was sixteen years old he had lost much of his interest in family affairs. Shortly after his seventeenth birthday he left home. He drifted north. When he ran out of money he robbed a stagecoach, killing the guard. When the local sheriff formed a posse, Miles experienced what it was to be a hunted man. The posse had surprised him one night shortly after the robbery. He was wounded in the side before he killed two of the men and narrowly escaped with his life. The pain and shock of the incident had shown him the penalty for carelessness and he vowed never to be caught off-guard again.
He had traveled through many towns of the West before he drifted into
Eventually Miles visited the property, never planning to stay and abhorring the thought of becoming a farmer. But when he arrived he found the cabin comfortable and the land attractive. After a time he decided to plant a few crops and he was pleasantly surprised at the rich harvest. He found he could easily subsist off the farm and he began to enjoy the security of owning property. Ever wary however that the past might show up on his doorstep he was unyielding in maintaining his skill with a gun.
Then in the spring of 1873 he received a telegram from his father. On a night in middle May he packed, and the next morning he headed out.
Almost from the time he left he had felt a strange sensation. Again and again he asked himself whether he had forgotten something―something essential. The first night out therefore he took careful inventory of his gear. He found nothing missing.
His thoughts were mostly occupied with the anticipation of meeting his pa and brothers in
Still, somewhere in his mind a small blank spot caused him to pause every time his train of thought centered on the void. What was that?
The lack of knowledge of what could be causing the subtle distress caused him to pull in the reins. He turned in the saddle and looked behind him. He held the horse perfectly still for several minutes. Scanning left and right, near and far, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
He pulled the brim of his hat lower to block the glare of the afternoon sun. Then he nudged the horse with his spurs. After only a hundred yards his mind tripped over the mental blank again. This time he consciously lingered on the void, knowing it meant something but not knowing what. After a moment a shiver raced down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
He abruptly pulled in the reins and the horse stopped. He jerked around in the saddle and looked behind him. Again nothing.
destination after they had passed
Lee had figured however to end the chase even as early as tomorrow night. To do that, he would have to find where the man had gone. He figured the man’s most likely diversion was to the river where the man could hide his tracks in the water.
To make sure, he began riding in wide arcs, trying to catch sight of a hoof print or a broken twig or the particular lie of a few blades of grass. A half hour passed before he found what he was looking for. A horse’s shoe had scraped across a rock. He rode a little farther and came upon the leafy branch the man had used to cover his tracks. He frowned with disappointment and he shook his head. No use playing any longer. The time had come to He quickly took stock of his location. He had been traveling at a leisurely pace in a generally northwest direction. He knew the
When he reached the river he walked the horse into the shallows along the bank and reversed direction. He rode southeast for nearly a quarter mile. Then he rode up onto the bank. By now the sun had sunk lower in the sky and the trees along the bank filtered the light. He rode another mile and then stopped and made camp.
The next morning he was awake before dawn. When he mounted up he turned the horse southeast again. He rode along the riverbank for nearly three miles. Then he turned west to rejoin the trail he had been riding the day before.
As he approached the trail his instincts were on high alert. He brought the animal to a halt alongside a large boulder. After dismounting he retrieved the field glasses from one of his saddlebags. Resting his elbows on the boulder he examined the area in every direction. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
He mounted up and walked the horse onto the trail. Before long he saw his own horse’s hoof prints from the day before. They were the only tracks on the trail.
He walked the horse for a quarter mile, carefully looking for a second set of tracks. He found none.
“Get up.”
His thoughts again turned to his pa and brothers. The telegram he had received several weeks ago read:
WADE, CLEM DEAD. PARSON BLANE,
XXX.
First, he always followed a man at a distance that would allow the man plenty of time to double back on his own trail before Lee ever arrived at that location. Second, he never directly followed the man’s path. Instead he rode a quarter mile to the right or left, drifting only occasionally onto the man’s trail to make sure the man was still traveling in the same direction.
Sometimes Lee’s technique of tracking a man was burdensome for him, especially when he was forced to ride through high brush. But his method had proven so successful over the years that he entertained little thought of altering it.
By
Lee removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. His stomach growled and he felt the pangs of hunger. He turned his horse east. “Come on, boy, let’s go over to the river.”
