Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02]

by Marvin H. Albert

  "Be careful, Clay. He's a dangerous man to toy with."

  "And maybe too dangerous to depend on."

  Cora shook her head. "He's exactly what we need. And don't worry, I can handle him." She smiled. "He had a yen for me. I think he still does."

  "I thought you were going to let me hire the guards," Clayburn said stonily.

  "Subject to my approval," she reminded him. "Any men you hire are bound to consider themselves your men. I want one along who'll be my man-all the way. Matt Haycox fits that."

  Clayburn's face softened. "I shouldn't have shown you so much of myself in that poker game last night. Now you don't trust me."

  "I told you before, I don't trust anybody all the way." She put her hand on his arm exactly as she'd done with Haycox, and her eyes were warm on his. "It's nothing personal, Clay. Just a leftover of some unpleasant experiences in the past."

  She was, Clayburn reflected, as used to gentling men as a mustanger was to gentling horses.

  As they walked together toward the freight office down by the railroad tracks, Cora asked him, "Have you managed to find any other men for us?" She glanced at his bruised face. "Or weren't you in any shape to?"

  Clayburn told her about the three men he'd turned up.

  She liked the sound of Jim Roud and Kosta, but was leery about Ranse Blue. "He sounds too old for the kind of trip we're likely to have."

  "He'll stand up to it as well as any of us. Blue's one of those that toughen with age. And he's spent years dodging hostiles in open country. Just the kind of man we'll need. Somebody that can keep an eye on what Adler's outfit is up to without being spotted."

  Cora Sorel finally accepted his choice, though reluctantly.

  Behind the small adobe building housing Farnell's freighting office there was a warehouse for freight storage, an adobe-walled yard holding the wagons, and a corral in which the mules and horses were kept. Eleven men were gathered waiting in the yard between the big Murphy wagons. Six were the freighters who'd worked steadily for Farnell in the past-the kind of rough, violent-looking men you usually found in jobs like that. Men who could be hard to handle on occasion, but would be just as hard to scare.

  The other five had showed up hoping for a job.

  Cora Sorel let Clayburn do the talking. He told all of them what they faced, holding nothing back-the kind of country they'd have to cross, the blizzards in the mountains, the Apaches, the likelihood of interference from Adler's outfit. The six regulars heard him out with a stoic boredom, not budging, but one of the other five shrugged and walked away, looking sheepish.

  Clayburn questioned the remaining four, rejected one because he'd never handled mule teams before, another because he appeared nervous and didn't ask about the pay. Clayburn had a hunch Adler had sent him.

  If the two Clayburn hired-O'Hara and Fischman-had nerves they didn't show them. Both were big, solid men; the former was ex-army and the latter had once ridden shotgun for the Butterfield Stage. Both were well acquainted with mules.

  Clayburn went over the wagons with the eight of them. There were fifteen wagons, reminders of the time before Farnell had gone bust, when he'd sometimes run as many as twenty in one train. But some of them were now badly in need of repair. They selected the eight in best condition. Leaving the teamsters to prepare the wagons and select their mule teams, he returned to the office and got from Cora a hundred-and-fifty dollar advance on Kosta's wages. Then he left to bail out Kosta and collect Jim Roud and Ranse Blue.

  As he went up the street he met Haycox strolling toward the office.

  They passed each other without speaking.

  ***

  Marshal Kavanaugh made no fuss about losing his deputy. "Roud's been acting so itchy lately," he told Clayburn, "he'd've been sure to've got himself in trouble before long. And I'd have to bring him in and lock him up, badge or no badge. But you let him ride some of the wildness out of himself and you'll have a pretty good man on your hands."

  And he was more than pleased to be able to release Kosta, though sorry that Parrish was losing a good cook.

  Leaving the jail, Clayburn sent Kosta to the Farnell Freight Company headquarters to get his chuck wagon ready. He took ex-deputy Jim Roud along with him to hunt up the old buffalo hunter. It took them almost an hour before they found Ranse Blue, sprawled out in a drunken sleep behind a stable at the other end of town.

