Longley nodded. “We’re of a mind, then,” he said with satisfaction.
“Drive ’em to the pens jest like we planned. We’ll ship this herd whether he likes it or not.”
While a man readied his and the messenger’s horses, Younger drank coffee and ate bacon and biscuits.
“Tell Sweetface for me,” he said, swinging into the saddle.
“Sure thing, Dallas, and you tell him for us.”
“You betcha.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The sun was shrouded behind pale, cloudy vapors. The air was chill but dry and bracing. A horseman rode into Younger’s mountain camp, the horse’s hooves kicking up dust and eliciting angry shouts from men trying to shave along his path.
Cedar Longley, from his vantage point at the table, recognized the man as one of the sentries posted along the trail. He stood up. By the time the rider reached the main building he was on the porch with his hat on.
“Rider coming,” the man yelled, jerking his horse to a halt. The animal stamped and pawed the ground, kicking dust into the air.
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s he moving?”
“Real casual-like, but he seems to know right where he’s going.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Packing two guns, slung low. Blond dude—looking relaxed as hell.”
Cedar Longley grunted. Ward Cantrell—it could be no other. An uneasy vibration raced through his lean frame. Cantrell was here to meet Younger and the last three survivors of the original band who had participated in the raid on the Mexican family—Bass Wimer, Pick and Rand Sitwell. Bass was just stupid. He could be led anywhere by anyone, and once he got caught up in the excitement, he would do anything. Pick and Rand were just plain mean. The two raw-boned twins had probably enjoyed every second of it.
Longley had been an outlaw since he was twenty-one, but he had never raped or murdered women. He had the real gunman’s intolerance for needless cruelty. He would kill, but only in self-defense. And like all gunmen he knew the names and faces of all the really dangerous men: King Fisher, Sam Bass, Dusty Denton, Dallas Younger, Lance Kincaid, Ward Cantrell, Ben Thompson, Bat Masterson, Clay Allison, Wyatt Earp, and Temple Houston. At least half of them were already dead. Cedar didn’t know any old gunfighters. Even the best of them met their match sooner or later. He’d heard about Cantrell first-hand because a friend had ridden with the Jackson Hole Gang the same time Cantrell had. According to Cedar’s friend, Cantrell had split the gang down the middle. He was a born leader and when he stood up to their chief over a deal he wouldn’t be a party to, half the men backed him. They woulda seen the bloodiest shootout in history if Cantrell hadn’t convinced him that he was fast enough to kill him and three of his men before any one of them got a shot off. He was backed by Dusty Denton and a dozen others almost as good. Denton was greased lightning on the draw too. Rumor had it he could put three holes in the Ace of Diamonds—never missing that big diamond—from twenty paces.
Longley expelled a heavy breath. “Let him come.”
“I’ll pass the word.”
“Do that.” Longley, a big, rangy, solid-looking man, was famous for his eyes. They were dark blue and shot daggers that effectively discouraged opposition. He was a Texan, like Younger and Texas Jack Jones, with the Texan’s inbred sense of fair play. He wouldn’t condone having a man like Cantrell shot from ambush any more than Younger would if he were there.
He went inside and strapped on his guns.
“Hey, boss, what’s up?”
“I reckon Ward Cantrell’s on his way in here.”
“Well, hell! Stop him!” Pick Sitwell came to his feet, almost knocking the table over, spilling coffee everywhere. “He ain’t got no right riding in here in broad daylight like he owns the damned place!”
“Won’t hurt to ask him his business then, will it?”
Rand Sitwell left the room and came back with his own gun. “Reckon we know what he wants,” he said grimly, tying the holster down with a slender rawhide around his right thigh.
Pick and Bass Wimer were already wearing their guns.
“How many men with him?” Rand asked.
“None.”
That should have been reassuring, but somehow it had the opposite effect. Pick Sitwell paled two shades, leaving the freckles standing out like tiny cherries floating in milk.
