Way of the Outlaw

by Lauran Paine

  Warfield felt this. He also felt that his Mexicans were becoming restless. By now they would be stirring with their restlessness because basically brave men could stand up to death just so long.

  “Bricker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You coming over here or not?”

  “No, I’m not, Warfield. I don’t like this. You’re up to something.”

  Vidal’s white teeth shone. He carefully lifted his .45 and rested it over a forearm. He then raised his eyebrows. Warfield didn’t nod for a long moment, not until he was satisfied he couldn’t bait Bricker out of the saloon. He’d hoped to do this and avoid what was now imminent.

  He nodded.

  Vidal fired. Across the road a window broke and glass tinkled. A man cried out who had evidently been standing near that window, and at once a wrathful blast of ragged gunfire came back to strike the livery barn building and also to whistle down through its open and exposed gloomy runway.

  Warfield threw back his head and cried out: “Let ’em have it!”

  Within seconds the roadway was a deadly gauntlet of gunfire. The sound seemed to come from everywhere—from overhead, from north and south, even from around behind Bricker’s saloon. It was deafening. There were pistols, carbines, even rifles and shotguns. Pieces of wood splintered under repeated impacts and the saloon’s windows burst inward with a seemingly endless sound of falling glass.

  From within the saloon men cried out in astonishment, in pain, and sometimes in fear. It was now very obvious that Bricker’s swaggering gunmen had never considered it likely they would be involved with an army in Lem Bricker’s private township. They fired back, each muzzle blast a crimson wink in the dying day, but, under the overpowering superiority of their enemies, each of those little blasts seemed almost futile, for, as soon as it appeared, a dozen answering blasts drove straight for it.

  It seemed to Warfield, who was standing back there awesomely listening, that there had to be more than fifty firing Mexicans out there. It didn’t seem plausible that less than a hundred guns could be making that much deafening bedlam.

  From the rear of the barn a grinning, lithe, and bandoleered youth came prodding a large and paunchy man up toward Warfield and Vidal with his cocked Winchester. When he stopped close by, he yelled something over to Vidal, who turned, lowered his .45, and stared at the paunchy man, whose face was gray and whose eyes bulged. Vidal motioned for the young Mexican to take away his gun.

  To Warfield, Vidal said loudly, over the roar of firearms: “This is Señor Harrison, who runs the stage office in Fulton.”

  Warfield looked without nodding. “A friend of Bricker’s?” he asked.

  Vidal shrugged. “Not an enemy, I think,” he said, and turned back to the fighting.

  Warfield stepped up and said to Harrison, who was called Curly, although he was as bald as a billiard ball: “What were you trying to do, mister … leave town and fetch back help for Bricker?”

  Harrison vigorously shook his head. “Lord, no, stranger,” he croaked. “I was trying to get away from the roadway out there. Bullets been flying through my office wall like it was paper.”

  Warfield looked Harrison up and down. “You got a gun?” he asked.

  Harrison said that he hadn’t, that he never carried firearms. He also said, rather diffidently: “What’s it all about? I recognize some of those Mexicans. They live right here in Fulton. What …?”

  A bullet struck within six inches of where Harrison was standing. He clamped his mouth closed and gave a tremendous leap over toward the livery barn office. Then he swore eloquently and with considerable feeling. Finally he said: “Stranger, what are these men trying to do?”

  “Take back their village,” replied Warfield. “You object?”

  “Lord, no, stranger. Nothing would please me more than to see the last of Lem Bricker and his murderers. I’ve been walking a tightrope ever since he came here and took over, with his killers.”

  Warfield jerked his head. “Go on into the office and don’t come out,” he ordered. “And, Harrison, don’t cut loose the tied men you’ll find in there.”

  Warfield waited until the stage manager passed out of sight, then walked up where the tall Mexican was sweating copiously and reloading.

  The gunfire from Bricker’s building was considerably less now than it had been. Warfield thought about this while he watched Vidal plug fresh loads into his gun. He thought Bricker’s men were either hoarding ammunition or else they had been thinned down considerably. He stepped past and risked a quick look out. What he saw supported his second notion.

