by Jonas Ward
“What would she be riding around here for?”
“Nothing to stop her,” Neale said. “Except if she got caught in that raid at Mulchay’s ...”
“Good grief! Then the Mex took her with them.”
“If there were any.”
“What’s that?” Lord asked sharply.
“That raid don’t sit right, somehow. That feller comes charging up to headquarters with news Mulchay is being hit. We get close and the fire breaks out.”
“Well? That’s how the Mex raid, isn’t it?”
“So they say. But the Ranger they strung up wasn’t killed tonight. He was stiffened out, Mr. Lord. I’d say it happened to him way early in the day.”
“That’s very possible. They might have come across him anywhere along the river.”
“Then why go to all that trouble making it look like it just happened before we rode up?”
“What are you trying to say, Neale? Are you accusing someone?”
“I’m doubling back, boss,” Neale said, avoiding a direct answer. “I’m going to look for Rosemarie.”
“If the girl is anywhere around, the militia will find her.”
“I’m worried about that happening, too.”
“Now one damn minute! You know, don’t you, that I brought Gibbons and his men into the Big Bend? That I’m responsible for them, and they to me?”
“Mr. Lord, the day Gibbons set foot in this country was the worst thing ever happened to it.”
“Watch yourself, Neale—that’s insolence!”
“That’s truth,” Neale replied doggedly. “The man is no good, and that so-called militia is nothing but a hard case crew. Just so many hired gunnies ...”
“Draw what’s coming to you at the ranch,” Lord told him. “You’re setting your judgment against mine, and that I can’t abide in a hired hand.”
Neale shrugged, swept up the mare’s dragging reins and took her with him back down the trail toward Mulchay’s. The house was just a black, wall-less shell of itself now and he forced himself to make a thorough search of the ruins. There was, of course, no sign of Rosemarie, but he did find a litter of .45 shell casings—a prodigious waste for the ammo-hungry Mexicans along this part of the border—plus a great many cigarette butts in an iron can. Billy had grown up with Mex kids, knew them well, and there was something un-Mexican about this whole deal.
Then, on what had been the porch, he discovered a knife that someone had lost in the shuffle. There was no denying the Spanish look to it, the fancy handle and stiletto-thin blade. He was about to concede the fact of an actual raid when his eyes made out the crude inscription along the shaft. Brownsville, it read, 1856.
That was last year, and last year Black Jack Gibbons was murdering Mexicans in Brownsville. The cowboy wondered if this knife had been taken as loot, kept as a memento.
But even if evidence was growing in his mind that the raid had been staged, Neale was still concerned primarily with the whereabouts of Rosemarie. He decided that the next place to look would be at her own ranch, and he started off along the river trail at a gallop, hoping in his heart that the girl would be there, safe and sound.
As he neared the place he saw the light of a small campfire, noted that the house itself was dark. He dismounted, led both horses closer. Three men sat around the fire eating, three of Gibbons’ Militia, and as he watched, one of them stood up and looked in this direction, as if expecting another arrival. It worried Neale that someone might be coming from his rear, and at that moment a hand touched his shoulder.
“Aren’t you Billy Neale, from Overlord?”
“Christ, Mr. MacKay!” he protested, recognizing Rosemarie’s uncle. “I liked to have jumped out of my skin.”
“Didn’t mean to start you, boy.”
“Where’s Rosemarie?”
“Damned if I know. The girl rode off this afternoon.”
“To Mulchay’s?”
“No, towards the mountain. Said something about climbing up there for a man.”
“Buchanan,” Neale said softly.
“Who?”
“A mutual friend,” the cowboy said dryly.
“She said Mulchay was being held by that Gibbons fellow. Claimed he was going to be killed ...”
“So that’s the story!” Neale said excitedly, his suspicions confirmed. “And I’ll bet it was Buchanan who left the mare there.”
“I thought I recognized that horse,” Lauren MacKay said. “Say, how does a man go about keeping trespassers off his land these days?”
