by J. Roberts
Clint looked at Coleman’s gun. He hadn’t noticed before how well cared for it was. The man kept his weapon ready.
“Yeah, I know that.”
“So what are we gonna do?”
“As we approach Ogallala I think you, me, and Flood should ride ahead.”
“So you think they’ll wait for us?” Coleman asked. “They won’t circle back around us and stampede the herd?”
“They could have stampeded the herd at any time,” Clint said. “I think Santiago Jones wants to face me, not trample me to death.”
“I haven’t heard of him before.”
“Neither have I,” Clint said. “Maybe he wants to change that.”
“How many men has he got?”
“He had six, now he has five with him.”
“So two-to-one odds,” Coleman said. “I’ve seen worse.”
“So have I.”
“Maybe we can leave Flood behind,” Coleman said. “Maybe you and me can handle it.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not just trying to keep him safe?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“We probably should let Flood make that decision himself.”
“Yeah, okay,” Coleman said, standing up. “I’ll keep working the herd until you need me. Unless there’s somethin’ else?”
“There is one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How much do you know about Andy Dirker?”
“Not much, but I don’t like ’im.”
“Why not?”
“Keeps to himself,” Coleman said. “Can’t trust a man who does that.”
“He’s got no friends on the crew?”
“No,” Coleman said. “The only one he talks to is Sobel, but they ain’t friends.”
“What about Sobel?”
“What about him? He ain’t got a mind of his own, has to be told what to do.”
“And has Dirker been doing the tellin’?”
“What are you gettin’ at?”
“Back in Doan’s Crossing Jack Trevor was killed with a knife. One like Andy Dirker’s got.”
“He’s always playin’ with that knife. You think that sonofabitch killed Jack?”
“Maybe. I want you to do something for me. Get a look at the bottom of his boots.”
“What am I looking for?”
“A shape,” Clint said, and explained what he had seen in a boot print in the livery where Trevor had been killed. “You see it, let me know.”
“Okay,” Coleman said. “I’ll let you know.”
Coleman walked away, his crooked gate betraying the problem with his bad hip.
FORTY-TWO
Lawrence Morgan—who preferred to be called Larry by everyone, not just his friends—smoked a cigar while he watched the whore undress. He had chosen very carefully, sure to end up with the best-looking woman in the house. She was dark-haired, tall and slender, with very long legs and breasts like ripe peaches.
Morgan had been in Ogallala years ago when it was a town that lived off the cattle drives. Now—like Doan’s Crossing, Dodge, and many others—it lived off crumbs.
That’s what Henry Flood was trying to bring to Ogallala, the crumbs of his last cattle drive. Morgan hated Flood, always had. He’d spend his last dime if he had to, to make sure Henry Flood failed.
The whore dropped her see-through black-lace robe to the floor and stood before Morgan naked, still wearing her high heel shoes. Her skin was very pale, her nipples very dark brown, her breasts high and firm. He put his cigarette out and held his arms out to her. She came to him, crouched down in front of him, between his legs. He was naked, his erection standing out from an almost obscenely hairy crotch. None of the girls wanted to go with him because he was an ugly man—big, blocky, with abnormally large facial features.
This whore—Gloria—had gone with him because she was curious. His ears, nose, lips, and hands were so large she wondered what else he had that was large. Gloria loved a man with a large penis, and Larry Morgan’s stood out like a miniature redwood.
“My God,” she said, taking his huge cock in her hands.
“You like that, huh?” he asked.
Morgan knew he was an ugly man, but had been with his fair share of women and knew that what he had appealed to some. Some had been scared off by his features, and still others who had gotten as far as this—naked in a room with him—and then been frightened off.
But not this whore. Her eyes were shining as she stroked him, making him even larger.
“If we’re not careful,” she said, “you’re gonna tear me up, leave me limping for days.”
“Well, honey,” he said, “we’ll just have to be careful, won’t we?”
Morgan didn’t want to cause any trouble in town. He just wanted to be there when Santiago Jones came and told him that Henry Flood had failed. He was just killing time with this whore, so he was in no hurry. Let her spend as much time as she wanted ooh and ahhing over his cock.
“Well,” she said, licking her lips, “let’s see if I can get this monster into my mouth, and we’ll just go from there.”
“That’s fine with me—” he said, but she cut him off by—amazingly—swooping in, opening her mouth, and taking him inside.
Santiago Jones liked this better.
Let Adams and Flood bring the herd to him. What was the point of stampeding the steers when they could keep them altogether and then take the herd for themselves after they killed Flood and Clint Adams?
The other men were milling about camp, looking for some way to while away the time. None of them had the big half-breed’s patience.
“Sterling,” Jones called.
Finally, Sterling thought, Something to do.
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Ride back, see what you can see.”
“Sure, Boss.”
“If you spot them don’t do a thing. Just come back and tell me. Understand?”
“Sure, Boss, I understand,” Sterling said, “but once we spot them, what’re we gonna do?”