At the river he let the horse drink. Then he walked the animal a few yards from the river’s edge and staked him in the grass. He pulled a bar of soap from a saddlebag and walked back to the riverbank. He took off everything except his boots and waded into the water and washed himself thoroughly.
When he was done he threw the bar of soap onto the bank. He remained in the shallows for several minutes enjoying the relatively cool flow of the water. Then he walked onto the bank and sat down on a patch of grass to drip-dry.
His thoughts returned to the man ahead of him. The man was the brother of Al Stayton whom he had already killed. This man was proving no craftier than his brother and again Lee thought of ending the chase. Perhaps his next victim would present more of a challenge.
He stood up and put on his clothes. Then he retrieved some jerky and a corn dodger from a saddlebag. He sat down on the riverbank and thoroughly chewed his lunch, washing it down with water from his canteen.
Finally he drew the six-shooter from his holster and checked the load. After he wiped the gun clean with his handkerchief he slipped the revolver into the holster and strapped the thong over the hammer.
An hour later he had reached the trail and casually looked down to check the tracks.
None was there.
He cocked his head. “Hmm.” He carefully looked in every direction. Nothing.
For the first time in a long time, he smiled. The game had begun.
“Alright Pardner, where’d ya go?”
He rode a few hundred feet, scrutinizing the trail. Perhaps the man ahead of him had brushed out his tracks with a leafy branch. Sometimes one could distinguish the brush marks, sometimes not.
He figured that by following the trail long enough he would be able to detect the telltale signs of the man’s brushing out the tracks. But soon he concluded the man had left the trail altogether.
Still it was of little concern. He already knew where the man was headed:
Lee had figured however to end the chase even as early as tomorrow night. To do that, he would have to find where the man had gone. He figured the man’s most likely diversion was to the river where the man could hide his tracks in the water.
To make sure, he began riding in wide arcs, trying to catch sight of a hoof print or a broken twig or the particular lie of a few blades of grass. A half hour passed before he found what he was looking for. A horse’s shoe had scraped across a rock. He rode a little farther and came upon the leafy branch the man had used to cover his tracks. He frowned with disappointment and he shook his head. No use playing any longer. The time had come to end the game. He lifted the reins and gave a quick jab of spurs.
At the river’s edge he quickly located where the man had entered the water. Now he had a decision to make. Which way? More than likely the man would not have doubled back on his trail again so soon. He therefore turned northwest and began looking for tracks where the man had exited the river.
After a quarter mile without finding tracks he pulled in the reins. He arched his back and lifted his arms over his head and stretched. He should have found the tracks by now. After another quarter mile he reined in again. Surely the man would not have walked his horse for a half mile in the water. Would have he? Finally, after he had ridden a total of more than a mile he knew something was wrong. There should have been tracks leading out of the water but he had found none.
He took off his hat and scratched his head. He peered at the opposite side of the river. Surely the man would not have crossed the river. On the one hand crossing the river would have put the man on the wrong side of the water to reach
The only other possibility was that the man indeed had reversed direction when he first entered the water so as to double back on his trail a second time within two days. And the thought of that possibility gave Lee pause. If the man had doubled back a second time he had brought Lee in much closer than Lee was comfortable with. The possibility always existed that the hunter would become the hunted.
Reluctantly he turned his horse around and began following the riverbank to the southeast. After retracing his trail for about a mile he began looking for tracks where the man had come out of the river. He kept alert, carefully scanning the trail ahead. He was wary of an ambush.
After another quarter mile he spotted the tracks of the man’s horse from the day before but he still had not found fresh tracks. After another mile he came upon the man’s camp from the night before―but still no tracks leading out of the water. The situation was becoming downright frustrating!
Again he looked across the river.
He dismounted and walked to the water’s edge. He knelt on one knee and splashed water onto his face. Then he wiped away the water with his hands. He looked closely at the river, the current, and the opposite bank. What had been the last resort had become the only resort. The man must have crossed.
When he mounted up he walked the horse into the shallows and drew up. Carefully he reviewed what he was about to do. The danger was his horse would exhaust himself before they reached the other side. In that instance they both would probably drown. He had to be sure in his mind that the man he was after had indeed crossed the river. Could he have missed the man’s tracks? Had he somehow been tricked?
