Trigger Gospel

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  Papers littered the floor. The drawers of Beaudry’s desk stood pulled out, looking as though they had been rifled hurriedly. Short’s only comment was an amused grunt. Tas shot a keen glance at him.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” he said. “What do yuh make of it, Heck?”

  “I take it that Beaudry has said good-bye to Bowie.”

  “What?” Tas gasped. “You mean that?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Heck declared. “He evidently figured things were getting too hot for him.” He walked over to where Cash’s familiar Stetson stood propped up on a pile of books so that it could be seen from across the street. “That was kinda clever of him,” he smiled.

  His utter lack of disappointment in finding that Beaudry had flown puzzled old Tas.

  “Mebbe I’m thick,” he grumbled, “but you sound as though you’d expected to find him gone.”

  “I hoped I would,” Heck corrected. “I sure gave him every chance to get away.”

  “Mebbe that makes sense, but I don’t git it,” the old man got out crustily.

  “Perhaps I can explain,” Short smiled. “You know that it’s only the guilty who run. I had the goods on Beaudry. It might have taken me a long time to prove it though. As sheriff of the county he could use his official position to slow me up in a number of ways. I’ve got him out on the end of a limb now.”

  “You may find it’s a pretty long one before you git him to drop into your basket,” Tascosa argued pessimistically. “Sure as fate he won’t stop runnin’ until he joins up with Smoke’s bunch.”

  “I hope so,” the marshal said with feeling. “It will answer a question or two that have been worrying me for the past few weeks.”

  He didn’t offer to say what they were. For a few minutes he examined the litter on the floor and in the desk. Tascosa dropped into a chair and watched him for a while.

  “I reckon it won’t be no blow to this county to learn that the office of sheriff is vacant,” he said heavily. “Mebbe it’ll teach folks that if they won’t take time to bother with votin’, that a few blacklegs can soon git the run of things.”

  “There’s something in that all right,” Short agreed absent-mindedly as he closed the desk drawers. “I’ll come back and look this stuff over later. The thing to do now is to drop into the courthouse and tell the county commissioners what’s happened.”

  “Yeah,” Tascosa muttered bitterly. “It won’t take them no time to appoint someone to the job, but they’ll never undo the damage Beaudry did. I tell yuh, Heck, it makes my blood boil when I think of them boys of mine bein’ pushed outside the law by that skunk. Now they’re robbin’ banks. One job will lead to another.”

  “I know it,” Heck acknowledged with deep concern. “It’s as mean a thing as I ever heard of. Worst of it is, nothing can be done about it now. You know what the Kansas courts are. If they gave themselves up and made restitution they wouldn’t get off with less than five years apiece. I know Bill would never listen to that. As long as he figures he’s got something to square he’ll never let anything get in the way of it.”

  The news that Beaudry had flown quite overshadowed word of the robbery at Reed City. It might not have been the case had Bowie suspected that Little Bill and his long riders were within fifteen miles of town at the time. Unmolested, they had crossed the Cimarron and were moving up the valley of the Skull.

  As the afternoon began to wane they came in sight of the old Texas trail. Their horses were weary. Even the big gelding had a jaded look.

  “We better pull up,” Bill suggested. “We got water and grass here, and it’s just as safe as any place we’ll hit before dark.”

  The others were willing enough to climb out of their saddles. Several hours back they had butchered a yearling steer. Luther gathered wood and started a fire as Maverick cut thick steaks from the hindquarter of beef he had packed for miles.

  “It was just seven weeks ago that we changed our minds about stayin’ the night here,” Link volunteered. “Things have changed considerable with us since then.”

  “They sure have,” Little Bill murmured. Unconsciously his tone was sad. In common with the rest his face had a strained, gaunt look. In forty-eight hours they had not tasted a morsel of food. For a moment or two he gazed at the overcast sky.

  “Goin’ to rain,” Scotty declared.

  “Yeh, and blow too,” Bill observed. “This slope in back of us has quite an overhang in places. We’ll eat and then move up where we can be dry and comfortable. If it don’t rain too long we’ll wait it out here.”