“The law don’t mean much,” Neale admitted. “Gibbons does just as he pleases—”
“And right now,” a hard voice said, “he’s telling both of you to stand fast. I don’t need much excuse tonight to kill the pair of you.”
“Do as he says, Mr. MacKay,” Neale advised him gloomily.
“Cato! Harley!” Gibbons shouted toward the house. “Get down here on the double!”
“Those the ones fighting all the bandits around here?” Neale asked.
“You’ll be smart to keep your mouth shut, cowboy.”
“Things ain’t going off as planned, are they, Gibbons?”
Gibbons swung the gun barrel viciously, caught Neale behind the ear with it and dropped him unconscious in the dirt.
“How about you?” he asked MacKay ominously. “Any bright remarks?”
“Not me.”
Cato and Harley came up and Gibbons turned on them.
“What in the name of God happened back there? How did Riker get shot?”
“Some buck rode up out of nowheres,” Harley said. “Just opened up on Riker like that ...”
“A Mex?”
“Hell, no, he wasn’t a Mex.”
“What happened to you?” Gibbons asked Cato then, staring at the man’s swollen, misshapen face.
“Nothin’ I won’t fix if I run into him again.”
“Was he on the big side?”
“Big enough,” Cato answered. “You know him?”
“I think so,” Gibbons said. “He took the old man with him?”
“In a buckboard,” Harley said. “That’s when Betters got winged.”
“We’d better get going into town,” Gibbons said. “Take these two out back of the house.”
“Another fire, too?” Cato asked him.
“Yeah, but do it fast—” Gibbons stopped speaking, turned his head down the trail. “Did you hear some—?”
“A horse,” Cato said. “In a big hurry.”
“Get back out of sight,” Gibbons said, slipping his rifle from the boot.
“I hope it’s who I think it is,” Cato said.
“You,” Gibbons said to MacKay. “Stand in the middle of the trail. Wave the rider down.”
The hoof beats grew louder, but there was nothing visible in the blackness down there. MacKay edged out into the center of the roadway, stood with his hands above his head. Then the horse and rider could be seen.
“Wave him down!” Gibbons snapped and the old man moved his arms frantically.
“Go back!” he began shouting unexpectedly. “Go back and get help!” But the horse was being brought up short and it was too late to turn back. Gibbons broke from the shadows and jerked the reins from the rider’s hands.
“This is as far as you go,” he told Rosemarie. “From now on we’ll travel together.” He swung to Cato. “Get everybody mounted. We’re going to Scotstown.”
“I thought you wanted ...”
“The situation is changed,” he said curtly. “Let’s move!”
Twenty
A messenger sent out by Lou Kersh met Gibbons on the outskirts of Scotstown and filled him in quickly on the situation.
“One man?” Gibbons asked with angry derision. “You can’t root out one man and finish him?”
“He’s holed up now in the sheriff’s office. Just sitting behind the desk and picking off anybody that shows his head.”
“And what the hell is Kersh doing?”
“Lou says for you to come in and figure something out.”
“I will!” Gibbons promised and put spurs to his horse. The oddly assorted party rode into Trail Street noisily, and when it passed the office Buchanan had a swift and disquieting glimpse of the girl riding under guard. He moved out from behind the desk for a better look at this totally unforeseen development, came to stand in the doorway for a moment before three snap shots drove him back inside.
The party dismounted at the Edinburgh Hotel and Rosemarie was taken inside alone by Gibbons and Cato. Gibbons came out of the hotel minutes later, strode briskly and self-confidently across the street to the Glasgow. Hostility toward him in that place fairly crackled with its intensity, but the man glanced from one dark face to another with contempt for all of them in his eyes.
“Where’s Angus Mulchay?” he said directly to Hamlin.
“Your business is done with Mulchay,” Hamlin said. “He lies murdered in the next room.”
“So the bandits killed him, did they?”
“Ay,” Hamlin said. “Bandits is as good a name for your gang as any other I’ve heard.”
Gibbons had been pouring himself a drink at the bar. He sipped it now and gazed at Hamlin thoughtfully.
“Talk like that could cost you your life,” he said.
