Tin Star

by Jackson Lowry

  Kill Rhoades. Kill Benedict. Kill the rest of the road agents. All that pleased him, but it had to be secondary.

  He arrived at the cabin. Saving Sarah mattered now. The crazy woman had blundered into the outlaw camp. Whether their not gunning her down was good luck or bad presented a question he couldn’t answer. Her fate seemed worse than even wandering the woods bemoaning the loss of her husband—or expecting him to return after so many years. The outlaws showed no respect for life. She would be kept alive as long as the gang found a use for her.

  Luke leaned against the cabin wall to catch his breath. More than a few seconds passed until his breathing settled down. Hating every instant it took to recover, he finally hurried off to retrieve his horse. Barely a hundred yards into the woods, he felt a sense of being watched. No definite clue warned him. No unusual smell or sound. Not even a flash of movement in the thick undergrowth. But the hairs on the back of his neck rose and a shiver passed down his spine.

  Moving fast, he jumped to the side and went for his six-shooter. Thorns tore at his arms, and bushes crushed as he bulled through to take cover behind a fallen log. For a second he saw nothing. Then came the flash of red plaid. A man took cover behind a black walnut tree. Carefully taking aim, Luke waited for the other man to show himself. It had to happen eventually, if he waited long enough.

  A few inches of the man’s hat brim poked out from behind the tree. Luke held his fire. This was a ploy to make him waste ammunition and make him reveal his hiding place. Rather than aiming at that side of the tree, he moved to the far side of the trunk in time to get off a shot when his stalker tried to dodge to better cover.

  A curse left his lips. He missed by a country mile. At least he pinned the man in place behind the tree. Scooting back on his belly, Luke flipped over and got to his feet. The shot held the man in place for a few more seconds. With a surge, Luke got his balance and started running. The longer he spent in the woods, the farther away the gang rode. Why the outlaw coming for him hadn’t joined his partners wasn’t anything Luke wanted to consider. Lives depended on him going after the outlaws.

  He burst into the clearing where he had camped. His horse looked up, annoyed. The grass was succulent and only a small patch had been nibbled. Luke scooped up his bedroll and saddle. The hobbled horse tried to put distance between them, then gave in to being saddled and resigned itself to having a rider once more.

  Luke secured the belly strap, then dropped to his knees to unfasten the hobbles. He froze when he heard the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back. Somehow the man in the forest had circled around and sneaked up behind him.

  “Don’t go reaching for that hogleg,” came the sharp command. “I don’t want to plug you, but you took a shot at my deputy.”

  “Deputy?” Luke looked over his shoulder. Benson Wilkes had his six-gun leveled and ready to shoot, given any more provocation. Playing for time was the only way Luke came out alive—or out of the Crossroads jail. “What do you mean?”

  Footsteps pounded and a man gasping for breath joined the marshal.

  “It’s a good thing you got him, Marshal. He took a potshot at me.”

  “That’s because you’re such a clumsy tracker, Moynihan. I should never have sent you. Denny is a better choice.”

  “Denny? He couldn’t find his—”

  “Shut up.” Marshal Wilkes reached down and plucked Luke’s six-shooter from his holster. He tucked it into his own belt before lowering his pistol. He didn’t holster it in case he needed to use it again fast.

  “They’re getting away!” Luke pivoted and got his feet under him. This earned him the right to stare down the barrel of the lawman’s gun again. “Put that down! The outlaws are—”

  “They’re nowhere to be found, that’s where they are. What I want to know is why we found you out here and didn’t catch sight of them?” Wilkes signaled with a shrill whistle. A dozen men rode up from hiding places around the clearing. Luke was trapped by the posse hunting for Rhoades.

  “They used the horses stolen from the way station as fresh mounts. You’ll never catch them now.” A quick look showed how right he was. The posse rode lathered horses. More than one of the deputies wobbled in the saddle. They had ridden all night and had tuckered themselves out. More than likely, Marshal Wilkes had recruited men from the saloons, many of them already half-soused when they stepped up to do their civic duty.

