“Hold it right there, mister!” snapped Holroyd.
They advanced on him. He fidgeted impatiently and muttered a protest.
“You gain nothing by stopping me. Por favor, I wish to proceed to Tres Agua.”
“Maybe you’ll make it to town, sin-killer,” growled Wyatt, “and maybe you won’t. It all depends on Brett.”
“Who is this Brett?” demanded Padre Ricardo.
“His second name is Stark,” taunted Lembeck.
The priest flinched from him.
“Bandidos?”
“You’ve got yourself in a bad fix, preacher,” jibed Wyatt. “You gonna try and pray your way outa it?”
“To show anger,” the priest was thinking, “would be useless. To plead would gain me nothing but their contempt.”
He turned to stare at the twenty-one riders descending on him from the rear, and the fear smote him then. Not fear for his own welfare, but for the lives of the people of Three Springs, the Americanos, as well as his fellow-countrymen. They reined up in a flurry of dust. Boldly, Stark came forward for a close appraisal of his captive.
“You’ll do,” he decided. “Yeah, preacher, you’ll do fine.”
“I do not understand ...!” began Padre Ricardo.
“No.” Stark grinned scathingly. “You don’t look too bright, fat man. Guess it takes you quite a time to catch on, huh? All right, I’ll make it plain enough for you to savvy. You’re a hostage. When I lead my outfit into that no-account town, your people will know your life’s in my hands, and they won’t dare raise a hand against me—nor show a gun.”
“Hey now!’ breathed Goddard. “That’s a helluva notion!”
“I figure this is one sure way,” drawled Stark, “of flushin’ that Craydon hombre into the open—and makin’ sure no gun-totin’ citizens get in our way.” He jerked a thumb. “Keep him movin’ a ways. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“You will regret this evil,” muttered the priest.
“Whistlin’ in the dark?” challenged Stark. He leaned forward and, while Wyatt pressed his cocked .45 to the priest’s head, detached the Rosary beads from his cord girdle. Then, rattling them before Padre Ricardo’s flushed and indignant face, he asked. “D’you think these geegaws can charm you out of trouble? What use are your beads and crosses now, preacher?”
“You befoul my Rosary!” panted the priest.
Stark snarled an oath and struck out with his clenched fist. The blow almost unseated Padre Ricardo. He gritted his teeth and struggled to regain his balance. The mule stamped impatiently.
“Move!” growled Stark.
They continued their progress along the trail to Three Springs for another hundred yards. It was then that the sharp-eyed Stark sighted the shallow hollow to the left, a small basin within sight of the trail. He called a halt, ordered the priest to dismount. Padre Ricardo averted his eyes and struggled with his rising fury, as the boss-outlaw draped the beads about the mule’s neck. Chuckling, Stark assured his men, “When they see this critter—and those beads—they’ll know I ain’t foolin’.”
“We leave him here?” prodded Goddard.
“Under guard,” nodded Stark. “We don’t want our fat boy makin’ a run for it, do we?” He snapped his fingers. “Wyatt, Lembeck and Raven, take him down into that basin and keep him there. Two to set guard on him, one to squat by the basin-rim, ’case any nosy strangers stop by. If he makes one rash move, put a bullet in his fat hide.”
Raven, a burly rogue with pig-like eyes and broken nose, growled a query, “How long you want us to keep him here?”
“Until we get back,” said Stark.
Wyatt and Raven turned their horses on the priest, buffeting him, forcing him to jump clear of the threshing hoofs. He had no option but to retreat to the rim of the basin and downward to its curved and grassy floor. The three hardcases followed him closely.
Stark took the mule’s rein, nodded to Goddard. The main force moved on towards Three Springs while, in the base of the hollow, Padre Ricardo flopped dejectedly onto a rock and eyed his captors. Lembeck dismounted, climbed back to the basin-rim and, hefting a Winchester, began scanning all the surrounding terrain. Wyatt and Raven, after hobbling the three horses, hunkered down a short distance from the hostage, their guns covering him. He blinked into the muzzles of those leveled weapons, shook his head emphatically and warned them, “There is too much evil in what you do—too much evil to go unpunished.”
