by Ralph Cotton
‘‘I understand, Your Honor,’’ said Price. ‘‘I’ll do whatever you want me to do—’’
‘‘Are you sure he wasn’t under arrest, maybe for starting the fire—maybe being held for questioning about the fire, or the shooting, or for some damn thing?’’ The judge tossed a hand in frustration.
‘‘No, Your Honor,’’ Price said, shaking his head. ‘‘I never arrested him for anything.’’
The two fell silent as the coach stopped at a freestanding stone building in the shade of an ancient native oak behind the Bottoms Up Saloon and Brothel. Price stepped out quickly and opened the thick door of the cooling house for the large ambling judge.
‘‘Allow me, Your Honor,’’ he said, feeling the coolness from blocks of ice stacked against every wall. The judge stopped as Price reached out and lifted the edge of a stiff gray tarpaulin covering Davin Bass’s charred remains.
‘‘Oh my,’’ the judge said, swooning weakly at the sight of his own flesh and blood roasted to a crisp, the bullet holes hard to see in the blackened sunken chest cavity.
‘‘As cooked as he is,’’ Price said, trying to speak gently but failing at it, ‘‘we wouldn’t have had to keep him cooled this way. I did it out of respect for you.’’
Judge Bass jerked a neatly folded handkerchief from inside his black swallow-tailed coat and pressed it to his nose and mouth. ‘‘Poor Davin . . . poor, poor Davin,’’ he murmured. He paused, but only for a moment, then breathed deep and asked, ‘‘What about the other people you mentioned—the surveyor, the miner?’’
‘‘The surveyor was burnt up too,’’ said Price. ‘‘We went ahead and got him into the ground straightaway. The miner is gone back over to Cleopatra Hill to work the copper holdings. He was too drunk to see anything. Anyway, Texas Bob dragged him out, so he thinks Texas Bob is the next step from a perfect saint.’’
‘‘I see,’’ said the judge, his hands tightening in controlled rage. ‘‘The women all love Texas Bob, and the miner worships him. Quite a pat hand Texas Bob Krey has had dealt him here, isn’t it?’’
‘‘I’m just telling you how things are, Your Honor,’’ said Price, still holding the corner of the tarpaulin up.
‘‘Cover him, Deputy,’’ the judge said briskly. ‘‘I’ve seen enough.’’
They walked back to the coach and the judge said as the driver stood to the side and opened the door for them, ‘‘Don’t let me put words in your mouth, Deputy, but think real hard. In the heat of ensuing events—a shooting, a raging fire—is it possible you might have told Texas Bob he was under arrest and it slipped your mind until just now?’’
Price stared at the judge for a moment as they seated themselves and the coach door closed behind them. Nodding in thought, making sure he understood what the judge wanted, he said, ‘‘As a matter of fact I did, Your Honor. I—I told him he was being held until the sheriff returned from over in Jerome.’’
The deputy looked relieved, knowing that no matter how he had mishandled and mistreated Texas Bob, he now had the law on his side. He could go to court if need be and tell the story as it had actually happened, adding only that he’d told Texas Bob he was under arrest. ‘‘Thank you, Your Honor. I knew Texas Bob ought to be dealt with in the sternest legal manner. I just didn’t understand how it should come about, legally speaking.’’
‘‘But now you do, so there you have it,’’ said the judge. ‘‘Texas Bob is wanted for jailbreak, plain and simple. I’m sending out a telegram to all territorial law enforcement. This man has fled to avoid being implicated in the serious crime of arson, perhaps even murder.’’ The judge took a deep breath of satisfaction. ‘‘Now then, I will have him caught and brought before my bench. We’ll see how fair this alleged fair fight really was. I can take any fair fight and break it down so that whoever I want to see guilty is guilty, beyond a shadow of a doubt. The law knows how to deal with troublemakers like Texas Bob.’’
On the way back to the sheriff’s office, Price saw Lepov stepping up into his saddle in front of the Bottoms Up. He wanted to jump out of the coach and go tell him to forget about killing Texas Bob—the deal was off. Give the money back! But he didn’t. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and remained calm. Sometimes things just had a way of playing themselves out, he told himself, relaxing in the soft coach seat and watching as faces turned toward him and the judge from all along the dirt street.
Sam had first heard the sound of horses’ hooves an hour earlier, moving behind him in the dry brush. Now, in the long shadows of evening, he heard it again as he gathered deadfall limbs, stacked them and built a campfire. A few feet away Tommy Rojo sat leaning back against a tree rolling himself a smoke, not offering to help with the campsite.
