by Ralph Cotton
When no reply came from the alley, Red Booker looked at Daniel Fuller. “Go ahead,” said Fuller. “I’m getting tired of fooling with this thug.”
Red Booker pushed the dapple-gray forward into the alley. A few tense moments passed while everyone on the street waited in silence for the sound of gunfire. But none came. Finally, Red Booker called out, “There’s nobody in here, Colonel. The Injun’s got away from us.”
“Like hell,” Fuller cursed in disbelief, stepping forward into the narrow alley. “I saw him come in here. There’s no way out ’less he can fly.”
Colonel Fuller looked all around the blind alley. Then his eyes went up to a single window high up the side of the mercantile building. “There’s how he got away.”
Booker’s eyes went up to the window, then he shook his head. “No way, Colonel. The window’s closed. He would have had to break it to get through.” Booker gauged the distance between the ground and the window. “Besides he never could have reached it, not even standing atop his saddle.”
“Then, by God, you tell me where he is!” Fuller shouted. He flagged the other men into the narrow littered alley. “Get in here, men. Somebody check that back fence, see if he might’ve gotten over it.”
From amid the men, the mercantile store owner shouldered his way up front. “I’m Murray Fadden. This is my store. I never leave that window open or unlocked except in the hottest part of the summer.” He nodded upward. “That’s just a large storage room up there. Send somebody with me and we’ll go check it.”
“Damn right we will,” said Fuller. “Come on, men, let’s all go see what’s up there. Only way that Injun could have gotten away is if he had some help.”
Over the rise and fall of debris, discarded household items and garbage of all shape and size, Willie John hurried with Billy Odle right beside him. Weakened by the loss of blood from his shoulder wound, Willie staggered, nearly falling when his boot picked up a tangle of thin wire. He shook his boot free, but Billy noticed the difficulty he had in doing it. “Come on, Willie, hurry!” he coaxed, his voice trembling in urgency.
Willie John’s breath sounded heavy and labored. His words came haltingly. “Go on, kid . . . I’m right behind . . . you.” He had to grab Billy Odle’s shoulder for support. Billy looked up at him with a worried expression.
“The shack is just ahead, Willie. Please! We’ve got to make it there!”
“Don’t worry . . . kid. I’m not . . . done for yet. Let’s go,” Willie rasped. Willie John looked back along the path, seeing the blood trail he’d left but knowing he was powerless to do anything about it. He didn’t mention the trail to Billy Odle. So long as this kid was helping him, Willie didn’t want to say anything that might spook him. As they pushed forward again, partly sliding down a mound of refuse and tin cans, Willie said, “Kid . . . this is the second time . . . you’ve stuck . . . your neck out . . . for me.”
“Hush up, Willie,” said Billy Odle. “My pa would’ve done the same had he been here.” They hurried across cold flat ground now, toward a tar-paper shack thirty yards ahead.
Willie offered a weak smile. “Thanks, kid.”
“Don’t tell me thanks,” replied Billy. “We’ll only stay there long enough for you to catch your breath and get that bleeding stopped. I know a better place not far from here. Don’t worry, we’ve beat them, Willie.”
“Where’s . . . your pal?” Willie asked, feeling stronger at just the thought of getting away.
“I ran him off when we saw you get shot. We were watching under the boardwalk out front on the railroad hotel. I saw you wounded and knew you might need help. So I told Alvin to get himself home before we got hurt out here. He listens to anything I tell him.”
“That’s . . . good, kid. But what’s your . . . ma gonna say, us busting in like this?”
“This time of day she doesn’t know a thing,” said Billy. “She’s with her customers all night, then all day she stays knocked-out asleep until it’s time to go back to the streets and the saloon. Says it’s too much on her mind.” They hurried on. “It’s a hard life being a whore, I reckon.”
“I bet,” said Willie John, struggling forward, wanting to chastise the boy for calling his mother a whore, but not really having the strength to do it right then.
“Anyway, she won’t give us any problems,” said Billy Odle.
