by Ralph Cotton
“Wouldn’t I, though?” he said expressionless, leaning forward, his trigger finger tensed, ready to empty the shotgun into Lang at the slightest provocation.
“It is true,” said the captain, his hands folded behind his back, clutching his yellow cavalry gloves. “‘Iron bars do not a prison make.’ Richard Lovelace, 1642,” he quoted, smiling with satisfaction at his literary reference.
The Ranger and the sheriff looked at him askance.
“Captain,” Lang said in disgust, “Loveless never said iron bars. He said, Stone walls do not a prison make.”
“Be that as it may,” Captain Stroud said, his countenance undeterred, “in this case I suppose one could support the premise that an iron ball certainly does indeed.”
Dankett gave Lang a hard cruel stare, as if in anticipation.
“At any rate, Ranger Burrack,” said Captain Stroud, turning to Sam, “it has been my pleasure.” He reached a hand out. “Good luck killing all of these waywards and miscreants.”
Cisco Lang watched and listened.
“Obliged for your escort, Captain,” Sam said, shaking the captain’s strong, dry hand. He ignored the reference to the killing of waywards and miscreants and watched the captain turn and walk out the door.
As soon as the captain was gone, Sheriff Rattler stood facing Sam with his hands resting on his gun belt.
“What’s the town council’s excuse for your jail not being finished, Sheriff?” Sam asked.
“Officially, they’re saying everybody’s too busy to get it done, Ranger,” said Rattler. “But that’s malarkey. It’s just low on their give-a-damn list. We’re lucky it hasn’t got Dankett or me killed. It’s part of why Dankett stays drawn tight as a wire fence. He has to stay on his toes night and day, and it’s getting to him.” He leaned in close to Sam and whispered in secret, “He calls his shotgun Big Lucy.”
“I’m all right,” Dankett said, staring at Cisco as he spoke.
“Anyway, that’s my worry, Ranger,” said Rattler. “In case you don’t know it, there’s a five-thousand-dollar bounty on your head, Ranger Burrack. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But I got a telegraph telling me all about it.” As he spoke, he took out a wanted poster and unfolded it in his hands.
Five thousand? That was more than most murdering outlaws of high notoriety.
“I heard about it,” Sam replied. He took the poster and looked at it closely, feeling a twinge in his guts, seeing his name and drawn likeness exhibited as if he were a criminal.
“Then I’m sorry I brought it up,” said Rattler, noticing the look on the Ranger’s face.
“That’s all right,” said the Ranger. He gave him a wry smile. “If someone’s out to kill me, I appreciate somebody warning me ahead of time.”
“That’s the way I look at it,” said Rattler, sounding a little relieved. “Note there’s not a name as far as who’s offering the reward is concerned,” the sheriff said. “That shows the kind of coward they are.”
“It’s Hugh Fenderson,” Sam said without hesitation, folding the wanted poster and handing it back to Rattler.
“Hugh Fenderson?” Rattler said, taken aback. “My goodness! He owns the rail spur that runs up here. Owns the beef that feeds both the army and the Apache in San Carlos! What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“I shot his nephew, Mitchell Fenderson, during a bank robbery,” the Ranger said.
“Kill him?” Rattler asked.
“No,” said Sam, “he’s in Yuma, getting himself rehabilitated with a pick and sledgehammer.”
“Dang,” said Rattler, scratching his chin. “You’d think a man of influence like Hugh Fenderson would just get his nephew sprung out of there instead of wasting time wanting to kill you.”
“You would think so,” Sam said. “Anyway, there it is. If he owns the rail spur here, I expect he owns other interests too?”
“Yep, I’m afraid he does,” said the sheriff, “including the money it takes to finish building this jail. But I’m going to try not to let that influence me upholding the law.”
Try not to, he’d said. The Ranger saw the look on Sheriff Rattler’s face change. Before, he’d exhibited a sense of being in charge, but now his face showed something else, something less assured.