But that was all right with the ranger. He’d rather have Rojo sitting still where he could keep an eye on him. Looking over at Rojo, Sam could tell by the expression on his face that he too had heard the sound. Rojo gave him a wary look. ‘‘Visitors,’’ he whispered.
‘‘Start talking,’’ Sam said quietly, easing his Colt from its holster.
Seeing the revolver, Rojo raised both hands chest high, and said, ‘‘Whoa, Ranger! I’ve got nothing to do with whoever is out there! I swear it.’’
‘‘That’s not what I mean,’’ said Sam, almost in a whisper himself. As he spoke he piled his blanket up against his saddle lying on the ground and laid his sombrero atop it. ‘‘I want you to start talking to me about something.’’
‘‘About what?’’ Rojo looked confused.
‘‘Anything,’’ Sam said, stepping sideways away from the growing firelight and into the shadowy evening darkness. Seeing Rojo scratch his head, the ranger prompted him, saying, ‘‘Tell me about how you grew up.’’ He stepped back out of the small clearing into the darkness of trees and brush.
‘‘Well now, let me see,’’ said Rojo, not comfortable with revealing anything about himself, especially to a lawman. ‘‘Uh—I grew up in Missouri, outside of Springfield, I believe it was . . .’’
Sam shook his head, realizing that Rojo was making up every word of it. But that didn’t matter, he thought, only partially listening as the young man began to rattle on. ‘‘We was all good children, my brothers and me,’’ Rojo continued, ‘‘although we got blamed for everything bad that happened . . .’’
Sam listened to the sound of slow-moving hooves in the dried brush. When the sound stopped, he peeped around the tree hiding him and watched a rider step down, hitch his horse to a sapling and draw a rifle from a saddle boot. Sam slowly cocked the Colt against the leg of his trousers, muffling the metal-against-metal click. Then he waited silently, his back against the large native oak, until he saw the dark figure move past him and stop less than three feet away. From their hidden positions both the ranger and the intruder stood listening to Tommy Rojo’s conversation.
‘‘I remember we got blamed for throwing a hornets’ nest into a church house and jerking the supports out from under a walk bridge across a creek,’’ Tommy continued. ‘‘Once they even tried to blame me for stealing the bell off the schoolhouse and trying to sell it to a band of horse gypsies—’’
‘‘Nobody make a move, or you are dead!’’ the dark figure called out in the midst of Rojo’s ramblings, stepping out quickly and pointing his rifle back and forth between Rojo and the ranger’s sombrero lying atop the saddle on the ground. Seeing Rojo raise his hands in surprise, the dark figure shouted to the sombrero, ‘‘You! On your feet! One false move and you die!’’
From against the tree Rojo saw the man stiffen and freeze as the tip of the ranger’s Colt jammed against the back of his head. ‘‘Drop the rifle, or drop with it,’’ the ranger said in a calm but firm tone.
The rifle plopped to the dirt. ‘‘You are making a big mistake, you vermine,’’ said Lepov. His neck poker straight, his eyes straining sidelong for a look at who stood behind him, he added, ‘‘I am not a man you want to ambush from behind.’’
‘‘I’ll keep it i
n mind,’’ Sam said quietly. He pulled a sleek Colt from Lepov’s tied-down holster and pitched it forward beside the discarded rifle. He reached around Lepov’s waist from behind, pulled a big British army revolver from the gunman’s belt and pitched it to the ground with the other two firearms.
Lepov’s fiery tone cooled a bit when he saw his big guns hit the ground. ‘‘Listen to me, monsieur. If you let me go this instant, I promise I will not seek retribution against you.’’
‘‘I’ll keep that in mind too,’’ said Sam. He reached his hand up under Lepov’s black cape and pulled a navy Colt from a shoulder holster.
The dark French Canadian let out a sigh of resignation as he saw his last weapon hit the ground. Across the fire by the tree, Tommy Rojo puffed his cigarette and said to Lepov, ‘‘It’s hard to hide things from him.’’
Lepov’s eyes went to Sealey’s body lying over by the horses. ‘‘Mon ami,’’ he said over his shoulder, his attitude having changed quickly. ‘‘I wish you gentlemen no harm. I am searching for a vicious killer. Perhaps you will be kind enough to help me?’’
‘‘Huh.’’ Rojo blew a stream of smoke. ‘‘How do you know one of us ain’t that vicious killer?’’