  It took another half hour, and a dunking in a dirty horse trough, to get Blue awake and on his feet. Even then he couldn't stand without leaning on Roud. He had a horrible hangover and he looked even older than the night before-old and feeble and useless. The way he was, Clayburn knew Cora Sorel would balk at taking him on. And he'd need Blue, maybe more than any of the rest of them. So there was only one thing for it.

  With Roud and Clayburn supporting him, they got Blue to the nearest saloon and bought him a double whiskey in a tumbler. Clayburn watched the old man gulp it, hanging onto the bar with his other hand. Drops of liquor trickled down his gray-whiskered chin, but he got most of it in, his scrawny figure shuddering violently as it went down.

  When the shuddering stopped, Blue straightened a bit and turned his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes on Clayburn. "Another one of those," he croaked, "and I can maybe let go of this bar."

  Clayburn bought him another double. Blue swallowed it like water, this time without a shudder. He set the empty glass down, sighed weakly, and then took his hand off the bar and straightened all the way. "See?" He wiped a hand over his wrinkled face and, surprisingly, some of his years seemed to drop away from him. He even managed a one-sided grin. "Good as new."

  "Are you going to need whiskey along the trail to keep you going?" Clayburn demanded.

  "Hell no. I only drink in towns. Never take any liquor along with me on the trail."

  "That better be a fact. Because part of our freight'll be a wagonload of liquor. I catch you breaking into that and I'll boot you out of the outfit without a horse-no matter where we are at the time."

  "I said I don't drink on the trail," Blue snarled. "I just needed one big drunk to kiss this lousy town good-by is all. You don't believe me, t'hell with you."

  The strength of Blue's anger reassured Clayburn some. He was turning from the bar when he became aware of the sounds of wagons. Crossing the room, he looked out over the batwings at the street-in time to see George Adler ride by wearing a rough trail outfit. From the way he sat his horse he was obviously no city man, and there was something formidable about Adler that hadn't shown the night before. His wide face was no longer concealing anything, and ruthlessness was written plain on it.

  The bearlike Benjy and the surly kid named Dillon rode on either side of their boss. Behind them rattled Adler's empty wagons, drawn by their teams of mules, following Adler down toward the railroad tracks to be ready when the train pulled in. Since Farnell's Freight Company sided the tracks, there was no such need to get Cora Sorel's wagons lined up for the arrival of the train. There was a ramp leading directly from the tracks into the warehouse, up which they could carry the supplies and roll the barrels of flour, sugar and other foodstuffs Cora had bought for Bannock, as they were off-loaded from the freight cars.

  The loading of Cora's wagons would take place inside Farnell's freight yard.

  Clayburn counted Adler's wagons as they rolled past. There were twelve of them, each handled by a hardcase teamster. Riding behind the last wagon came the scar-faced man called Slope, and four other men Clayburn pegged as gunfighters.

  Clayburn's eyes were narrowed as he gazed after them.

  Behind him, Jim Roud asked quietly, "That the outfit we're expecting to tangle with?"

  "That's them," Clayburn said, half to himself. Adler's crew outnumbered his own by seven men. Bad odds, but not quite as bad as he'd expected.

  It might, he decided, be as good a time as any to find out what his own crew was made of.

  Striding back to the bar, he purchased two full bottles of whiskey. Carrying a bottle in each hand, he he
aded for Farnell's Freight Company, flanked by Roud and Blue.

  Some thirty minutes later, with the wagons ready and nothing left to do but wait for the train, Clayburn gathered Cora Sorel and the men inside the one-room warehouse next to the freight ramp.

  "I figure it's time for our last drink between here and Bannock," he told them, and looked at Cora. "If that's all right with you?"

  Cora made an open gesture with her graceful, slim-fingered hands. "You're running this game from here on, Clay. I'm only the boss."

  "Well then…" Clayburn picked up one of the whiskey bottles and uncorked it. He handed it solemnly to Cora. "You first, boss."

  She hesitated, until she saw the amused way in which he was watching to see what she'd do. Then she raised the bottle, her warm smile taking in the other men, and made a toast: "Here's to Bannock, to a big profit for me and a big bonus for each of you… and to hell with George Adler."

  She tipped the bottle to her lips and took a swallow. She even managed to do it without wincing. Clayburn admired her control.

  Lowering the bottle, Cora passed it to her pet killer, Matt Haycox, who was near her like a watchdog.