“I understand, Sheriff,” Sam said. “I’ll see to it my trouble doesn’t rub off on you.”
“Not that I’m going to allow you to be put in a bad spot,” he said. “Just that I might ought to step back away from this.” He stopped and shook his lowered head, ashamed. “How come these rich sons a’ bitches run every damned thing?” he said. “Their rules make their money, and their money makes their rules. That’s all there is to it—all there’s ever been to it.”
“I understand your situation,” the Ranger repeated. “As soon as I get a telegraph to Yuma and get myself and my prisoner fed, I’m headed out of your jurisdiction. You won’t be seen with me. You’ll have no hand in the game.”
“To hell with Fenderson, you’re coming to eat with me, Ranger,” the sheriff said, reconsidering. “Since when does one lawman have to worry about being seen with another? We’ll send some food over here for Dankett and this one.”
“Sounds real good to me, Sheriff,” Sam said. Under his breath he asked, “Is Cisco going to be okay with this man watching him?”
“He will be unless he starts acting ugly,” Rattler said. “That’s as fair as it gets, ain’t it?”
“I suppose it is,” Sam replied.
“Oh,” said Rattler, “I also need to warn you there’s already a couple of bad eggs blew in off the desert, asking around about you.”
Sam looked at him.
“They call themselves the Derby Brothers,” he said, “but that’s not their name, and they are no kin that I can figure out.” He gave a shrug. “Who knows why these knot-heads do what they do—idiots, is all I can come up with.”
“They’re still in town, these two?” Sam asked.
“They might be. That’s why I bring it up,” said the sheriff. “I had no real cause to boot them out of there. I had no idea you was coming, else I would have made up a reason. I still can as far as that goes.”
“No,” Sam said. “If they’re out to collect the bounty, it’s best I know where they are.”
“Like as not they’re gone on by now,” said Rattler, the two of them turning to the door. “Their kind don’t stick long. They most likely have bounty of their own to worry about.”
Rifles in hand, the two turned, walked out the door and followed a double line of walk planks along the edge of the crowed street. But before they had gone thirty yards, Sam saw Adele Simpson running toward them from the direction of the Number Five Saloon, recklessly forcing her way along the middle of the street through a tangle of wagon, buggy, horseback and foot traffic.
“Ranger! Go back!” she cried out, seeing Sam and the sheriff walking toward her.
“What the—?” Sheriff Rattler said, stopping, his hand darting to the gun holstered on his hip.
Sam ran forward, seeing the frightened look on Adele’s face. When he reached her, she steadied herself against him, winded, struggling to catch her breath.
“Go back, Ranger Burrack!” she warned. “There’s men back there waiting to kill you!”
“Easy, ma’am,” Sam said, looking past her shoulder in the direction of the big wooden beer mug hanging overhead. “What are you talking about?”
“Two gunmen . . . in derby hats, Ranger,” she said, gasping for breath. “They’re in the alley . . . right before the saloon. They found out you’re here. They’re waiting for you.”
Derby hats? The Derby Brothers . . .
Passing onlookers gazed at them curiously, seeing the badge on the Ranger’s chest. Looking toward the Number Five, Sam saw the thick crowd begin to part. Wagons veered off to the side of the street, horse
s and buggies hastily turned off into alleys. Pedestrians disappeared quickly into shops and businesses.
“All right, Adele,” Sam said. “Take it easy. Take a breath.”
She settled herself a little and looked back over her shoulder in fear.
“Now, then, tell me what you can,” Sam said in a calm, even tone of voice.
“I came back from the depot . . . to get some things before my train arrives this evening. The clerk at the mercantile store overheard these men talking outside the open window. They’re waiting there for you.”
“It looks like they’re not waiting now,” Sam said, noting the street traffic changing before their eyes.
“Ranger Sam Burrack!” a voice called out from beyond the stirring crowd.
The Ranger didn’t reply.
“I—I had to warn you,” Adele said. “I couldn’t let you walk into an ambush.”
“Ranger Burrack!” the same voice called out.
