Jurisdiction

by Ralph Cotton

  “Ronald was a good and decent man,” said Kirby Bell, his voice softening. “That’s one thing you and I can agree on.”

  Once outside of Hubbler Wells, Sam Burrack followed the prints as far as he could before the falling snow began filling the tracks left by Billy Odle’s running horse. Yet, halfway across the flatlands between Hubbler Wells and the line of low hill surrounding the basin, Sam stopped his horse and gazed out across the smooth surface of snow before him, his vision eclipsed by a swirling white veil. In the ringing silence he heard the slightest sound of a horse nickering, far off in the distance.

  “Billy Odle!” Sam shouted, knowing full well that this was a dangerous thing to do, letting whomever was up ahead know his position. But for the kid’s sake he had to risk it. “It’s me, Ranger Sam Burrack. Stop running, Billy. Let me talk to you.”

  For all Sam knew the sound could have come from Willie John’s horse. Or, at best, it could tip Billy Odle off that he was being followed. With a gun, in this weather, there was nothing to say that a harebrained kid like Billy Odle couldn’t shoot him from his saddle, the same as any grown man. “I must be as crazy as he is,” Sam murmured to himself. Hearing no response, Sam heeled his horse forward in the direction the nickering had come from.

  But before he had gone fifteen feet, the flat distant sound of a pistol shot rolled in, muffled by the snow. Sam didn’t even flinch. Instead he shook his head and heeled forward in the same steady pace, knowing that the pistol was far out of range. That in itself let him know for certain it was Billy Odle. Neither Willie John nor any other outlaw would have done something so foolish. Sam allowed himself a trace of a smile. All right, now he had the boy responding to him, he had to keep it this way.

  “Billy, listen to me . . . You’re not getting away. You might as well give this up.”

  His answer was another pistol shot. He studied the sound closely, gauging the distance. Then he followed the sound another twenty yards before calling out again. “Billy, stop shooting at me. Let’s talk.”

  Of course, the one thing Sam didn’t want was for Billy to stop firing the pistol. But he didn’t want Billy to know. Bootlip Thomas had said Billy took a belt full of ammunition from a peg in the corner. Sam wanted to keep him shooting just enough to bring him in closer. Once he got his tracking paced just right and got ahead of the time it took for the fresh snow to fill the hoofprints, he would quit calling out to him. He would slip in closer following the hoofprints and catch Billy Odle off guard—he sure hoped so, anyway. Otherwise . . .

  Sam didn’t want to think about that right now. If his hunch was right and Willie John was somewhere out there waiting for him, there was no way Sam could let Billy Odle come between him and what he had to do. He’d given the kid every break he could afford. Now it was down to living and dying. Sam knew that, and so did Willie John, he thought. He heeled the horse forward, knowing that as surely as he and Billy could hear one another out here, somewhere—up in those hills, no doubt—the Indian was waiting, watching, preparing himself to bring this thing to a close.

  ***

  Willie John stood beside his big dapple-gray stallion on the edge of a thin cliff where he’d guided his horse at the sound of the first pistol shot from the flatlands below. From this distance he had not heard Billy’s horse nickering. But by the time the third shot was fired he’d heard the slightest trace of the Ranger’s voice calling out to Billy Odle. Willie John put two and two together and nodded to himself, almost smiling, picturing poor, dumb Billy Odle down there shooting at the wind.

  This Ranger was smart, Willie John thought, getting the kid to fire the pistol, bringing him in closer that way. But then Willie John had long since decided that this was no ordinary man, this young Ranger. That’s why he’d led the Ranger into this to begin with. It was time to settle all accounts. Willie John raised his rifle and fired a shot into the air. Then he climbed atop his dapple-gray mount and heeled it forward along the ridgeline. One hundred yards along the ridge he slowed long enough to fire another rifleshot, then heeled forward again. He knew full well where Billy Odle was going. He might as well let the Ranger know where he stood on things . . . add something interesting into the mix.