“We’ll ride out and give them a welcome,” Jones said. “One they won’t forget.”
FORTY-THREE
Days later Clint and Flood were riding together in advance of the herd.
“Well now,” Flood said. “This looks familiar.”
“It does?” Clint asked. “Can you tell how far out of Ogallala we are?”
“ ’Bout three days,” Flood said.
They had been on the trail a little over two months. Once they reached Ogallala they’d still have about two weeks to go before they reached Fort Laramie.
“Might be time for us to ride up ahead,” Clint said. “You, me, and Bud.”
“Okay.”
“But if we do that,” Clint said, “who are we going to leave in charge of the herd?”
Flood frowned.
“Can’t think of anybody I’d trust,” he admitted.
“I can’t either, Hank,” Clint said. “Maybe you should stay, let me and Bud go ahead.”
“And fight my fight?”
“I think the herd might be more important than your fight,” Clint said. “Bud’s going to back my play—”
“You never let anybody back you if you haven’t seen them in action before,” Flood said. “I’m the only one that qualifies.”
“That’s true,” Clint said, “but this is different. Somebody’s got to stay with the herd, and the men, unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we resolve the question of who in our camp is working for Morgan.”
“You said you thought it was Dirker.”
“I’m pretty sure, but I need one last piece of evidence.”
“When will you get it?”
“Any time now, hopefully.”
“Let’s do this tonight, Clint,” Flood said. “Let’s brace him tonight and get it over with.”
“Still doesn’t answer our question of who we can
leave in charge of the herd.”
“Maybe we can answer all the questions tonight,” Flood said.
“Except the last one,” Clint said.
“That one,” Flood said, “might get answered in Ogallala.”
That night Clint and Flood decided not to do anything until after chow. They were eating when they heard the shots. The both jumped to their feet, plates and cups flying. They ran over to where the men were eating. The drovers were all on their feet, but Bud Coleman was the only one holding a gun.
“What the hell happened?” Flood demanded.
Clint saw one man lying on the ground. It was Andy Dirker. He was dying on his back, and Clint could see the bottoms of both boots. He walked over to check the body. Dirker was dead, two holes in his chest. Clint then checked the boots. There was no doubt Dirker’s boots had left the marks on the floor of the livery where Jack Trevor had been stabbed to death.
“He did it,” Coleman said. “He killed Jack. They all heard him say so.”
Flood looked around.
“Is that true?” he asked the others.
“We heard Bud accuse him,” Eddie Pratt said.
“Anybody hear Dirker admit it?” Flood asked.
“He’s got the mark on his boot,” Clint said.
“He went for his gun,” Swisher said.
“What?” Clint asked.
“I didn’t hear him admit to killing Jack, but when Bud braced him Dirker went for his gun. Bud outdrew him slicker’n snot.”
Clint looked over at Roy Sobel.
“What about it, Roy?” he asked. “You know anything about what happened in Doan’s Crossing?”
Sobel didn’t answer.
“Come on, Roy,” Bud Coleman said. He was still holding his gun.
“Okay, okay,” Sobel said, “I knew somethin’ was up in Doan’s Crossing but I didn’t know what. He went off by himself.”
Flood looked at Clint.
“If he went for his gun when Bud braced him . . .”
“But we don’t know if he was working for Morgan or not,” Clint said, so the other men couldn’t hear.
“I think Bud did the fight thing,” Flood said.
“Okay,” Clint said.
“Swisher, take some men and bury Dirker. Take whatever personal effects he has and put them in his saddlebags. We’ll give it all to the law in Ogallala.” He looked at Coleman. “Bud?”
Bud replaced the empty shells in his gun, holstered it, and followed Clint and Flood back to the chuckwagon.
“What happened?” Clint asked.
“I saw his boot, and like you said, there was that mark. I got mad and accused him of killing Jack. The others didn’t hear him, but he said, ‘So what? What are you gonna do about it?’ I said I wanted his gun and his knife. He underestimated me and went for his gun. That’s it.”
“What about Sobel?” Clint asked.
“He ain’t involved at all,” Coleman said. “I’m sure of it.”
Clint looked at Flood.
“Hank, I guess you’ll be staying with the herd tomorrow.” He looked at Coleman. “I think Bud and I will be able to handle this tomorrow.”
Flood looked at Coleman.
“I think that’s best, Boss.”
“Okay,” Flood said, “somebody’s gotta stay with the herd and I guess I’m the logical one.”
“You and me, Bud,” Clint said. “We’ll leave at first light.”
“I’ll be ready,” Coleman said.
FORTY-FOUR
Santiago Jones was ready.
Sterling had returned the day before, saying that the herd was approaching, would probably arrive within a day. Jones didn’t know what Flood and Clint Adams would decide to do. Whether they came ahead, or they came with the herd, they had to come through this pass, where Jones and his men were waiting. If they had they could stampede the herd once it was in the pass. If they did that, the drovers would have no chance to survive.
