Clay stood like a stone, almost six feet, towering over the two men, a shotgun staring at them. The muzzle looked like a cannon.
“Howdy, boys,” Clay said. “Enjoying the scenery?”
The other man spun around and reached for the Colt in his crossdraw holster, but the hammer thong held it snug.
Clay swung the muzzle of the Roper on Slouch Hat and eared the hammer back in one smooth motion. “You might want to rethink that decision.”
Clay had recognized both men from the wanted posters. The man in the slouch hat was Harly Pinder, the youngest of the remaining Pinder boys. The sharpshooter was Milo Reese. He was the one, according to Hayes, who had shot his pa.
Harly slowly moved his hand away from his Colt. He sneered at Clay and said, “What do ya want, boy?”
Clay continued to smile, although he was seething inside. This was part of the crowd that had changed his life forever. He’d never killed a man, but right now, it wouldn’t be hard. “Why, Harly, I want you and Milo.”
Clay could see the stunned look on both men’s faces. They still had no idea who he was.
Milo spoke up, his lower jaw quivering. “Whatcha want us fer? We ain’t done you no harm. Why, I don’t even know ya.”
Clay watched the little man. The quivering jaw, beady eyes, buck teeth, and scrawny face reminded him of a cornered rat. This was one of the lowest type of men. He took people’s lives from a distance. A man without the courage to confront his prey. To top it off, he did it for money.
“You might know my pa, Bill Barlow? Does that ring a bell for you?”
Clay could see the fear and desperation in both men’s eyes.
Harly said, “I ain’t kilt yore pa and I sure ain’t kilt yore ma. That tweren’t me. This here scrawny little feller, he killed your pa. Shot him dead, he did.”
“Harly, don’t ya say that.” The little man was almost crying. Every word that left his mouth was a whine. “I just did it ’cause his brother”—he jerked his thumb at Harly—“made me. I wouldn’t have done it no other way. I had nuthin’ agin your pa.”
Listening to Milo almost made Clay physically ill. His ma and pa were dead, and this sniveling little creature was whining for his life. “Harly, I never said anything about my ma. You two drop your sidearms.”
“Listen, boy—” Harly started.
The roar of the shotgun reverberated out of the rocks and through the hills. The ground between the two men exploded. Both men jumped back. Harly had backed up close to the edge of the outcropping. His boot heel caught a mesquite root, and he started flailing with his arms to catch his balance, but he was too late. He sailed out into space. For a moment it looked like he was motionless in the air, then he tumbled, head over feet, to the rocks waiting twenty feet below. His body hit the rocks with a sickening thud.
Clay swung the muzzle of the shotgun toward Milo. “Move over to that boulder.”
Milo, with the blast of the shotgun, had ripped off his gunbelt and thrown it on the ground.
“Don’t shoot me, Mister. Please, I don’t wanna die.”
Clay used the shotgun to motion toward the boulder. The little man moved quickly to the boulder. “Now I want you to kneel down with your hands stretched out, above you, and on the boulder.”
“Please.” The word was almost like a wail.
“Shut up. If you turn around, I’ve another load here for you.”
Clay moved to the edge of the outcropping and peered over. Twenty feet below lay the crumpled body of Harly. It looked like he’d hit the rocks headfirst. His neck was twisted in an awkward direction. The thigh bone of one leg was sticking through the skin.
Clay looked at him for only a moment, then switched his gaze to Milo. His stomach was turning over something fierce. He had killed a man. Though he had known it would happen, Slim’s words came to mind, “You never forget.” He wanted to forget. He wanted that picture out of his mind. But he knew that Slim was right. He would never forget Harly, nor would he forget any other men who might die because of him. He picked up both guns and slid them behind his gunbelt. All the time, he kept an eye on Milo. He felt sure there was no danger of Milo doing anything, except maybe running. But remembering Hayes, he knew no man would ever get the drop on him again because he’d failed to search him. “Pull your boots and shirt off.”
Milo didn’t stop to answer. He jerked off his shirt and leaned against the boulder to yank his boots off.