  At the sound of the second rifle shot, the Ranger’s eyes went toward the hills beyond the swirl of white snow. It was Willie John, there was no doubt about it. He had suspected it upon hearing the first shot. The second shot had only confirmed it for him. He rose forward, knowing that the rifle shot was Willie speaking to both Billy Odle and himself. The Indian was telling Billy where he was headed. At the same time he was inviting Sam to follow. All right. Sam raised his rifle from its boot, levered a round into the chamber and laid it across his lap. He needn’t reply, he thought. Willie John knew his answer. Sam kept his horse moving along parallel to the spot where the last shot was fired.

  Less than two miles ahead of Sam Burrack, Billy Odle had stopped his horse stone still at the sound of Willie John’s first rifleshot. He’d sat astonished, his mouth agape for a moment until it dawned on him who it was up there. There was no question it was Willie John. He was there in the hills somewhere, listening, figuring out what was going on . . . giving him a signal. Billy Odle’s face lit up in a smile. Willie was headed for the ruins where Billy Odle had left him. Billy knew it. He gigged the tired horse forward in the falling snow.

  In his excitement, and with the white swirl of snow obscuring his vision, Billy did not see the riders surround him from ten yards out and close in like a silent pack of wolves. Only when his horse rose up in fright and let out a long whinny did Billy Odle see what was about to befall him. But by then it was too late.

  “Got him,” said Red Booker, jumping his horse forward and catching Billy’s rearing horse by its bridle as it touched down.

  “Get off me!” Billy Odle shouted. The pistol was still in his hand. He jerked it up toward Red Booker’s face, his thumb trying to cock the hammer.

  A hand seemed to come out of nowhere. “I’ll take that,” said Colonel Fuller’s voice. Fuller snatched the pistol from Billy’s hand so fast, Billy was powerless to stop him. He darted a glance back and forth, wild-eyed at the closing circle of drawn guns pointed at him.

  “Stay back! All of you! I’m warning you—” Billy’s words were cut short when Colonel Fuller’s gloved hand came around in a vicious slap that lifted him from his saddle and landed him flat on his back in the snow. Billy laid addled, shaking his head, trying to keep from going unconscious. Through a mental fog he watched Colonel Fuller step down from his horse and walk over to him. Fuller took his time, drawing a long skinning knife from its sheath behind his back. Billy only moaned and ran a cold hand across his face, trying to clear his mind. Then he managed to spit a long stream of blood from his split lip.

  “That’s it, wake up, boy,” said Colonel Fuller. “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do this.” He slapped the wide blade against his gloved palm and looked down at Billy with a crazed look on his face, a cruel smile forming on his tight lips. “You think you’re a tough young man? A real outlaw desperado? All right, then, it’s time somebody treated you like one.” His knife hand made a quick slash across Billy Odle’s stomach. Billy saw the blade coming and tried to jerk back away from the sharp steel. He managed to pull back far enough to keep the wicked knife from opening his stomach, but he felt cold air on his skin where the front of his coat and shirt were laid open.

  “You ain’t ducking this, boy!” said Fuller, drawing back for another swing. “I’ve got all day!”

  “Stop it, Fuller!” shouted Red Booker.

  “Like hell I will,” Fuller gasped in reply. He took a step forward as Billy Odle scooted backward in the snow.

  “I said stop it! Leave him be, Fuller!” Red Booker shouted, hurrying in, catching Fuller’s wrist in time and twisting it back in an armlock. As his free hand cocked his pistol and jammed the tip of the barrel beneath Fuller’s ear, Booker hissed, “Don’t make me splatter your brains out! I’m
running this show now. I’ll say who dies, and when. Now drop it!”

  “Red, please,” Fuller pleaded, not giving the knife up right away. “You’ve got to let me field-dress this little son of a bitch! You’ve got to . . . for all the trouble he caused!”

  Red Booker put more pressure on Fuller’s wrist, the pistol barrel jamming harder beneath the colonel’s ear. “I’m too close to catching that Injun to let you ruin the deal. I didn’t pull out here and sit waiting in the cold for nothing. Now drop it or die with it in your hand.”

  Colonel Fuller relented, letting the big knife drop to the ground near Billy Odle’s side. Before Billy could make a grab for the knife handle, Red Booker clamped a boot down on it, calling out over his shoulder, “Some of you get down here. Grab this kid and hold onto him.”

