by Ralph Cotton
‘‘Yeah, but I didn’t,’’ said Bob. ‘‘I’d be a fool to go out there handcuffed with you two. You can put those away or lock me back in the cell.’’ He decided that his next move would be to take Price to the floor, knock him cold and make his getaway alone if he had to. He took half a step forward.
‘‘No matter. Let’s go,’’ said Price, stepping aside, offering no argument on the matter. The two slipped out the door onto the dark empty boardwalk and around the corner of the building. ‘‘I also need a gun,’’ Bob said.
‘‘You’ll have to ask Frisco,’’ Price said, to Bob’s surprise.
A few yards down a dark alley running between the sheriff’s office and a land title building, Frisco called out in a low whisper, ‘‘Ask me what?’’
‘‘He wants to know if he can have a gun,’’ Price said, slowing to a halt, letting Bob get a couple of steps ahead of him.
‘‘A gun?’’ Frisco chuckled. ‘‘Not on your life, Texas Bob.’’ He stepped out from a group of four horses. Even in the darkness, Texas Bob could see his forearm crooked around Mary Alice’s neck. ‘‘But just so’s everybody gets the right idea about who’s in charge here, tell your boyfriend what I’ve got sticking against the side of your head.’’
Bob froze in midstep. Mary Alice gasped and struggled against Frisco’s arm. But he held her tight. ‘‘You better tell, Dovey,’’ he warned her. ‘‘Before he tries something stupid and gets you both killed.’’
‘‘He’s—he’s got a gun to my head, Tex,’’ Mary Alice said breathlessly. ‘‘Turn and run! Get away! Please don’t try to—’’
‘‘Whoa now!’’ said Frisco, cutting her off with a hard press of his forearm against her throat. ‘‘Enough of that kind of talk!’’
‘‘Turn her loose, Frisco!’’ Texas Bob demanded. ‘‘I’m keeping my part of the deal! You don’t need her!’’
‘‘Oh, you’re going to keep your part of the deal all right,’’ Frisco said, cocking the pistol against Mary Alice’s head. ‘‘But with my gun against the dove’s head, let’s just say your heart will be more into it.’’
Texas Bob stared, trying to figure his next move. Behind him, Price stepped in, stuck a gun into the small of his back and jiggled the handcuffs on his finger. ‘‘Put your wrists together in front of you, Texas Bob,’’ he said with sarcasm. ‘‘Let’s see how these babies fit.’’
Across the street in a darkened room of the Markwell Hotel, the ranger sat at the window in a straight-backed chair, watching the dark mouth of the alley entrance. A moment earlier, he’d seen Texas Bob and Claude Price slip out of the sheriff’s office and around the corner of the building. His face showed no expression of surprise, only a keen interest.
Wearing the same look of rapt interest, the big dog sat at the window ledge staring down as if he knew full well some sort of plan was afoot. ‘‘Easy, boy. He’s all right,’’ Sam had whispered, hearing a low whine when the animal caught sight of Texas Bob moving along the boardwalk, then disappearing from sight. The ranger’s gloved hand reached out, patted the dog’s big shaggy head reassuringly, then rested there.
A moment later the dog turned his head from the window and faced Sam in the darkness, whining long and low, as if asking the ranger’s permission. With his free hand, Sam picked up a piece of jerked beef from a plate and held it down to the dog’s wet cold muzzle. ‘‘This isn’t your fight,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘Here, have some supper, rest yourself. I’ll bring him back to you.’’
Chapter 23
When Andrej Goran heard the first soft clink of a horse’s iron shoes against the stone-covered hillside leading up to the abandoned mine shack, he did not wait to hear the sound again. He crept around quickly in the grainy predawn darkness, pulled his heavy miner’s boots on, gathered his coat and hat, and picked up the tin miner’s pail he’d found lying on the floor filled with the modest food supplies Mary Alice had given him.
Instead of using the door and leaving footprints in the thick dust coating the floor and the front porch, Andrej crawled out through a hole in the wall. But in his haste, he knocked over a hide-tanning frame that stood leaning against the side of the building. Hearing the sound, Tommy Rojo stopped his horse at the crest of the hill and reached an arm out, stopping Trigger Leonard, who had insisted on riding a couple of steps behind him.
‘‘Shhh! Hold it! Did you hear that?’’ Rojo asked in a whisper.
