Jurisdiction

by Ralph Cotton

  “I’m one of the best,” Billy bragged.

  “Is that right? I’ve got ten says you can’t beat me,” said Willie John.

  “You’re on!” Billy Odle’s hand streaked upward, the pistol coming up pointed at Willie John’s face. Willie John feigned reaching for his own pistol, then stopped short as if hopelessly outgunned. “You got me, Billy,” he said, “fair and square.” His eyes cut to the boy beside Billy Odle as his fingers fished inside his vest pocket, came up with a large gold coin and flipped it down to Billy Odle. “Did you ever see anything that fast?”

  The boy just looked dumb for a second. Then he said, “Yeah, but if that gun was real, the weight of it would pull his britches down, I bet.”

  “Hush up, Alvin,” Billy said, shoving the wooden pistol back down into his waist. “You wish you could do as well.” He turned his eyes back to Willie John, holding the coin in his closed palm, and said, “Hey, Willie, I thought you meant ten cents . . . this is a twenty-dollar gold piece!”

  “I never gamble small.” Willie John shrugged. “Ten of that’s for you, ten is for your ma. Tell her I said ‘no strings attached.’ ”

  “Gosh, Willie, much obliged,” said Billy Odle in awe, squeezing the gold piece. “Gonna need somebody to take your horse to the livery, Willie? I’ll do it.”

  “No, not today, Billy.” Willie John looked the two of them up and down and stepped the dapple-gray closer. “I want to tell you something, though,” he said, leaning slightly down in his saddle, lowering his voice just between the two of them. “I’m going to ride up the street and back. When I get back I don’t want to see you here.”

  “Why?” Billy looked confused.

  “Just do like I say, Billy. You and your partner here clear out, stay out the rest of the evening. Will you do that for me?”

  Billy Odle began getting a picture himself now, sensing something in the works. His own voice dropped to a quiet tone. “You getting ready to rob something . . . the bank?”

  “Will you do like I told you?” Willie John asked.

  “Yeah, if you say so,” Billy said. “Only, let me know what you’re going to do first.”

  Willie John saw the boy was playing him for information and he hardened his eyes and backed his dapple-gray a step. “I’m not letting you know a damn thing, boy. Just don’t be here when I come back. That’s my only warning.” He jerked the reins, spinning the horse back to the middle of the street and straightening it forward.

  “Is he really an Indian?” Alvin Bartels asked, a touch of suspicion in his voice. “He looks more like a—”

  “He’s my friend, whatever he is,” said Billy Odle, cutting him short.

  “Oh . . .” Alvin waited for a second, then asked, “Is he really an outlaw?”

  “Oh yes,” said Billy Odle, enjoying this new status that had just been given to him: a boy who knew real outlaws. “He’s one of the worst kind. He’s a killer and a robber and a gunman. He’s quicker on the draw than anybody and would shoot down the devil himself if the devil even had the nerve to face him.”

  “Lord, Billy, and you pulled that wooden gun on him! It’s a wonder he didn’t shoot you before he could stop himself.”

  “Naw . . . you saw how fast I was. Besides, like I said, he’s a friend of mine,” said Billy, watching Willie John’s dapple-gray cut into a trot up the middle of the deeply rutted street.

  “A friend of yours?” Alvin Bartels sounded skeptical. “He might know your ma and pa, but that’s a long ways from being a friend, Billy.”

  “You saw it with your own eyes, didn’t you?” Billy Odle insisted. “Do you think I’d have gotten away with drawing on him if I wasn’t his amigo?”

  Before Alvin could answer, Billy took him by his coat sleeve and pulled him along toward an alley. “Come on, we best get off the street the way he said. I got a feeling him and his outlaw buddies are fixing to let ’er rip.”

  Alvin followed along. “We’re leaving town?”

  “What, and miss all the fireworks? Heck no, Alvin,” Billy laughed. “We’re gonna duck down someplace and watch the fur fly.”

  “Why on earth would he tell you something like that was about to happen?” Alvin asked, shaking his arm free but following Billy Odle all the same. “How does he know you or me won’t blab it to somebody?”

