The 8th Western Novel

by Dean Owen

  “You Anchor men put down your guns,” Sheriff Dort ordered. “Somebody cut Jellick loose.”

  Rim shook his head. “You have no right to interfere. In our eyes this is a legal execution.”

  “If Jellick slips off that barrel,” Sheriff Dort warned, “I’ll see you hang for murder.”

  “Murder? Evidently you don’t know the meaning of the word.” Rim’s gaze was bitter. “After all the killing Jellick has done—at Ward’s instigation.”

  “I’ve come with warrants, Bolden,” the sheriff said and from his pocket drew two legal-looking documents. “One for you.”

  “And what’s the charge?” Rim demanded, wondering if he could prolong this sufficiently to give himself time to consider a way out. At present there seemed none. Not unless he gave the word and they started to slaughter each other.

  “You killed two of Ward’s men,” the sheriff said. “Tut Tyler and a man named Elson. That’s what your warrant is for.”

  “They fired on me first.”

  “Ward says no. Anyhow, that’s for a jury to decide.” Dort looked around. “Where’s Stallart? I’m arresting him for the murder of his brother back in Kansas. I’ll personally escort him there.”

  Rim felt the slow beat of his pulse. He tried to listen for the sound of hoofs and wheels he had heard a minute or so ago. Only silence now. A man sneezed. There was the metallic click as a shell was levered into a rifle. The tension was thicker in the yard than Texas dust.

  The Anchor men were watching him, waiting for some sign. He knew if he gave the word there would be carnage. Ward had the law on his side, no mistake about that. In the posse were townsmen. He recognized Allie Grindge of the Jewel Saloon, peering at him through his steel-rimmed spectacles. There was Harris from the Mountain Store and Perkins from the livery.

  “It’s best to let the sheriff do it his way, Rim,” Allie Grindge said. “We got enough trouble around here as it is. You’ll git a fair trial.”

  “As much chance of that as there’d be of one day voting Sherman mayor of Atlanta,” he told the saloonman. “Get back to the Jewel, Allie, and take the rest of the boys with you.”

  “It’s where I should be,” Grindge said. “A lot of us are losing money being here. The outfits south of town have finished roundup. The town’s full—”

  “Hurry, Allie,” Rim said from a corner of his mouth, “or you might lose four dollars worth of whisky business.”

  Grindge flushed. “Rim, you got no right—”

  “Shut up, Allie,” the sheriff said impatiently.

  A shaggy head suddenly appeared in an upstairs window. A rifle barrel was shoved through the opening. Bert Stallart said in a voice that was little more than a harsh whisper, “Sheriff, you stand hitched or you’ll be dead as my brother-in-law Willie.”

  Dort swung around, his face going slack as he saw Bert Stallart lying flat on a bed shoved against the open window. Stallart’s face was without its usual coloring, and the mouth under the downsweeping mustache seemed taut with pain.

  “Pick him off!” Eric Ward shouted, but the sheriff warned, “Hold it, Eric. Damn it, I’m the one he’s got the rifle on. Not you. Stallart, now you listen here to me. I got a warrant—”

  “You eat that goddam warrant,” Stallart said. Rim, watching his partner tensely, saw the rifle barrel trembling in Stallart’s grasp. Hold it, Rim urged silently. Just one more minute. He started edging toward Dort, eying the man’s revolver, intending to knock it out of the man’s hand.

  But at that moment he saw Stallart stiffened and glance behind him. A shrill female voice said from the room, “Get on your feet, Uncle Bert. Get up and walk. Like you’re going to do when you climb the gallows for killing my father!”

  And Rim saw Ellamae framed in the window behind Bert Stallart. Saw the yellow hat with the feather in it, the bright yellow dress. The white-powdered face with its garish smear of lip paint. In her right hand she held a small ladies’ revolver pointed at her uncle’s back.

  Stallart turned, made a grab for her, but the pain of his wounds must have been too much. He collapsed across the bed, and the rifle clattered down into the yard.