  The building was literally being shot down, was being whittled away by that never-slackening gunfire from all over town that was being mercilessly poured into it. He stepped back as the tall Mexican finished reloading and faced Warfield, his face sweat-shiny, his eyes unnaturally bright.

  “Tell them to hold up,” said Warfield. “Tell them to stop firing for a while. Bricker deserves a chance.”

  But Vidal shook his head. “It will do no good,” he said with a little shrug. “There is a difference in people, jefe. These men have lived with shame too long. They will not give quarter now.”

  Warfield frowned. This was not his way of fighting. “But Bricker’s whipped,” he said sharply. “By now he knows he’s whipped, Vidal.”

  “Señor, being whipped is not enough. Bricker must also be dead.”

  “He may be. Now you call to those men to pass along the cease-fire order … or I will.”

  Vidal looked long at Warfield, then slowly holstered his weapon, stepped up closer to the roadway, cupped both hands, and bellowed out. He continued to shout for almost a full sixty seconds before some of that gunfire began to dwindle. When he dropped his hands and drew in a replenishing breath, he said: “I didn’t think they would do it.”

  Actually they hadn’t, for although the nearby gunfire eventually ceased altogether, farther out and over behind the saloon, other Mexicans kept right on firing into that wrecked building.

  Bricker’s return fire slackened off, but it took fully five more minutes before the last gun grew quiet. Then came that oppressive stillness again, that solid, pressing-down weight of insufferable silence.

  Warfield heard a noise and swung around. Curly Harrison was standing in the office doorway looking owlishly out at him.

  Warfield snarled: “Get back in there like I said, and keep out of sight!”

  Harrison swiftly stepped back from the doorway.

  Warfield moved up closer. He looked over through dust and acrid gunsmoke at Bricker’s place. Even the louvered doors were gone, torn off their hinges, and lying in riddled pieces. The entire front wall was splintered, along with the windows, their sills, and even the overhead sign, which had been cut almost in two, although there had never been any point in aiming that high. Warfield was treated to something that for him was quite new—the wholly unpredictable and wild aimlessness of Mexican wrath. It left him a little shaken.

  He called out: “Hey Bricker? Answer up over there!”

  There was no immediate answer, but somewhere around behind the opposite building a Mexican’s taunting whistle of triumph erupted, and at once this peculiar little sound was taken up all over town, thrown back and forth for several moments, then died out.

  Warfield tried again. “Bricker! This is Warfield! You haven’t got much time. Answer up or you’ll never get another chance.”

  Vidal drew in a sharp breath, and, as Warfield turned for this audible sound, the tall Mexican pointed with a rigid arm.

  Across the roadway a man came out of the ruined saloon. He walked as though in a trance. It was the tall, young gunman with the boyish smile and arrogant swagger. He moved with an unnatural, mechanical step to the very edge of the splintered boardwalk, bent slightly, untied his leg thong, unbuckled his shell belt, held the thing out, and dropped it. He then stood up to his full and considerable height and said in almost a whisper: “Warfield? Warfield? Bricker can’t answer you …
he’s dead. So are the others. Warfield? I surrender. I’m the only one left standin’. There are four bad hurt men over here.”

  Out of nowhere a solitary rifle exploded. The tall gunman’s head jerked. He made a twisted grimace, turned slowly, and fell forward, face down, into the dusk-lit roadway.

  Vidal jumped out into plain sight and swore fiercely in loud Spanish. From here and there other Mexicans also stepped forth. Warfield saw them all. They were sweaty and dirty and grimed with powder. Their eyes were upon Vidal as he cursed them, but, as far as Warfield could make out, there was not a solitary expression of regret for this last killing anywhere among them.

  He started on across the road, halted when a short, stocky Mexican walked out of the saloon ahead of him, holding his right wrist with his left hand where blood steadily dripped, and waited. The injured Mexican came on. He looked at the others converging upon him, looked longest at Vidal, but his glance ultimately swung back to Warfield and remained there. When he was less than five feet off, this man halted and said through gritted teeth: “Señor Trent is in the cooler in the kitchen. I hid him there when he got away from his guard. He is unhurt, señor, but”—the Mexican lifted his shoulders and dropped them—“I put a little snap on the door so he cannot get out.”