“Preacher,” grinned Wyatt, “’you’re wastin’ your time. We just ain’t superstitious.”
“To believe in retribution,” frowned Padre Ricardo, “is not superstition.”
“What’s he gabbin’ ’bout?” growled Raven.
“Retribution, he says,” chuckled Wyatt. “He’s tryin’ to faze us, claimin’ we’ll get our comeuppance.”
“Not from no lily-livered preacher we won’t,” scowled Raven. He stared up to the rim of the hollow and called to Lembeck. “All clear?”
“Nary a rider in sight,” replied the lookout.
And this was true enough. A bend in the trail, some five hundred yards to the east, made it impossible for Lembeck to spot the three men from Pelham. Larry, Floyd and Georgia Jake had reined up there, to worriedly study the tracks of many horses.
“Larry,” frowned Floyd, “could it be the Stark gang?”
“Must be two dozen horses at least,” scowled Larry, “and that’s exactly how many guns ride with Stark. Too big a coincidence for my likin’.”
“I’ll take it plumb unkindly,” drawled Jake, “if we hit Three Springs too late for the showdown.”
It was one of those rare coincidences, a coincidence destined to make all the difference between life and death for the people of Three Springs—the fact that Larry and his companions had ridden onto the town trail from the north, a short time after Stark and his minions had passed by. The tracks were too clear to be missed. Now, Larry’s mind was turning over fast, and he was again consulting his map. Might they still reach their destination ahead of the raiders?
Georgia Jake peered over Larry’s shoulder, studied the marks made by Linus Margolies, and opined, “We oughta cut across the regular trail and ride the brush.” He pointed. “Thataway. Looks like we’d save near a half-mile.”
“Uh-huh.” Larry nodded agreement. “Keep the trail in sight—without showin’ ourselves—and we might beat Stark to town.”
They walked their mounts across the trail and into the high grass. Southward, the terrain was pitted with hollows and arroyos and, here and there, a barren rise. From atop one of those small hills, if their luck held, they might catch a glimpse of the attack force. Would Mayor Gilhauser’s lookouts have time to raise the alarm, time to alert the apprehensive but determined citizens of that small town?
With startling suddenness, Floyd jerked back on his reins and gestured for Larry and Jake to follow his example. They reined up, eyeing him curiously. He held a finger to his lips, as he eased his boots from his stirrups and swung down. Again, they imitated his action.
“What ...?” began Jake.
They were crouched on their haunches, their heads bowed below the level of the waving grass. Floyd jerked a thumb.
“Over there, not far from the trail. A man with a rifle.”
“Comin’ this way?” demanded Larry.
“No,” said Floyd. “Just standing there—looking towards the trail. No sign of his horse.”
“Stake-out?” Jake asked Larry. “Sentry? A loner lookin’ to hold up a stagecoach?”
“No stage service in these parts,” muttered Larry. “The stageline quit—because of Stark.” He flopped on his backside, the better to reach his spurs. As he unfastened them, he growled an order. “You two stay put, while I belly over there and see what I can see.”
They squatted face to face, the uncommonly handsome young medico and the scrawny, tobacco-chewing old veteran, trading thoughtful glances and cocking their ears, as Larry crawled away through the tall grass. Tw
enty yards from the basin-rim, he pressed flat against the ground, listening intently. He hadn’t spotted the guard, but was clearly hearing his drawled query.
“The sin-kilier still whinin’?”
There was a derisive reply from somewhere down below. “Prayin’ up a storm, Lembeck. Complainin’ like all get-out!”
And then the voice of the priest reached Larry’s ears with infinite clarity. In his bitter indignation, Padre Ricardo reverted to his native tongue. None of his captors understood the language. Larry did.
“To kidnap a priest of the Church—to hold him as hostage—is a great sin. Is there no shame in you ...?”
Larry didn’t wait to hear any more. After retreating some thirty yards, he removed his Stetson and, slowly and carefully, raised his eyes above the level of the rustling grass. The guard wasn’t looking his way. He had naught but a precious second in which to fix the scene in his mind, to memorize it. Then, on elbows and knees, he crawled back to rejoin his allies.