“He’s crazy riding in here alone. Ain’t no way he can get out alive. We got forty men here.”
“Maybe he ain’t worried about getting out. Reckon he’s just interested in paying a call on the men that killed his friends,” Longley said significantly.
“I don’t reckon I like your tone, Longley. We was following orders, same as anyone in this gang follows orders. Jest doing what we were told.”
“Then you won’t mind explaining that to Cantrell. He looks like the understandin’ sort.”
“Like hell he does! I saw him once in Cheyenne—the day he met and killed Mad Dog Masters. He only understands one thing and that is that he don’t brook no opposition.”
“Reckon you got a problem all right,” Cedar drawled.
“What!” Pick growled, coming over to glare into Longley’s face. “I got a problem? I thought we were in this together.”
“I don’t hold with killing women and kids—nor even old men waiting ’round to die. You pick your work and you pay the price. I’m a rustler, and I’ve been worse, but I got limits,” Longley said quietly, inexorably.
“Well, ain’t you something! All of a sudden, with one of the deadliest guns in the Territory riding in, you got scruples! Shit! You’re scared—same as us!”
“I ain’t denying that. I’m just warning you, the three of you are on your own.”
“You yellow bastard!”
“Practical, maybe. He’s got no business with me or any of the others.”
Pick grabbed a chair and threw it at the wall, smashing it into a dozen pieces. “Bunch of fine friends you turn out to be.” He faced the other five men in the room. “Y’all feel like this two-bit rustler here?”
Their silence spoke for them. They knew the raids on the honest ranchers, like the one on the Mendozas, were on a volunteer basis. Even among the hardest bunch of outlaws, most of them wouldn’t participate in wiping out families. It spoke badly for this gang that twelve of the original fifty men had been willing to do it.
Ward had ridden hard the previous day and made up some of the twelve-hour lead Younger had on him. By the time the sun was up an hour he could see the rustler camp. A half-hour later he was there.
He rode slowly and casually, using the opportunity to observe the rustlers’ hideout. It was cleverly hidden, comfortable and secure. If he hadn’t been following fresh tracks, he wouldn’t have found it. Fears that Denton would stumble into the camp and take on Younger’s gang were permanently laid to rest.
Younger, or someone, must have had some army experience. The camp was laid out like a military encampment, with one main building and a string of tents straggling down the mountain. It was set in a ravine that branched off in four directions, like a well-planned rabbit hole—plenty of exits, but only one comfortable way to approach, and that well guarded. He had been aware of the sentries for the last five miles.
The house was old and weathered, and Ward guessed that that was where he would find Younger and his pack of killers. The thirty or so men who stepped away from their tents to watch his slow passage looked like run-of-the mill outlaws, little different from cowhands except that they lived by the gun now.
Ward saw signs that this was only a summer camp. First snow would find this bunch on the move, probably heading down into Sonora.
Riding slowly, he appraised every face along that tent-strewn route, recognizing some of them on sight. They were all of a breed not vastly different from himself. A couple of them nodded when his narrowed blue eyes caught theirs and held for an instant. He recognized three men from the Lincoln Cou
nty range war, one from the Pine Tree outfit.
He passed the last tent and turned his attention to the weathered gray house and its occupants. When he reached the steps to the porch, he dismounted, dropping the reins.
No one came out, so he went up the steps, his hands brushing the gun on either thigh. Only the scrape of his boots sounded in the stillness. Even the birds had stopped singing, as if they too were anticipating danger. He stopped at the open door and pushed his Stetson back with his left hand.
There were nine men in the small cabin in sight and a possibility of more behind the two closed doors. He almost smiled at that. They must have me overrated, he thought ruefully. Nine men should be able to do the job.
Longley saw that flicker of amusement in the steady blue eyes and felt something of what Cantrell must be feeling now. He stepped forward slowly. No one was making any sudden moves. “You got business here, Cantrell?”