“As it cost Mulchay his.”
“And there may be many more before this night is done,” Gibbons said.
“What are you doing with the lass, Gibbons?” Terhune demanded. “Surely you draw the line somewhere.”
“I’m fighting a war,” Gibbons told him. “In war you take prisoners. Some prisoners become hostages.” He drained the glass, set it down on the bar sharply. “You,” he said, pointing to Macintosh. “Walk up to the sheriff’s office. Tell that Mex-lover in there that a man who hates his guts is with the girl right now. Tell him to come out of there with his arms raised or he’ll be able to hear her screams. And tell him that Jack Gibbons has never made an idle threat in his life ...” Gibbons swung around at the sound of the doors swinging open. Malcolm Lord, haggard-faced and haunted-looking, stood there.
“What brings you here?” Gibbons asked brusquely. “We’re through,” the rancher said in a toneless voice. “Take your men and ride out.”
“Through? I’ve just begun my work here, partner.”
“You’re no partner of mine.”
“That will be for me to say, when the time comes. What I want you to do is move our herd down to the river grass ...”
“Our herd?”
“I told you I’d get mine,” Gibbons reminded him. “One way or another.”
Lord turned then to the ring of accusing faces.
“I was hard pressed,” the man said to them, trying to explain. “I needed grass or lose my stock—”
“And you decided to grab Mulchay’s,” Terhune said. “A fine neighbor, Malcolm Lord.”
“I was wrong,” he admitted. “I acted badly.” He looked at Gibbons again. “But I never condoned the actions you took. Now we’re done, Gibbons. Ride out!” Gibbons was smiling at him.
“I do as I damn please,” he said, and suddenly the rancher made an awkward, unfamiliar attempt to clear the gun beneath his coat. Gibbons drew before him, beat him with ridiculous ease and fired two bullets into his body. That brought three of the gunmen into the place and their menacing-looking Colts prevented any more action against Gibbons.
He bolstered his weapon, looked around for Macintosh.
“Tell Buchanan to give himself up,” he said and the other man went out of the Glasgow.
His stronghold was now his trap—for hardly had Buchanan seen the girl in Gibbons’ hands but he guessed the leverage that would be brought against him. And from a frame of mind where he didn’t much care what the hell happened so long as Gibbons got his, now he felt the need to plan beyond that.
The important thing was to get out of here, to find room to maneuver. The metal door behind him was locked tight. The open doorway was being guarded almost jealously by half a dozen snipers across the way. Fifteen minutes ago, if he’d wanted to get out badly enough, he knew he could have made it. But now that the need was here, the cards were abruptly running against him.
Then he heard the footsteps coming along the sidewalk outside.
“Buchanan? Can you hear me, son?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Macintosh, a friend of Mulchay’s.”
“What’s the proposition?”
“A pretty poor one. He’s holding MacKay’s niece, says the man with her is no friend of yours.”
“That covers a lot of sons of bitches now.”
“He promises harm to the lass unless you step out with your arms raised—”
“Come on out of your hole, gunfighter!” the shouting voice of Gibbons broke in. “Let’s have a look at you!” The shooting of Malcolm Lord and the third jolt of whisky made Jack Gibbons treetop tall. He had it all for himself now—everything.
“Get out of the way, Macintosh,” Buchanan said softly.
“But, man, remember MacKay’s niece ...”
“They’re going to open up when I step through. Get yourself clear ...”
“You’ve got ten seconds, by God!” Gibbons raged from across the street. “Cato’s waiting to cut loose!”
“Not any more he ain’t!” cried another voice, and the sound of it made Buchanan blink his eyes.
“Fargo?” he called back.
“The girl’s in good hands now, bucko. Just sit tight and wait for a new deal ...”
“Get that man!” Gibbons bellowed. “On the porch there! Get him—shoot him down!”
