They nodded and ground their cigarettes in the dust. Bob started threading among the rocks, keeping to the shadows and as close to the wall of the Neck as was possible. Presently he heard voices and reined in, listening.
“What’s wrong with them flank men! They’ve let the whole danged herd get away from them!” The angry speaker was Kurt Dodd.
A quavering voice answered, pitched high to carry above the noise of the traveling cattle. “It’s a trick, I betcha! That Lee jigger has coppered our bet. Kurt, I told you he would.”
“You’re loco. Lee’s at Redrock. Some lousy son has gone to sleep.”
“I tell you it’s a trick! Kurt, I’m goin’ back.”
“You’re stayin’ right here!” thundered Dodd. “By cripes, if it’s a trick you take yore chances with the rest of us.”
“I won’t! I tell you I’m goin’ back! We was crazy to try this right after what happened. I told you we was. I’m goin’—”
The sullen boom of a sixgun interrupted him. Bob heard a shriek of agony, short, horrible in its significance.
“Served the damned rat right,” came another voice. “He was all primed to squeal. Come on, Kurt; let’s see what’s wrong up front.”
Bob heard the quickened thud of hoofs, caught a brief glance of a half-dozen men riding through the gap. He spurred quickly in the opposite direction, dragging his rifle from its sheath at the same time. Half way through the pass he halted and reined about. The moon, directly above, lighted the passage dimly, but the dust made it impossible to distinguish friend from foe.
The whiplike crack of a rifle sounded to his right, followed by a volley of revolver shots and a chorus of hoarse yells. Another rifle spat—a third—a fourth; then a veritable crash of furious gun fire echoed the length of the pass.
Hoofs thundered, and four men came tearing along the moonlit strip headed back toward the safety of the hills. Bob threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired. A horse stumbled and fell. Rifles cracked on the opposite side, and a rider pitched from the saddle. The remaining two continued their headlong flight. One lay stretched along his horse’s neck; the other rode upright, huge, defiant, unafraid.
Again Bob fired and missed; the two rifles blazed from the far side of the pass and also missed; then the two riders were directly between them and neither party dared fire for fear of hitting the other.
Slipping the rifle back into its boot, Bob spurred out into the pass, angling for a point some distance ahead of the two men. Swift to take the cue, a horseman flashed from the shadows across the pass.
Despite their speed, both pursuers were forced to fall in behind the fleeing rustlers; but Bob’s companion, who still carried his rifle, halted his horse and raised the weapon. He sighted for a moment, then pulled the trigger, and one of the horses fell in a heap, shot through and through. The rider pitched headlong and lay still. Bob raced after the remaining outlaw, who still rode stiffly erect, defiantly presenting a broad back to his pursuer.
Unexpectedly the rustler’s horse slipped, recovered its balance, tried gamely to regain its stride; but the animal limped, and the distance between pursued and pursuer decreased rapidly. Bob was a bare fifty feet behind when the other reined in and wheeled his horse. The moonlight shone full on the heavy, bearded face, and Bob recognized Kurt Dodd. Instantly he slid his own mount to a stop, and for a brief moment the two men gazed at each other less than twenty feet apart.
Dodd’s face was granite hard, his eyes glittered like black beads. Both fired at the same time, guns whipping up and bellowing in unison. Bob heard the angry whine of a slug, and a lock of his hair moved as though disturbed by a puff of wind. He fired again.
Dodd jerked almost imperceptibly, swayed, reached for the saddle horn with his left hand. Bob, tense thumb holding back the hammer of his gun, watched while the outlaw tried vainly to raise his six-shooter for another shot. The will was strong, but strength had gone from the brawny arm. The hammer slipped from beneath Kurt’s thumb and the bullet struck a stone and whined away into the moonlight. Then Dodd’s bearded head drooped, his figure went slack, and he slipped inertly from the saddle to lay in a grotesque position, one foot caught in the stirrup.
Bob dismounted and, releasing the foot, stretched Dodd out on the ground. He had a canteen of water on his saddle and forced some of it between the stricken man’s lips. Another rider came up at a run, but his arm was in the air and Bob finally recognized the foreman of Tomlinson’s men.
