LeRoy, U.S. Marshal 3

by Neil Hunter

  ‘I should put another slug in you,’ Lang said. ‘Just for the hell of it. But I figure takin’ you in is going to be just as painful.’

  Hobbs barely registered the words. He simply lay in his own blood and took to feeling sorry for himself.

  Lang gathered all the horses and tethered them to a cottonwood. He stood for a time surveying the scene.

  One dead and two wounded.

  He didn’t give a damn whether Hobbs lived or died. Lang was going to present the fugitives to Lawrence Machin and collect his reward. LeRoy was another matter. Whatever Lang might have felt about the man earlier had altered. The lawman deserved his chance to stay alive. His sheer persistence demanded he live.

  Lang spent some time kneeling beside LeRoy, tending his wound. He bathed the gash that ran across LeRoy’s skull and installed a clumsy bandage torn from a shirt across the bloody gouge. Surveying the collection of bruises and cuts LeRoy had garnered Lang had to wonder how the man had survived for so long to keep coming.

  Alvin LeRoy epitomized the legendary US Marshals. Dogged individuals who simply refused to retreat and allow their fugitives to escape capture. Once they pinned on the badge they took on a different persona. Dedicated to the statutes that laid out the rules of their service they stayed the course. The office of the US Marshal was widely regarded as being the pinnacle of law enforcement. Men who took on the responsibility were exceptional.

  Lang had learned that as he had trailed Alvin LeRoy, and confronting the man only confirmed his thoughts.

  Thirty-Five

  Hobbs was far from being as weak as he made out. He did have a bullet in his shoulder that ached with some considerable force. It had not incapacitated him that badly. He had played on the injury and after Lang had indifferently patched his shoulder, Hobbs played the game by remaining motionless and observed what was happening without any sign he was in a coherent condition.

  He needed to get his hand on a gun. That was a priority. If he could achieve that he would take down the bounty man first then deal with LeRoy. That would be for Teague. And also guarantee he didn’t end up in Yuma, or at worst dangling at the end of a rope. The choices open to Rubin Hobbs were thin. Whatever the outcome he had no intention of allowing either option to occur. All he wanted was his chance to get away alive. A horse under him. A gun in his hand and the opportunity to spend the money taken from the man called Jeffers. It had turned out the man had been carrying a small fortune and it was tucked away in Hobbs’ shirt. That poke was going to be a great comfort to Rubin Hobbs.

  He admitted the pressing problem he had was his current position. Carrying a bullet. In discomfort. And being in the company of a lawdog and a bounty man.

  Some men might have found that a bleak prospect. Hobbs didn’t. He had spent years working his way out of tricky situations. True it had helped when he and his partner Teague had worked together. Smart and able to get away with most tricks they had managed get away with things. Killing and all.

  Until the events in Landiss had backfired on them and everything had gone wrong.

  But Rubin Hobbs was still alive and intended staying that way. He was going to miss Teague. They had been partners for a long time, sharing the good and the bad times. He was going to miss Homer, but on the practical side he now had to look out for himself. And that he was going to do.

  So Hobbs stayed still and silent, watching and waiting for the chance to make his play. He might be down but he wasn’t out.

  LeRoy was still lying under the blanket Lang had covered him with. The lawman hadn’t moved, plainly still suffering from the bullet to his head. No indication when he might wake. If he survived

  Lang had gathered wood to make a fire and put water on to heat up for coffee. As it boiled the rich aroma reached Hobbs and he would have given anything for a mug of it. Through slitted eyes he watched Lang take a drink. The man had produced a wrapped wedge of bacon, cutting slices he cooked in a small fry pan from his possibles bag.

  Damned if the man wasn’t doing it deliberately, Hobbs thought.

  It was going to be a pleasure to put a bullet in him.

  When the food was ready Lang checked both LeRoy and Hobbs. Satisfied they were still resting Lang returned to his position and helped himself to the bacon and took more coffee.

  Hobbs watched him without revealing his ability to move. He was scoping out the campsite. Checking the tethered horses. Lang and LeRoy rifles had been returned to their sheaths. The rifle Hobbs had carried lay close to where the bounty man sat and Lang had retrieved Teague’s handgun, pushing it behind his own belt.