  "I don't drink," Haycox said quietly, and passed the bottle on to the next man.

  No one else voiced a similar quirk. By the time the bottle had gone halfway around, it was empty. Clayburn uncorked the other bottle and tossed it to the next man in line. When it reached Ranse Blue, the last man before Clayburn, there was about the equivalent of three doubles left in the bottom.

  Clayburn snagged the bottle out of Blue's hands before it reached his lips. "You don't drink either," he informed Blue, and tilted the bottle to his own mouth, keeping it that way until he'd swallowed the last drop.

  He lowered the bottle with a gasp, tossed it aside, and grinned at his crew. His eyes were suddenly very bright. There was a wildness in them that Cora Sorel hadn't noticed before.

  "Let's go have a look at the opposition," he said, and strolled out onto the loading ramp.

  The others crowded out after him and looked at Adler's wagons and men lined up along the opposite side of the tracks. Clayburn's eyes sought out Adler, held on him for a second, and then moved on to the hulking bruiser next to him.

  "Hello, Benjy."

  Benjy scowled at him, puzzled by the lack of animosity in Clayburn's tone.

  Clayburn started down the ramp toward him, his pace leisurely, his mouth smiling. His hands hung straight down at his sides, his long fingers flexing.

  But Benjy was not looking at his hands. He was studying his face. And as Clayburn reached the tracks, Benjy's scowl became a sneer.

  "What happened to you, Clayburn? You look kind of beat up."

  "I was beat up," Clayburn said, and by the time he'd said it he was across the tracks and Benjy was within reach.

  Without preamble, he drove his right fist into Benjy's stomach.

  SEVEN

  Benjy sagged backward, clutching his middle, his face contorted as he fought for breath. Adler hastily got out of the way as Dillon leaped at Clayburn with fists swinging.

  Clayburn swiveled slightly at the hips, not shifting his feet, and backhanded Dillon across the face. The blow twisted Dillon's head around and flung him against a wagon. As he bounced off it, Clayburn hit him with his other hand as hard as he could. Dillon's eyes went blank. He hit the dirt on his side and stayed that way.

  It had given Benjy a chance to catch his breath, though he still couldn't straighten up fully. He came at Clayburn with murder in his face. Clayburn turned to meet his rush, sensing the rest of Adler's bunch converging on them, hoping his own crew was moving in behind him.

  Clayburn was in no mood for boxing with the bigger man. There was a wildness flaming inside him, demanding vengeance for what had happened in that dark alley. He met Benjy head-on, took a chest blow that threatened to break a rib, and smashed a left and right to Benjy's face with all the power of his shoulders and back. Benjy stumbled sideways and spat out the stump of a tooth. Clayburn went after him and aimed a right at the big man's nose. Benjy ducked. Clayburn's fist rammed into his forehead. It was like hitting a boulder. Clayburn's arm went numb all the way to his shoulder and for a second he thought his knuckles were broken. The punch didn't seem to affect Benjy at all. He bored in for the kill.

  Hard knuckles skidded off Clayburn's cheek, ripping away the plaster over the previous cut. A fist slammed into his heart, knocking him backward and spinning him around. Benjy leaped at his back, but didn't get there on time. Clayburn caught his balance, wrenched himself around to face Benjy, and drove his left forearm into the big man's throat.

  Benjy teetered on his heels, gagging, eyes bulging in their sockets. Clayburn spread his feet and began driving one punch after another into the other man. Having learned his lesson, he kept away from Benjy's head, concentrating on sinking short, chopping blows into the midsection. Benjy fought back with all his superior weight and strength. But the impact of the first blows had taken some of the steam out of him. He couldn't stand up against Clayburn's cold, relentless fury. He began backing away, legs buckling, eyes glazing.

  The sight of Benjy being broken was too much for Adler's crew. The nearest ones closed in. A man grabbed Clayburn's right wrist with both hands and hung on. Another landed on his back, wrapping an arm around his throat. Slope suddenly appeared between Clayburn and Benjy, launching a kick at Clayburn's stomach.