  “You been right so far; I hope you ain’t wrong now,” Cherokee grumbled. Latch had put a tobacco poultice on his injured ear. It seemed to be having the desired effect.

  They could hardly contain themselves as the appetizing odors from the fire began to assail their nostrils. For once it was not necessary for Maverick to tell them to come and get it.

  While they ate, the skies darkened ominously. The horses began to raise their heads nervously.

  “This may be a twister,” said Latch. “It looks pritty bad, off there to the west.”

  “I don’t like the way she’s coolin’ off so sudden,” Bill acknowledged.

  The tree tops were beginning to thresh in the rising gale. Before they had finished eating, it was spitting rain.

  “If we’re goin’ up the slope we better be about it,” Luther urged. “That pocket right above us is cut back pretty deep. We won’t find a better place.”

  “Reckon not,” Bill agreed. “We’ll take the horses up too and hobble ’em. We’ll have to keep our eye on ’em if this storm breaks as bad as it looks.”

  The wind was blowing a gale by the time they reached the pocket, which they found to be big enough to afford shelter for their horses as well as themselves.

  In a few seconds the rain began to drive down in sheets. They were warm and dry, however, and they soon had the air blue with the pleasant haze of tobacco smoke.

  Their retreat was high enough to give them a commanding view of the country to the south and west on a clear day, but with the storm closing down on them like an opaque blanket their field of vision narrowed until they could see only several hundred yards beyond the creek.

  Latch lay sprawled out beside Bill, watching the play of lightning about them. Once or twice it struck uncomfortably close.

  “It’s a freak storm,” Latch mused aloud. “Lightnin’ ain’t clearin’ the air a bit.”

  Bill didn’t answer. Latch glanced at him and saw that he was staring at something off beyond the creek. He tried to follow his gaze and saw a black, funnel-shaped cloud racing toward them at express-train speed. He expressed his surprise in a long-drawn whistle that brought the others to attention.

  “There’s hell and high water for someone!” he exclaimed shrilly. “She’ll blow your freckles off when she tears up this creek! If that ain’t a twister I never—”

  “Latch,” Bill interrupted, “do you see what I do—out there beyond the creek half a mile or so? Ain’t that a herd of steers comin’ up the old trail?”

  “Wal, it sure is! That outfit must know they’re in fer it the way they’re hazin’ ’em along. Watch the whole bunch stampede when that twister slashes through here!”

  “They’re bad off, sure enough!” Luther got out soberly. “I don’t know what outfit it is. They seem to have four or five men.”

  “Whoever they are they know their business,” Link declared. “They’re tryin’ to make the creek bottom. I hope they make it. It’s goin’ to be close.”

  Scotty and Tonto echoed his thought. In the excitement of the moment they were forgetting that they were no longer cowboys. It remained for Cherokee to remind them of it.

  “Are the bunch of yuh losin’ your wits?” he snarled at them. “What do yuh mean, you hope they’ll make this creek bottom? You better pull yourselves together! If you’ve got any worryin’ to do, do it about our own outfit!”

  “That’s one way of lookin
’ at it,” Bill answered him. “But men trailin’ beef don’t mean us no harm. If they makes the bottoms and hold that herd right below they’ll do their damnedest not to see anythin’ they shouldn’t. I’ve been on both sides of the fence in a situation like this and I know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  The Kid was silenced, though his glance was murderous.

  Ignoring him, they turned to stare fixedly at the funnel of destruction that must tear a wide swath down the valley in another few seconds. It had grown so dark that night seemed to be closing down. The air was charged with electricity.

  The little cow outfit below had reached the bend where, weeks past, Tascosa had hoped to find a way of getting his wagon down to the creek. It promised some protection from the tornado, if they could move down fast enough.

  Suddenly it was so black they lost sight of the cattle altogether. With a wild, soprano scream the twister struck. Trees rocketed into the air. The dead brush and debris left behind by previous storms shot into the sky. Down along the stream itself the green willows were being slashed off as though some super-giant were wielding a mighty scythe. Boulders the size of a man’s hand rained down on the little pocket on the slope. The eight men had all they could do to hold the snorting, panic-stricken horses. The little valley of the Skull was being scoured clean and made over, and in the bedlam of violence, of crackling lightning and crashing trees, of thudding boulders, they caught the bellowing of fear-crazed cattle.