By the time they’d reached the door of the tar-paper shack, Willie John’s loss of blood caught up with him. He felt himself sway to the side as the world grew distant and gray to him. “Hang on, Willie,” said Billy, looping the Indian’s arm across his shoulder, steadying him as he threw open the shack door. The two of them almost fell to the dirt floor.
Willie John caught a foggy glimpse of a woman lying on the battered bed, half covered by a ragged, soiled quilt. As Willie tried shaking his head to clear his vision, Billy Odle hurried to the bed and threw the loose end of the quilt the rest of the way over his mother, covering all of her except a length of her flowing red hair. “See, she doesn’t know there’s a world out here,” said the boy. “You lay still, Willie, I’ll get some water and rags.”
There was a short period of time when Willie John may or may not have passed out from his loss of blood. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that one minute Billy Odle was kneeling over him, dabbing a wet rag at the wound in his shoulder; the next minute Billy was saying, “There. That’s the best we can do for now. We’ve got to get out of here pretty soon before they start searching all the back alleys for you.”
Willie John felt some of his strength return, and he straightened up, leaning his back against a rough wooden shipping crate in the front corner of the room. He looked around the tiny shack, seeing no accommodation except for the battered bed, a rickety wooden crate for a nightstand and a cracked porcelain pitcher sitting in a wash pan atop it.
As if reading the Indian’s thoughts, Billy Odle said, “I don’t sleep here, or even come here much. It makes her feel bad, me hanging around. It’s bad for business, too.”
“Where do you sleep?” Willie John asked.
Billy Odle shrugged. “I was sleeping some up in that storeroom above the mercantile store. But I won’t be staying there anymore.” He grinned. “Other times I stay at this place where I’m taking you. Nobody knows where it’s at, not even Alvin. I found it a while back and decided to keep it to myself, you know, in case I might need it for a hideout if I was ever on the run.”
Willie John just looked at him for a second, then said, “Good thinking, kid.” He nodded toward the bed. “Maybe we best get out of here before she wakes up.” Now that his strength and senses were coming back, he couldn’t care less about Billy Odle or his mother or anybody else. What he needed now was to get to this kid’s hideout. So far the boy had done a good job helping him get away. If this hideout was as safe as Billy said it was, things would work out fine, provided the kid could keep his mouth shut. But what if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut? What if the townsmen caught him and pressured him? Would the kid tell them? Willie didn’t like asking himself that question, but he had to consider it all the same.
“Kid, are you sure nobody knows about this place where we’re going?” Willie asked.
“Yeah, I’m certain,” said Billy. “If anybody’s been there it’s been too long ago to make any difference. Why, are you worried?”
“No, kid, I’m not worried at all,” said Willie. “I figure I must be in good hands.” He offered a thin smile. The fact was, if this place was safe enough for him to hold up a long period of time, he might have to kill Billy. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, and it bothered him to even have to think about it. But it was a cold hard fact. If it came down to his life or young Billy Odle’s, there was no question. This dumb kid would have to die.
Willie John looked Billy up and down. The boy thought of himself as being tough, a real outlaw in the making. And maybe he was. But Willie John couldn’t afford to bet his life on it. Billy Odle had helped him, that was good. Bu
t this was not a pleasant world where one good turn deserved another. This was a world of dog eat dog—something Willie John had learned early on.
Tough break, kid, Willie John said to himself, looking away from Billy Odle’s eyes, across the cramped shack to the battered bed and the meager belongings of a family put upon by hard times. But if you want to see what being an outlaw is all about . . . He looked back into Billy Odle’s eyes, his gaze growing cold and hollow. . . . Here it is, kid, staring you right in the face. “We’ll need some horses. Think you can rustle us up a couple?”
“Yep, without any problems,” said Billy. “I know where there’s some good strong ones, a half dozen or more. They’re right on the trail we’ll be taking.”
“Ever stole a horse?” Willie John asked.
“Not until now,” Billy Odle said, grinning.
