by Ralph Cotton
But before he’d gotten close to the end of the pass where he knew the two men would be waiting, the sound of many rifles and pistols exploded less than fifty yards ahead of him, the suddenness of it causing Burrack to pull the Appaloosa back and duck it into a slim crevice alongside the trail. That many guns could only mean one thing: a posse from Hubbler Wells. Sam wasn’t at all surprised that a posse would be on these men’s trail, but not this soon, and certainly not this many. It always took a while to get a few townsmen together, get them armed and mounted. He remembered the large amount of gunfire he’d heard earlier on his way to Hubbler Wells and began to get an idea of what had happened. Somebody had been waiting for the Ganstons. He stepped down from the saddle and waited, back out of sight, listening to the steady pounding of gunfire.
When there was a lull in the firing, the Ranger eased forward, leaving the Appaloosa in the cover of rock. No sooner had he stepped out onto the trail than he saw the two outlaws running toward him on foot, one of them limping badly and clutching a hand to his bloody thigh, both of them carrying pistols and looking back over their shoulders. With his rifle in his left hand, Sam drew his big Colt and leveled it on the men. “Stand fast!” he shouted. “Drop the guns! Get your hands in the air!”
Bootlip Thomas and Murray Bratcher wouldn’t hear of it. They slid to a halt quick enough, but their pistols came up firing. One shot whistled past Sam Burrack’s head before he let the hammer fall. Bratcher twisted in a half circle, then collapsed with a bullet through his chest. Another shot grazed Sam’s forearm as he turned his aim on Bootlip Thomas, recocking his big Colt, and dropped him facedown in the trail.
Sam stepped forward with caution, keeping an eye back along the trail in case the other three returned—something he doubted was going to happen right away. When he neared the two bodies in the trail, he reached out with his boot and kicked Bootlip’s pistol away from his hand. Bootlip gasped and tried to raise his face and speak. “Save it,” said Sam. “I’ve heard it all before.”
He stood replacing his two spent pistol rounds when some possemen edged forward in a crouch, moving from rock to rock. “I’m a Ranger,” Sam called out, not wanting to let them too close before identifying himself. Without holstering his big Colt, he let it drop down his side, his thumb across the hammer. He reached up slowly with his left hand and eased his duster open, revealing the badge on his chest. “Who are you?”
“We’ll ask the questions, mister,” Red Booker barked, easing up from behind a rock with his rifle aimed and ready.
“I told you who I am,” Sam replied. “Now I’d appreciate it if you’d point that Spencer in another direction. If you’re a posse we’re on the same side here.”
“I’ll let you know whose side we’re on,” said Red Booker, “soon as I see that pistol hit the ground.”
“You can wait all day and not see that,” Sam said. “I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack. I’ve been in pursuit of these men for a long time. Who are you, mister?”
“We’re lawmen,” said Booker. “Make no mistake about that. We’re detectives for the Midwest Bankers’ Association.” He stepped forward, the rest of his men spreading out as they did the same until they formed half a circle around Sam. “You’re a long way outside your jurisdiction, ain’t you, Ranger?”
“Jurisdiction is only a state of mind,” said Sam, his Colt still at his side. “If we’re going to do any more talking, lower that rifle and tell your men to do the same . . . else I’ll have to shoot you where you stand.”
Red Booker started to say something, perhaps mention the fact that there were no less than five rifles aimed at him, yet the iron in Sam Burrack’s eyes told him that this Ranger was not going to repeat himself. The next thing from Sam Burrack would be a pistol shot. “All right, men, lower them for now,” said Booker, not wanting to sound too obliging. “This man’s a Ranger . . . even if he is a long ways off his graze.”
Once the rifles were lowered and uncocked, Sam raised his Colt enough to drop it into his holster. “That must’ve been Earl and Hopper Ganston who rode past here a while ago. I need to get after them.” He reached down, picked up the pistol he’d kicked away from Bootlip Thomas, and shoved it down into his waistband. “This one’s still alive,” Sam said, stooping down and rolling Bootlip over onto his back.
“Not for long, he ain’t,” said Erskine Brock, leaning down with a skinning knife, trying to lay the blade across the wounded outlaw’s throat.