  The tornado was only a few seconds in venting its real venom. As it passed down the creek the skies lightened. The Skull was over its banks. Below them the old channel was so blocked with brush and down timber that it was making a new course.

  It was not the ravages of the storm, however, that claimed their attention. They were looking for the outfit that had been caught on the bottoms. Scotty was the first to locate it.

  “There’s their wagon—pitched over just below the trail!” He pointed it out. “The horses are gone—”

  “So are their steers I” Bill cried. “Look at ’em! They’re high-tailin’ it up the creek, hell bent for election! Those boys ain’t got a chance of roundin’ ’em up!”

  “They sure ain’t!” Luther agreed.

  Little Bill’s mouth tightened as he made a sudden decision. “Boys, I’m for givin’ ’em a hand!”

  There was an instant response from the others, with the exception of Cherokee.

  “Say, this ain’t none of our put in!” he burst out angrily.

  “It won’t hurt us none,” Latch growled back at him. “It may make us some friends, and in this business yuh never know when you’re goin’ to need one.”

  “That may be,” the Kid retorted, “but I don’t want none of it!”

  Little Bill whirled on him furiously, every inch of him bristling.

  “Cherokee, you been gettin’ under my hide all day!” he rasped. “I’m givin’ the orders here. I said we was givin’ these boys a hand. I’m sayin’ it again—and I ain’t tellin’ yuh a third time! …”

  Their eyes struck fire as they faced each other. For a moment anything was possible. The Kid shrugged his shoulders then and turned away with a sneering laugh.

  “All right, you’re boss, Bill,” he muttered. “I only hope you don’t find those gents are a rustlin’ bunch that ain’t lookin’ for help.”

  Chapter XVII

  THE rain continued to fall in torrents as they left the pocket. To save time they went on up the slope to the rim of the valley, intent on cutting across to the other side of the horseshoe bend the Skull described just above the old trail. Bill believed they could take the short cut and drop down to the bottoms again well in advance of the stampeding cattle.

  Their horses found the footing slippery and treacherous until they reached the rim. It consumed precious seconds.

  “Come on, we got to shake it up now!” Bill shouted. “We can make short work of this if we hurry!”

  He was off in a swinging gallop. Without looking back he led the way across the plateau. It was not more than half a mile from one side of the bend to the other. Riding hard, heads lowered against the driving rain, they were soon across. In a slithering stop they pulled up in the sticky red clay to scan the bottoms below.

  “We’re here in time!” Luther called out. “No sight of ’em yet!”

  Before they were halfway down to the creek, however, the stampeding herd hove in sight. Warming to the thrill of an old experience, they spread out fanwise and with a wild halloo dashed at the charging steers.

  Shouting, emptying their six-guns harmlessly over the heads of the cattle they literally stood them on their ears. The leaders turned back. In a few minutes the entire herd was milling.

  Little Bill had but to catch sight of the brand they wore to know whose outfit this was.

  “It’s Leach Lytell’s Two Bar O!” he ground out savagely. He had once worked for Lytell, and he had small cause to be doing him a favor.

  Luther had recognized the brand too.

  “It’s Lytell’s stuff!” he shouted across to Bill. “That ought to tickle yuh I If you’ve had enough, say so!”

  “No, we’ll see it through now!” Bill yelled back. “Just keep those critters millin’ a little! We’ve got ’em bottled up if Lytell’s men are on the job!”

  It was some time before the cattle began to quiet down. Gradually, however, their panic passed and they began to drift back toward the trail.

  From downstream a rider appeared. It was Lytell himself.

  “Wal,” he cried, “so it’s your bunch, Bill! I was jest wonderin’ who I had to thank.” He was a heavyset, sullen-faced man with little gimlet eyes. He pulled up a few feet from where Bill waited. “I’m obliged to yuh,” he said curtly.

