Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  “That’s nasty,” John said sympathetically. “Maybe you can borrow one of Billy’s scarves when he comes back. Cover that up. Like I was saying, I believe there’s a way for you to see tomorrow still drawing breath, Tom. You ain’t much of a God-fearing man, but you might make a half-decent banker.”

  A banker was what John had called himself in Friendly Field.

  “You’re smart,” Peckner said grudgingly, yet also in that disinterested way that he liked to talk. “That much is for sure.”

  “We’re cooking something up, Tom. Something tricky,” John said with relish. “A delicate job,” he went on, wiggling his fingers. “And we could use a man with brains for the planning.” His eyes strayed to the empty pistol still lying on the table. “And guts for the doing.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tom had always tried to be like the people he admired when he was young. There had been an educated man who always dressed well and spoke well. Women had liked him, though he stubbornly would not marry. Tom had always been impressed with that fellow. And there’d been another, a rancher with a big family and an even bigger property. He’d always had plenty of money to throw around and nothing to stop him from doing more or less what he felt like. And of course there’d been that cardplayer, the one he’d watched gun down two men in self-defense.

  None of the men Tom had tried to style himself after had been outlaws. Maybe that was why breaking the law had never really crossed his mind. If someone had asked him where life would take him after he found himself in a little community of Quakers, joining a gang likely wouldn’t have been his first guess.

  They didn’t trust him, but it didn’t matter. The Porter gang knew these woods so well that even with two good legs Tom wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting away. They weren’t concerned about a cripple being able to flee.

  He didn’t want to flee, though. He wanted to watch, because every second he spent doing that, he learned something new. The most important detail was that there was no Porter gang, not really. There were really two gangs: Porter’s and Peckner’s. They’d joined forces to do a job, and when that had gone well, they’d stuck together, but there was no mistaking that some of these men were loyal to John, and others didn’t give a damn what he had to say.

  Peckner was the one who kept the same scowl on his face all the time and spoke quietly, but he was still an easier read than John. John would play as though he wore his emotions on his sleeve, but all his showmanship was hard to penetrate. There might have been an idiot in there or a man with some sense. His success so far suggested the latter.

  The bandits weren’t as hospitable as the Quakers, but it might’ve been worse.

  There were two cots unused, thanks to Tom’s aim with the derringer, and someone dragged one under the tent where they ate for Tom to sleep on. It was built of sticks, not lumber from the wagon, and there was no blanket or pillow, but it was better than sleeping on the ground.

  A few lamps would burn through the night at Friendly Field, so even on a cloudy night, there was a light or two in the dark. Here in these woods, once the sun was down, the blackness was so deep that when Tom’s candle went out, he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face.

  He perched on the cot, which creaked and rustled. The camp was quiet; these men had spent the day drinking, and they had nothing to entertain them in the night. They retired when the sun did, but there were no fewer than four sentries. What was more, all four were sober. Worse even than that, Tom knew the locations of only two.

  No, he wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he could slip away, Friendly Field was the first place John would look. The purpose of all this was to keep these men away from Friendly Field. Giving them any reason to go that way would make it all pointless.

  Tom listened to the handful of voices in the dark, but they were just murmurs. He couldn’t make anything out.

  A light approached, and he turned, leaning over to peer out from under the flap. The man holding the lamp was just a shape, but he was so big that it could only have been Quincy.

  “If you want to kill me, would you make it quick?” Tom asked tiredly.

  Quincy just brushed the flap aside and ducked under, then straightened to loom over Tom. Face stony, he gazed down at him in the lamplight. Maybe he was looking at the black and purple marks on Tom’s neck.

  “I should not have attacked you,” he rumbled at last.

  “I’m counting myself lucky you didn’t kill me.” Tom waved a hand. “So I thank you for that.”

  “I was angry,” the big man added, and his voice was so deep and rough that at first the embarrassment hidden in it had gotten past Tom. Now he noticed it.

  “I’m all right. I’d have been angry too,” Tom assured him.

  “Harry says you’ll ride with us.”

  “Well, it’s that or be shot.” Tom shrugged. “I like getting money as much as the next fellow. And I’m not superstitious.”

  “I do not hold you accountable for what you done.”

  Tom nodded hesitantly. “Well, thank you.”

  “I might have done the same.”

  Quincy seemed to get on with the other men, but there was something different about him, and it wasn’t that he was a head taller than any of them.

  “Is there somewhere that you need to be?” Tom asked after a moment.

  Quincy nodded.

  “And I’m keeping you from it by interfering with your plans.”

  “Yes.”

  “You should blame Ben Garner. And I wonder if your boys had gone to Friendly Field and made trouble if that would not have brought about the same result,” Tom suggested cautiously.

  “Maybe,” the giant grunted. “Will you shoot me in the back for what I done to you?”

  “Mister, I got no plans to shoot anybody at all,” Tom told him. It was the truth.

  Quincy nodded and put out one enormous hand. Tom shook it, then got to his feet. His mind had been slow to put it together, but he had it now.

  “You’re no bank robber.” Tom gave him a sympathetic look. “How’d you get roped in?”