  “You surely do know a great deal about how the gang operates,” the marshal said. “That’s what I call curious. Wouldn’t you say so, Deputy Moynihan?”

  “You mean to say this yahoo’s one of them? But we lost their trail. Why’s he still here and not ridin’ with them?”

  “You tried following the trail to the south?” Luke perked up. “That was a false trail Crazy Water Benedict laid by—” He snapped his mouth shut when he realized he only dug himself a deeper hole. He knew details of the robbery and escape Marshal Wilkes didn’t. Or did he? The lawman bounced his gun up and down, as if trying to decide where to shoot his prisoner. Foot or head. Either meant trouble Luke wasn’t willing to endure.

  Riding after the gang would be hard enough. Doing it with a bullet in him turned the task into one bordering on the impossible, as bunged up as he already was.

  “Yes sirree bob, he does know things only one of the outlaws could know.” Wilkes waved his gun around. “Go on, climb up. We’re going back to town.”

  “Crossroads? But that’s in the opposite direction. Rhoades has the gold. And . . . and he has a hostage. He took the woman that lives in the cabin down this trail.” Luke turned to point. For his trouble he got a pistol barrel laid alongside his head. The impact drove him to his knees.

  “Don’t figure you can escape. Go on, Deputy. Truss him up good and proper.”

  “Wait, wait.” Luke shook his head. Bees buzzed inside and his vision doubled. He rubbed the spot where Wilkes had struck him. The bruise had already turned tender and sent new stabs of pain into his skull. “I’m one of you. Look.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and was rewarded by Moynihan kicking him in the ribs. He grunted and tried to roll with the blow. Landing flat on his back, he held up the shiny tin star. “I’m a Pinkerton. Here’s proof I was after the Rhoades gang, just like you.”

  “You got to the count of three to step up on your horse. One. Two.” Wilkes sighted along his barrel. Again Luke stared into the .44 bore. Each time it grew in size. Now he was sure a freight train would fit just fine in that gaping, dark tunnel with the bullet at the end.

  “Don’t shoot.” He got to his feet and used his horse to support himself. While it did him no good, he dropped the tin star back into his coat pocket, gripped the saddle horn with both hands and pulled himself up. Astride his horse, he felt as if he had climbed the tallest mountain in the state. He looked down on the marshal and two deputies. All three men had their sidearms trained on him. A glance around showed several of the mounted posse pointed rifles in his direction.

  “Everybody back from getting lost in the woods?” The marshal did a quick count. He shrugged. One or two must be missing. Luke hoped they had stayed on the trail.

  “The woman in the cabin,” he began. “Rhoades has taken her as a hostage.”

  “The cabin’s empty, Marshal,” Denny confirmed. “This is where the crazy old heifer lives. The one who comes into town every once in a while and causes a big commotion.”

  “Sarah Youngblood,” Luke furnished. “And she’s skinny as a rail. Starving. She thinks her husband’ll come back to her. She sings to the moon.”

  “I knew him. His name was Lucas. He got hisself killed fightin’ the Rebs. If he was batty like her, he walked into a cannon, thinking he was goin’ home.” Moynihan chuckled at the very idea of someone dying in such a grisly fashion.

  “For a newcomer, you’ve learned a lot about the people and countryside,” Wilkes said. “Almost a
s if you scouted for the outlaws. Rhoades, you say? That’s the Rollie Rhoades gang?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Was that a confession that he’s one of ’em, Marshal? Let’s string him up here. There’s a sturdy post oak tree back there.”

  Luke didn’t see who called out the desire to hang their prisoner. One of the posse. Wilkes shot his gun into the air to get their attention. The report echoed into the distance. Luke knew there was no longer any chance for it to warn the outlaws. They were long gone.

  “We caught him,” said Wilkes. “He gets a fair trial. If there’s any hanging to be done, the judge is the one who says so.”