  Stiff and in pain as Hobbs was maintaining his pose was necessary. He needed Lang relaxed so he could make his play. Sooner rather than later before the bounty man decided it was time to move. It was a waiting game and Hobbs figured he might get one chance. If he fumbled it Lang wouldn’t give him a second one.

  Lang smoked a thin cigar. Built up the fire. Checked LeRoy, then made his cautious way across to where Hobbs lay.

  ‘I got to tell you...,’ Hobbs said.

  He kept his voice low. A throaty rasp.

  ‘Tell me what? That you’re an innocent man and this is all a big mistake?’ Lang said.

  Hobbs sighed. Said, ‘You got to listen. It’s important...’

  He allowed his voice to fade.

  Lang squatted beside Hobbs, leaning forward to catch the whispered words. A simple movement that left him briefly exposed to what happened next.

  Hobbs pulled his right arm clear of the blanket. His hand gripped the spare gun tucked in Lang’s belt and pulled it free. He snapped it round and jabbed the muzzle in Lang’s stomach hard enough to make the bounty man gasp. The hammer clicked back with solid action.

  ‘No thoughts about goin’ for your piece,’ Hobbs said. ‘Fast or no, you don’t beat the hand I got. An’ don’t imagine I won’t pull this trigger if need be. Bounty man I pure fooled you there.’

  Lang did as he was told. There was little point attempting to best a man with a cocked gun in his hand with the muzzle pressed to his flesh. And Lang knew he had his holstered pistol secured by its hammer strap.

  Hobbs kicked away the blanket draped over him. He sat up, teeth set against the pain from his shoulder. Sweat beaded his face as he stood, swaying briefly.

  ‘Up,’ he said, his gun muzzle staying on Lang. ‘Now shuck that piece and toss it aside. Make sure it goes clear.’

  Lang did as he was told, throwing the .45 across the clearing.

  ‘I’m starting to feel comfortable now,’ Hobbs said. ‘You got a gun in your other holster. Left hand take it out and throw that too.’

  Hobbs knew Lang had used his knife to slice bacon. It rested on the ground close to the rifle Lang had picked up.

  ‘Go on the other side of the fire and down on your butt,’ Hobbs said. ‘Hands where I can see them. Make me nervous I’ll shoot you.’

  Lang settled himself and faced Hobbs over the flames.

  ‘I figure you’ll do that anyhow.’

  ‘Mebbe so,’ Hobbs said. ‘Ain’t decided yet.’

  He used his slow left hand to scoop bacon from the pan, topped up the mug with hot coffee. All the while he kept his handgun on Hobbs.

  ‘Looking nervous, Hobbs. Why? Ain’t you holding all the cards right now.’

  Hobbs took more coffee. He kept glancing across at the motionless LeRoy.

  ‘You sure he ain’t dead?’

  ‘I’m no doctor. All I know is he’s never moved since he took that bullet.’

  ‘All that beating he took and he still kept on comin’. He could’ve quit. Makes we wonder why.’

  ‘Just doing his job.’

  ‘Man has to be crazy to just keep on comin’ the way he does.’

  Lang shrugged. He knew there was no way he could explain the reasoning behind a man bound to his duty. Hobbs simply wouldn’t understood. He lived under a different set of rules. Ones that made him take what he wanted regardless of the cost to others. A selfish,
self-serving existence that put his wants and needs ahead of everything else.

  Lang moved to make himself a little more comfortable. His action brought Hobbs on guard.

  ‘Told you not to move, Lang.’

  ‘I can’t do anything. You have the only gun.’

  ‘Goddamn,’ Hobbs said.

  He had realized LeRoy still had his weapon on his belt. He pushed to his feet, turning his Colt in LeRoy’s direction.

  He had forgotten to take the Marshal’s gun.

  Thirty-Six

  LeRoy had woken to a world of pain. His head offered him a deep ache that brought tears to his eyes and forced him to remain motionless beneath the blanket covering him. Any slight movement brought on fresh surges of agony, so he remained still. Sound came to him in muffled tones yet after a time he adjusted to it.

  Two men.

  Exchanging hard words.