‘‘No, I didn’t,’’ Leonard said flatly, his head pounding like a bass drum from the whiskey he’d poured down himself after his public humiliation by the ranger. He stared at Rojo, not liking to be told by anyone to shush, especially a lowlife loser like Dog-meat Tommy. Most especially when he hadn’t been saying anything in the first damn place, he thought, seething to himself.
‘‘Well, I did,’’ Rojo whispered, drawing Smith’s rifle from the saddle boot and cocking it across his lap. ‘‘Keep your eyes open.’’
Keep your eyes open? ‘‘I’ll try,’’ Leonard said dryly, his jaw clenched. He nudged his horse up beside Rojo’s, slipping his Colt from his holster, looking all around the littered, weed-stricken yard of the Minion Mining Company.
‘‘Look! Over there!’’ Rojo said, pointing with the rifle to a pile of scrapped wagon wheels, pick heads and shovels at the far side of the yard. ‘‘I saw somebody move!’’ The rifle exploded in his hand, less than three feet from Leonard’s aching, unsuspecting head.
‘‘My God, man!’’ Leonard raised a gloved hand to his ringing ear.
‘‘Come on! There he goes!’’ Rojo shouted, gigging his horse into a run across the dark yard. Leonard cursed but followed, his Colt out, ready to fire.
On the other side of the yard the hillside broke off sharply, so sharply that the Minion Mining Company had built a fence there years ago to keep its employees from walking off into the darkness and plunging headlong onto stones and cactus some forty feet below. But Andrej had not seen the broken board fence or the steep drop as a hazard. He saw it as his advantage. As soon as he’d arrived and looked the place over, he’d decided to keep the horse Mary Alice had given him—the one that had once belonged to Rojo—somewhere at the bottom of that deep chasm, for just such an emergency.
At the fence, Andrej squeezed between two loose boards and hurried along an eroded, one-foot-wide stretch of loose-rock ground. Near the end of the broken fence, he scrambled down off the edge onto a long thick hemp rope he’d found coiled up in the corner of the shack. He’d tied the rope to the base of a cottonwood stump clinging by its roots to broken ground.
Gigging his horse back and forth in the littered mine yard, Rojo called out stiffly, his face stinging with pain from his effort, ‘‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!’’
Huh? Leonard stopped his horse and stared at Rojo again. What was wrong with this fool? He was ready to call this deal off and go back to Sibley. Maybe if he felt better . . .
‘‘I see him! Come on!’’ Rojo shouted suddenly, spurring the horse toward the broken fence, where he’d just caught a glimpse of Andrej going over the edge in the grainy early light. Rojo pointed the rifle and fired again one-handed as he rode.
The wiry Croatian lowered himself quickly, hand by hand down the steep bank of dirt and loose rock. His boots stirred up a dusty avalanche around him as he dug and kicked and scurried downward.
‘‘Down there!’’ Rojo shouted, jumping from his saddle, running to the fence, shoving his way through it and aiming the rifle down at the cloud of gravel and dust. ‘‘I’ve got him!’’
Right behind Rojo, Leonard winced as another rifle shot exploded. Yet, looking down and seeing the Croatian drop the last few feet to the ground and take off running to the cover of boulders along the hillside, Leonard joined in, firing his Colt until it clicked on a spent round.
‘‘Damn it!’’ said Rojo. Wide-eyed with the excitement of the chase, he looked around at Leonard. ‘‘What do you think? Did we hit him?’’
Not wanting to be this
close to Rojo with an unloaded gun, Leonard spoke as he punched the spent rounds from his Colt and hurriedly replaced them. ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ he said. ‘‘At least not enough to slow him down any. There he goes!’’ He nodded down at the wiry Croatian as he ran in and out of sight from rock to rock, like a ground squirrel, the tin pail looped over his shoulder by a long strip of rawhide.
Rojo raised his rifle to his shoulder in reflex, but then held his shot, seeing no way to get a bead on the running miner. ‘‘Damn it!’’ he cursed again, lowering the rifle as Andrej disappeared behind another land-stuck boulder. A second later, the Croatian reappeared, this time in the saddle, batting his boots to the horse’s sides. ‘‘Hey! That’s my horse!’’ Rojo said, recognizing the animal even in the grainy morning light. He grinned. ‘‘He won’t get far. That horse’ll stop dead still when he hears it’s me.’’