  Clayburn knocked Slope's kick aside with his knee, tried to punch with his free fist at the man hanging onto his arm. But the man on his back abruptly increased the pressure of his arm against Clayburn's throat, strangling him and dragging his head back. Blood pounded against the backs of Clayburn's eyes, blurring his vision. The weight of the two men bore him to the ground on his knees. Slope stepped in fast to drive a bootheel against Clayburn's face.

  Slope's foot was coming up off the ground when Jim Roud materialized out of nowhere and rammed into him bodily. The two men tumbled to the ground, Roud on top with both fists swinging.

  A split-second later the weight was plucked from Clayburn's back.

  He caught a blurred glimpse of the towering Kosta, his dark face a mask of fury, the man struggling uselessly in the grip of his enormous hands. Kosta raised the man high in the air and threw him headfirst against a wagon wheel. Then he turned, reached down for the man hanging onto Clayburn's arm, and lifted him away as though he were a puppy.

  By then the whole area had exploded into a free-for-all between the two wagon crews.

  Clayburn came to his feet and found himself hemmed in by a knot of surging, stamping, fist-flailing men. He broke free of the crush, tripped over a falling man, knocked aside another man. Then he and Benjy found each other.

  Benjy had had time to recover. He knocked aside Clayburn's fist and rammed a punch into Clayburn's jaw. Clayburn took it, shook his head once, hard, and struck back. For a few seconds they slugged it out toe to toe. Then the driving power behind Clayburn's fists began to sap Benjy's strength again. And his courage. His punches became slow, wild. And then he backed off.

  Before Clayburn could go after him, two wrestling teamsters fell against his back, knocking him off his feet. He landed on his hands and knees. Benjy lurched forward and kicked. The toe of his boot caught Clayburn's side and flopped him over on his back. Clenching his teeth against the pain of it, Clayburn saw Benjy's next kick coming straight at his head.

  He rolled fast. The bootheel slashed past his ear. He grabbed the boot with both hands and twisted. Benjy sprawled face down in the dirt. Shoving to his feet, still holding onto the boot, Clayburn increased his pressure. Benjy's other boot hammered into his chest, hurling him away.

  He staggered but stayed on his feet, bending forward and sucking air into his lungs, his heart thudding, waiting as Benjy came up off the ground.

  The press of battling men around them suddenly shoved them against each other. And Benjy changed tactics. His fingers clawed for Clayburn's eyes; his knee came up at Clayburn's gr
oin. Clayburn jerked his face away from the reaching fingers and he twisted taking the knee on his hip. If Benjy wanted to fight the rest of it dirty, he was more than willing to oblige.

  He grabbed both of Benjy's ears and yanked in opposite directions. Benjy screamed and tore himself loose. It left him wide open. Clayburn hit him well below the belt with a left, and then a right-measured, bludgeoning punches that bent him forward and down. Clayburn's knee came up to meet Benjy's nose, breaking it.

  Benjy staggered back, blood streaming down over his mouth and chin. But he was a hard man to finish. He didn't go down. Clayburn closed in to put him down. Benjy hit him twice but there wasn't enough in either blow to stop him. He clubbed the side of Benjy's jaw. Benjy's legs bent, but his fingers groped for his enemy's throat. Clayburn waited till the hands were around his neck, leaned against them, and hooked a left deep into Benjy's middle. The hands dropped from his throat.

  He clubbed Benjy's jaw again. And again… It was like chopping down a heavy tree with a blunt ax. It took time. But he got it done.

  When the man lay face down at his feet, Clayburn took a moment to survey what was happening around him and see where else he was needed.

  It appeared that he wasn't needed anywhere. He'd wanted to find out what his crew was made of. Now he knew. Jim Roud was getting up off Slope's unconscious form when one of Adler's gunmen slugged him in the ear and knocked him back down. Roud's feet shot out and kicked the other man's ankles out from under him. The next second the two of them were fighting it out in the dirt. Ranse Blue was engaged in teaching a man about twenty years younger than him a variety of vicious tricks he'd learned in battles with trappers and riverboat men-including eye-gouging, nose-biting and throat-kicking. Kosta was using one of Adler's men as a battering ram against three others.

  And despite the odds Farnell's regular teamsters and the two new recruits were holding their own against Adler's in as savage a mass brawl as Clayburn had ever witnessed.