The Ranger still didn’t reply.
“Here, let’s get you off the street, ma’am,” he said to Adele. Looking toward the sound of the voice, he guided her off to the side of the quickly vacating street.
“What—what are you going to do?” she asked, a fearful look in her eyes.
Sam didn’t answer her. Instead he looked at the two men walking toward him in the middle of the now-empty street, each with a battered derby hat cocked jauntily to the side atop his head.
“Ranger Sam Burrack,” said the same man, spotting the Ranger and the woman. “You can run, but you can’t hide.” He grinned. “You best stop and face us. We’re trouble that’s not going away.”
Sam ignored the two and led Adele over to the doorway of a shop, where a woman rushed out, took her hand and quickly led her inside.
The two men stopped twenty feet from Sam and stepped away from each other, putting ten feet between them.
Still standing to the side, Winchester hanging in his left hand, Sam eased his big Colt from his holster and leisurely cocked it, as if it were something he did every day at this same time. Letting the cocked Colt hang down at his side, he stepped out into the street.
“The Derby Brothers, I take it?” the Ranger said calmly.
“What tipped you off?” said the gunman on the right. He was still grinning, a big beefy man with a red face and watery whiskey-swollen eyes.
Sam just stared at him, ready to swing the big Colt up and start firing. This big one would be the one to knock down first, he told himself. The other one was strictly the big man’s backup.
“Manning,” the one to the left said, trying to talk quietly, “he’s already drawn and pulled back.”
“I see that, Earl,” the big gunman, Manning Childe, whispered sidelong. He raised his voice for the Ranger to hear. “But it won’t matter. I’ve got a rifleman on a rooftop, just over there.” He gave a nod and got ready to draw as soon as the Ranger turned his eyes toward the roofline. But the Ranger didn’t fall for it.
“You’re lying, mister,” Sam said without batting an eye.
Sheriff Rattler’s voice called out from behind the Ranger, to his left by the walk planks.
“Anybody shows their face up there, Ranger, I’ll stop their clock for them,” he said. Sam heard the sound of the sheriff’s rifle lever a round.
The big gunman took a deep breath; Sam saw he was ready to make his move in spite of his failed bluff. He might have something else he wanted to try, but Sam wasn’t going to give him the chance.
“All right, Ranger,” the gunman said. “In case you’re wondering, this is all about the bounty that’s—”
“I’m not,” Sam said quietly, raising the big Colt, leveling it at the gunman’s chest, causing him to cut his words short. Manning’s face twisted and turned in confusion. He made a grab for his holstered gun, but it was too late.
The Ranger’s first shot hit him dead center and sent him backward to the dirt in a red mist of blood. His derby hat appeared to hang suspended in the air for a second, then fell to the ground.
Seeing his partner go down without even getting a shot off, the other man threw his hands up as Sam swung the big Colt toward him.
“No! Wait!” he shouted.
But there was no hope. The Ranger had already cocked, leveled and squeezed the trigger of the big Colt. It bucked in his hand beneath a streaming rise of gun smoke.
The gunman, Earl Hyde, flipped backward with the impact of the shot and landed facedown in the dirt beneath a gout of blood jetting up from the exit hole in his back.
The dying gunman raised his head from the dirt and looked up at the Ranger. Sam stepped forward, his smoking Colt extended for another shot should one be needed.
“I—I had quit,” the man said in a weak, trembling voice.
“Should have quit sooner,” the Ranger said. He uncocked the Colt and stood watching as the man’s face bobbed, then fell back to the hard rocky dirt and relaxed there as if he were sleeping on a thick, soft pillow.
Sheriff Rattler ventured forward, followed by a gathering group of onlookers. Adele Simpson stepped out of the shop where she’d taken cover. But when the two walked closer to the Ranger, pistol shots rang out from the unfinished jail.
“Stay here,” Sam said to Adele. The two lawmen turned and raced toward the sound of overlapping gunshots.