  Billy stopped abruptly and turned facing him in the narrow alleyway. “I’ll tell you how he knows.” He hugged his threadbare outgrown coat tight across his chest, feeling the cold starting to numb his torso. “He knows that men like me and him are two of the kind . . . and that he can trust me no matter what.” Billy looked back and forth as if making sure no one was nearby listening. “Pa and me found him on the trail going into Wakely one night when I was only ten years old. He was shot all to hell. We patched him up and gave him water and sent him on his way. He could have shot us, but he didn’t. He told us both to keep our mouths shut. And we did. So he knows I’m to be trusted.” Billy thumbed himself on the chest. “As far as trusting you goes . . . he figures any friend of mine is a friend of his. He figures if you was to start to tell on him, I’d stop you cold. That’s the way people like me and Willie John think.”

  “Holy cats!” Alvin Bartels scratched his head and looked back toward the street in awe. The day was turning into quite an adventure.

  Atop the roof of the saloon, Red Booker eased back down beside Colonel Daniel Fuller just long enough to report on what the Indian was doing. “He’s finished talking to the kids. Now he’s riding along the street bold as brass . . . checking out the bank would be my guess. What do you want to do, Colonel?”

  Colonel Fuller sat back, leaning against the facade while drawing on an unlit black cigar. Along the roofline the possemen were restless, like hunting dogs pulling at the leash. “We’ll do the only smart thing to do, Red,” said Fuller. “We’ll let him ride out of here and bring the others back to us.” Fuller looked along the possemen to Texas Bob. “Isn’t that so, Texas Bob?”

  Bob Mackay only nodded. Unlike the other men who stood sneaking a look over the edge of the facade, Mackay lay huddled on the tin roof, his rifle held close to his chest. “Yes, sir, that would be my take on it, Colonel,” he offered.

  “Red,” said Fuller, nodding at Texas Bob’s reply, “as soon as the Indian leaves, start letting the men go down two and three at a time, get themselves a meal and some hot coffee and warm up. If the Ganstons don’t hit soon, we could be up here all night.” He lowered his voice to a private whisper between the two of them and added, “Keep a close eye on Texas Bob. He ain’t acting right.”

  “Huh? I ain’t noticed nothing.” Red Booker looked surprised.

  “All the same, do like I ask,” said Fuller.

  “All right, Colonel,” Booker shrugged. Turning to leave, he said over his shoulder, “Folks are gonna start noticing us up here, Colonel.”

  “Of course they are, Red.” Fuller chewed on his cigar. “But let’s keep it a secret as long as we can.”

  On the street below, Willie John silently chastised himself for having stopped to warn the kid, Billy Odle. He shouldn’t have done it, and he wasn’t sure why he did. Granted the kid and his pa had once kept him from dying, but that was then and this was now. He owed the kid and his father nothing. After all, he should have killed them both just to keep them quiet . . . but he didn’t. That squared things as far as he was concerned.

  His eyes scanned the roofline again. A few yards past the wooden bank building, he cut the dapple-gray over to a hitch rail, stepped down and raised each of the horse’s front hoofs in turn as if inspecting them. Glancing up and along the boardwalk, he saw the familiar face of Huey Sweeney standing hunched up in a heavy greatcoat, wearing a black slouch hat and holding a businessman’s valise in his hand. Sweeney gave no sign of warning. Everything was going as planned. Good, Willie John thought, just the way he liked it. When he’d remounted and rode back along the street, he noted that Billy Odle and his pal were gone. He offered himself a t
hin smile of satisfaction, then heeled the horse out of town at a trot, steam bellowing from the horse’s nostrils, Willie John’s long coattails flapping on a gust of cold wind.

  Chapter 2

  At the edge of the flatland, Willie John reined the dapple-gray down and waited behind the cover of an upturned boulder until the soft clop of hooves winded down the hill path toward him. Earl Ganston was the first to ride up around the boulder. “How’d it look in there?” he asked, lifting a nod in the direction of Hubbler Wells. “Did you see Sweeney?”

  “Yeah, I saw him.” Willie John nodded. He took a chunk of jerked meat from his saddlebags and sliced off a bite of it, lifting the meat to his lips with the knife blade. Chewing as he spoke, he jabbed the knife blade toward the southwest, in the direction of the border. “Everything seemed fine. But I still say we best lay up in Old Mex for the winter.”

  “Nobody cares what you think. It ain’t what me and Hopper’s got in mind,” said Earl Ganston, a bit testy. “Now, how’s Hubbler Wells looking?” He kept a flat, level stare fixed on Willie John, letting him know his place.