Sam Burrack grabbed Brock by his bony wrist, stood up and slung him to the ground. “Who’d you say you work for?” Sam asked Red Booker, turning slightly to him as Erskine Brock scrambled up onto his knees and shook dust from his long stringy hair and beard.
“I’m Red Booker. We’re riding with Colonel Daniel Fuller and The Midwest Bankers’ Associ—”
Red Booker’s words cut short as Erskine Brock let out a scream and lunged at Sam Burrack with the skinning knife thrust out before him. Sam took a quick sidestep, brought his Colt up from his holster and with a lightning-fast swipe of the barrel, dealt the man a vicious blow across the bridge of his nose. Erskine Brock’s head snapped back; his feet slid out from under him. The other men winced at the sight of blood spurting out of Brock’s nostrils. “I’ve heard of Colonel Fuller,” said Sam Burrack, already dismissing Brock, now lying limp in the dirt, “but I can’t say it’s all been good.” He stooped back down, helped Bootlip Thomas up and wiped dirt from his face.
“Thanks, Ranger.” Bootlip’s eyes cut to where Erskine Brock lay knocked cold.
“Hey,” said Red Booker to Sam, “get back away from that man. He’s our prisoner, not yours. We’re the ones who caught this gang in Hubbler Wells. So don’t get no ideas about the bounty money on any of them.”
“I’m not chasing bounty,” said the Ranger. “But I am interested in the Ganstons. One of the gang killed a Ranger some time back.”
“I see,” said Booker. “That’s why you’ve crossed your line of jurisdiction . . . a Ranger got killed.” He stepped forward, looking down at Erskine Brock as Talbert French and another man dragged him away. “Well, I can’t blame you for wanting to avenge one of your own, Ranger. But we’ll take it from here. We’re paid bounty by the head. Anyway, if you’re after Earl and Hopper, don’t let us keep you from it. We’re taking these bodies back to town and get some photographs taken of them. Colonel Fuller is waiting on us.”
“Why’s he not out here himself?” Sam asked.
“We’ve got one of them holed up somewhere back in town,” said Booker. “It’s the Injun who scouts things out for them.”
“You mean Indian Willie John?” said Sam.
“Yep, that’s him. He’s wounded bad. I expect Fuller’s got his claws into him by now. There ain’t many places to hide in a town the size of Hubbler Wells. But that’s our concern, Ranger. You go on and hit the trail. Some of us will be coming behind you pretty soon.”
“They’re going to kill me, Ranger . . . no sooner than you’re out of sight,” Bootlip pleaded. “Ride back with us . . . please, for God sakes, I’m begging you.”
Sam Burrack turned from the wounded outlaw to Red Booker, giving Booker a scrutinizing look. “You will take this man back to Hubbler Wells if he doesn’t die on the way, won’t you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Red Booker grinned, making little effort to hide his true intentions, “if he doesn’t die on the way.”
Sam Burrack looked away along the trail in the direction the Ganstons had taken, as if having to give some thought to what his next move should be. On the ground, Bootlip Thomas did all he could to persuade the Ranger to ride with him to Hubbler Wells, saying quickly, “Listen, Ranger, if you want the man who killed your pal . . . it’s the Injun, Willie John.”
Sam Burrack gave him a skeptical look.
Bootlip continued, “I swear that’s the truth. He put that poor Ranger friend of yours in his rifle sights at close to three hundred yards away . . . blasted him right out of his saddle.” He shook his
head, seeming to recoil from the dreaded scene in his mind. “I saw it with my own two eyes. So help me God!” He raised a bloody finger and crossed his heart to prove his honesty. “It was plumb awful.”
“Aw . . . don’t listen to this damn lying snake, Ranger,” said Booker. “He’ll say anything if he figures it’ll get you riding with us to Hubbler Wells. So what if it was the Injun done it? He’s probably dead by now. How will you ever know for sure it was him? Even if he is the one, Colonel Fuller ain’t going to turn him over to you.”
Sam considered everything for a moment, taking another glance at Bootlip Thomas, knowing these men would more than likely kill him no sooner than Sam rode out of sight. “Call it self-satisfaction, Booker,” he said, “but I’m riding with you back to Hubbler Wells.”