Before reporting his find, he sought solace in a muttered stream of invective. Georgia Jake, a monument of patience, said, “All right. Now you got that outa your system, what’d you see back there?”
“The same jasper Doc spotted,” scowled Larry. “And he’s a stake-out all right—settin’ guard at the rim of a hollow.”
“Guardin’ what?” wondered Jake.
“They’ve taken a hostage,” said Larry, quietly. “I heard him complainin’ in his own lingo—Spanish. He’s a priest.”
“Thunderation,” breathed Floyd.
“Only priests in this territory,” Larry pointed out, “come from the Mission San Pedro.”
“Where’s that?” demanded Jake.
“In Three Springs.” Larry said it between clenched teeth. “Right there in Three Springs.”
“What’re we gonna do about it?” prodded Jake.
“I already figured it out,” said Larry, “and I’m warnin’ you it’s got to be handled just right. Chances are they’re Stark’s men, which means they’re bad medicine and real ornery. We’ll get no second chances against ’em. As for the padre, they d think nothin’ of gunnin’ him.”
“All right,” grunted Jake. “You call it.”
“You and me ...” Larry gestured quickly, “we’ll head over thataway—on our bellies. I reckon that’ll take us to the far side of the basin.”
“How many in all?” asked Jake.
“I’d say four at most,” frowned Larry.
“Loan me a gun,” begged Floyd. “I have to take a hand in this.”
“For you,” asserted Larry, “I’ve saved a mighty important chore. It’ll be dangerous.”
“Just tell me what I have to do,” urged Floyd.
“Jake and me’ll need time,” Larry explained. “Time to get in position. We’ll be countin’ on you to keep that guard busy. You head back to the trail, then ride straight on till you spot him. Make like you ain’t nervous. Tell him howdy and halt your horse right beside him. Ask him to point you the way to Three Springs. Say you’re a doctor. Say you’re an anvil salesman from Tennessee. Say anything—but keep him interested.”
“I can do it,” Floyd assured him.
“It’ll be tricky,” Larry warned. “He mightn’t feel like talkin’ at all. He might figure to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” said Floyd.
“Luck to you, Doc,” muttered Jake.
Floyd took his horse’s rein, began leading it back to the point at which he would remount and ride onto the trail. Larry and the Georgia man shared a brief glance, then emptied their holsters, turned, and commenced crawling. Like a couple of stalking Apaches, they bellied through the high grass. Larry led, working away to the south with the picture of the basin-rim and the sentry clear in his mind. And, despite his intense concentration on the present situation, he was thinking also of Three Springs, wondering about Stretch and the mayor and his friends, how they would fare when confronted by the bloodthirsty owlhoot pack.
Stretch Emerson was, at this time, tensed and ready for action. He had been sunning himself in a boardwalk chair a short distance from the law office, when the lookout hustled his pony along Main, yelling the news.
“They come, amigos! Many caballeros—gringos! It is the bandidos ...!”
Stretch reached the porch of the Rialto, just as Perrier and Frayne emerged, both hefting shotguns. Mayor Gilhauser came running along the boardwalk with Linus Margolies in tow. As he climbed to the porch, he cupped his hands about his mouth and called to his fellow-citizens.
“You all know what to do!”
There was considerable panic, yet the preparations proceeded to plan. All the children of Three Springs and most of the women were herded through the gateway in the mission wall, after which the gate was secured. The younger and more able-bodied of the male citizenry hastily climbed to the rooftops lining Main Street, their rifles slung to their backs. The buildings chosen had false fronts. It was part of the mayor’s plan that the rooftop marksmen should stay hidden at the start. Other locals, positioned behind barricades at the entrances to side alleys, would begin the counter-attack. Then, at a signal from Gilhauser, the invaders would be challenged from above. They would be menaced by fire from either side, as well as from the rooftops.
The younger Craydon children had to be taken to the mission by force. Carlita remained, seated by the couch where her husband lay, her lips moving but her voice hushed, as she fingered the beads of her rosary. The eldest child, Anita, had firmly refused to leave. She stood by a front window, staring uptown, her beautiful face pallid with tension. Buck Craydon groaned despondently.