  “You’re sure he’s unhurt?” asked Warfield, putting up his gun.

  “I am sure, señor.”

  “Go get your arm cared for,” said Warfield, and, as this older man started past in the company of other Mexicans, Warfield called after him: “Gracias, amigo, for locking him inside!”

  The older man gravely nodded and walked away.

  Warfield looked around and back again to Vidal. “You are satisfied?” he softly asked.

  Vidal silently nodded. He was satisfied.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When they let out U.S. Marshal John Trent from his hiding place, he gazed owlishly at them. They filled the wrecked kitchen and overflowed out into the hallway. He could hear them speaking softly in Spanish throughout the place, but mostly from the barroom where they were surveying the awesome wreckage, and were also caring for the injured.

  One tall Mexican in particular seemed in charge, so Trent concentrated his attention upon this one. He told them his name, which most of them already knew, and he explained how he’d gotten into the cooler. That tall Mexican quietly listened, seemed already to know all this, and eventually introduced himself. He told Trent he was Vidal Campos, a leader of the Mexicans. He then explained why he and his men had started their fight. He concluded by beckoning Trent along and taking him out to the ruined barroom where he showed him the bodies of three dead men, including Lem Bricker.

  Curly Harrison came walking in. He seemed uncertain of himself among all those armed Mexicans. But when Harrison saw Trent gazing down at Bricker, he came over and pushed out a sweaty hand.

  “I’m Curly Harrison,” he said, sounding enormously relieved. “I run the stage office here in Fulton.”

  Trent looked from the extended hand up into Harrison’s face, then past to that tall Mexican. Vidal faintly shrugged. Trent took this to mean he would not condemn Harrison or sponsor him, either, so Trent ignored the extended hand, saying: “I’m U.S. Marshal John Trent.”

  Harrison’s mouth dropped open.

  Trent critically studied the older man. Harrison was bulky without being muscular. He was bald, which made him seem older than he actually was, and he showed no sign of ever having worn a gun. In short, Curly Harrison seemed to be exactly what he was—a local townsman.

  “Well, Marshal,” Harrison said, “I don’t know when I’ve been so downright glad to see anyone.” He made a fluttery gesture. “The place is wrecked. My office across the road looks like someone has been firing a Gatling gun into it. This was terrible. I was sitting there, working on my books, when all at once someone started yelling, then ….”

  Trent said dryly: “I know. I was here, too, Mister Harrison. Now tell me … who fired first?”

  Harrison scratched his head, puckered his brow, then said: “Well, like I said, I was sitting there … I think it started with a blast of gunfire from here … from Lem’s saloon.”

  “Were you a friend of Bricker’s?”

  Harrison emphatically shook his head. “Anything but a friend of his, Marshal, but we never had any trouble. You see, I paid him fifty dollars a month protection money.”

  Trent grew thoughtful. “The other merchants do that, too?” he asked.

  Harrison nodded. “It was much cheaper than having your horses run off, your office wrecked, and maybe getting yourself dragged into an alleyway some dark night and getting half your teeth knocked out.”

  “Maybe,” assented Trent, and stepped around Harrison, heading for Vidal, who was supervising the removal of the injured gunmen. “Where are you taking these men?” he asked.

  “To the women, señor,” answered Vidal blandly, his gaze at Trent respectful but very cautious. “There is no doctor in this town.”

  Trent said, “I know that,” and watched the Mexicans walking out, carrying the injured. “Why did you do it, Campos?”

  Vidal spread his hands. “You heard Señor Harrison … we were fired upon.”

  Trent put a slow, skeptical look upon the Mexican. They exchanged a long glance. Trent could not prove it had not started that way even if he’d wanted to. He knew this and so did the tall Mexican. Trent gradually smiled. “You did a thorough job,” he quietly said. “Lose any men?”