  “I needed money. For my little ones.”

  “How many you got?” Tom asked, stifling a yawn as he sat down again. Quincy sank onto the bench a few feet away. To Tom’s surprise, it held him.

  “A few of my own, and a few more.”

  “More?”

  “Seemed like half the town got it. I don’t know what the doctor called it.” Quincy counted on his fingers. “My brother, our dad, my wife, our cousin Longfellow.”

  There wasn’t much feeling in the way he said it—of course there wasn’t. He’d spent months sitting in the woods, thinking about it. And his hands around Tom’s throat—that had been the pot boiling over. Now it was all done, and there wasn’t much left.

  “It’s just me and my brother’s wife left now to care for all them little ones. Ours and those who lived. John and Harry needed a man who could lift something heavy.”

  “Of course. You do what you have to for your kin.”

  The giant didn’t look convinced. Or maybe there was something else distracting him.

  “Are you ill?” Tom asked.

  Quincy shook his head, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “Trouble is, I can’t get them the money.”

  Tom had been wondering about that, and there was his answer. He didn’t know how much the gang had made off with, but it appeared they were still sitting on it. If the law found out about that detail, they’d likely have been here a good bit faster.

  Tom opened his mouth but didn’t let the words out. His brain still worked, and he wasn’t going to fall into the trap of thinking he had another man figured. That would get him killed, if he hadn’t done that already.

  “Quincy, John mentioned he was planning a job. Do you know anything about it?”

 
The giant’s brow furrowed. “Job? I ain’t heard nothing about no job.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mexico,” the outlaw said derisively, leaning over to spit in the leaves.

  Tom was only half listening. Less than a year ago, he’d stood on the deck of a burning paddle steamer. Thanks to his anger that night, he’d made a snap decision that ended his old life. In some ways he really had died back then. Not in any melodramatic sense. Just that everything he knew of cards, that way of life, those people—that old Tom Calvert had disappeared from the world.

  He’d made a decision in half a second, then had months on months to spend regretting it.

  He didn’t want to do that again. So instead of seeking out John, he just sat with the outlaws by the weak little fire meant to ward off the chill of morning. They enjoyed their breakfast of spirits, and the night sentries dragged themselves back to camp to go to sleep. More went out to take their places. Tom suspected there hadn’t been quite so many men keeping watch before Ben Garner and Scarf went missing.

  The outlaws spoke of Mexico and its people in crude terms and such a way that Tom doubted any of them had been there. He kept waiting for an opportunity to step in and say something that would nudge them the right way, but it didn’t come.

  Quincy was on watch, and Otis never stopped tending the stills. Tom had learned a few more names, but even the outlaws who weren’t openly cold to him were never quite friendly. A few of them seemed to have people they wanted to return to, but Quincy appeared to be the only one who truly didn’t belong. He’d made his living in timber before all this, and that was what he meant to get back to.

  Tom didn’t look over his shoulder. John and Peckner weren’t in their tent this morning. They were up the west slope, looking down into the shallow ravine where the tents and the stills were. What were they doing up there? Just smoking? If they were talking, they were doing it quietly. It bothered Tom that neither of them was holding a cup.

  Or maybe it was that there was no coffee that was troubling him. No, it wasn’t that. It was Tom’s gut, and he knew better than to ignore it. John wasn’t a fool, and though he seemed to speak without care, the truth was that he was very careful about exactly what information he allowed other people to have.

  Tom wasn’t anywhere near having John’s measure. It had nearly been too late last night when he finally realized it was Quincy’s mouth that was moving but John’s words that were coming out. Quincy hadn’t been lying, but he hadn’t decided on his own to come and talk to Tom. He wasn’t the type to do that any more than Tom was. That was why it had felt as though neither one of them knew what they were doing. Tom hadn’t wanted Quincy’s apology, and Quincy hadn’t particularly wanted to give it, let alone tell a stranger about his circumstances.

  But that had been the job given to him by John, the same John who had told Tom but no one else that there was a job.

  What had John been fishing for? What did he really want from Tom? He wanted to use him, of course; he and Peckner weren’t lying about that.

  It had to be the money. These outlaws figured everyone was like them. Quincy had been meant to let Tom know that the money was here somewhere. John must have wanted to know if Tom would ask about it. Tom had caught on and held back from doing so. He wasn’t guilty of what John suspected, but the details didn’t matter; what mattered was John’s suspicion. Trust wasn’t easy to come by anywhere. That thought wanted to push Mary’s face in front of his eyes, but Tom resisted.

  “I liked Mexico,” he lied with a shrug. “I wasn’t down there long, but it was all right. Some good cooking and good-looking women. Things didn’t cost much.”

  A couple of them glanced at him, but he didn’t say anything more. As expected, no one asked what he’d been doing there. He’d have thought of something, but lies were best kept simple. What he’d said about Mexico? That was word for word what he’d heard another poker player say once, so there was a fair chance it was true. It was good to mention women as well. Quincy was the most intent to leave, but they were all itching to. While a few wanted to see their people, the rest wanted to spend their money. That was reasonable enough; Tom would’ve felt the same way in their place. In their own way, they’d worked hard for it.