Chapter 4
Sam Burrack had heard the faint rumble of gunfire from a long distance away and pushed the big Appaloosa as hard as he dared for the next mile and a half. He had a pretty good idea what the gunfire was all about, but after riding all night at a brisk clip, he didn’t want to get this close to the Ganstons and have to drop the chase just because he’d worn out his horse. His first reaction to the distant riflefire had been to cut away from the trail and swing west. It would do no good to ride straight into Hubbler Wells right now. Whatever havoc the gang had wrought upon the small town would have come and gone by the time he arrived. His best chance at catching up to the Ganstons now was to anticipate which direction they would ride and try to intersect them on the trail. The Ganstons were headed northwest, yet Sam had a hunch they would veer west for a ways after a robbery just to throw off any followers. And from the heavy cracks of pistols and rifles up ahead, there would be followers.
Three miles west of Hubbler Wells, Sam Burrack’s hunch paid off. Atop a low cliff overlooking the trail, Sam stepped down from the Appaloosa as the sound of pounding hoofs drew nearer. He drew his rifle from his saddle boot, checked it, levered a round into the chamber and ran a thumb along the sights. Then he backed the Appaloosa out of sight behind a scrub juniper, spun its reins and eased back to the edge of the cliff. Dropping to one knee and raising the rifle to his shoulder, Sam waited as the first three men riding abreast came into view around a turn in the trail. Had he been on the trail of only one man, or perhaps even two or three, he might have fired a warning shot, then given them a chance to surrender. But with odds this long against him . . . no way.
At a distance of eighty yards the first shot picked up the middle rider from his saddle and flung him backward like a loose bundle of rags. Before the other two could get out of the way, Sam quickly levered, aimed and fired again, this time seeing the rider on the right slide down the side of his horse, hang on for a moment then fall away. Before Sam could get off a third shot all of the riders fell back hurriedly around the bend in the trail. So far, so good . . .
Quickly, Sam stepped over and unhitched the Appaloosa, mounted and fired two more shots from horseback before heeling the animal away into a wide dash around the trail. From the rocks alongside the trail where the outlaws had dropped from their saddles and taken cover, shots exploded in the direction of the empty cliff. “Hold your fire, damn it!” yelled Hopper Ganston. “Whoever he is, he’s gone.” He looked at his brother who had dropped behind a short stand of rock a few feet away. “You all right, Earl?”
“Yeah, I’m all right, but poor Jeffries is deader than hell, and Terez is shot plum through. I saw Andy Stebbs grab him and drag him back. Terez will be lucky if he makes it. Got a hole the size of my fist in his chest.”
“Well,” said Hopper, “this cinches it for me. We’ve still got one of them blasted Rangers on our tails.”
“Damn it to hell, that ain’t fair,” Earl cursed, yanking his hat from his head and slapping it against his knee. “He’s out of his jurisdiction and he knows it! He’s breaking the damn law.” Earl’s voice took a tone of disbelief. “What good is it to make laws if men like him ain’t going to abide by them?”
Hopper chuckled under his breath at the irony of his brother’s words. “Maybe you oughta write a scorching letter to Congress, brother.”
Earl ignored the remark. “This really rips it. We’ve lost the Indian and three good men back in town . . . now Jeffries and Terez. And we still ain’t made a dime out of this deal! What’re we going to do to get straightened out?” he asked.
Hopper looked back and forth along the trail in both directions, thinking about it. “Ranger or not, whoever that is shooting at us, you can bet we ain’t seen the last of him.” He considered it another second then said, “We needed that bank money from Hubbler Wells to hold us over. I hate going to Mexico short on cash. I just never feel quite as welcome when my pockets aren’t full.”
“I know what you mean,” said Earl, still scanning the countryside, his rifle in his hands. “If we’re going to get shot at, we might as well be making some money for it.”
“Yep.” Hopper helped him search for any sign of the person who had done the shooting. “I tell you one thing, I sure miss that Indian already. He kept us clear of stuff like this happening.”
“Are we going back to Hubbler Wells?” asked Earl. “Make somebody pay for all this trouble?”
“You can count on it, brother,” said Hopper, “just as soon as we can see our way clear. Think Terez will be able to ride if Andy pitches him up on a saddle?”