  “Not one, señor, but we would have.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sí. The man who wanted to keep Bricker from killing you … he commanded us. He told us to stay out of sight … not to expose ourselves. He was a smart man … this friend of yours.”

  Trent’s smile faded. “A tall man,” he said softly, “riding a leggy bay horse.”

  Vidal’s expression was grave. “Señor Warfield,” he murmured. “He hid in the churchyard waiting for dark when Bricker was to have taken you out into the desert to be killed. He waited … to save you from that.”

  “He did, did he,” said Trent, reading the tall Mexican’s expression plainly enough. “And in your view I owe him my life.”

  “As surely, señor, as we owe him a debt we can never repay for giving us back our town.”

  “Where is he now, Campos?”

  Vidal shrugged and said nothing, his black eyes slowly hardening against Trent.

  “Campos, he is a murderer.”

  Again Vidal shrugged. Some of his friends came up to stand, silent and expressionless, while listening to this exchange and watching the faces of these two.

  “Marshal, sometimes a man kills with justification. Sometimes not. With Señor Warfield we neither know nor care. Here he showed only the belief he has that good and honest people deserve better than to be treated like animals … and at the same time he refused, at the risk of his life, to permit another murder to take place.”

  Trent looked around. All those Mexicans were closely watching him. Off to one side several others were speaking softly back and forth. These men turned and slowly ambled out of the wrecked saloon. Trent could feel the solid wall of distrust with which these men were regarding him.

  He said: “Campos, Warfield is wanted by the law. My job is to bring him in. Your job as a citizen of the territory is to give me help if I need it in the performance of my duty.”

  Vidal’s face smoothed out. He looked down his hooked nose, saying blandly: “We are a law-abiding people, jefe. Whatever it is that you ask, we will certainly do.”

  “Tell me where Warfield is right now.”

  Vidal waved a hand vaguely southward. “He rode away, señor. As soon as the fighting was over he got his horse from the churchyard and rode away.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Not long, señor. Perhaps a half an hour. Do you want to catch him … after he has saved your life and restored order and decency to this town?”

  “I’m not his judge, Campos, only a law offi
cer who has been sent to arrest him. Of course, I want to catch him.”

  Vidal looked around. The other Mexicans were standing like dark statues, some leaning upon rifles, some slouching upon Lem Bricker’s smashed bar, solemnly considering John Trent. “We will help you,” Vidal said. “Come along.”

  Trent hiked on out into the darkening roadway with those silent, somber, armed Mexicans all around him. He had a bad feeling about this, but he didn’t allow it to show as he went with Vidal across to the livery barn where a fat, rueful-looking man with several baggy chins was rubbing circulation back into his arms. There was another man in that little lit office, but this one was being guarded by three young Mexicans. Vidal pointed to the second man.

  “He was one of Bricker’s men, Marshal. He was one of the men detailed to take you out tonight into the desert and kill you.”

  Trent regarded that gunman, viewed the swollen lump low on the side of his face, and said: “We’ve met. This one was put to guarding me from time to time.” Trent stepped over and stopped, the gunman sullenly watching. He said: “How about it, friend, were you to be my executioner?”

  The gunman glowered and remained silent.

  Behind Trent the tall Mexican stepped up to him, grinning.

  The gunman said: “I was to be one of ’em, yes, but Lem never said which of us was to kill you, lawman.”

  “You got a jailhouse?” Trent asked Vidal. The Mexican nodded. “Then send a couple of guards down there with this man, lock him up, and hold him under guard.”

  As Vidal gave orders in rippling Spanish to the youthful armed Mexicans, Trent turned toward the liveryman. “You were in here when the fight started?” he asked brusquely.

  “I was right here,” said the liveryman dourly. “I was right here from start to finish.”

  “Do you know who started firing first?”

  The liveryman looked over Trent’s shoulder.

  Vidal was standing back there faintly smiling, his dark features sardonic in the guttering lamplight. He said soothingly to the liveryman: “Señor Harrison said he thought the first shots came from Bricker’s saloon.”