A Short Story by Mark L. Redmond, author of the New Classics book, Arty Goes West.
I am William Shakespeare Burton, fifteen years old and glad to be alive. My pa says I’m one of his top hands on our Arizona ranch, as hard-working as any full-grown man. Although hearing Pa say those things makes me feel like a man, I’m still fifteen. When my work is done, I want to play. Pa doesn’t mind, and neither does Ma as long as she knows the general direction I’m headed when I saddle my horse.
Several months ago, while I was riding with my best friends, Clint and George Johnston, we discovered a deserted line shack in the northeast corner of their ranch, which lies just west of ours. We decided to make it our hideout. It was pretty run down, but we made it weatherproof. After stacking firewood and stocking the shelves with a few dry goods, we spent most of our free time there. We even stayed the night once.
Then as we rode up to the shack one afternoon, we found horses in our corral. We hid in the rocks until three men came out of the shack. Their guns were tied down, and the men were watchful, as if they were either expecting trouble or looking for it.
“Let’s run them off,” said George, starting toward the cabin.
“You lame brain!” Clint whispered, grabbing George’s suspenders and pulling him back behind a rock. “They’ll most likely shoot us. They’re leaving anyway. Let’s look around after they’re gone.”
The men saddled up and rode toward Peach Springs, six miles away. After they had disappeared over a ridge, we scrambled down the rock-covered slope to our shack.
The men planned to return. Two pack horses were still in the corral; and blanket rolls, saddlebags, and several boxes of ammunition were lying on the cot in the corner.
“Let’s throw this stuff in the chaparral and bolt the door,” said George.
“Let’s not,” I said.
“Look at this,” Clint said. He handed a crumpled sheet of paper to George. The color left George’s face as he read. Without speaking, handed the paper to me.
It was a “wanted” poster for the Willow Creek Gang. The reward was a thousand dollars for the leaders of the gang: Jack Hein, Frank Harris, and his brother Dave. There was no picture, but the description fit our visitors. They were wanted for robbery and murder.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” George replied. “Why are we whispering?”
After some discussion, we decided that Clint and George should ride to town and get Sheriff Parker while I kept an eye the shack from our hiding place in the rocks.
I watched them ride in the direction of town and then turned to look at the shack. Nothing looked out of place. The desperadoes would never suspect that we’d been there. Then I saw something that made me feel sick. A bright red piece of cloth was waving in the doorway. I felt my back pocket and found my gloves, but my bandanna was gone. I had been the last one through the door. When I had closed it behind me, I must have closed it on my bandanna.
If the men found it, they’d know that someone had been there. They’d get away before Clint and George could return with the sheriff.
I ran down to the shack, opened the door, and pulled out my bandanna. As I started back to my hiding place, a rock turned under my boot; and I fell, wrenching my ankle so hard that I yelled. I didn’t know if I had broken it, but I quickly discovered that I couldn’t walk on it.
I was sweating, but I felt a chill as I realized that the only place I could hide was inside the shack. With my ankle throbbing, I dragged myself back to the door and then inside. After closing the door, I scooted to the window that faced toward town and waited.
Gritting my teeth, I pulled off my boot. When I removed my sock, I saw that my ankle had swollen almost to the size of my knee. I groaned as I thought of how we had planned to spend our shares of the reward money. The money had looked like a sure thing, but now I reckoned there was a good chance that the outlaws would kill me and clear out before Clint and George returned with the sheriff.
As much as I hurt and as thirsty as I was, after a while I dozed. I awoke, confused, to the sound of hoof beats. Peeking out the corner of my window, I saw the riders starting down the slope toward the shack. The only place to hide was barely big enough for me to squeeze my skinny carcass into, but I managed to scoot under the cot before the men entered. My ankle was throbbing, and I felt sick.
“How long do you reckon we’ll be safe here, Frank?” one of the men asked.
“Just long enough to rest the horses,” Frank replied.
“I’m so hungry I could—hey, Dave, did you hear somethin’ out there?”
“You in the shack!” someone called from outside. “Shuck your guns and come out with your hands up. You’re surrounded, so you can’t escape.”
One of the outlaws cursed. “How’d he know we was here? He must have spotted us in town, and now they’ve got us pinned down for sure!”
“What are we gonna do, Frank?” asked the man I reckoned was Dave.
“I’m not givin’ myself over to no sheriff to get hung,” Frank answered. “And if I go to hell, I’m not goin’ alone.” He drew his pistol and checked the cylinder. The man I thought was Jack sat on the cot with a box of bullets and began loading his rifle. In his haste he overturned the box, and two or three bullets rolled under the cot. Swearing, he got down on his hands and knees to pick them up. “We may need every bullet we can—what the— well, lookee here, boys!” He grabbed my arm and hauled me from my hiding place. “We got us a packrat!”
The one named Frank rubbed his whiskered chin and said, “No, we got us a hostage. What’s your name, Boy?”
“B-Billy Burton, Sir,” I said.
“Well, Billy Burton, I think you’re about to do us a big favor.” Frank went to the door, opened it a crack, and yelled, “Hey, Sheriff! We’re comin’ out, but we got someone with us by the name of Billy Burton. He might live to be an old man if you let us ride out of here. Give us a head start, and we’ll send him back to you in the same shape we found him. What do ya’ say?”
After a short pause, Sheriff Parker answered, “You have a deal; but if you hurt the boy, I’ll hunt you down and see you hanged.”
Frank pulled me off the cot where Dave had shoved me. He put his grizzled face close to mine.
“Listen, Kid,” he said. “You behave yourself and you might see the sun rise tomorrow; but you try anything, and I’ll blow your head off—understand?”
I nodded and said, “I c-can’t walk, Sir. I think I b-broke my leg.”
Frank swore under his breath. “Wouldn’t you know it? Now what?”
The outlaw named Jack looked at me, I thought he was going to kill me right there. “Carry him, Dave,” he said. “Frank and I will cover you.”
“Why do I always have to—”
“Shut up, Dave,” Frank said. “This ain’t no time to argue. The kid can’t be too heavy; and besides, you won’t have to tote him for long.”
When Dave picked me up, I yelled from the pain. He shook me. “Shut up, or I’ll really hurt you, Kid!” he said.
I reckoned they were going to kill me if didn’t do something soon. I was slung over Dave’s shoulder like a feed sack. His arm rested across the back of my legs; and my face bounced off his dirty, sweat-soaked vest. After he had taken a dozen or more steps and was out in the open, I bit into his back as hard as I could. He yelled and cursed, but he also relaxed his grip. I slipped forward and thought I was going to hit the ground. Just then his arm tightened around my waist so that he had me in kind of a one-armed bear hug. I kneed him in the groin with my good leg. He screamed and fell to the ground. I screamed too—from fear and from pain—as I rolled over and over and slammed into a boulder.
I heard a dozen or more shots; then George and Clint were beside me, asking if I was hurt.
Jack and Frank had both been wounded. Dave had been captured easily because he had been unable to fight or run. On the way back to town, Sheriff Parker bragged pretty hard on us boys for the way we’d handled things.
Ma cried when I got home, but Pa said they were proud of us, too. Doc Billings said my ankle was only sprained; and in two weeks, I was as good as new. We had divided the reward money, which turned out to be fifteen hundred dollars instead of a thousand, three ways.
A month passed before we decided to visit our shack again. We were talking and laughing as we rode toward it. Suddenly, George stopped his horse and pointed. “Look!” he said.
Four horses stood in the pole corral. We looked at each other for a minute. Then, without saying a thing, we turned our horses and raced toward town.
THE END