  It had all taken just a few seconds, but it seemed like an age to Rim. As he saw the rifle slip from his partner’s grasp he drew his gun, got in behind the sheriff. But Pete Prentiss fired, and the bullet touched the buckle of Rim’s belt, denting it. The force of the blow knocked him down. As the bullet screamed in ricochet he heard Ed Rule grunt behind him. Dazed, Rim picked himself up, saw the ring of guns facing him. Saw Ed Rule sitting on the ground. The cook’s right arm pumped a steady scarlet stream. A wisp of smoke drift from the muzzle of the one-eyed Pete Prentiss’ gun. Prentiss shifted the weapon to cover Rim, drew back the hammer for another shot.

  But Sheriff Dort managed to say shakily, “Hold it, Prentiss!” He came up, kicked Rim’s gun aside.

  It took Rim several moments to get his breath. He felt nausea grip him and he wanted to lie down in the dust and retch. Only the slight shifting of aim, and the bullet would have torn into his stomach.

  He tried to anchor his feet into the ground but the world seemed to tilt under him. He saw everyone looking toward the house, and turned. Bert Stallart, hunched over, looking a hundred years old, limped out of the house. He was clad only in pants and socks. His upper body was covered by a thick bandage. The wound at his thigh had come open, staining the leg of his pants.

  Behind him came Marcy and April, their hands lifted. Ellamae, still gripping her revolver, said, “Here’s my dear uncle, Sheriff. Take him.”

  Stallart’s bad leg went out from under him at that moment, and he pitched over into the yard. With a small cry Marcy sprang forward. She sank down, cradling her husband’s head in her lap. She glared at Ellamae in the doorway. “You fool. You poor, poor fool.”

  “He killed my father!”

  Not a man in the yard moved when Stallart managed to lift his head. “I did kill—your father,” Stallart said haltingly. “It was—accident. Paul—he was no good—he ruined your mother’s life—After you was born she didn’t want to live—she just give up. Your pa the same as killed her—”

  “I don’t believe you!” Ellamae cried.

  “It’s—it’s God’s truth.”

  April, tears streaming down her face, cried, “Eric, do something! This is wrong. You know it is.”

  “It’s out of my hands,” Ward said. “Keep out of it. Let the law take its course.”

  Ward drew a knife, the blade flashing in the sunlight. He stepped toward Jellick, intending to cut him loose.

  Rim said, “Maybe you won’t be so anxious when I tell you what we found him trying to do to your sister.”

  Ward’s face darkened and he shot a glance at Jellick, sweating up on the barrel. Then he looked around at Rim, his lips twisting. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  April cried, “But it’s true, Eric!”

  He ignored her and stood on tiptoe and started to saw the knife blade through the thongs that bound Jellick’s wrists.

  Ignoring his danger in the sudden rage that engulfed him, Rim sprang for Ward. He caught the man by an arm. Muttering an oath, Ward fell back, tried to slash Rim’s face with the knife. But Rim drove him back against the bunkhouse wall. Ward came at him again, landing solidly on the ribs that Jellick’s fists had battered so unmercifully in their fight. Rim fell back, nearly upsetting the barrel. There was a gasp from the men, a strange animal-like cry from behind Jellick’s gag.

  Three men climbed Rim’s back. They bore him to the ground, face down. A man kneeled on each arm. The third man held his legs.

  Sheriff Dort warned, swinging his gun to cover the Anchor men in the yard, “I don’t want to kill anybody, but I will if I have to. This is a legal posse. If one of ’em is even scratched Anchor is goin’ to pay. There’ll be dead men in this yard. Bolden, te
ll your men to drop their guns.”

  “All right, boys,” Rim said. “We’ve got no choice—for now.”

  Marcy Stallart stepped around Ellamae, who still held her revolver. Ellamae, staring at her uncle on the ground, made no attempt to stop Marcy. And behind Marcy came a pale but resolute April.

  As Rim was hauled to his feet, he saw Marcy shaking a fist under the sheriff’s nose. “You’re a bungler, Sheriff Dort. Can’t you understand what Eric Ward is trying to do.”

  “I only know this, ma’am—”

  “Sheriff, arrest Jellick,” April Ward said breathlessly, crowding forward. “He’s the only guilty man here.”

  “I got warrants,” the sheriff said doggedly. “I only want Rim Bolden to come peaceable to town. Judge Mitchell is here now and Bolden’s lucky he can have a trial tomorrow.”