Ward nodded. “With the slime that killed the Mendoza family.”
Boots scraped as men moved out of the way, leaving three men alone in the center of the room. Ward hid his surprise that it had been so easy to single them out. The two raw-boned redheads and the fat one with fresh bruises on his meaty face had ridden in the parade, but he wasn’t sure he could have picked them out. Apparently no one was covering for the three, exposed by the move toward the far walls.
“I got business with them,” he said. “And Younger.”
“Younger ain’t here.”
Ward accepted that. If he were here, he’d be where the action was, not hiding in a bedroom. “He take the girl?”
“Naw, she’s still sleeping.” Longley nodded toward the room on the right.
His questions answered, Ward turned his attention back to the three he came for. “You want to do this outside?”
“We ain’t going to fight you, Cantrell. I ain’t no gunfighter.”
“I didn’t come here to fight you. I came to kill you. Don’t matter that you don’t fight back—can if you want to—it ain’t a requirement of mine.”
Pick sputtered. “You mean you’d just shoot us down like mad dogs.”
Cantrell nodded, watching them coldly, no sign of mercy in those pitiless blue eyes. “Just like you handled the Mendozas,” he said flatly.
Pick nodded. “All right,” he said, expelling a heavy breath. “Outside, then.” Cantrell would either have to back out or turn and walk out. If he turned…
Longley knew Pick too well to turn his back on him, but apparently Cantrell didn’t. He turned; Pick and the others clawed for their guns. Cantrell’s turn changed into a full circle, and somehow by the time he was facing them again, both guns were smoking. The explosions rolled one on another until only Cantrell was standing. The floor was littered with the three men he had come there to kill. The sharp, piercing smell of gunpowder was strong.
Cantrell crouched in a posture of readiness, his guns pointing now at the others. “Who’s in charge here?”
Longley stepped forward. “Reckon I am.”
“I’m taking over this outfit. You got any objections?”
Longley thought about that for a moment. Younger was already talking about moving on to greener pastures. He knew Cantrell’s history. He was a good man to ride with. Planned his jobs carefully, executed them well, didn’t kill people in the process; no one died in his train holdups.
Longley shook his head. “No objections from me, but maybe some from Younger when he gets back.”
“Good.” He looked at the others now. “Which one of you do I have to kill to make this stick?”
Texas Jack Jones was the first to break the spell. He stepped to the side and picked up his hat. “I ain’t never been too partic’lar who I work for. I’ll go tell the boys.”
With his exit, the tension began to relax.
“When do you expect Younger back?”
“Two days at the soonest.”
“Pass the word. We’re moving out in two hours, with the herd you’re holding in that blind canyon,” Ward said tersely.
Cedar Longley looked askance. Cantrell was crazy. It was one thing to ride in there past forty armed men to kill three men he wanted, but another thing entirely to ride out as the leader of that gang. The man had more guts than good sense. Or he didn’t give a damn what happened to him.
Longley shook his head slowly. His eyes were clear—respect mingled with disbelief. Reckon your cards are about dealt out. Cain’t hardly wait to see how this turns out. Your life ain’t worth a white chip as it is…Out loud he said, “Will do, chief.”
Ward nodded and holstered his guns. He knew exactly how long that was good for—until Dallas Younger returned. And he knew that Cedar Longley knew it also.
“Is the girl all right?” Ward asked, starting toward the bedroom.
Longley nodded. “You taking that over too?”
“You have any objections?”
“None atall.”
The train pulled into Phoenix at eight o’clock Friday morning. John King stood and picked up his satchel. He stopped beside the conductor.
“Which way to the jail?”
“Down that street. You can’t miss it.”
Sheriff Tatum was not a small man, but he felt small next to the massive black man who stopped beside where he was tacking up another wanted poster.
“You’re the sheriff?” The voice had a cultured eastern accent that didn’t look like it belonged on a big strapping black man with the battered face of a professional fighter.