  “You don’t have to spread yourself any on my account,” Bill told him. “A little mud and a good wettin’ never hurt no one. If you’ve got these steers in hand we’ll be movin’ along.”

  “Mebbe you better,” Lytell laughed hoarsely. “I hear you been keepin’ pritty much on the move of late. Can’t understand how you found time to tend to another man’s business today.”

  “Say, what is this?” Latch flamed as he sent his horse in between the two men. “This is yore argyment, Bill, but this rat-eyed weasel don’t seem to understand that we jest saved him a day’s work, to say nothin’ of his beef. I’m thinkin’ it would be a good idee to slap some of the sass outa him.” He fixed his watery eyes on Lytell. “I’d sure welcome the opportunity.”

  “Don’t bother, Latch,” Bill muttered. “I know this nombre. I worked for him once; did two men’s work and got half the pay one ought to git, and when I pull up with a busted leg he tells me I’m through; that he ain’t payin’ wages to cripples. I always figgered I’d get even with you, Lytell, for that.”

  “I admire your way of doin’ it,” Cherokee said with a mocking laugh. “Why don’t you ask him to apologize?”

  The red-haired one withheld the retort that trembled on his tongue as one of Lytell’s men rode up, an air of excitement on him.

  “Lytell, we’ve just found Paint!” the newcomer exclaimed. “He’s bad hurt!”

  “Paint?” Bill echoed sharply. “What Paint is that?”

  “Why, Paint Johnson, of Bowie!” the man informed him. “His horse went down when that twister struck and rolled on him. Before he could git up a steer gored him!”

  Bill drew in his breath sharply and stiffened in his saddle. The old Sawbuck men understood why—or believed they did, having only to recall that although Paint and Little Bill had long been rivals for Martha Southard’s hand that it had never broken their friendship.

  They were only partly right. For the moment Bill’s thought was entirely of Martha, of the blow that disaster to Paint would be to her.

  “She don’t deserve to have anythin’ like this come along on top of the misery I’ve made her,” he told himself.

  Leach Lytell, ignoring the open hostility evident in every eye, was raging violently at l
osing a man at this inopportune moment.

  “Damn the careless fool!” he cursed. “Why’n’t he look what he was doin’? Now we are short-handed!”

  “You’ve been short-handed for years,” Bill muttered contemptuously. “That ain’t no accident with you.” He swung around to Lytell’s puncher. “Where’s Paint at now?”

  “ ’Bout halfway between here and the trail. I’m afraid to move him.”

  “You lead the way,” Bill snapped at him. “Get us there in a hurry!”

  “Say, wait a minute!” Lytell thundered. “If the bunch of you go chasin’ down this creek you’ll git my stuff runnin’ ag’in!”

  “To hell with you and your stuff!” Bill rifled back. “You’ve got a man down—bad hurt—and he happens to be a friend of mine!”

  He and the others were thirty yards away before Lytell heeled his horse and took after them, sputtering wrathfully.

  They found Paint lying on the ground. He was covered with mud. It was even in his black, curly hair. He opened his eyes as Bill bent over him.

  “Why, Bill,” he murmured incredulously, “I didn’t expect to see you here. Luther’s here too, and the others—”

  “Yeh, we’re all here, Paint. It don’t matter about that. I hear you’re hurt pretty bad. Where did that steer git yuh?”

  “In the right groin … I guess it’s bad enough.”

  Bill beckoned to Latch.

  “You’re pretty handy about these things,” he said. “I want you to take a look at it, Latch, and tell me what we can do.”

  “I’ll have a look at it too!” Lytell bellowed as he pushed through the circle of men.

  “Git back, and keep your lip buttoned!” Bill jerked out threateningly. “You see that he does, Link! Bend a gun over him if yuh have to!”

  Lytell would have argued the matter, but Link hit him a clip on the jaw that shook a little sense into him.

  Latch got to his feet after examining the wound and motioned for Bill to step aside with him.

  “Ain’t nothin’ I kin do fer this boy but wash the dirt out and try to stop the blood a little,” he said soberly. “He’s goin’ to die if he don’t git to a doctor. Ain’t no time to be lost about it either.”