Out in front of the jail, Sam stood on one side of the door and Rattler on the other.
“Dankett!” Rattler called out through the thick door. “Are you all right in there?”
“I’m good, Sheriff,” Dankett called back to him. “I thwarted a jailbreak.”
Sam gave Rattler a curious look.
Rattler eased and let his pistol and rifle slump in his hands.
“It’s okay, Ranger,” he said, taking a breath. “I should have expected this. Everybody tries to break out of my jail. But they never make it.”
Sam and Sheriff Rattler eased inside the unfinished building and saw the deputy still seated, his rifle across his lap, his Colt curling smoke in his right hand. On the wall across from him, Lang hung upside down, swinging back and forth by his ankle on the end of the chain holding him to the large ball of iron. The ball was out of sight, hanging out the open window where Lang had thrown it, not realizing the weight of it would overcome him.
The Ranger winced, already seeing what had happened.
“Get me down from here!” Lang shouted, terrified. Fresh bullet holes dotted the wall, flanking him on either side. Splinters clung to Lang’s shirt and hair.
“Dankett,” said Rattler, “what happened this time?”
“I closed my eyes just for a minute, Sheriff,” the deputy said innocently. “He pitched his iron out and was going to escape. What else could I do? I only shot my six-gun at him, didn’t really try to pin him to the wall.”
“He’s crazy, Sheriff!” Lang shouted. “Ranger, get me out of here! He tried to kill me!”
Sam looked at Rattler.
“It’s not the first jailbreak Dankett has thwarted, Ranger,” he said. “If he’d meant to kill him, he would have lifted that shotgun to his shoulder. Cisco would be dead.” He leaned in close to Sam and whispered under his breath, “The deputy here takes some getting used to. But nobody ever tries to break out twice.”
Sam holstered his Colt and let out a breath.
“I’m going to pass on eating right now, Sheriff,” Sam said. “I’m going to take some food with us and get out of here before any more gunmen get their bark on and try to collect that reward.”
Chapter 9
It was afternoon when the Ranger and Lang stepped down from their horses on the far side of New Delmar. The Ranger left Lang cuffed to his saddle horn while he set down a canvas sack of air-tights, hardtack and salt pork he’d bought at a mercantile store as they left town. When he had sorted out the supplies, he freed the
third handcuff and nodded toward some brush and downed tree limbs lying nearby.
“See if you can gather us some firewood and kindling without turning rabbit on me,” the Ranger said. “The quicker we get us a fire started, the quicker we can eat.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Ranger,” said Lang. “I’m not trying anything else. That lunatic Dankett has put running out of my mind.”
“That’s good to hear, Cisco,” said Sam, not believing it for a second. “Maybe there’s hope for you rehabilitating yourself after all.”
As Lang spoke he stepped over and picked up a stout three-foot tree limb and hefted it in his hands. On his way back to where the Ranger intended to build the fire, he gazed out at a rise of trail dust and the rider coming toward them from the direction of New Delmar.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Instead of turning his back on Lang, the Ranger stepped to the side and positioned himself in a way that allowed him to look out at the rider without taking his eyes off his prisoner. Lang noted his maneuver and dropped the limb as if in defeat.
“That’s wise thinking, Cisco,” Sam said sidelong to him, studying the rider until he recognized Adele Simpson and the spindly-legged roan riding alongside her with her load of belongings on its back.
“Sorry, Ranger, force of habit,” Lang said. He sighed and dusted his cuffed hands together. Turning, he looked out with the Ranger as Adele drew closer. “Wonder what she’s doing here,” he said. “Think she missed her train?”
Without answering Lang, Sam watched the woman ride closer and slow the black desert barb to a halt a few feet away. He stepped over and took the lead rope to the roan from her hand.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said to Adele. He looked the roan over as he patted it with his gloved hand. “This horse strikes me as being grateful to be alive, after that close scrape with the Apache.”
The roan nuzzled its sweaty jaw against the Ranger’s hand and sawed its head up and down as if in agreement.