“Fine time for me to be laid up and helpless,” he mumbled. “Fine peace officer I turned out to be.”
“You could still help,” Anita accused, but without heat.
Her mother interrupted her prayers, stared at her aghast. “How can you say this, my daughter, knowing your father is so close to death?”
“Poor Anita,” sighed Buck. “She thinks I got too much imagination. She just don’t savvy I’m a dyin’ man.”
“May I be forgiven for such a thought ...” Anita’s eyes flashed, “… but if I could find that Señor Bean, I would kill him—with pleasure!”
On the saloon porch, Stretch and his companions crouched behind a barricade of packing crates and kept their eyes to the northeast.
“This is as much as we can do,” muttered Gilhauser.
“But it ought to be enough,” growled Perrier.
“How’s it look to you, Texas?” prodded Margolies. “You’re kind of an expert at these things.”
“Looks fine to me,” drawled Stretch. “Them sharpshooters on the rooftops are gonna make a heap of difference, when it’s time for the showdown.”
“I’m saving them as my ace-in-the-hole,” Gilhauser confided. “They’ll stay hidden, until they hear my signal.”
“Which is?” prodded Stretch.
“I yell ‘Plan Two’,” said Gilhauser, “and that’s when they go into action.”
A second Mexican came pounding along Main on a fast-moving pony. As he raced past the saloon, he yelled, “They are here ...!”
“Showdown-time,” grunted Stretch.
He was squinting along the leveled barrel of his right-hand Colt, drawing a bead on the tight-packed body of horsemen advancing along the street, when Gilhauser uttered an anguished cry and pointed a trembling forefinger. “Look! That mule ...!”
Loud and clear, the voice of Brett Stark assailed their ears. “Lay down your irons! I’m holdin’ a hostage! You rubes want a dead sin-killer on your conscience?”
From somewhere across the street, Stretch heard a Mexican yelling excitedly, “The mule! The mule is Pablo! And see—the Rosary! It is the mule of Padre Ricardo! Por Dios ...!”
“You want that padre-feller should end up with a bullet in his fat belly?” Stark reined up a short distance from the saloon with his followers fanned out behin
d him. Coolly, he hooked a leg over his saddlehorn, lit a cigar and gestured to the mule. “You know any other way we could get them beads—’cept by takin’ ’em off a padre?”
“All right, mister!” shouted Gilhauser, his voice shaky with rage. “You’ve sure convinced us!”
“My hostage,” grinned Stark, “is still alive and kickin’. Whether he stays that way is up to you. I got him stashed where you could never find him—and under guard. If those guards don’t spot us inside the next two hours, the sin-killer gets to be dead—muy pronto. That clear enough for you?”
“Put up your weapons,” sighed Gilhauser.
Never in his life had Stretch uncocked and holstered a Colt so reluctantly. Grim-faced, he studied Stark and his motley crew, as lethal a gathering of gunhawks as he had ever seen.
The aged, fragile manager of the Three Springs Trust appeared on the bank porch and called a reproach to the boss-lawman. Martin Husig looked uncommonly fragile and weary at this moment, but still indignant.
“What does it take to satisfy you?” he challenged. “Your men have already robbed this bank. What more do you want?”
“I got unfinished business with this town,” scowled Stark. “My brother and his pards didn’t get away with that dinero. I’m here to collect it—and to pay off your marshal—the hombre that killed my brother.” He rose in his stirrups. “Come on out, Craydon! I’m waitin’ for you!”
Chapter Eight
One Mighty Healthy Lawman
In the law office, Buck Craydon rid himself of his blanket, swung his feet to the floor and began pulling on his boots. His wife protested frantically, but her words fell on deaf ears. The marshal could hear only one voice, the voice of the boss-outlaw, the brother of the man he had killed.
“You heard?” frowned his daughter.
“Every word,” Buck grunted. He trudged to the window, toting his gunbelt and Stetson. Over Anita’s shapely shoulder, he studied the grim tableau a block uptown. “Plain enough what he wants, Anita. He wants me. Well, that figures. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”
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