  Willie John returned the stare, not backing down an inch. “If nobody cares what I think, maybe next time you’ll ride in and look things over, eh, Earl?” As he spoke, Willie John let his hand relax on his pistol butt.

  Earl Ganston looked away and spit as his brother Hopper and the others began to ride in and form up around them. “Damn Injun,” Earl murmured to himself.

  Hopper Ganston sidled his big roan horse in close to Willie John, seeing that some sort of confrontation had just passed between the two men. “What’s going on, Willie? Does that bank look ripe in Hubbler Wells?” His gaze moved back and forth between Willie John and Earl; then his eyes rested on his younger brother as he waited for Willie’s reply. Earl spit again and looked away from Hopper.

  “Everything looks like it should,” said Willie, realizing even as he said it that perhaps he hadn’t paid as much attention to things as he should have in Hubbler Wells. Something about seeing Billy Odle there had distracted him. “If we’re gonna do it today we best get to it. It’s a half-hour ride and the bank closes in less than an hour.” He looked up and across the gray-streaked sky and added, “We got weather coming.”

  “Yeah, we do sure enough,” said Hopper. “I expect that’s why Morgan and his cousin ain’t met up with us yet. If they don’t hurry up they’re going to miss all the fun.”

  “Bet they’ll hate that,” said Willie with a wry snap to his voice.

  Hopper Ganston caught the tone of Willie John’s voice and the expression on his face. He asked, “Something bothering you, Willie? Something going on we oughta know about?”

  Willie John looked around at the faces of the other men, then settled his eyes back on Hopper. “No . . . nothing’s bothering me.”

  Earl Ganston said in a clipped tone, “I think he’s seen one of them signs Indians see . . . you know, an owl standing on its head or a coyote chasing a—”

  “I ain’t one of those kind of Indians,” Willie said, cutting Earl off and giving the others a cold stare to quiet any laughter before it got started. “But I will make it known that I think we should cut off here and now and cross the border. If we get weathered in this far north, we’ll be easy pickin’ for the law.”

  “Ain’t no law onto us yet, Willie,” said Hopper Ganston. “Whoever was on our trail a while back is gone sure enough. The way I figure, we’ve got a free hand here until somebody sics the army on us. Opportunity like this don’t come along every day. We got to take our crack at it.”

  “He’s worried about shooting that lawman out of his saddle,” Earl Ganston said, “but I don’t know why. If we get caught we’re all going to hang for something or other, why not for killing a Ranger? In some circles that’s the grandest thing a man can do.” He grinned at the others, drawing them into his goading of Willie John.

  Willie John ignored Earl and the others and spoke to Hopper Ganston. “The town’s slow today . . . everybody staying home, getting ready for the winter, I figure. I didn’t go past the sheriff’s office, but there was no need to. It’s only been a month since Leonard Dupré killed Sheriff Sanders. They haven’t replaced him yet.”

  “You don’t know that for a fact, now do you, Willie?” Earl Ganston asked in a haughty tone.

  “I’d bet my life on it,” said Willie John.

  “It ain’t your life I’m concerned about,” said Earl. “It’s mine.”

  Willie John allowed himself a slight smile. “Even better, then, Earl . . . I’d bet your life on it.”

  “All right stop it, you two!” said Hopper Ganston, cutting in before things got out of hand. “We’ve got plenty to keep us busy.” He called back over his shoulder, “Mitchell, Rasdorph, Kerns, you three go with Willie, come in from the other end of town and be ready to give us some cover if we need it.”

  “Hell, Hopper,” Earl Ganston chuckled, “you heard what the Indian said . . . the town’s slow today. This ain’t no big deal.”

  “All the same, we’re treating it like it is,” said Hopper. He lifted his rifle from his saddle boot, checked it and laid it across his lap as the three men he’d called forward formed up around Willie John. “You boys listen to Willie and do what he tells you. Me and Earl and the rest will give you time to get situated. Then we’re coming in, taking the bank like we did all the others . . . then riding straight north.” He looked from man to man. “Everybody got that? Straight north.”

  “North? Damn, it’s gonna be a cold one, then,” said Nian Rasdorph, barely above a whisper. He tugged his battered bowler hat down on his head and lifted his collar to the wind.