Lepov fell silent.
‘‘We’re not, though,’’ Sam said behind him. ‘‘I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack.’’ He gave Lepov a nudge forward with his gun barrel. ‘‘Take a seat. Tell us about this vicious killer you’re searching for and why you’re out here slipping up on folks in the dark.’’
‘‘Burrack?’’ said Lepov. ‘‘I have heard much about you, Ranger.’’ He stepped forward and turned around facing the ranger, his hands coming down only slightly. ‘‘You have made yourself known and respected, keeping the law and order here in this blasted furnace of a place.’’ He sank down beside Rojo.
Sam ignored the praise and asked, ‘‘Who is this vicious killer and why are you hunting him?’’
‘‘I am Raul Lepov. I am commissioned by the deputy of Sibley to find Cawboy Bob Krey—a cold-blooded killer—and bring him to justice.’’
‘‘I’ve heard of you too, Lepov,’’ Sam replied. ‘‘I take it you mean Texas Bob Krey, not Cowboy Bob. Texas Bob Krey is no cold-blooded killer.’’ He looked Lepov up and down appraisingly. ‘‘And since no deputy sheriff has the power to commission anybody to do anything that I know of, I take it that by justice you mean you’re out to kill Texas Bob.’’ He stared pointedly at him. ‘‘Am I understanding it right so far, Lepov?’’
Lepov hedged a bit. ‘‘I think I did not make myself clear. I am being paid by an officer of the law to find Caw— I mean Texas Bob, and see to it that justice is served.’’
‘‘I’m tired of fooling with you, Lepov. Talk straight, if you can.’’ Sam said forcefully. ‘‘The deputy in Sibley is paying you to kill Texas Bob. Why?’’
‘‘I will tell you everything,’’ Lepov said. He took a breath and told the ranger the whole story—about how Texas Bob had killed Judge Bass’s brother, about Lady Lucky being wounded, and about how Texas Bob and Mary Alice had unlocked the cell and Bob had walked out of the Sibley town jail.
‘‘My, my.’’ Sam shook his head when Lepov had finished the tale. ‘‘I can see why Texas Bob lit out,’’ he said, speaking more to himself than to Lepov. But then he caught himself, looked at Lepov and said, ‘‘I can’t tell you not to go after Bob Krey. But I’ll tell you this: If you kill him, you’ll have to answer to the law for it.’’
Lepov shrugged and grinned smugly. ‘‘You Americans and your laws are so funny. It is the law who is paying me to kill Cawboy Bob, Ranger.’’
‘‘Texas Bob,’’ Sam said, correcting him again. ‘‘You’re free to go, Lepov. The sooner the better,’’ he added, seeing the gunman eyeing the coffeepot sitting beside the fire. ‘‘Don’t come sneaking around here again. That’s your only warning.’’
Lepov stood up with a sigh and pointed at his guns lying in the dirt. ‘‘My weapons?’’
‘‘Leave them be,’’ said Sam. ‘‘Pick them up in the morning after we’re gone.’’
‘‘No, no, I must have them right now, this instant,’’ Lepov insisted, shaking his head. ‘‘I cannot pick them up tomorrow. That is out of the question.’’
‘‘Pick them up tomorrow,’’ Sam said strongly. ‘‘The only question is do you want to pick them up off the ground or up out of a deep creek?’’
‘‘But what about tonight?’’ said Lepov. ‘‘I will be alone in this dark wilderness, with no way to protect myself!’’
‘‘Are you afraid of the dark, Lepov?’’ Tommy Rojo cut in.
‘‘Shut up, Rojo,’’ Sam said.
‘‘I caution you not to insult me, monsieur,’’ Lepov said, pointing a finger at Rojo.
‘‘Get out of here, Lepov,’’ Sam said, to keep down any trouble between the two. ‘‘You’ll get your firearms back in the morning. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re unarmed for the night.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Rojo. ‘‘If anything bothers you out there tonight, start squealing real loud. We’ll come protect you.’’
‘‘That’s enough out of you,’’ Sam said, giving Rojo a harsh stare, but keeping an eye on Lepov as he walked back into the brush, cursing Rojo and the ranger under his breath.
‘‘Sorry, Ranger,’’ Rojo said, puffing on his short cigarette. ‘‘But now that I’m a bounty man myself, I don’t want the competition coming around crowding me—’specially some high-handed Frenchy at that.’’