Leonard drew his head away as Rojo raised two fingers to his lips and let out a loud shrill whistle. But instead of stopping dead as he’d predicted, the horse appeared to panic and speed up, almost bolting out from under the Croatian, who had to hang on to the saddle horn and clamp a hand down on his straw sombrero.
Leonard made no comment, but only looked away for a moment.
‘‘I guess you can’t depend on any animal anymore,’’ Rojo said, watching the horse cut in and out of the rocks as if fleeing for its life. ‘‘Dogs, horses, they’re not really our friends, the truth be known.’’ He watched with a disappointed look as the horse sped out of sight.
‘‘He laid that rope as his getaway,’’ Leonard said, avoiding the animal subject altogether. ‘‘Good thinking on his part.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Rojo, ‘‘but it won’t get him very far.’’ He stood and backed away from the edge. ‘‘We’ll ride him down easy enough. I know that horse. It’s not a long-winded runner.’’
Leonard just looked at him and kept his mouth shut. He was pretty sure he’d have to kill Rojo before this job was over.
The ranger had tried to leave the dog behind, securely locked in his room until the cleaning lady came in the morning and opened the door. But when he’d left the hotel room he’d heard the animal whine and run back and forth frantically. On his way down the stairs he’d heard a loud crash of window glass and realized what had just happened.
Hurrying out front, Sam had arrived on the street just in time to see the fragments of broken glass and the dog racing out of sight into the blackness of the alley. ‘‘Crazy dog.’’ All he could do was shake his head. ‘‘Don’t get yourself killed out there,’’ he murmured, turning to his horse at the hotel’s hitch rail.
Once atop his horse and on the trail, he’d seen the dog’s tracks in hot pursuit of the horses, following his owner’s scent. Thinking about it, he decided maybe it was a good idea, having the dog ahead of him once he headed into the rocks on the trail of Bob and the deputies. He had a good idea where they were headed, but he wanted to lag back and give Texas Bob plenty of breathing room. No sooner had he had picked up their trail than he’d counted four separate sets of hoofprints instead of three, another good reason to keep his distance until the right time, he thought.
By first clear morning light, he’d ridden up into rock country on the same trail he and Bob had brought the stage in on. Judging by the closeness of two sets of hoofprints, he speculated that the fourth horse was carrying Mary Alice. It made sense, he told himself, Price and Frisco Phil taking her along as a hostage—a sure way to keep Texas Bob from making any move that might get her hurt.
The ranger pictured two of the horses riding close together, one of the deputies holding a gun on the woman. With that picture in mind, he rode on steadily, judging the distance between himself, the dog and the four riders on the high rocky trail ahead. He’d allowed them a half hour head start, to keep himself from being spotted crossing the flatlands. Now that he’d made the cover of the hills, he needed to close that gap, get ahead of them, atop of them if he could, he thought, looking up along jagged broken cliff lines. He knew about where they were going. With any luck he’d be there waiting.
Three miles ahead of the ranger, the big dog loped on, tired but still running, the scent of his owner and the woman having grown stronger. Now that the riders had traveled up into the rock country, the winding trails had forced them to slow their pace. At a turn, the dog slowed to a walk. Then he came to a halt, seeing Price standing half hidden behind a large rock. Price and Frisco had heard something on their trail and Price had elected to stay behind to investigate.
‘‘Bob’s blasted hound,’’ Price cursed out loud to himself, taking a step closer. ‘‘I’ll clip both your ears off!’’ Raising his rifle to his shoulder, he took quick aim and fired. His shot fell short, missing the dog but kicking up dirt that stung the dog’s forelegs and sent it scurrying out of sight. ‘‘That’ll do,’’ he said, stepping back into his saddle. Turning his horse to the trail, he hurried to catch up with the others.
Forty yards up the trail, Frisco turned in his saddle and asked, ‘‘What was the gunshot?’’
‘‘Bob’s dog was following us,’’ Price said, slowing beside Frisco, seeing Bob looking back from a few feet ahead.
‘‘Did you kill it?’’ Frisco asked, holding the reins to Mary Alice’s horse, keeping the horse and its rider close at all times.
‘‘Naw, I wasn’t trying too hard,’’ said Price. ‘‘I sent him running, though. That’s the last we’ll be seeing of him.’’