“Toss your boots over here and lay down on your belly, your hands extended out in front of you.”
Milo tossed his boots to Clay, and dropped to the rocky ground without a complaint. Clay picked up each boot and checked inside—no hidden guns or knives. He walked over to Milo, and with the shotgun muzzle on the back of Milo’s head, he searched him thoroughly.
Clay eased over to the Sharps and picked it up. As filthy as Milo was, the Sharps was just the opposite. It was in immaculate condition. He looked at the weapon with loathing. This was the instrument that had dealt such a horrible blow to his family. If Pa hadn’t been shot by this rifle, he and Slim may have been able to fight off the Pinder Gang. But you couldn’t blame a rifle, Clay thought.
“Like hell you can’t,” he said. He shucked the round out of the Sharps, lifted it by the barrel with one hand, and with all the might in his young, strong shoulders, swung it against the rock. The stock shattered, and the action bent. Milo lay quivering on the ground. Clay ignored him and looked at what he held in his hand. This rifle would never bring pain and suffering to another family. He threw it out over the outcropping. It sailed as far as the energy could take it and dropped, a mangled piece of metal.
He turned back to Milo. “Milo.” The man jerked at the mention of his name, “It’s your turn.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clay was riding Milo’s horse, and Milo was leading Harly’s with Harly across the saddle. Milo had calmed down since he figured out he wasn’t going to get shot. But every word out of his mouth was still a high-pitched whine.
“Mr. Barlow, sir, you ruined my beautiful rifle. That was one of the truest shooting rifles I’ve ever owned.”
“Shut up, Milo.”
The men moved to the east to pick up Clay’s horses. Clay had reloaded the spent shell from the Roper. “Keep walking, Milo. Go to the acacia near the big oak.”
Milo turned off the road and walked toward the horses waiting along Maverick Creek. “Why did you kill my parents, Milo?”
“I only shot your pa, Mr. Barlow. I only did that because Gideon would’ve killed me if I didn’t. I sure didn’t want to. I ain’t had nothin’ to do with your ma.”
“Milo, do you know what a man’s liable to do when you kill his parents?”
Clay could see Milo start shaking again. How could this be the deadly sharpshooter Milo Reese? This guy was afraid of his own shadow.
“Who did?”
“Mr. Barlow, sir, if I was to tell you, Gideon would kill me fer sure.”
“Hold up a minute.”
Milo stopped, halting Harly’s horse, and turned to look up at Clay. “Gideon won’t get the chance, Milo, if you don’t start talking.”
The frightened man stared into the deadly maw of the 12 gauge shotgun. “I, I wasn’t there until later. I waited on the ridge. Then rode down. I rode down way after Gideon hurt your ma. I ain’t had nothing to do with that.”
“Then tell me every detail of what happened as far as you know. Keep moving. You can walk and talk.”
Milo moved out toward the acacia and detailed the killings. His story coincided pretty well with the one he had heard from Hayes.
By the time he finished talking, they had reached the creek. The horses were where Clay had left them. “Okay, Milo, go sit under the big oak, and don’t make a move.”
Milo moved over to the oak that Clay indicated and sat down. Fear still etched his every feature, but he had calmed down. He watched Clay with cautious eyes.
Clay walked over to his horses and gave them
a quick check. He took off his moccasins, slipped them into his saddlebags, and pulled on his boots. “You boys thirsty? Milo, come over here. We’re going to take the horses to water before we head to San Felipe.”
Milo got up, walked over, and took his horse and Harly’s. Clay slid the Roper into the scabbard and made sure his Model 3 was loose in the holster. “Don’t get any ideas, Milo. If you do, they’ll be your last. You do what I say, and you’ll be resting in a nice safe jail, instead of draped over your saddle like Harly.”
Milo glanced at him and looked away. “No, sir, you’re the boss.”
They walked the horses down to the creek, where the animals drank deeply of the cool water. When the horses were finished, they led them back up the bank. Clay mounted the buckskin and signaled Milo to mount his horse. Once Milo was mounted, Clay rode over next to him and shook out a small loop from his lasso. He flipped it over Milo’s neck and took a couple of turns around the buckskin’s saddle horn.