  Allie Grindge said, “Rim, we like both you young fellas. You and Ward. But we ain’t goin’ to let that stand in our way. We’ll listen to the facts, us that’s on the jury.”

  “I can see that,” Rim said coldly.

  “You got nothin’ to fear if you tell the truth,” the saloonman persisted. “Now you come along, Rim. Damn it, the town will look like Fourth of July tonight and we’re businessmen. We are doin’ this posse work as a favor to the sheriff—”

  “But no favor to me,” Rim said, and felt of the dented buckle where a bullet had come so near to taking his life only a few short heartbeats ago.

  “Rim, you come with us,” Allie Grindge went on. “You’ll git a fair trial.”

  “You make it sound as easy as taking a drink of your whisky,” Rim said, his voice heavy with bitterness.

  Marcy Stallart’s mouth was a thin pale line across the lower part of her face. “Sheriff, I heard you mention a warrant for my husband.”

  “For murderin’ his brother in Kansas.”

  “You can’t take him now. He’s been wounded.” Marcy’s lips trembled. “If you move him and he dies, it’s your responsibility.”

  “If he dies,” the sheriff said, “it might be better all around. If what Ward tells me is true. And I reckon it is.”

  Ellamae, standing by the kitchen door, had let the revolver sag in her right hand. She lifted her gaze from her uncle lying in the yard, and looked at Ward. “Tell me it’s the truth, Ward. You were telling it big in town.”

  “It’s the truth,” Ward said. “Now let’s get—”

  Ellamae cut in, “I ought to hate my uncle enough as it is, throwing me out of his house because I had a kid. But if he killed my father I hope he dies slow and terrible.”

  Stallart twisted his shaggy head, looked back at his niece. “I tell you again. Your mother was a good woman. Your pa was no good. He took my first wife. He—the gun went off like I told you.”

  Eric Ward removed his hat and looked at Marcy Stallart who stood tall, her chin lifted. “I want you to know, Mrs. Stallart,” Ward said, “that this isn’t my doing. Jellick is the one who told of a crime committed back in Kansas. I only repeated in town the things he said.”

  Marcy only glared at him.

  Rim felt more vulnerable than at any time in his life. With a man gripping each wrist and another behind him he felt helpless. His gun was gone. He had expected Meade Jellick to make some retort when Ward tried to shift the blame to him, for Marcy’s benefit. But Jellick said nothing. He stood some distance away, his eyes sullen, rubbing the circulation back into his wrists. The severed thongs lay at his feet, beside the ropes that had bound his ankles.

  Sheriff Dort had been arguing with Marcy and now he walked over to where Bert Stallart lay on the ground. He started to haul the rancher to his feet.

  “Leave him alone,” Marcy said crisply.

  “Mrs. Stallart, I don’t like this worth a damn,” Sheriff Dort said, and sounded genuinely regretful. “But I got no choice. I’m sworn to uphold the law—”

  “Law,” Marcy said through her teeth. “My husband is telling the truth. I’ll stake my life on it. He killed his brother accidentally in a fight over a gun. After that brother broke up his home—”

  “I got nothing to do with that,” Dort said. “I hear a jury voted him guilty. I—”

  Rim, watching the sheriff and Marcy from a corner of his eye, noted that the attention of every man in the yard was riveted on them. A tenseness had thickened over the ranch The posse had one end of the yard blocked off. From behind him Rim could hear Ed Rule cursing as the cook managed to get a bandanna around the hole in his arm.

  Rim eyed the man on his left. The man was gripping Rim’s left wrist. The man’s holstered gun was close, so very close. With a sudden wrenching of his body, Rim ripped his wrists free of his captors, lunged forward, breaking the hold of the man at his back who had him by the belt. He slammed into the man on his right, knocking the man down. Somebody shouted. The sheriff yelled a warning, but Rim was in a headlong dive toward the man on his left. His fingertips brushed the heel plates of the holstered gun, but that was all. Something crashed down on him.

  He felt himself falling.

  April was sobbing, “You’ve hurt him! You’ve hurt him!”

  His hands were drawn behind his back and securely tied with strips of rawhide. His mind drifted into blackness, then into light. In and out, like a tide.