“Got him, huh?” the Texan remarked as he swung from the saddle. “I stopped to tie up the fella I ditched.” He bent over and examined Dodd. “Got him through the chest. Well, he won’t rustle no more cows.”
Dodd opened his eyes and looked up at them. Bob knelt beside him.
“Kurt, you’re goin’ to cash,” he said quietly. “Better go out clean. I got a witness here. Tell the truth: who was behind the shootin’ of John Rutherford?”
Kurt gazed steadily up at him, and his eyes, which had dulled, blazed once more. He struggled to speak, and a little bloody froth appeared on his lips. The words came slowly, painfully.
“You go—to hell!”
The big form stiffened, the eyes glazed. Kurt Dodd was dead.
Tomlinson’s foreman sighed. “Some folks are awful contrary.... Well, let’s mosey back and see if they’s any more chores to be done.”
On the way back they met another rider. He proved to be the one who had accompanied the foreman to the middle of the pass. “All over,” he told them laconically. “The boys at the mouth downed two, there’s two more cussin’ their luck in the middle of the Neck, and if you fellas got yores, that accounts for them all.” He flexed his muscles and added cheerfully, “I’d say a nice time was had by all.”
In the middle of the gap they found the body of Pete Grubb. He had been shot while attempting to flee. Tomlinson’s foreman stirred him with the toe of a boot, contemptuously.
“He was just what that fella called him: a rat. Just a common, ord’nary, sneakin’ little rat. And Dodd—well, I reckon you could call him a lion and not miss it by much.”
CHAPTER XVI
DEUCE WINS THE TOSS
SHORTLY after noon of the next day an unexpected procession entered Lariat. At its head rode three men who sagged weakly in their saddles. Each led a horse on which was tied the body of a dead rustler. Behind these rode a group of six disgruntled captives, and bringing up in the rear were three of Tomlinson’s cowboys and Sheriff Bob Lee.
Bob halted the party before the courthouse, ordered the six sound prisoners from their horses, and, calling upon two of Tomlinson’s men to help him, herded them into the building and locked them in cells. Men surrounded Bob as he returned to the street, asking eager questions; but he told them he would give them the story later, and proceeded to conduct his three wounded captives to the office of Doc Weatherspoon. He left two of his companions to guard them while their injuries were being dressed, instructed the other to put the captured horses in the jail corral, and continued down the street with the remaining three animals and their gruesome burdens.
He found the proprietor of the undertaking establishment awaiting him, and, dismounting, busied himself untying the knots which held the dead outlaws in their saddles. A sudden sharp exclamation sounded at his elbow, and he turned swiftly to look into the face of Duke Haslam.
The owner of the Paris had been shocked out of his calm. His face was deathly white, his eyes burning. The dead rustlers were draped over their horses in such positions that Haslam could not see their faces. He nodded jerkily. “Who are they?” he asked.
“One was called ‘Gloomy’; I don’t know his real name. The others are Pete Grubb and Kurt Dodd.”
“Kurt!” There was agony in the blurted word, and Bob realized with some surprise that Haslam was deeply affected.
“Tried to drive a bunch of Tumblin’ T steers through the Bottle Neck. We were layin’ for them and trapped them. Haslam, I’m goin’ to tie you up with this bunch yet. Yo
u might like to know that Kurt died game. He knew he was goin’, but he wouldn’t squeal. He shot Pete to keep him from talkin’.”
For a moment it appeared as if Haslam had lost his nerve; then, quite suddenly, he stiffened and the flame leaped into his eyes again.
“Damn you, Lee!” he said in a low, tense voice. “I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do!” Before Bob could reply he had turned and was walking through the crowd, brushing men roughly from his path in his blind haste.
Bob helped the undertaker carry the bodies into his parlors, then told the curious crowd briefly what had happened. Excitement turned to adulation and he had a difficult time getting away. He finally made his escape with the horses, removed the equipment, and put them in the corral. The wounded men arrived in the company of their guards and were locked up, after which Bob and the Tumbling T men descended upon a restaurant and ordered double portions of steak, hashed brown potatoes, coffee, bread pudding, and apple pie.