  “You’ve got that right,” Willie John said, his voice equally low as he heeled the big dapple-gray forward, taking the lead.

  Joe Perkins stood up, raising the long bearskin coat from the wooden storage chest and shaking it out before putting it on over his black wool suit. Dust and hair swirled from the coat then descended to the floor. Perkins sneezed and rubbed his palm back and forth across his long handlebar mustache. He took out a wadded up bandanna from his suit pocket, blew his nose with a honking sound like that of a goose, then blotted his nose and said to the telegraph clerk, “How many do you make it to be, Kirby?”

  Kirby Bell shrugged nervously. “Like I said, Mr. Perkins, I just got a glance at them. It was Selectman Collins who saw all of them. He said it looked like a dozen or more: rough-looking bunch, he said. Said I better come get you, you being the only man around here with any experience in this kind of thing.”

  “Yeah?” Joe Perkins lifted his chin a little, liking the feel of somebody sending for his help. Just like the old days, he reminded himself. “Well, if it’s robbing they come here for, they’ll be sadly disappointed. If it’s killing they want . . . they’ll find that I am up to the task.” He adjusted the brace of heavy Walker Colts on his narrow hips, then reached over and took down his wide-brimmed Stetson and sat it down squarely atop his head, his thin white hair hanging loosely beneath it to his shoulders. As he took out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and hooked them on behind his ears, he asked, “Did nobody dare to holler up there and ask them their business?”

  Kirby looked down at the cabin floor and shook his head. “Well, no, I don’t reckon. See, there’s hardly anybody in town today. With the sheriff dead and all, we just naturally figured it best we get you . . . Selectman Collins said so, anyway.” He raised his worried eyes to Joe Perkins. “They’ll have to be dealt with, that’s for sure.”

  “And you say the telegraph lines are down?” Perkins asked.

  “Yep, went dead an hour ago,” said Kirby. “I thought that was more than just a little coincidental, too.”

  “I see. You brought your rifle of course, didn’t you, Kirby?” Perkins asked, reaching out and taking his walking cane down from a wall hook.

  “My what?” Kirby looked stunned at the very thought of it.

  “Your rifle, Kirby,” Perkins grinned. “You know
, that long shiny thing sitting in your closet? Steel on one end, wood on the other?”

  Kirby’s face reddened. “I reckon maybe we could wait, Mr. Perkins, see if they really are up to something or just passing through. There could be some good reason—”

  “No, Kirby . . .” Joe Perkins looked down, studying his weathered hands as if having to consider the situation. “I fear when an armed body of men has descended upon a town and perched atop its roofs, there can be no good come of it.”

  “What I mean is, Mr. Perkins, maybe they’re lawmen on the trail of outlaws, do you think?”

  “No lawmen I’ve ever known would do something so foolish,” said Joe Perkins. “But on the chance that you might be right, we’ll inquire of them before we make any bold moves. Now hurry around back and bring the hound. He’ll be of use. I’ve been feeding him lean lately, just in case of trouble like this.”

  “Should I also bring the wagon?” Kirby asked. “It’s a half-mile walk to town.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m not up to my game?” Joe Perkins gave him a cold stare, leaning on the cane, forming a tripod with his thin legs, the whole of him looking frail and shaky—a skin and calcium remnant wrapped in the fur of a monster whose mortal reckoning had long since passed.

  “Uh—no!” Kirby thought quickly, then said, “I was only concerned about the dog.”

  Joe Perkins nodded. “Well, perhaps you’re right. I mustn’t wear out the hound on the way in—he might be needed later on the trail. Yes, bring the wagon, then. I’ll wait here and give this thing some more thought. If we’re not careful someone could get hurt in this fracas.”

  In moments Kirby Bell had hurried to the shed out back, dropped the saddle from his horse, hitched the animal to the small buckboard wagon and raised the hound. When he returned to the front of the cabin, Joe Perkins stood leaning on the hickory cane, a large pocket watch in his hand as if timing the telegraph clerk’s efforts. Rather than attempt climbing onto the seat beside Kirby, Perkins scuffled to the rear of the buckboard and fell backward onto its wooden bed. Then he struggled up to his knees as the hound lopped back and forth in place barking coarsely, the big chain slapping the buckboard planks. “What are we waiting for, telegraph clerk?” Perkins shouted in a raspy breathless voice. “I doubt they’ll come to us.”