“I’ll go see,” said Earl.
Hopper Ganston only shook his head watching his brother scoot away across the dirt toward Andy Stebbs and the wounded outlaw. Then he turned his attention back to the vast empty land, spat and ran a hand across his blistered lips. Was that really one of the Rangers out there, still on their trail? If it was, where the hell did he go? The land before him lay vacant, save for the stir of cold wind whispering through the rocks. Damned Ranger . . .
When the men had collected themselves up from the dust, shook themselves off and mounted their half-spooked horses, Hopper rode up beside Earl and held him back as the men rode back warily along the trail. “Let Andy Stebbs and Terez ride up front,” said Hopper in a lowered voice. “If that Ranger is back there, Terez is about dead, anyway.”
“What about Andy, though?” Earl asked as the men filed past them in a short column of twos.
Hopper just looked at him. They rode on.
A mile later, right where the trail leveled back down and emptied out from among the upthrusts of rock, a rifleshot hammered Andy Stebbs in his shoulder, causing both him and Terez to fall from the saddle as the rest of the men fell back, this time better prepared and immediately returning fire. Sam Burrack ducked down behind rock cover as bullets whistled past him. He hurried back to the Appaloosa, unhitched it, mounted and swung back in the opposite direction.
“See?” said Hopper to Earl. “He’s got a good thing going for himself. He can run us back and forth along this stretch of trail until we’re all shot to pieces.”
“Then let’s bust up, every man for himself,” said Earl, “since nobody here seems able to shoot that son of a bitch!” He glared at the rest of the men who were once again down from their horse and hugging the ground. Andy Stebbs and Terez lay twenty yards ahead on the trail where they’d fallen.
“No,” said Hopper, “busting up might be exactly what he wants us to do.” He levered a round into his rifle chamber. “Besides, wouldn’t you be a little embarrassed to admit that one fool with a rifle sent the whole damn lot of us running?”
Earl didn’t answer. He cursed to himself and scooted sidelong to where he could get a look at the two wounded outlaws. “That just cost us one more man. We better do something quick.”
“We’re going to,” said Hopper. He looked around, making a quick head count. “We’ll split up, but not for long.” He called over to the three remaining men, “Bootlip, you and Bratcher stay where you are for now. Lester, get over here.”
“What’s the plan, Hopper?” Earl asked barely above
a whisper.
Hopper looked up along the ridgeline above them, then said to his brother, “He’s expecting us to run back that way, so he’ll be waiting for us. What we’ve got to do is get where he’s at and turn the tables on him. You, Lester and I are going back, but we’re going to cut up through the rocks, get him caught between us and Bootlip and Bratcher . . . see how he likes that.”
“I don’t like it,” said Earl. “We’ll all be shooting into one another if it comes down to a close fight.”
“It’s the only choice we’ve got,” said Hopper. “Look how quick he’s whittled us down already.”
“Damn it,” said Earl, knowing his brother was right. “I just want to hit that bank, get some money and go on about our business.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got to get rid of him before we can do anything else,” Hopper insisted. “He’s hell with that rifle.”
Atop the trail, Sam Burrack pulled the Appaloosa back and waited, this time only riding half the distance to the other end of the pass. He knew he had used this cat-and-mouse plan for all it was worth. The Ganstons weren’t going to keep falling for it. Now he had to be ready to change tactics, see what the Ganstons had in mind and be prepared. He listened to the sound of three horses race back along the trail. When the rumble of hoofs faded, he stepped down from the Appaloosa and led it forward, the two of them stepping down among the rocks on the steep slope toward the trail.
If he’d been keeping score correctly, there were five men left. Three of them had just headed along the trail. Now was his chance to slip up behind the two they’d left watching for him in the other direction. With any luck he would take these two down and lie in wait for the other three to return at the sound of gunfire. He spread a thin smile. “Keeping ’em off balance, eh Black Pot?” he whispered to the Appaloosa, patting a gloved hand on its muzzle. Once down onto the trail, he mounted and heeled the horse forward, his rifle across his lap.