“That ain’t necessary, Mr. Barlow. What if my horse gits skittish? I could end up with a broken neck.”
“Start moving, Milo, and shut up. I’m not here for conversation.”
*
When they rode into San Felipe del Rio, the sun had just reached its zenith and was starting down. It wasn’t much of a town. Riding in, Clay had noticed the verdant fields of wheat and vegetables. Someone had invested a lot of work and money to redirect the water from the San Felipe Springs to irrigate their fields.
San Felipe was fortunate to have the sweet water from San Felipe Springs. Nearby, the Rio Bravo flowed, not nearly so pure. Even with the springs and the agriculture development, it was a sleepy little town, but it looked like everyone had turned out for the parade. Clay spotted the marshal’s office and pulled up in front. The marshal stood there with his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.
Clay dismounted, tied up his horses at the hitching rail, then motioned for Milo to toss him the reins of his two horses and tied those. He yanked, none too gently, on Milo’s rope. “Get down, Milo.” He turned to the marshal. “Howdy, Marshal, I’m Clay Barlow. I could use your help.”
“Reckon you’ve got some explainin’ to do, boy,” the marshal said.
Clay took a closer look at the marshal. Run over boots, dirty pants, and a dirty shirt and vest to go along with the pants. Hopefully the man was a better at marshaling than at hygiene. “Be glad to. First, I’d like to get this man in your jail and turn him over to you.”
The marshal eyed him for a moment, then said, “We’ll see. Bring him on in.”
Clay removed the rope from Milo’s neck and tied it back on his saddle. He motioned Milo in ahead of him. People had gathered around the horses and were looking at Harly. One of the men grabbed Harly by the hair and lifted his head up. Still holding the man’s head where others could see, he said, “Why, Marshal, this here is Harly Pinder. He’s deader than a dried catfish. His brother’s not gonna be too happy about this, not too happy at all.”
The marshal stopped so quick Milo almost ran into him. “Let me see.”
The man turned Harly’s head so that the marshal could get a good look. “Well, I’ll be fried.” He turned back to Clay. “Boy, you know who this is?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “This here is Harly Pinder. His brother is Gideon Pinder. You’re gonna be in a heap of trouble when he finds out.”
“I know who he is, Marshal. He and this little rat tried to ambush me on my way from Brackett. Now can we get this man in jail?”
“Go on in,” the marshal said. The man holding up Harly’s head dropped it and walked toward the saloon.
Clay pointed Milo to the two-cell jail. The marshal locked the door behind him. Milo moved over to the bunk and sat down, relief covering his face. There was a single chair in front of the desk. Clay sat down, and the marshal sat behind his desk and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms and appraised Clay for a few moments.
“Okay, boy, start explaining.”
Clay pulled out the wanted poster from inside his vest and handed it to the marshal. The marshal looked over the poster with Milo’s picture on it. He looked at Milo then back at the picture, then back at Milo. “I reckon you got you Milo Reese all right. What do you want me to do with him?”
Clay was surprised at the comment. “Marshal, this man killed my pa, and he’s wanted. That’s his poster. There’s also a reward on him. I’ll take that reward, and you can have the prisoner. He’s implicated Birch Hayes, Zeke Martin, and the three Pinder brothers in the murder of my folks and our ranch hand, Slim. It sounds like you know at least the Pinders. I expect you to arrest them and hold them for trial.”
“Now, boy—”
Clay could feel his anger rising. This man with a badge acted like he had no desire to see justice done. He remembered Pa talking about these kind of lawmen. They were just biding their time and taking their paycheck. “Marshal, my name is Clay Barlow. You can call me Clay or you can call me Barlow, but drop the boy.”
The marshal was taken aback for a moment. He was about to say something when the office door swung open.
“Clay, looks like you’ve been busy.”
Clay turned around to see Jake and another man standing in the doorway. He grinned at Jake. “I figured you to be halfway to El Paso by now.” Clay stood and shook Jake’s hand.