  One was Hobbs. The other it seemed was Lang. The bounty man. Looking for Teague and Hobbs. He had found them and had the tables turned so Hobbs was in charge now. Which didn’t offer LeRoy any favors.

  He gripped his holstered gun. Made sure the hammer loop was free. LeRoy slid the pistol from leather and angled the barrel up.

  As he forced his eyes open, images blurred, LeRoy made out Hobbs leaning in his direction. The man’s weapon was curving down to level on LeRoy.

  Not waiting LeRoy pushed his own gun at Hobbs and triggered a shot. It burned through the blanket, missing Hobbs by inches and left a smoldering hole in the blanket.

  Hobbs jerked aside at the near miss, eye wide with surprise at the shot.

  Forcing his aching body to turn at his target LeRoy put out a second shot. Hobbs pulled back, triggering a shot of his own that went wide.

  Lang pushed himself forward and slammed a shoulder into Hobbs, pushing the man across the cook fire. Hobbs screamed as he stumbled into the flames, knocking aside the steaming coffee pot as he fell. Lang went for him again and received a vicious backhand slash from the gun in Hobbs’ hand. It smashed against his cheek, cutting to the bone. Blood bubbled heavily from the raw gash in Lang’s flesh.

  In the confusion Lang lunged across the scattered embers of the fire, taking headlong dive, his hands reaching for the rifle laying where Hobbs had been. He grasped the weapon, gripping it tight as he landed. Arcing his body around and desperately aiming the Winchester at Hobbs. He loosed a shot that clipped the lobe of Hobbs’ right ear, drawing blood as it tore a piece of flesh away. Hobbs gave out a wild yell, stepping back. He turned his gun on Lang, loosing off a shot that punched into the bounty man and forced him to his knees.

  Lunging upright, his body threatening to let him down, LeRoy dogged the hammer back and lined up on Hobbs. He didn’t try for a wounding shot this time. Simply aimed for Hobbs’ chest and triggered the Colt, cocked again and placed a second shot in the man. Hobbs stiffened and toppled backwards. He slammed to the ground hard, pistol bouncing from his hand. He didn’t move again.

  LeRoy turned towards Lang. He was kneeling, hunched over, left hand clutching his body. Blood seeped through his spread fingers. He raised his head and stared up at LeRoy.

  ‘Been a hell of a day, Marshal,’ he said.

  LeRoy glanced at the scene in front of him.

  Teague and Hobbs dead.

  Lang barely moving.

  Not the way the matter had been intended to end.

  Especially for himself as well. He hurt from head to foot. And he was tired. So damn tired that all he wanted was to lie down and say to hell with it all. But he had a man wounded and bleeding and some way he needed to deal with that.

  The bounty man had taken one of Hobbs’ bullets and needed tending. Being the only one still on his feet that was down to LeRoy.

  LeRoy put his gun away and made it across to where Lang lay. He crouched beside the man.

  ‘You still with us?’ he said.

  Lang managed to nod his head.

  ‘Where you hit?’

  ‘Took it in the ribs I figure. Hard to say just where the spot is.’

  ‘I’ll take a look. You want to stretch out.’

  ‘Now that will take some effort.’

  Between them they got Lang on his side, allowing LeRoy to check the area where the bullet had gone in. The blood coming from the wound had left a wide, sodden mass across Lang’s left side.

  ‘I see where it went in,’ LeRoy said, ‘but there doesn’t look to be an exit wound. You’re still carrying that slug.’

  ‘You’re full of cheerful news, Marshal.’

  ‘Met a feller back along the trail. He cut out the pill in my leg. Wish he was here now. I don’t see me digging anything out of you.’

  ‘Bind it tight,’ Lang said. ‘I’ll sit my saddle until we get back to Landiss and a regular sawbones.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Something chewing at your craw?’

  ‘I was supposed to be delivering Teague and Hobbs to Yuma. Not getting them shot from under me.’

  ‘That pair was just determined to walk away from that prison sentence. Didn’t give a damn who got hurt in the doing of it. No use grieving over them.’

  LeRoy gathered what he needed from his saddlebags and bound up Lang’s wound as best he could, drawing gasps of discomfort from the man.