Texas Bob and Mary Alice both looked relieved that the dog hadn’t been shot. Frisco shook his head and spit. ‘‘You don’t know nothing at all about dogs, if you think that,’’ he said, looking back along the trail.
‘‘I expect I know as much about dogs as the next fellow,’’ Price said. ‘‘If he does come back I’ll send him flying again.’’ He gave Bob a cross look. ‘‘Next time maybe I will take closer aim.’’
Frisco chuckled and pointed back along the rocky trail. ‘‘Then maybe you ought to do it now. Here he comes.’’
‘‘Damn dog. He’s as hardheaded as his master,’’ Price said, levering a fresh round into his rifle chamber.
‘‘He’s harmless. Leave him alone,’’ Texas Bob said, his cuffed hands gripping the saddle horn tightly. He shouted at the advancing dog, ‘‘Get out of here, Plug! Go, boy! Go on, get!’’
‘‘This time I’ll make a good dog out of him,’’ Price boasted, raising his rifle.
But the dog, either from his master’s command or from seeing the rifle pointed at him, ducked quickly out of sight behind a large rock. Once out of danger, he barked loudly.
‘‘Good boy.’’ Bob and Mary Alice both breathed in relief.
‘‘Let’s go,’’ Frisco said to Price, ‘‘if you’re all through playing with the doggie.’’ He gestured Bob on ahead, keeping Mary Alice’s horse reined in close beside him, his Colt still in hand.
Price gave a sour look, shoved his rifle down into his saddle boot and nudged his horse forward, grumbling, ‘‘Danged dog will be pestering us this whole trip.’’
Even as he rode forward, the big dog slipped from behind the rock and loped along the side of the trail, warily keeping the cove of rock and cactus between himself and Price’s rifle.
Less than a mile to the left of the four riders, the ranger had heard the shot. He’d stopped for a moment and stared in that direction as the echo resounded along distant canyon walls. Then he’d pushed on, gaining ground on the riders, using a stretch of higher flatlands to his advantage. For the next hour and a half he’d stopped his horse only long enough to allow it to draw tepid canteen water from the crown of his sombrero.
When Texas Bob led the other three down from the rock trail and onto the spot in the sand where he’d found Sheriff Thorn and the stagecoach, he pointed across at the rise where he’d found their bag of money lying on the ground. ‘‘Turn her loose, Frisco,’’ he said. ‘‘You’ll find the money under a flat rock right up there, to the right of where you
laid it.’’
Frisco said, ‘‘Nice try, Texas Bob,’’ making no effort toward turning Mary Alice’s horse loose. Instead he pulled its reins tighter against him and tightened his grip on the Colt. ‘‘Take us up there,’’ he demanded. ‘‘I’ll turn her loose when that money is in my hands.’’
They pushed on toward the top of the rise, wind whipping up dust and licking at the tails of Price’s riding duster. As their horses climbed the loose sandy incline, Price looked back in time to see the dog circle wide of them and duck out of sight into a stretch of brush and cactus. Topping the rise, Bob led them to the flat rock and stepped down from his saddle. He stooped and turned the rock over with his cuffed hands. Lifting the bag, he turned it upside down and poured the money into the sand.
‘‘Well, I’ll be damned,’’ said Frisco, looking down at the money. ‘‘There’s only one rock on this whole hillside. You’d think one of us would have looked under it.’’
‘‘Turn her loose now,’’ said Bob, having no idea what his next move would be. His only interest was in seeing Mary Alice free and riding away. After that, he would deal with his own fate, whatever it might be.
Frisco started to speak, but something drew his attention toward the other side of the rise. ‘‘What was that?’’ he asked Price, tightening his grip on the Colt.
‘‘The wind,’’ said Price, not wanting to step away from the money even for a second.
‘‘Ride over and see,’’ said Frisco.
Price just stared at him. ‘‘It’s the wind, or the dog. Either way, let’s get on with the money.’’
Frisco looked back down and wagged his Colt at Texas Bob. ‘‘Bag it up,’’ he said.
‘‘Turn her loose,’’ Bob insisted. ‘‘Let her ride away. You’ve got your money. I kept my end of the deal. Keep yours.’’
Frisco gave Price a guarded look. ‘‘Think I should turn her loose, Deputy?’’
Price made the slightest move of a finger, his hand resting on the rifle across his lap. ‘‘Sure, why not,’’ he said, both of them knowing these two would never leave here alive.