A shotgun went off. First barrel. Second barrel. That jayhawk of a Fargo was defending himself, Buchanan thought and started through. Then, from the very corner of his eye, he caught a movement. He whirled with the rifle cradled on his arm and caught Lou Kersh furtively opening the big door. Kersh fired from the hip and the rifle’s answer was instantaneous. Kersh dropped dead, but the magic that had been like a coat of armor for Buchanan this night had lost its power. His rib was bullet-grazed and his left side felt numb from the impact.
“Rush the office!” he heard Gibbons ordering outside. “Pour lead in there, you bastards!” And being led again they found their courage again. Across Trail Street they came, ten abreast now, and the rifle that had held them at bay was not going to prevail any longer. Buchanan prudently ducked through the door Kersh had opened, and found himself in the jail. He bolted the door behind him.
It was a large room and contained four separate cells. A dozen Mexicans awaiting execution filled three of them and in the fourth was Tompkins.
“Oyez, caballeros! Quere is pelear?” Buchanan invited. “Hey, boys! You want to fight?”
The prisoners did—con mucho gusto. Buchanan took the keys from a peg, began opening cell doors. Outside, bullets were beating a tattoo against the metal door. “I’ll fight, too!” Tompkins said. “Just give me a gun!”
A boy of seventeen took Buchanan by the arm, jabbering excitedly and pointing to a locked cabinet. Another key unlocked it, revealing a good size arsenal, and in seconds the eager bandits cleaned it out. The alley door was opened and they poured into the night with a great deal of cheering.
And a cheering sight they were to Fargo and the handful of Scotstowners who had mobilized on the spur of the moment. There was another Greener besides Fargo’s, four single shot Remington pistols and one muzzleloader—and though they diverted six gunmen from the main assault their battle at the hotel was a hopeless one.
Buchanan’s bunch hit Gibbons’ main force on the flank. Three Mexicans, Tompkins and two militiamen fell in the first exchange, then there was a regrouping, a scattering for protective cover. The six engaged at the hotel hesitated briefly, then turned to add their firepower to the major fight.
But they had reckoned without Fargo.
“Now we got ’em!” he yelled and bounded down the porch steps. Hamlin, Macintosh and Terhune ca
me scrambling after him, as their Highland ancestors would have done, and if their shooting was only sporadic, ineffective, it was still noisy enough to give Gibbons’ down street group the panicky feeling they were in a vise.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” someone shouted and that did it for them all. They broke and ran in four directions for their horses.
“Cuidado! Cuidado!” Buchanan shouted, worried that the crossfire would hit as many friends as foes. “Watch it!” He himself had crossed to the dancehall, still cradling the rifle, taking his targets as he found them—looking for one in particular.
But it was pandemonium out here now, completely disordered. Something on the ground caught his glance—Gibbons’ showy white Stetson. He crushed it with his foot, moved on down an alleyway. There was a burst of gunfire up ahead and he hurried that way. Two of Gibbons’ men had a Mexican pinned in a corner, wounded and fighting from one knee. The rifle cut the odds in half and the other one fled.
“Como esta, amigo?” Buchanan asked. “How you doing, friend?”
“Bueno,” the fellow whispered, “bueno,” and lowered himself all the way down to die.
Another spate of shooting beckoned Buchanan and he went that way expectantly. Now it was a pair of Mexicans trying to keep a militiaman from his horse—but not Gibbons, and Buchanan left them to settle it among themselves.
A man’s agonized scream split the air, rose grotesquely above the flat sound of guns, made everything curiously personal, somehow. Buchanan was attracted to it, for no reason he could explain, and found himself at the half opened side door of the Glasgow. He stepped into the darkened storeroom, crossed it and went through a second opened door that brought him behind the bar.
Along the bar stood three uncorked bottles, half-a-dozen half-full glasses, a cigar still burning—a kind of peace that awaited Hamlin and his friends when the warring was done ...
Someone groaned, from the direction of the private room, and Buchanan moved around the bar and toward it. He crossed the threshold. Angus Mulchay lay on the couch where he had died—but Buchanan was completely unprepared to find Jack Gibbons sprawled on the floor within arm’s length of the man he had murdered. Buried to the hilt in Gibbons’ back was a stiletto, and Buchanan admired the nice little irony of that.