  ‘Hell, LeRoy, you make a better lawman than a damned doctor,’ Lang said.

  ‘Chief Marshal Henlow isn’t going to be pleased what happened. He’ll have me writing up reports until my fingers are too numb to hold a damn pen.’

  Lang manage a thin smile. ‘I do believe you’re more worried about that than having someone shooting at you.’

  ‘Mr. Lang, you are not wrong about that. Now just lay still while I resurrect that fire and get some fresh coffee on the go. Then we’ll rest up before we head out for Landiss.’

  Thirty-Seven

  It took them close on three days before they got back to Landiss. A long, slow ride that left them totally exhausted, dust grimed and unshaven and their horses just as weary. It was mid-morning when LeRoy and Lang brought their journey to an end. They drew rein outside the jail and sat there, too weary to dismount straight off.

  LeRoy finally slid awkwardly from his saddle, leaning for support against his dust-lathered horse. When he felt his legs would support him he moved to Lang and helped the man down.

  ‘Let’s get you to the doctor,’ LeRoy said.

  Marshal Statler stepped out of his office and joined them, supporting Lang.

  ‘Where the hell you fellers been?’

  ‘Hell ain’t far from it,’ Lang said.

  ‘Vern, get out here,’ Statler said as his deputy came to the jail door. ‘Get help to take this man to the doc’s.’

  ‘Got lead in him so go easy,’ LeRoy said.

  With Lang being moved to the doctor’s office, LeRoy followed Statler back inside the jail. He sank into a chair and leaned back.

  ‘You got water handy?’

  Statler brought him a mug and LeRoy drank deeply. He took a second mug from the marshal.

  ‘You going to tell me what’s been going on?’ Statler said.

  In slow, measured words LeRoy told what had happened from the time he and his prisoners had ridden out of Landiss. Statler listened without butting in once until LeRoy completed his story.

  ‘This don’t read right,’ he said. ‘We never told anyone how you were travelling to Yuma. So how did that feller Lang get word of it?’

  ‘He got the story from Lawrence Machin. So Machin must have heard it from someone in town.’

  ‘There was only you and me knew what you were doing...’

  ‘I figured that too.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Thought did cross my mind but I couldn’t see it.’

  ‘Glad we got around that.’

  ‘So who else knew?’

  ‘You, me...and...’

  LeRoy noticed the hesitation in Statler’s voice.

  ‘Vern Carrick. Son of a bitch,’ Statler said. ‘
Allus around the office. Didn’t think much about it when he took a ride just before you left. I was busy helping you get organized to think much about it an’ it kind of slipped my mind later. That feller is the quiet kind. Allus in the background you never would notice him being there. Sometimes too damn quiet.’

  LeRoy levered himself upright and crossed to the ever-present coffee pot and poured himself a full mug.

  ‘C’mon, Bernie, tell me...’

  Thirty-Eight

  Vern Carrick slipped quietly into the Hind Leg saloon, making his way to the bar and ordered a bottle of whisky. He took it across to the card table and sat down.

  ‘Big spender back again,’ the dealer said.

  ‘Come to win back some of that money you been takin’ off me.’

  Carrick took a swallow of the liquor, enjoying the feeling as it slid down his throat. He checked out the three other players, only recognizing one. But that didn’t really bother him. Carrick played a quiet game, keeping himself to himself as he always did and concentrating on the cards he was dealt.

  Over the days he had played a steady game, losing slightly more than he won. He was determined to pull back his losses and stay ahead of the house.

  Vern Carrick took his cards and saw he had a strong hand. He kept his expression blank as he tossed money into the pot and let the game continue for a while until it was his turn to play again. He tossed in a low card and took one from the dealer. He wanted to allow the pot to grow, convinced he had a winning hand.

  In the end he did win the round, drawing the pot towards him. It came to just over a hundred dollars and drew grumbles of dissatisfaction from the other players.

  ‘Looks like it might be your day,’ the dealer said.

  Carrick only smiled. He offered his bottle around the table and settled back in his seat.

  He didn’t notice Bernie Statler come into the saloon and talk to the bartender. Nor did he see the expression on Statler’s face as he quietly left a few minutes later.