  When three men stepped in and yanked Billy Odle to his feet, Red Booker stepped away from the knife, picked it up and pulled Colonel Fuller away from the others, out of sight in the thickening cover of falling snow. He shook him, saying, “Damn it, Fuller, I told you not to start giving me trouble! I’m running this posse now. I’m not letting you kill this two-bit punk kid and keep me from getting Willie John!”

  “Please, Booker!” said Fuller. “You’ve got to let me slice him apart! I don’t care about nothing else. This is your posse now, that’s fine! But give me the kid!”

  “I’ll use that kid when the time comes, Fuller. He’s not worth a thing to me dead.”

  “You’re crazy, Booker!” Fuller snapped at him. “Willie John won’t let himself be taken over that kid. He’d watch you turn that boy into blood gravy before he’d give himself up!”

  “We’ll see,” said Red Booker. He shoved the colonel back a step, then said, “Are you going to settle down and not give me any more trouble over that ragged-assed kid?”

  Colonel Fuller spit and put the back of his gloved hand to his lips. Steam gushed in his breath. “To be honest, Red, I don’t think I can.”

  “Is that your last word on it, Colonel?” Red asked.

  Colonel Fuller only nodded, his eyes blank, not seeming to even see Red Booker, but instead staring past him through the swirling snow to where he’d last seen Billy Odle on the ground at his feet.

  Nells Kroft helped push Billy Odle back up into his saddle. As Red Booker came walking over to them, Kroft blew his steaming breath on the tips of his fingers sticking out of his ragged gloves and said, “Hey, Red, where’s the colonel?”

  “He ain’t coming with us,” said Red Booker. He looked from one set of knowing eyes to the other. In one hand he carried the big skinning knife, in his other hand the leather sheath. The blade of Fuller’s knife was streaked with fresh blood. “Anybody got something to say about it?” Booker shoved the knife into the sheath and stuck it down behind his belt. When no one offered any more on the matter, Red Booker nodded and stepped up into his saddle. “Good. Then let’s kill that Injun real quick-like and head on out of here.”

  Chapter 22

  Tinnie Malone stood at the window in Hattie Odle’s room and stared out into falling snow toward the unseen hill line. It had been a few minutes since she’d heard the last distant sound of a gunshot. Still she peered into the impenetrable white swirl and listened closely as she tied the string of her wool cloak about her neck. Behind her, Hattie Odle washed her face in a pan of water and dried it on a soft white towel. Hattie took a long coat down from a rack in a corner and walked to the bed where she had laid out the rest of her clothes.

  “If you’re going, I’m going with you,” said Hattie. “Just give me a moment to get dressed.”

  “No,” said Tinnie, turning around from the window. “It’s better that you stay here.”

  “It’s my son out there,” Hattie responded. “I should be the one going to look for him.”

  Tinnie considered it for a second, then said, “All right. But you’ll have to be the one to ask Carl Yates. He only agreed to let me ride along with him because I’m taking a horse sleigh from the livery barn, just in case the Ranger or Billy is out there hurt and needing help.”

  “I’ll ask him,” said Hattie, hurrying into her clothes, her face turning drawn and ashen at the thought of something happening to her son.

  Both women were waiting with their winter cloaks and woolen mufflers on when Carl Yates knocked on the door. He saw right away what the women had in mind, and he said, “Whoa now, ladies.” He cut his eyes to Tinnie. “I said you could ride along and bring the sleigh. But it’s too dangerous for both of you to be out there.”

  Hattie Odle started to speak, but Tinnie’s words jumped in ahead of her. “Carl, for God sakes, it’s her son out there. She’s got a right to go along with us. Besides, if he’s hurt and gives you a hard time, maybe it would be better having her along.”

  Carl Yates relented slowly. “Well . . . all right, Hattie, come on with us. Let’s get a move on.”

  As they walked out the door and toward the stairs, Hattie said sidelong to Tinnie, “Thanks, but I thought you said I’d have to ask him for myself.”

  Tinnie Malone smiled kindly. “The truth is, me and the rest of the girls feel like we’ve got some making up to do with you, Hattie. We saw the hard times you was having, and the way Asa Dahl was treating you. But we just turned our heads . . . and I’m sorry.”

  Hattie replied, “You needn’t apologize. None of you owed me anything.”

  “Yes we did,” said Tinnie Malone. “There’s some things we all owe one another without it ever being asked for, or ever being expected.”