When he nudged the animal with his spurs, the horse did not move. “I know, boy. It’s a long way across. Let’s try for a little ways and see how we do.” He spurred the animal with authority and the horse headed out. After several steps the bottom fell away and the horse began to swim. Lee hung onto the saddle horn and allowed his body to stretch out and glide in the water.
After about a hundred yards, Lee looked over his shoulder at the riverbank he had left behind. He could clearly see the current was taking them downriver at fair speed. He listened to the horse’s breathing for further signs of tiring. The animal’s respiration had already become slightly labored. Lee raised his head and tried to glimpse the distance to the opposite bank. But from his viewing angle it was impossible to judge. All he could see ahead of him was water.
“This is nuts!”
He pulled on the left rein and the horse’s head slowly came around until they were headed back to the bank from which they had come.
The horror that happened next came quickly and without warning. An instant before he heard the thunderous roar of the rifle shot, he heard: Phtt! Whack! The blood from the horse’s head splattered onto his face and into his eyes. The horse immediately went limp and began to sink. By the time Lee released his grip on the saddle horn the sinking horse had pulled him five feet under.
When Lee popped above the surface he coughed out the water he had swallowed and he struggled to catch his breath. Again he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet’s whir and he felt the projectile pass within inches of his ear. Quickly he drew in a breath and submerged.
Beneath the water he pulled off his boots. Then he stroked with his arms and kicked with his legs to bring his body parallel to the surface. He swam as far as he could until he had to surface for air.
He began to tread water just below the surface and tilted his head back. When he breached the surface only his mouth and nose were above water. He spent several moments in that position, catching his breath. Then he filled his lungs with air and submerged again.
Now his objective was to allow the current to sweep him downriver until he was out of range of the gunman. Additionally he had to make best use of his strength. Each time he submerged therefore he took several strokes toward the bank.
After a time he risked surfacing. He treaded water for several moments, breathing in desperately needed oxygen.
He heard no gunshots.
After another few moments he began to swim toward the riverbank. He could see the current had taken him farther downriver and that he was still a long way from the bank. Luckily he was a strong swimmer but, even so, he seriously questioned whether he could negotiate the current and the distance to the river’s edge.
He began to swim in easy breast strokes, keeping his head above water and trying to regulate his heart rate and to calm his nerves. After several minutes he began to shed the panic that had plagued him since his horse had been shot. But the shock of the incident had been like a blow to the stomach. Much of his strength had been drained away in the hysteria of the ordeal.
Slowly the distance to the riverbank decreased and for the first time he sensed a glimmer of hope that he just might make it.
If the glimmer of hope burned like a candle, the flame quickly extinguished itself when Lee glimpsed a fleeting movement on the riverbank. Instantly he stopped swimming forward and began to tread water. There it was again!
Someone was riding along the river’s edge. Lee entertained no illusions regarding the rider’s identity. The man who had tricked him was determined to finish the job.
Once again Lee submerged and began to swim underwater but what little strength remained was fading fast. Whenever he surfaced, the oxygen did little to renew his energy.
Additionally the cool water had already begun to lower his body temperature. That fact combined with the necessity to swim underwater, which deprived him of a ready-supply of oxygen, depleted his energy at an accelerated rate. As the long minutes passed sheer exhaustion steadily overtook him.
Finally he surfaced. He had neither the strength nor the oxygen reserve to worry about the gunman possibly spotting him. He must get to the riverbank at all costs.
He swam on, but his strokes were slow and weak.
Before long he began to lose mental focus. Each stroke now was governed only by the instinct to survive―one arm in front of the other over and over again. Occasionally he kicked his legs. All perception of time faded from his consciousness. He was mindful only of the water and the impulse to swim for his life.
Several minutes passed.
Finally he was too weak to swim forward anymore. He began to tread water but his strokes were too feeble to keep him afloat. His head sank below the surface. The fear of drowning produced a spurt of adrenaline that he used to kick his legs to surface momentarily. Then he sank again.
One more spike of fear. Once more he surfaced. When he sank again he tried to stroke and to kick but his arms and legs only twitched. He sank deeper.
TO BE CONTINUED