The meal finished, Tomlinson’s men started back toward the ranch, and Bob spent an unprofitable afternoon trying to wring information from prisoners who were determined not to talk. They were disgruntled and sullen; none seemed to remember for whom they were working, and all appeared to resent the fact that Bob had been at the Neck when he was supposed to be in Redrock.
He was on his way to supper when Joe Villegas rode in on a lathered pony. The Mexican dropped wearily from his saddle and stumbled across the sidewalk to where Bob had halted.
“I’m mos’ dead from slip,” he apologized. “We ride lak ’ell from tam we get to Redrock.”
“Any luck?”
Joe shrugged. “We ’ave not’ing to go on except they ride east. Eees lak look from needle in smokestack.”
“I reckon so. Well, what do you want to do first; eat or sleep?”
“Me, I’m ’ongry. I’m can eat two, t’ree cow.”
“All right. Come along to the hotel with me. I’ll ride to Redrock in the mornin’. You stay in town and hold down the office. We got nine prisoners caught in the act of rustlin’ cows, and they all seem to think that Sylvester Fish is goin’ to save their necks for them.” Bob told him the story while he cared for Joe’s horse. At the conclusion the Mexican swore softly.
“Seven men keel t’ree, woun’ t’ree, and mak the prisoner of seex! Ees good job, amigo.”
“The seven were Texas men, Joe.”
“Ees mak difference,” Joe admitted loftily. “May be those pipples from Redrock fin’ out w’at Texas men can do. Ace and Deuce they ride out of town weeth me. They t’ink the t’ree ’oldup men come back eef they mak out lak they ride to Lariat.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Bob.
He left for Redrock the next morning, not dreaming that he was riding into tragedy. Before starting he searched all the prisoners again and went over every inch of their cells. Joe was instructed to permit nobody to see the prisoners during his absence. Two day men and a night jailer were on hand to assist the Mexican.
While Bob was holding to a trail gait on his way to Redrock, his two deputies in that neighborhood were camped on the side of a hill which overlooked the little town. Since noon of the day before they had doggedly held their positions, alternating in watching.
Toward evening of the first day they had seen a horseman leave Redrock, and had identified him as the shifty-eyed former deputy of Pete Grubb.
“It shore is amazin’ how far that Duke Haslam’s arm can reach,” observed Ace. “I don’t like the looks of that jigger down there, and I’ll bet six bits against a lead nickel that he’s ridin’ right now to tell Shab and Cole and Dick that we’re on our way to Lariat.”
“I shore hope he does. I’m honin’ for action. Bob, back there at the Bottle Neck, is hoggin’ all the fun while we mess around hills lookin’ for three jiggers that rode east a half day before. East! My gosh; they could be in Georgia now.”
“You ain’t loco enough to think they’ll keep travelin’ east, are you? Betcha if they come back it’ll be from the south. That’s the way this jigger just rode.”
The rest of the afternoon dragged without sign of the three bandits, or, for that matter, of the rider who had left town several hours before. With the approach of darkness the two deputies left their camp and descended to the neighborhood of the town. Separating, one circled Redrock to station himself near the road which entered the village from the south, while the other took a position near the one which led from the north.
Their vigil was in vain, and with the setting of the moon they joined forces and returned to their hill camp for a few hours’ sleep.
“If this keeps up very long we’ll have to give it up as a bad job or show our hand by ridin’ to town for supplies,” said Deuce as they munched a cold breakfast. “Betcha that jigger just rode out to see his sick grandma.”
Ace agreed somberly and stretched out on the edge of the cliff to resume his watch of the town. Almost immediately he reported to Deuce. “That jigger you just mentioned is ridin’ back to town. Comin’ from the south.”
“His grandma must ’a’ got well again,” murmured Deuce.
Mid-morning brought the north-bound stage. It stopped at Redrock for a few minutes, then lumbered out of town on its way to Lariat. The dust of its passage had hardly settled when Ace called Deuce to him.
“Look! To the south there. Three riders. See ’em?”
Deuce squinted against the bright light. “Shore. Three of ’em, or I’m a Chinaman! Big boy, let’s get goin’.”