“That’s right,” Tatum nodded.
The big Negro held out his enormous hand. “My name is John King. I’m from Dodge City.”
Tatum looked at the hand, then at the man’s eyes. He slowly held out his hand.
“Matthew Tatum.” He’d never shaken hands with a Negro before. He resisted the impulse to wipe his hand on his pant leg. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Ward Cantrell. You know where I can find him?”
A light dawned in Tatum’s eyes. Now he knew why that face looked vaguely familiar. There had been a story about John King in one of those fancy eastern magazines. The man was a bounty hunter. He was the one who hounded the Shiner brothers until they killed themselves rather than keep running or be caught by King. The man was implacable.
“Everybody’s looking for Ward Cantrell,” he said heavily. “Half the town is out right now. If they find him first, maybe you can cut him down and take him back.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know that he did anything, but folks think he kidnapped a girl, murdered a wealthy rancher, and rustled some cows.”
“How come you’re not with the posse?”
“They got seventy men. That ain’t a posse. It’s a lynch mob. They don’t need me,” Tatum said flatly.
King nodded. “I’m staying at the hotel I noticed on the way here—the Bricewood West. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if you hear anything that would be helpful to me.” He took out a fifty-dollar bill and stuffed it in Tatum’s vest pocket.
Tatum pulled the neatly folded bill out and looked at it. That was a month’s wages for him. He shook his head and gave the money back.
“You’ll hear before I will,” he said tiredly. “This town ain’t got any secrets, especially about Cantrell.”
John King thanked him and headed back toward the hotel.
Sheriff Tatum finished nailing up the posters and then got his jacket and walked over to see if Chane Kincaid was in his office.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“What time is the boss going to meet me?” Dallas asked.
“Ten o’clock tonight—the usual place.”
Younger and Slim Parker separated at the river. Younger rode into town alone just after sunset, stabled his horse, Maverick, and walked to the Red Eye Saloon to kill time and listen to the talk. Friday nights were lively. There was the usual stir when he entered. He had admirers and those who carried grudges, but there were few men who wo
uld publicly denounce him—he had survived too many gunfights for that.
The gossip was about Cantrell: his challenge to rustler gangs, his kidnapping of Sandra McCormick, and how mad everyone was because the governor hadn’t appointed a special cadre of rangers to hunt him down. Whole ranches had stopped normal operations to join unofficial posses. Everyone was outraged. If they caught him, they would hang him first and ask questions later. Or shoot on sight. Younger grinned at that—his sentiments exactly, except in his case it was a necessity.
Younger ordered a steak and sat down at a table alone with his back to the wall so he could watch both entrances. He was halfway through the steak, listening idly to the talk around him, enjoying the gaiety and the stimulation a crowd provided, when a pretty, young dark-haired girl approached his table.
“Howdy,” she said tentatively.
“Howdy yourself,” he replied, grinning appreciatively.
She was young and fresh-looking, not brassy or belligerent like some of the older women were.
“You in the mood to buy me a drink?”
“Set yourself down and we’ll see.” He nodded to the bartender for two drinks and leaned back, grinning. “Don’t recollect seeing you here before.”
“I ain’t been here long—about a week.” Her eyes roved over him, lingering on his broad, furry chest. “You sure are a good-looking dude,” she said admiringly.
“You like ’em big and rough, do you, sweet thing?”
She giggled and tossed her hair. “My name’s Peggy. What’s yours?”
“Dallas Younger.”
Her eyes widened. She cocked her head at him. “You one of those dangerous Texans I been hearing so danged much about?”
“Who you been hearing about?” he countered.
“Oh, you and Ward Cantrell.”
“Cantrell ain’t no Texan. He’s no Texan—none atall!”
“How come you say that?”
“I know a phony Texas accent when I hear one, sweet thing. He can drop it and does too damned often for it to be real.”
“He’s a phony gunfighter, then?”
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