“Damn it, Ranger,” said Red Booker, “that just ain’t at all necessary.”
Sam Burrack leaned down to Bootlip Thomas and helped him stand up. “It might not mean a lot to you or me, Booker,” said Sam, using his hat to dust off the wounded outlaw, “but to Bootlip here it might be the most important event in his life.”
“That’s my thoughts exactly, Ranger,” Bootlip said, his strength returning.
“I’m not going to stand for this, Ranger!” Red Booker growled, taking a bold step forward, his hand poising above his pistol grip.
“You’ll stand for it, Booker,” said Sam Burrack, “or I’ll claim bounty on all three of these men. After all, I am the one who shot them.”
“Yeah, come to think of it,” said Bootlip, his voice growing bolder by the minute, “what did you and these saddle tramps do to deserve any reward?” He glared at Red Booker. “This Ranger here did all the work.”
“Don’t push me, outlaw,” Red Booker growled in warning. He turned to the other men with a disgusted expression. “All right, boys, let’s get them bodies loaded and get out of here. Looks like this Ranger is going to be riding with us.”
As Red Booker and the men set about loading the bodies onto horseback, Bootlip Thomas eyed Sam Burrack up and down, weighing his chances at getting the drop on this young Ranger when the time came. “I don’t know you, Ranger,” he said in a disarming tone, “but I sure owe you my life. Thank God you came along when you did. I just hope I can somehow—”
“What’s your name?” Sam Burrack asked, cutting him off.
“I’m Buriel Thomas, but everybody calls me Bootlip. Like I was saying, I’m beholden to you, Ranger. I just want you to know how much—”
“Do me a favor, Bootlip,” said Sam, interrupting him again. “Don’t say anything else unless I ask you to.” He looped the outlaw’s arm across his shoulder and helped him walk toward the loose horse standing a few yards off the trail. “And just to keep yourself from making a bad mistake, remember this: If I feel your hand get close to my pistol holster I’ll put a bullet in you without batting an eye. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir, Ranger.” Bootlip Thomas jerked his hand up close to his chest even though it was a good distance from the pistol on Sam Burrack’s hip. “Can’t blame a man for looking at his odds, can you?”
Sam Burrack didn’t answer as they walked on toward the horse.
Chapter 5
Billy Odle didn’t search the ramshackle barn any longer than he had to. Once he’d fished a dust-covered bridle and a length of lead rope from a wooden storage bin, he slung both items up under his arm and crept through the darkened barn toward the adjoining corral. In the corral he moved quietly among the horses, trying to decide on the best two before making his pick. But of the seven horses there all were ill-shod and gaunt in the flanks. The fittest-looking animal of the bunch was a lank fan-tailed mule standing saddled and hitched at the rear of the house, thirty yards away. Billy stared across the yard at the mule for a second, then decided he couldn’t risk going close enough to either steal it or shoo it away.
He turned back to the horses with a look of disgust. On most of their backs, fleas scurried across festering saddle sores. With no further choosing he slipped the bridle onto a dusty chestnut whose back was clean but whose mane and tail were eaten thin by fleas and mites. You’ll have to do . . . Then he made a loop in the lead rope, slipped it around the neck of a shaggy smoke-colored mare and eased both animals along behind him on his way back through the barn toward open land.
From five hundred yards away atop a stretch of low hills, Willie John watched from the cover of rock and dried brush. “Way to go, kid,” he murmured to himself, seeing Billy Odle lead the horses from the barn. Steam swirled in Willie John’s breath and dissipated on the cold wind. He watched Billy Odle mount the chestnut and ride toward him, leading the smoke-colored mare behind him. Willie John breathed in relief for a second. But then his eyes narrowed warily as he looked past Billy Odle to the rear of the house. A man rushed out of the house, leaped up into his saddle and swung his mount in Billy’s direction. Willie saw a rifle come up out of a saddle boot. “Hurry up, kid,” he whispered aloud. One thing he couldn’t afford right now was the sound of riflefire echoing back to Hubbler Wells.
