Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657)

by Roberts, J. R.

  “So we split up?”

  “Wait,” Clint said. “I was never convinced that Garver was a true lawman. Given what he’s done since then, I am convinced that he’s a true outlaw.”

  “Meanin’?”

  “Meanin’ I want to travel each of these trails for a short time.”

  “And?”

  “And that’ll tell us something.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  They followed the trail that led to Arkansas for an hour and then Clint stopped.

  “Well, we’re not going to have to follow the trail to the Territories,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  He pointed to the ground.

  “I say it was Garver who headed for the Territories,” Clint said. “He went north for a while, then he doubled back. Right here he came back.”

  “He joined up with the other man again?” Kelly asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “he’s following the other man.”

  “Followin’?” Kelly looked confused. “Why?”

  “Because, like I thought,” Clint said, “he can’t bear to see any of that money get away from him.”

  “So he’s followin’ his partner to rob him?”

  “Bushwhack him,” Clint said, “kill him, and take all the money.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “That must have been his plan all along.”

  “Wait,” Kelly asked, “what about Little Jim? Why let him walk with his share?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll guess,” Clint said. “I think he knew Jim was going back to town. He figured he’d be caught, his end of the take would be recovered, and maybe he hoped that the bank, and the town, would be happy with that.”

  “But they ain’t,” Kelly said, “and we ain’t.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So we’re back on the trail of the two of them?” Kelly asked.

  “Yes, but one of them is hunting the other one.”

  “Good,” Kelly said. “I just hope they don’t kill each other before we catch ’em. I want the pleasure of killin’ one of them myself—especially Garver.”

  “We’ll follow this trail,” Clint said, “and take what we get.”

  Wycliffe knew he was being followed. What he didn’t know was if it was a posse, or it was Garver. He wouldn’t have put it past Garver to track him and try to take the money back from him.

  But it could have been a posse. He had two choices. Run and try to put some distance between them, or stop, hide, and wait to see who it was.

  He had to make up his mind.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Garver decided to take it slow.

  He had drifted back in a southeasterly direction and picked up Wycliffe’s trail, but he was in no hurry to catch up to his former partner. Better to lull him into a false sense of security, and then catch him off guard.

  He would have preferred to end up with all the money, but allowing Little Jim to return to Adobe Walls was a calculated risk. Hopefully, the bank would be satisfied with 25 percent of their money back, and the law would be happy with Little Jim.

  On the other hand, Little Jim might have killed whoever had initially replaced him as sheriff, and the town was still trying to find yet another replacement.

  He stared down at Wycliffe’s tracks. He was only about an hour ahead of him. He could close the gap anytime he wanted to. He had to decide whether he wanted Wycliffe to know he was taking the money from him, or simply ambush him so that he never knew what hit him.

  “I don’t understand what these tracks tell you,” Kelly said.

  They were each on one knee as Clint tried to give Kelly at least a rudimentary lesson in tracking.

  “See the first track—”

  “Okay, there,” Kelly said, cutting him off. “How can you tell which one came first?”

  “Because the tracker—I’m guessing Garver—is not being careful. See, his track overlaps the other. He’s still following, and while both sets of tracks are hours old, I think Garver is still an hour or two behind his prey.”

  “Why doesn’t he just bushwhack him and get it over with?”

  “I think he wants to drag it out,” Clint said, standing up. Kelly also stood. They both brushed dirt from their hands.

  “Why?”

  “He’s probably trying to make up his mind.”

  “About what?”

  “A man like Garver is bound to want his former partner to know it’s him taking the money from him. He’d rather do that and see the look on his face than shoot him in the back and take it.”

  “Is this about his ego?”

  “It’s about pure ego,” Clint said, “and, I think, pure evil.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Wycliffe saw the Indians up ahead of him, and reined his horse in.

  Damn it, he had come this way to avoid the Territories in the north for just this reason. He didn’t want to deal with Indians.

  Since his knowledge of them was very sparse, he had no idea that he was looking at a band of Quapaw, who alternated between the North Territories and Arkansas.

  He wasn’t sure what to do. They were just watching him, and not making any moves toward him. He could keep moving forward, hoping they would ignore him, or he could turn around and go back the way he came. If he did that, he’d have to deal with either Garver or a posse—or both.

  He could also head north or south, but one took him in the wrong direction and the other might take him toward even more Indians.

  In the end he decided to keep moving forward, keeping his hands away from his weapons.

  Garver could tell Wycliffe had reined in his horse for a while. What he didn’t know was why. There was nothing about the horse’s tracks to indicate it had injured itself. Perhaps he had seen something ahead, but had finally decided to continue on anyway.