  Then it seemed much later that he heard Bert Stallart’s tired voice, “I can make it, Marcy. Don’t worry about me none.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “You stay here, Marcy. Boys, help me into the wagon.”

  Then Rim was aware that he was in a jolting wagon and that Bert Stallart kept talking to him. But Rim couldn’t make much sense out of what he said. He realized he lay in one of the Anchor wagons, the one with the high sideboards. There was loose hay on the bed under him. He heard other voices now and the sound of horses moving beside the wagon. His mind gradually cleared. He got an elbow under him, feeling the narrow leathers cutting into his wrists. Even this slight movement set up a terrible pounding in his skull.

  Rim heard men arguing. He cocked his head, trying to hear. He had the feeling that if he tilted his head too far it would slide off his neck and go bouncing back along the dusty road they climbed.

  The wagon halted. The driver sat with elbows on knees, holding the reins. Rim moved his head, staring up at the high seat. The man was Pete Prentiss. Rim could tell because he saw the dirty string across the back of the man’s head that held the eyepatch in place.

  The wagon moved again and Allie Grindge said peevishly, “Why can’t we hurry it up, Sheriff? We’re losing money by not being in town.”

  “We can’t go no faster with this wagon,” Sheriff Dort said irritably. “This whole business is makin’ me sick to my stomach.”

  “Easy there, Dort,” Rim heard Eric Ward say. “You’ve got your duty to perform.”

  Rim felt something nudge him and he looked around. Bert Stallart’s eyes were open. He lay on his side. His wrists were manacled in front. “Turn your back to me, Rim,” Stallart whispered.

  A faint hope lifted in Rim. He looked around. He couldn’t see anybody because the riders were in front of the wagon and at the side. The high sideboards hid them from view. Only Pete Prentiss, if he glanced around, could see what was going on. But Prentiss kept his eye on the team pulling the heavy wagon up the grade.

  Rim felt Stallart’s strong teeth begin to work on the leather thongs. Once Stallart’s teeth pinched the skin and Rim winced. But he made no outcry. It was the least of his hurts, anyway. His head was pounding from being struck down. And his stomach seemed to be one large bruise from the bullet that had ricocheted off his belt buckle. The sky was darkening. He saw a flare of light through a crack in the sideboards as a man touched match to cold cigar.

  The wagon halted again and there was more argument.

  Then Sheriff Dort said tiredly, “All right. You
boys got business in town. And some of you got families to tend to. You go on ahead. We’ll be all right now. Can’t move fast anyhow ’cause we might bust open Stallart’s wounds. And I promised Mrs. Stallart we’d go easy.”

  “Got to save him for hangin’,” the one-eyed Pete Prentiss said from the wagon seat.

  There was the sound of more voices and Rim whispered, “Faster, Bert. For God’s sake—”

  He felt the leather thongs part. He lay very still, trying to hear what the men were saying out there. Then Allie Grindge said, “Let’s go, boys. The sheriff can handle it.”

  Rim cried, “Allie, goddam it, don’t leave us out here!”

  He hoped fervently that Allie Grindge would push his horse up to the back of the wagon where the tailgate was down. Rim had it planned in his mind. He’d try and pull the saloonman from the saddle and at the same time grab his gun.

  But Grindge rode up to the right side of the wagon. He stood up in the stirrups peering down through his spectacles. “It’s all right, Rim. You got the sheriff to look out for you. And I do have a big night tonight. Lots of fellas in town—”

  “Are a few dollars in the till worth a man’s life, Allie?”

  The sheriff came up then and said something to Grindge.

  Eric Ward said, “Pete and Jellick and I can handle things. The rest of my boys go in with Grindge and the others. We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rim lay quietly, hands behind his back so if any of them looked in they would think he was still tied. There were the sounds of a general exodus. Riders moved away from the wagon at a gallop. Silently Rim cursed Allie Grindge. Why hadn’t Grindge come to the rear of the wagon where a man could get his hands on a weapon?

  Then he heard Sheriff Dort say, “All right, we’re alone now, Eric. What’s this about a plan? It better be a good one.”

  “You know that you’re in this pretty deep,” Ward said smoothly. “We can say that you played along so that we could smash Anchor and get ourselves a herd to sell to your brother at Fort Slaughter.”