  Luke cast a quick look of thanks in the marshal’s direction, but he saw no mercy there. The lawman had been made a fool of by the robbery and escape and wanted the trial made as public as possible to show he wasn’t entirely incompetent. Otherwise, there might have been a body twisting slowly from a limb, caught by the humid breeze and drawing crows to peck at his eyes and dead flesh.

  The posse circled him. They rode slowly. Still, in spite of their close attention, Luke considered making a break for it. Their horses were tired. His was rested. But the number of deputies riding with their rifles resting across the saddles in front of them kept him from doing anything that foolish. The men and their mounts were tired. Their bullets weren’t.

  “How much gold did Rhoades get away with?” For an answer, he got a cold stare. “Did he blow the place up? Rhoades enjoys using dynamite.”

  “He blew the whole danged building up. There’s hardly a brick left whole. The bank vault was twisted open.”

  “Wouldn’t that destroy any greenbacks?”

  “You know it did. Every bit of paper money burned to filthy ash. The gold coins in there were all from cattle sales. There must have been close to a ten thousand dollars.”

  “Woulda been worse. If he’d struck a couple days earlier, the money from the Circle Bar Circle woulda been there. Mister Platt took his money out to buy another thousand acres up north.” Moynihan sounded pleased he knew this bit of gossip.

  Luke settled down and rode in silence. Rhoades had made off with a king’s ransom. If he had struck a few days earlier, his take would have put him in the headline of every paper in the state of Kansas. Whether the outlaw leader cared much about the gold or just enjoyed the robbing and killing—and blowing up buildings—gave Luke something to chew on until they reached Crossroads just after the sun sank behind the horizon. A cool breeze did little to ease the anguish he felt.

  “Marshal, I—”

  “Shut up. Not a word out of you or I’ll hog-tie and gag you.” Wilkes pointed to the jailhouse.

  Without any recourse, Luke dismounted under the watchful eyes of half the posse. Wilkes paid them off. They whooped and hollered as if they’d been successful in their hunt and raced off to the saloons. Luke had never been much of a drinker—until Audrey’s kidnapping. Then he tried too much to snuff out the pain with just one more shot. All that had gained him was a headache in the morning and enduring heartache every instant of the day. Once on the trail of the outlaws, he had wanted a clear head and steady hand not possible with too much popskull but wished right now he went with them rather than into the jail. A six-gun muzzle shoved into his spine got him moving in the direction desired by the lawman.

  “You get the same cell. I should never have let you go. That would have saved me a passel of trouble.” Benson Wilkes shoved his prisoner in and slammed the cell door. It clanged with utter finality, punctuated with a metal click as the key turned the lock.

  “We’re on the same side, Marshal. I can help. But if you keep me in the cell, please, I’m begging you, send out a party to find Sarah Youngblood. Those men will do terrible things to her.”

  “She’s not right in the head. She probably threw in with them.”

  Arguing got him nowhere. Luke finally gave up and sank onto the bed. Dejection washed over him like a drowning tide. If the marshal felt like a failure, Luke shared the feeling in spades. He had been so close to bringing the outlaw to justice. If only Sarah hadn’t butted in. If only—

  “If only,” he muttered. The marshal’s failure only meant the bank lost money. His cost Sarah her life.

  He had nothing to do but stare at the marshal and Moynihan playing cards. Every turn of the pasteboards made him cringe. Every card was a loser and he had played them all.

  When the outer door opened, he turned away. A woman carried a tray covered with a red-and-white-checked napkin.

  “Here’s dinner for your prisoner.” The woman kept her face down and hardly whispered the words, as if they burned her tongue.

  “Nothing for us?” Moynihan reached to lift the napkin. He got his hand slapped for the impertinence.

  “Rules,” the woman said. “Prisoner’s got to be fed. You can get your own food.”

  Wilkes motioned her to the back, not even looking up from the cards. Moynihan grumbled and paid attention to the game again. The woman shuffled back and stopped a step away from the cell door.