  At any rate, he couldn’t try to talk them into going to Mexico. He could only try to plant the seed.

  “You look mighty comfortable for a prisoner,” an outlaw named Isaac noted.

  Well, at least they weren’t confused about the place Tom occupied in their outfit.

  Tom patted his bad leg. “I’m always glad to be sitting.”

  The other man snorted and went back to his drink. Their nerves were thick in the air. Yesterday, Tom had brought the news that they were no longer safe here, yet here they still were. There had been no order given to break camp, no hint let slip about what was next. The outlaws all knew they were leaving, but they were starting to twitch as they waited to hear when and for where.

  They had done as good a job with their camp as anyone could possibly hope to do. They’d made this dark little cleft in the hill as cozy as it was capable of being. But now they wanted to leave, and the sooner they got moving, the more of a lead they’d have on whoever might try to follow.

  John and Peckner just stood up there, murmuring to each other. They didn’t look happy. There was none of John’s big smile and big words.

  At the same instant, they turned and began to pick their way back down. Tom just held his hands out to the fire, though there wasn’t much of a chill this morning.

  “Otis,” Peckner called out as he passed. “Leave it set and come on.”

  “You as well, Tom.” There it was: the friendliest words from John’s mouth.

  “Your pardon?” Tom asked, glancing up.

  “You heard.” John beckoned.

  Tom rose with a groan and limped after them into the biggest tent.

  “You’ll excuse us,” Peckner said amazingly politely.

  The outlaw at the table picked up his cup and left, while John undid a string and let the flap fall completely shut. He put his lamp on the table and took a wad of papers out of his waistcoat.

  “Boys,” he said with an ironic smile, “join us.”

  They sat at the table, where John was spreading his papers out. One was a real map, and another appeared to have been drawn by hand.

  “Will it be Lorne or Bixby?” Peckner asked, the question directed at Otis. “That’s the question, son. If it’s Lorne, he’ll ride into Des Crozet and then to these Quakers, and come from here.” He pointed at the map, then took out a piece of charcoal and drew an arrow. “He’s old, and he ain’t smart enough to do nothing better than that.”

  “He’s too old to think of a smart play himself,” John countered, tapping his empty cup on the table. “But if there’s a fella with sense in his posse, he might listen. Now, the best way to get us would be from the north.” He pointed. “With them rocks and them thorny bushes. You can’t see a damn thing. Someone could follow the river to the bend, then in through the trees—we wouldn’t know until they was tucking us into bed.”

  “Well, that’s no threat,” Tom said, holding a hand out. “They’ll come on horseback. They have to follow the river before they come in. We can watch that.”

  “We surely can,” John replied, smiling. “Would you expect that, Tom?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never led men before or gone looking for”—he waved his hand—“anything like this.”

  “Well, you found it. Otis?”

  The young man’s mouth was twisted in a line as he thought hard. Finally, he shook his head. “From the north is the way that would give us the most trouble,” he said slowly. “But I reckon we are the only people in this world who know it, because we been here. Lorne and Bixby ain’t never been to these woods. They don’t know. So I wouldn’t expect them from the north. I’d expect them in a
straight line, from the southwest.” He tapped the map. “Either one of them.”

  “That’s provided they’re willing to camp and they don’t insist on a warm bed,” Peckner replied.

  Tom followed, more or less. He knew who Lorne was supposed to be—some bounty hunter from California. Bixby, he’d never heard of—but he was likely a lawman with ties to the things the gang had done.

  “Anyone else comes, they’ll come from Des Crozet,” Otis was saying.

  “All right, then.” Peckner drew two arrows. “Northwest. When we leave, that’s where we go. We can take the long way around for the horses, go straight to the river, and move out. That’s where we shake the trail.”

  “Don’t make it too easy now,” John chided, shaking a finger. “Give them something to chase.”

  “Go have Sven scout it out,” Peckner ordered. “Tell him to go now, figure out our course, and think about provisions.”

  Otis nodded and left the tent. Tom was done.

  “Well, what the hell’d you need me for? I don’t know these woods or the people who want you.” He didn’t bother hiding his irritation.

  John cocked his head. “Now, Tom, are you bored by our talk? Surely a fella with brains like you approves of making plans. You got to have a plan, Tom. You can’t do nothing without a plan.”

  “Make your plan, then. What I approve of is knowing what’s coming.”

  “Hell, that should be obvious,” Peckner grunted. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re getting ready to leave and you want to make sure you don’t run headfirst into the law that’s coming for you.”

  John leaned back, making a face. “See? Why you gotta ask, then? You already know.”

  “Because I don’t see what part in it I play.”

  “You have a trade with them Quakers, Tom? Or did you just spend your days praying?” John asked idly.

  “I sewed pillowcases.”

  “You what?”

  “I sewed pillowcases,” Tom repeated, “on account of my leg, though I think I’d fairly soon have been in the fields. I’m getting around better without my stick. As you see,” he added.