  Garver continued on as well. He had almost decided to follow Wycliffe until he camped, and take him then. Maybe even while he was asleep. To get the drop on him that way, and take back the bank money, would humiliate him greatly—and then he’d kill him. There’d be great satisfaction in that—and great profit.

  “What’s wrong?” Kelly asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “They’re stopping and going.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they together again?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I guess it’s all caused by the first man.”

  “Maybe he saw something that caused him to stop.”

  “Well, maybe we should keep going,” Clint said. “The sooner we catch up to them, the sooner we’ll find out.”

  A few miles later it was Clint who called a halt to their progress.

  “What is it?”

  “These tracks,” Clint said. “Unshod ponies.”

  “Indians?”

  “It would explain what the lead man saw that caused him to stop.”

  “But he kept going,” Kelly said. “Would he do that if he saw Indians?”

  “I guess that would depend on how many he saw,” Clint said, “and what tribe they were.”

  “What tribe would be out here?”

  “There are a few possibilities,” Clint said. “Osage, Quapaw . . . a few more.”

  “Are they . . . dangerous?”

  “Shouldn’t be,” Clint said. “They’re most likely reservation races, unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless they’re renegades.”

  Kelly looked around, as if he was suddenly worried that they were being watched.

  “What if they’re watching all of us?” he asked.

  “Then maybe they’re being entertained,” Clint said. “Garver is chasing his former partner, we’re chasing Garver. We probably all look like foolish white men to them.”

  “And do they kill foolish white men?” Kelly asked.

  “I guess we’
ll have to find out.”

  FORTY

  This time Clint actually saw the Indians—or at least, three of them—in the distance ahead.

  Kelly saw them as well.

  “How did they get there?” he asked. “Between us? Have they killed the other two?”

  “Who knows?” Clint asked.

  “Should we turn back?”

  Clint looked at Kelly as they sat on their horses side by side.

  “Would you be willing to assume that the Indians got your revenge for you and return to Adobe Walls?” Clint asked.

  Without hesitation, Kelly shook his head.

  “Okay, then.”

  “What should we do?” Kelly asked. “How do we find out who they are? What they want?”

  “That’s pretty simple,” Clint replied. “We just ask them.”

  Clint rode directly toward the three braves. They stood their ground and waited.

  “What are they doin’?” Kelly asked.

  “They’re waiting,” Clint said. “They won’t do a thing until we reach them.”

  Kelly touched his rifle.

  “Don’t touch your gun,” Clint said. “Not unless I touch mine.”

  “There’s only three of them,” Kelly said. “We can take’em.”

  “There’s only three,” Clint said, “that we can see.”

  When they got closer, Clint could see that they were young bucks, none of the three of them much over twenty. He didn’t know if that would work for them, or against them.

  “I’ll do the talking,” Clint said.

  “That suits me,” Kelly said.

  “Oh yeah,” Clint said. “Put that badge in your pocket.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to tempt them with a target,” Clint asked, “do you?”

  Kelly took off the badge and put it in his shirt pocket.

  “Hello,” Clint said as they reached the three Indians. He thought he recognized their markings, but he asked, “Are you Quapaw?”

  The middle brave nodded.

  “We are pursuing two white men,” Clint said. “They are criminals. Have you seen them?”

  Again, the young brave nodded. The other two simply stared at them.

  Then the center brave spoke.

  “They do not travel together,” he said. “They did not show us any respect, as you have. They did not speak to us.”

  “Have you killed them?” Kelly asked.

  Clint gave him a sharp look.

  “Why would we kill them?” the brave asked, looking confused.

  “Never mind,” Clint said. “Which way have they gone?”

  “They go east,” the brave said, pointing. “Why do they not travel together?”

  “We believe one of them is hunting the other,” Clint said.

  “Why?”

  “Because they are not honorable men,” Clint answered. “They would kill each other for money.”

  “For money?” the brave asked. “Not for horses, or skins?”

  “No,” Clint said. “For money.”

  The brave honestly did not understand such actions. Or rather, such reasoning.

  “What is your name?” Clint asked.

  “I am Red Joe.”

  “Red Joe?” Kelly asked. “What kind of name is that?”

  “Reservation name.”

  “It’s a good name,” Clint said.

  “What is your name?” Red Joe asked.

  “This is Kelly,” Clint said. “I am Clint.”

  “Clint?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Kelly?” Red Joe said. “What kind of name is that?”

  “Irish,” Kelly said.

  “Why do you seek these men?”

  “I told you, they are criminals,” Clint said. “They have also killed our friends.”

  “You seek revenge?” the brave asked.

  “We seek justice,” Clint said.

  The braves turned to each other and conversed in their own language for a few minutes. Then the middle brave turned back to them.