  As they descended the last three steps, walking ahead of Carl Yates, Tinnie and Hattie saw Asa Dahl standing at the hotel counter with a cup of coffee and a cigar. When the two women reached the bottom of the stairs, Dahl set his coffee cup down and stepped over in front of them, blocking them from the front door. “Tinnie, this has gone on long enough!” he growled. Although he’d been sipping coffee, Tinnie smelled whiskey on his breath. “You abandon this woman and her little outlaw son right now, or you can kiss your job with me good-bye forever!”

  Before Tinnie could answer, Carl Yates stepped around from behind her and Hattie Odle and shoved Asa Dahl back a step. “Get yourself out of our way, Dahl. We don’t have time to deal with you and your spite. If the truth was told, you’re the one who caused this town to turn into such a sorry, don’t-give-a-damn place to begin with.”

  Asa Dahl stiffened for a second, then retaliated, saying, “Oh yeah? Well then, since we’re standing here speaking our minds, let me remind you that there is a four-dollar beer tab at my place right now with your name on it.”

  “Here, you puny bastard!” Carl Yates reached into his vest pocket, snatched out some wrinkled dollar bills and threw them against Asa Dahl’s chest. “Now get out of our way before I knock you cockeyed!”

  Asa Dahl stepped aside letting the money fall to the floor. He said to Tinnie as she walked past him, “Don’t forget what I said—you’re fired.”

  “Sure, Asa.” Tinnie shrugged. “But me and the girls all talked it over, and if I leave, they all leave with me. Now chew on that while you figure how to explain to all the miners and cowboys passing through that your whole flock of soiled doves has flown the coop.”

  “You women can’t leave my place,” Dahl shouted. “Where else can you ply your profession, out in a tool shack, like this woman?” He pointed a finger of condemnation at Hattie Odle. “You do that, and you’ll all end up just like her!”

  Tinnie stopped and made it a point to look Hattie Odle up and down as she said to Asa Dahl, “Oh? She doesn’t look any worse for the wear . . . once she got your dope out of her system.” Dahl looked stunned. “That’s right, Asa,” Tinnie continued, “I know who was behind selling the opium in this town. You never fooled me, or any of the girls. We’re all fed up with you anyway. Maybe I’ll gather them all together as soon as I get back, tell them I’m fired and see what they want to do about it.” She turned and started to walk out the door as Carl Yates held it open.


  “Hey, wait, damn it!” said Asa Dahl, his voice suddenly sounding concerned. “Tinnie, you’re not fired . . . hell, can’t you see I’ve been drinking? Go ahead and befriend this woman far as I care. It means nothing to me.”

  “Too late, Asa,” said Tinnie, guiding Hattie through the door then following her. “I’ve decided to take it on myself to see if we can turn this town into something better . . . and get rid of the likes of you.” She grinned. “We’ve all seen what happens to a town when it’s pulled apart in every direction by a snake like you. Now stand back and watch what happens when everybody starts pulling together.” She started to slam the door in Dahl’s face, but he caught it with the heel of his hand and called out as Carl and the two women walked away toward the livery barn, “You’ve just got a bad attitude right now, Tinnie . . . but watch, you’ll come back to me, wanting me to keep you and the others on.” Tinnie didn’t look back.

  ***

  Sam Burrack stood at the spot where the posse’s hoofprints had left the snow upturned, the falling snow not yet having covered them. He saw the spot of blood Billy Odle had spat upon the ground. Taking note of how his horse kept poking its muzzle in the same direction as if sniffing something unseen, Sam held his thumb across his rifle hammer and walked forward cautiously. He saw the dark shape of a body lying facedown on the ground, snow already starting to cover its back. He hurried forward, keeping the horse’s reins in his hand, careful not to lose the animal in this kind of weather.

  Sam turned Colonel Fuller’s body over in the snow and looked at the deep red-purple gash across his white throat. Sam’s expression remained fixed, neither surprised nor repulsed by the shameless face of death. Yet, finding Fuller’s body gave the Ranger cause to consider Red Booker’s thinking. The man was running out of tolerance, losing his self-control. This was something a man couldn’t afford to let happen to himself on a manhunt, Sam thought. Booker had turned on one of his own now, the colonel at that.