  “I’m not hungry. Give it to the deputy.” Luke felt like vomiting. Food was the last thing he wanted right now.

  “Take it.” She rested the tray on the small opening in the bars designed to pass food to the prisoners. “Take it.” Her tone carried the whipcrack of command that made Luke sit up and take notice. She lifted the corner of the napkin to give him a quick look at the pearl handle of a derringer.

  “Why?” He moved to take the tray.

  She swung away and rushed from the jailhouse, head still down and not saying another word to either Luke or the lawmen.

  He held the tray awkwardly, then scooted it into the cell. Carefully placing it on the edge of his bed, he pulled back the napkin. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. A two-shot derringer rested against the china plate brimming with some smelly goulash. Quick as a flash, he slid the gun off the tray. The cold metal restored his energy better than the dubious food ever could have. He went to the cell door and peered out. Wilkes and Moynihan were lost in their gin rummy game.

  “Marshal, take a look at this,” he called. Luke clutched the derringer tightly. It took all his willpower not to curl his finger around the trigger and send a round off into space. Both rounds were needed. Two lawmen, two bullets. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. It took a considerable amount of courage to do what had to be done.

  “What is it? That slop’s all you’re going to get.”

  The marshal stared at the derringer. It was his turn to peer down a barrel that looked to be the size of a train tunnel.

  “Open the cell,” Luke said.

  “The key’s in my desk.”

  “Stay put. Have your deputy fetch it.” He held the derringer outside the iron bars to get a better shot. “I’ve got nothing to lose. You do.”

  “You miserable, no-account . . .”

  Luke cocked the derringer to shut off the flow of invective.

  Wilkes got the idea. “Moynihan, bring the key to the prisoner’s cell.”

  “Why, Marshal? He can pass the tray out the same way he took it.”

  “Do it!”

  The deputy grumbled but brought the keys. He turned to stone when he saw the derringer clutched in his prisoner’s hand. Silently, he opened the cell. Luke gestured the two men in. He relieved both of their sidearms as they came in, then secured the cell door. He almost sank to the floor in reaction, shaking like a leaf. He hadn’t realized what a strain the jailbreak put on him.

  “Would you have shot me?” The marshal hung on the bars. Luke stepped back farther to prevent a sudden grab that would deny him escape.

  “You’ll never know.” He dropped their six-shooters on top of the cards and looked for his own piece. Wherever the marshal had stashed it, Luke couldn’t find it. A tentative knock on the door stopped his search.

  Almost
fearfully, he opened the outer door a few inches to peer out. The saloons were filled to overflowing with celebrating posse. The rest of Crossroads was as silent as a grave. Whoever had knocked was gone. Or had his nerves gotten the better of him?

  A new sound around the side of the jail convinced him to hightail it. The two lawmen were in a pickle. They had to be heard over the tumult from the boisterous crowds in the saloons, but sooner or later someone would get curious and come investigate. Luke considered going back and gagging the men. More scuffling sent him around the corner, the derringer thrust in front of him and ready to fire.

  He pointed the small gun at the woman who had rescued him. He realized right away this wasn’t a mirror situation. She held a six-gun in a steady grip pointed right at him. Hers was bigger.

  “Looks like we’ve got a standoff,” he said.

  “Nope. Your gun’s not loaded.”

  Luke shifted his aim and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  “Mine’s got six rounds, all waiting to ventilate you.” She cocked the six-gun and fixed a steely eye on him. He believed her. Luke slowly raised his hands.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OH, PUT YOUR hands down. You look foolish.” She gestured with her six-gun for him to relax. Luke did so slowly. His palm sweat so much the derringer almost slipped out of his grip.

  “Who are you?”

  “Our horses are around back. Come on.” She indicated where she wanted him to walk, using the gun as a pointer. Her manner was brusque, but he doubted she would shoot him. After the risk she’d taken to get him out of the jail, she wanted more from him than his corpse rotting in the sun.