  “The men you seek are ahead of you,” he said.

  “We know,” Clint said. “We are tracking them.”

  “We can take you.”

  “We can track them,” Kelly said.

  “We can take you short way.”

  “A shortcut?” Clint said.

  “Yes,” the brave said, “that is it. A shortcut.”

  “Why would you do that for us?” Kelly asked.

  “Not do for Kelly,” Red Joe said. “Do for Clint.”

  “Is that a fact?” Kelly asked.

  “Never mind,” Clint said. “I don’t care who you’re doing it for or why. “Thank you.”

  “This way,” Red Joe said.

  “What are their names?” Kelly asked, indicating the other braves.

  “Not matter,” Red Joe said.

  “Why not?” Kelly asked.

  “Not speak English,” Red Joe said. “You not understand them, they not understand you. Not matter their names.”

  Kelly looked at Clint.

  “Looks like you made a new friend.”

  The three braves started to ride off.

  “We better follow them,” Clint said. “While they’re still in a good mood.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Garver watched as Wycliffe made camp for the night. He had found a place where he could hide himself and look down at his former partner’s camp. After dark he’d move in and get the rest of his money.

  Wycliffe could feel the eyes on him, but didn’t know if it was the Indians, or Garver. He put on a pot of coffee and made himself some beans.

  And waited.

  “It’s dark out here,” Kelly said.

  “They know their way around,” Clint said.

  “Our horses could end up with broken legs.”

  “Not if we step where they step,” Clint said.

  Suddenly, the three braves stopped. Red Joe turned to look at them.

  “You smell?” he asked.

  Kelly sniffed the air.

  “I don’t smell nothin’.”

  But Clint did.

  “Beans.”

  Red Joe nodded, then pointed.

  “Over that hill.”

  “One of the men is over that hill?” Kelly asked.

  Red Joe nodded.

  “Which one?”

  “The one that is not on the hill.”

  “So one man is over the hill making beans, and the other man is on the hill, watching him?” Clint asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You want we stay?” Red Joe asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “That’s okay. We’ll take it from here.”

  Red Joe nodded. He spoke to the other two braves. They actually smiled and waved, and then the three Quapaw rode off into the dark.

  “What now?” Kelly asked.

  “What do you want?” Clint asked. “The beans, or the hill?”

  FORTY-TWO

  They left their horses behind. Clint walked up the back of the hill. They didn’t know where Garver was, top or bottom, but Clint assumed that Garver would not want to share the bank money with anyone. He figured Garver would be at the top of the hill.

  He told Kelly, “You take the beans.”

  “I love beans,” Kelly said.

  “Better put your badge back on for this,” Clint advised.

  Kelly felt the weight of his badge as he advanced on the campfire on foot. He didn’t know who he would find there, but he told himself he was ready.

  Wycliffe heard someone coming toward his camp in the dark. He put his plate of beans down and removed his gun from his holster. He held it ready.

  Garver looked down at the camp, saw Wycliffe sitting at the fire. He was about to head down the hill to the camp when he saw someone just outside the circle of light given off by the fire.

  “Who the hell—�
� he said.

  “That’s a friend of mine,” Clint said from behind him. “Actually, he’s a lawman. He’s got your old job, as a matter of fact.”

  Garver turned, saw Clint standing there.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “What are you both doing here?”

  “Oh, we came for you, and your partner, and the rest of the bank’s money.”

  “You followed us all the way out here for that?” Garver asked.

  “Well, not exactly,” Clint said. “We also want you for shooting Billy Dixon, and killing his men.”

  “So you sneak up on me in the dark so you can bushwhack me?”

  “Who said anything about bushwhacking you?” Clint asked. “I’m here to give you a fair fight.”

  “In the dark?” Garver asked.

  “You saying you want to wait for the sun to come up?” Clint asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So if I decide to agree, and wait ’til morning, you won’t try to skulk away in the dark?”

  “Skulking away in the dark isn’t exactly my style,” Garver said. “Besides, I think I can take you in a fair fight.”

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get my horse and take him down to that camp, where I’ll wait for sunup. After that, you better come down from this hill, or I’ll come up after you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Adams,” Garver said. “I’ll deal with you come daylight.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Clint said. Then he pointed his finger. “Don’t make me come up here and get you, hear?”

  “I hear.”

  Clint backed up until the darkness enveloped him, then he turned and walked down to his horse.

  FORTY-THREE

  Kelly stepped into the light, the badge plainly displayed on his chest.

  “What the hell—” Wycliffe said. “Who are you?”

  “Sheriff from Adobe Walls.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since Garver shot down Billy Dixon in the street and robbed the bank with you and Little Jim.”