Paying no attention to Rojo, Sam stared off in the direction the French gunman had taken and commented to himself, ‘‘We’ll be riding into Sibley come morning. I’ll see what this is about with Texas Bob. He’s no killer, I know that much already.’’
‘‘Maybe he wasn’t to begin with,’’ said Rojo. ‘‘But a man gets the wrong kind of lawmen down on him, they can turn him into a killer quicker than you can slap a cat.’’
Still staring off after Lepov, the ranger considered everything the Frenchman had told them and said, ‘‘I wouldn’t agree with you on many things, Tommy Rojo, but in this case, you might be right.’’
Chapter 4
Deputy Claude Price stood slumped at the bar of the Rambling Dutchman Saloon, a large ragged tent that was the last in a long line of drinking establishments reaching to the outskirts of Sibley. Damn it all. He shook his head and tossed back a burning mouthful of rye whiskey. A dirty canvas bag hung on its strap from his shoulder. How did I let things go so far? he mused silently, shaking his bowed head.
Frisco Phil Page, the day bartender at the Rambling Dutchman, stepped forward, refilled Price’s shot glass and asked, ‘‘Just how serious is the judge about wanting revenge for ole Davin getting cooked like a pig?’’
‘‘Why, Frisco?’’ Price stared at him, raised the filled glass and drank half of it. ‘‘Are you in some position of remedy? Is there some service you have to offer?’’ He gave a sarcastic look, the shots of rye starting to go to his head.
‘‘I might be, when the money gets right,’’ said Frisco, a big Colt sticking up from behind a red sash around his waist, a bar towel hanging around its butt. ‘‘I wouldn’t kill a man on the cheap.’’ As he spoke he pulled the towel up and wiped it back and forth along the pine bar top, causing flies to rise up in a swirl of protest. ‘‘But I would kill Texas Bob graveyard dead to raise myself a stake and get out of the pig dump.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’ Price said flatly.
‘‘Yes, it is so,’’ said Frisco Phil, not being put off by Price’s attitude. He stopped wiping the bar top. ‘‘And stop giving me your ‘better than I am’ belligerence. You’re nothing but a blacksmith wearing a tin badge.’’
‘‘Yeah, and you’re a day bartender for Vinten Kriek, the Rambling Dutchman, a sick old lunger who’s ready to catch a face full of dirt any day.’’ He tapped his finger on the bar. ‘‘You best keep pouring and leave the law work to me.’’
‘‘I’m pouring you
r drinks for free, blacksmith, so get civil or get out,’’ Frisco Phil countered, thumbing himself on the chest. He picked up the bottle of rye sitting near Price’s glass and appeared ready to cork it and put it away.
‘‘All right, I apologize,’’ said Price. ‘‘Keep pouring . . . I’m obliged to you. I’m just out of sorts right now. The judge is driving me crazy.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ Seeing the relenting look come to Price’s face, Frisco said, ‘‘Then how about me and you teaming up and cashing in on the judge’s grief?’’
Price considered it, nodding, looking at the bottle of rye. ‘‘I don’t see how,’’ he said, raising the dirty canvas bag and plopping it down on the bar. Flies rose and swirled. ‘‘Here, take one. You’ll see what I mean.’’ A few leaflets slid out onto the bar top.
Frisco Phil picked one up and looked it over, his lips moving as he read under his breath.
‘‘He’s got me hammering these up all over town.’’ Price growled with discontent.
‘‘Two hundred dollars? Forget it.’’ He let the leaflet fall back to the bar. ‘‘That doesn’t sound very serious to me.’’ He reached the bottle out and topped off Price’s half-empty shot glass.
‘‘Me neither,’’ said Price, thinking about having already spent his savings on the French gunman.
‘‘But maybe this is just to stir up a few gunmen and get them hounding Texas Bob’s trail,’’ said Frisco.
‘‘Oh?’’ said Price. ‘‘You think?’’
Frisco shrugged. ‘‘I think nobody is going to bring Texas Bob in for two hundred dollars.’’ He smiled. ‘‘You’ve got the judge’s ear. Once he sees nobody is going to find Texas Bob, let alone kill him, what do you suppose he’d really pay to see Texas Bob slung facedown over a saddle, both eyes bugging out of their sockets?’’
Price eyed him curiously. ‘‘If nobody else can find him, what makes you think we can?’’
‘‘I know where he holes up,’’ said Frisco, his voice dropping lower even though there were no other customers to hear him. ‘‘Once when I was out scouting a copper claim, I followed him over three miles through the long pines, him not knowing I was there.’’