Instinctively Willie John drew his pistol and held it tight, feeling powerless with it at this distance. “Come on, damn it!” he cursed to himself, seeing the man stop his mount long enough to raise the rifle to his shoulder. Willie held his breath, waiting for the sound to shatter the silence and roll back across the land. Almost without realizing it, Willie raised the pistol and cocked it. Then he caught himself and shook his head. What the hell was he doing, he asked himself, giving the kid a warning shot? What good would it do? Hadn’t he just told himself what the sound of a gunshot would do right now?
In the distance Willie saw the man take the rifle down from his shoulder as Billy Odle and the horses topped a short rise and came down out of the man’s sight. Got lucky, kid . . . Willie let go of a tense breath, lowered the pistol and rubbed his face. Jesus, he’d better get a grip on himself, he thought. For a second there he was getting too concerned about the brat. He looked back out across the land and saw Billy drawing closer. Two hundred yards behind Billy Odle, Willie saw the rider slap the barrel of his rifle to his animal’s rump, staying in pursuit. “All right, kid, get on in. I’ll take it from here,” Willie whispered. He holstered his pistol and drew the long knife from his bootwell.
When Billy Odle rode up into the cover of the hill trail, he saw the grim look on Willie John’s face as he drew the horses to a halt. Misreading the Indian’s expression, Billy Odle said, “I’m sorry, Willie, but this was the best of the lot.”
Willie John’s eyes only skimmed over the horses. “You’re being followed, kid. Don’t you ever bother checking back on your trail?”
Quickly, Billy Odle looked back and saw a short rise of dust drifting sideways on the cold wind. He saw the mule, the rider, and the rifle in the man’s hand. “My gosh! I will from now on, Willie, I swear I will—”
“Get the horses out of sight,” said Willie John, slapping a hand on the chestnut’s rump.
Billy Odle jerked the horses to one side, holding them back. He turned in his saddle facing Willie, noting for the first time the long knife in his hand. “Don’t worry, Willie,” he said. “That’s Old Man Renfro. He can’t keep up with us. He’s half blind and riding an old army mule.”
“I said, get the horses out of sight,” Willie John repeated, his voice more demanding.
“But, Willie, you’re not going to kill him are you?” The horses stepped back and forth nervously.
“Kid, he’s on my trail. I’ve got no choice but to kill him.” Willie John fanned the horses forward. “Now get them out of sight.”
“The old man’s harmless,” said Billy Odle, his eyes going back to the long knife Willie John held readily down his thigh. “Can’t we just go ahead on? He can’t follow us.”
“Don’t make me say it again, kid.” Something had just changed in Willie John’s voice, so much that it sounded to Billy like the voice of a stranger. There was an iciness to Willie John’s word
s, and while no threat had been made, none had to be. Billy Odle shrank back and pulled the horses away.
“Stupid kid,” Willie said to himself, noticing his hand had grown too tight around the knife handle. He watched until Billy Odle and the horses had disappeared among the rocks. Then he stepped back off the trail and climbed up six feet and perched down on a narrow ledge. “I must be out of my mind fooling with you,” he added, speaking to Billy Odle as if the boy were there beside him. “If I ain’t careful you’ll get me killed.” He pressed a hand to his bandaged wound and felt where the wet sticky warmth had seeped through his shirt. “I can’t let that happen to me, kid,” he whispered in a bitter tone. “That’s just how things work.” He stropped the knife back and forth across his knee.
Billy Odle had no idea how long he waited, he and the horses tucked back out of sight amid upturned boulders the size of small houses. A deathlike silence set in about him beneath the moan of the wind as he listened for any sound from back along the trail. When it came, it was not the sound of old man Renfro struggling for his life. Instead, it was only the braying of the mule he heard; and the sharpness of the animal’s frightened voice sent a dark chill through him. Billy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms tight against his ears.
When Billy finally opened his eyes he saw Willie John standing before him, the knife still in his hand, the blade shiny clean as if nothing had happened. The mule stood behind Willie John with its head lowered, having witnessed the cold-blooded side of man’s nature. “Now we can go, kid,” said Willie John. As he spoke he ran a hand down the chestnut’s muzzle, looking at both horses closely now for the first time. “If this is the best of the lot, I’d hate to see the others.”