Under normal circumstances Jones wouldn’t care how many men he killed, but this time he was only concerned about one—Clint Adams. As long as he killed him, and stopped the herd from reaching Ogallala, he didn’t care if the other men survived or not.
Except for Flood. Probably the best way to stop the herd was to kill Flood.
He’d be the man who killed the Gunsmith, and the man who stopped Henry Flood’s last trail drive.
Clint and Bud Coleman had coffee with Henry Flood, but no breakfast.
“I’d hate to get killed on a full stomach,” Clint said.
Coleman didn’t eat because it had been a long time since he did this sort of thing. Killing Dirker the night before had been instinctive—proving that he still had the reflexes to kill—but that didn’t mean he had the stomach to kill.
Flood ate hungrily.
“If this is my last day on earth,” he said, “I wanna have a full stomach.”
Clint and Coleman saddled their horses and walked them over to the chuckwagon, where Flood was still eating.
“Just follow us in, Hank,” Clint said. “We should have the way cleared for you.”
“You sound sure of yourself.”
“Well, whether we’re dead or they’re dead, they shouldn’t be in any shape to stop you.”
“Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Flood said. “Good luck to you both.”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks, Boss,” Coleman said.
Clint and Coleman rode out of camp.
“Think they’re waitin’ for us?” Coleman asked.
“I’m pretty sure they scouted us,” Clint said. “They probably know we’re coming.”
“So how do we play it?”
“Head on,” Clint said. “That’s the way I usually play it.”
“Maybe I should circle around—”
“That would take a while,” Clint said. “I’m sure they’re going to be waiting at Platte Pass. That’s the best place to stampede a herd, if that’s they’re plan. But whether we showed up with the herd or without, we’d have to go through that pass to get to town. Besides, I’m pretty sure head on is the way Santiago Jones is going to want to play it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Once he heard I was along he started thinking like everybody else. Kill me for the reputation it would get him. That’s why he didn’t stampede the herd before now. He wants to kill me himself.”
“So you’ll take him and I’ll take the other five?” Coleman asked.
Clint laughed.
“No, Bud,” he said, “I think we’ll divvy it up a little more evenly than that.”
“Want me to go have a look, Boss?” Sterling asked Santiago Jones.
“No,” Jones said. “He’s comin’.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The herd’s a day away,” Jones said. “Adams won’t wait. He’ll come.”
“How do we play it?” Sterling asked. “We can put a couple of men behind these rocks—”
Jones swung his massive left arm and knocked Sterling out of his saddle. The man hit the ground hard, rolled over and stared up at his boss.
“This is Clint Adams we’re talkin’ about,” Jones said, looking down. The other men had noticed what happened and were listening and looking. “He deserves a better death than bein’ ambushed. We face him head on, and you keep your eyes on me.” He looked at the other men. “All of you. Do you hear?”
The other men nodded.
“You watch me for my move,” Jones said. “I’ll be first.”
Frank Hughes came over and helped Sterling to his feet.
“What makes you think Adams is gonna give you the first move?” Hughes asked Jones.
“Because that’s what he does,” the half-breed said. “That’s what he always does. He gives his opponent the first move—and that’s gonna be his death, because when I have the first mover, I can’t be beat.”
None of the men knew this. They knew Santiago Jones could kill most anybody with his bar
e hands, but they had never seen him use his gun.
“Okay,” Hughes said, “I guess we have to take your word for that.”
“Yeah,” Jones said, “you will.”
FORTY-FIVE
Santiago Jones spotted them from well off.
“Two riders!” he called.
Behind him Frank Hughes sidled up next to Zeke Sterling.
“This whole thing don’t make no sense,” he said. “Why didn’t we just stampede the damn herd when we had the chance—and we had a lot of chances!”
“Who know?” Sterling said. “Jones is the boss. You wanna tell him you don’t agree?”
“No,” Sterling said. “But that don’t mean we gotta wait for him to draw. We can get the jump on Adams and whoever he’s bringin’ with him.”
“There’s six of us and two of them,” Sterling said. “We should just play it the way Jones wants—otherwise you gotta deal with him after.”
Hughes looked over at the other men.
“Or get one of them to go along with you.”
Hughes made an annoyed sound and went to talk to the others.
“I see them,” Clint said.
“I don’t,” Coleman said. “My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”
“Looks like six men, all on horseback.”
“We gonna do this on horses?” Coleman asked.
“My guess would be we’ll start on horseback,” Clint said. “Once the shooting starts everybody’s going to take off for cover.”
“Hmm.”
“What is it?”
Coleman looked at him.
“With my hip the way it is I ain’t gonna be able to jump off this horse.”
Clint thought a moment.
“I’m going to get off mine as fast as I can,” he said, “and get him out of the line of fire. Is this a regular mount for you?”
“Naw, just a horse I took from the remuda.”
“Good,” Clint said. “When the shooting starts just turn the horse sideways and slide off behind it.”
“I’ll try,” Coleman said.
“Just don’t get dragged, Bud.”
Coleman rolled his eyes.