They discussed plans while they saddled their horses.
“Comin’ in for supplies,” said Deuce. “That means they’re headin’ for the store. Ace, how’ll we tackle ’em? Ride right in a-shootin’?”
“We’d likely scare them off or get plugged ourselves. There’s three to our two, and they can all shoot.”
“We could come in from opposite ends of the street.”
“Then we’d be pluggin’ at each other.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You’d probably hit me; especially if you was aimin’ at somethin’ else. How about you takin’ one alley and me the other? One of us could walk in the back door of the store while the other covered the front.”
“Deuce, sometimes you amaze me by showin’ symptoms of intelligence. I’ll take the alley behind the store and do the walkin’ in on ’em.”
“You will not. You’d likely butt yore brains out on the top of the door frame and save ’em the trouble of shootin’ you. I’ll do the walkin’ in.”
“You ain’t big enough to see over a counter. They’d pepper you while you was huntin’ for a box to stand on.”
“If I’m that little they’d have a hard time hittin’ me at all.”
“And if I’m so danged skinny like you say, I could walk sideways and they couldn’t even see me.”
Deuce fished a quarter from his pocket. “We’ll toss for it. Heads, I take the back door; tails, you take it.” He flipped the coin. “Heads she is. There must be a special Providence guidin’ this affair. You’d be shore to make a mess of it.”
“Aw, you make me tired! When you get in there shoot ’em; don’t try to talk them to death.”
Cautiously they descended to the floor of the valley, seeking every bit of cover so as to avoid being seen by the approaching horsemen. They followed the low spots until they were back of the town. Here it was necessary that Ace circle in order to reach the alley behind the row of buildings on the far side of the street.
Deuce dismounted and tied his horse to a cedar, then made his way to the rear of the store, keeping the building between himself and anyone who might happen to be on the town’s single street. He reached the alley in safety and cautiously peered around a corner of the building.
Presently he heard the measured thud of hoofs, and three men rode into view. His heart gave a leap as he recognized Shab Cannon, Cole Bradshaw, and Dick Markley. They were not wearing masks.
They passed out of Deuce’s range of vision,
and he heard the creak of leather as they swung from their saddles in front of the store. Boots clumped across the sidewalk and up the wooden steps.
Deuce hesitated. Ace had not had sufficient time to reach his position, but to delay very long meant that the three would be bunched in front of the store when the two deputies made their play. Reasoning that Ace would abandon caution and come at a run if he heard a shot, Deuce drew his gun, examined it briefly, more from habit than necessity, and stepped to the rear door.
He raised the latch and pulled. The door swung back noiselessly. Deuce, peering through a crack, saw that it opened behind a pile of merchandise which hid it from those at the front of the store. He slipped through the opening, closed the door carefully, and tiptoeing to the pile of merchandise peered over it. Shab was at the counter and Cole Bradshaw stood in the doorway.
“A sack of flour,” ordered Shab.
The storekeeper nodded and started for the rear of the store. Deuce swore under his breath. The merchandise behind which he was hiding consisted of sack upon sack of flour!
A dozen paces from him, the storekeeper halted, staring. Vainly Deuce signaled for silence. In the gloom the man did not recognize him.
“Come out of that!” he snapped. “Who are you?”.
Both Shab and Bradshaw tensed, their hands flashing to guns.
Deuce leaped from behind the sacks. “Put ’em up !”
Neither man obeyed. Shab, cursing, fired, the report blending with that of Deuce’s gun. Deuce felt a searing blow on his left thigh at the same instant he saw the dust spurt from the calfskin vest. Shab uttered a hoarse bellow and staggered backward, still thumbing his hammer. The slugs went wild, but close enough for Deuce to hear their vicious scream. He fired again, saw the dust spurt from the calfskin vest once more.
Bradshaw, at the door, had had no chance to shoot because Shab stood between him and the deputy. Now he leaped forward as Shab was about to collapse, and, circling him with his left arm, started pumping lead at Deuce. A heavy slug struck Deuce on the shoulder with terrific impact and knocked him down. When he tried to raise his gun his arm muscles refused to obey his will.
Texas Men Page 15