The men ignored the marshal, still sitting behind his desk.
“Clay, I’d like you to meet Major John B. Jones. Major, this is Clay Barlow, Bill Barlow’s son. I was telling you about him.”
The two men shook hands. “Clay, I’m glad to meet you. I am very sorry to hear about your family. Your pa was a fine man. He had a reputation as a man to ride the river with. He’ll be sorely missed. Your ma, I heard, was a very pretty and kind lady. It is a major loss, when such upstanding citizens are murdered.”
“Thank you, Major. I appreciate your kindness.”
Major Jones said, “I assume Marshal Taylor is helping you in your endeavors?”
“No, sir, not much.”
“Now see here—” the marshal began, rising from his chair.
“Sit down, Taylor,” the major said. “I want to hear this young man out.”
Jake pulled up two chairs from the corner of the office and moved them over to where they were on each side of Clay. He and the major sat.
“Clay,” Major Jones said, “tell us what’s going on.”
Clay told the three of them everything that had happened since leaving the wagon train, with the exception of Lynn and the fights with Cotton Davis. He showed them all of the posters. The major interrupted occasionally to ask a question. Marshal Taylor never uttered a word. When Milo was mentioned, the major turned a cold stare on the man in the cell. Milo fidgeted and finally got up to look out the cell window.
“I believe that’s everything. Harly Pinder is strung across the saddle outside. Seems the marshal might know of the Pinders.”
The major turned his stare on Marshal Taylor. “Do you know this Pinder Gang, Marshal?”
Now it was the marshal’s turn to squirm. “Reckon I know of them, Major Jones. I’ve heard they come into town on occasion. Don’t know that I’d know them if I seen them.”
“Marshal, here’s what you’re going to do. You will wire Austin, advising them you hold Milo Reese in custody. As soon as you receive authorization, you will pay Mr. Barlow the reward. If any of the Pinder Gang comes into San Felipe, you will arrest them and hold them for transport. Am I being clear enough for you?”
“Well, Major, that reward could take a while, and I don’t rightly know the Pinders by sight.”
Major Jones slid the posters in front of Marshal Taylor. “There’s pictures of these men. It’s very simple. If you see them, arrest them.”
The marshal nodded. It was hot in the office, but he was the only one sweating.
“Now, take care of the body on the horse outside. As far as the horses, those men tried to kill this young man. I’d say he has a right to th
e horses and the equipment on them, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, Major, that might fall under city property.”
“Were these men taken in San Felipe?”
“No, bu—”
“No buts.” The major turned to Clay. “Clay, do you want the horses and gear?”
“No, sir. I’m fine.”
He turned back to the marshal.
“In that case, the city of San Felipe will pay to Clay Barlow a fair sum for said horses and gear. Now, does that sound fair to you, Marshal?”
“I reckon, Major. I’ll have to get the approval of the mayor.”
“That won’t be a problem, will it, Marshal?”
“No, sir.”
“I would expect that the wheels of justice will turn quickly in this case. I would expect Clay to receive the money from the city today, before I leave. Clear?”
“Yes, Major.”
“Good, you’ll find us at the eatery. Please bring his money there.” Major Jones looked first at Clay and then the marshal. “Are we done?”
Clay couldn’t contain his grin. “Yes, sir, Major. I’m more than done.”
The marshal nodded and said, “Reckon that takes care of it.”
“Fine.” The major shook hands with Marshal Taylor, then turned to Clay and Jake. “Shall we be going?”
Clay closed the door behind them as the three men stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight; by the middle of May in Texas, it was getting hot.
Music could be heard coming from the Mexican cantina at one end of the street, competing with a tinny piano banging away in the saloon across the street from the marshal’s office. Next to the saloon, an eatery, of sorts, was doing a less than booming business.
“How about we grab some grub?” Major Jones said. “I’ve eaten at the place across the street. It’s not bad.”
Clay heard his stomach growl. “Major, that’s a fine idea, but I’ve got to take care of my animals first.”
“We’ll see you there,” the major said.
Forty-Four Caliber Justice Page 13
