Concho saw a rider heading toward him.
It was Bill Coombs and he rounded the far edge of the herd in an attempt to come up behind Concho.
Concho aimed his pistol at Coombs and fired. He thumbed back the hammer and fired again. Two quick shots.
Dane watched in horror as Bill clutched his chest and swayed in the saddle. He lifted his six-gun to fire at Concho, but the second bullet hit Coombs in the abdomen and he doubled over, mortally wounded. His pistol went off and the bullet plowed a furrow through the grass and soil a few yards ahead of him. He fell from the saddle, spewing strings of blood from his two wounds. He screamed once before he was overrun by a half dozen head of cattle that seemed disoriented.
Dane swore under his breath and Joe forged head, slapping whitefaces with the tips of his reins. The cows seemed impervious to the stinging blows from the leather.
Alicante joined Montoya amid the thrashing sea of cattle and they bore down on Mitch and Lyle, who were edging toward Concho and shooting at cattle right and left.
The Mexicans held their fire while Mitch fired a shot at them. Both men ducked. Lyle swung his gun hand around and squeezed the trigger. His firing pin fell on a spent round.
“Damn,” Lyle exclaimed. “Out of bullets. I got to reload.”
“Me too,” Mitch said.
Both men opened the gates on their pistols and with agonizing slowness, pushed the ejection lever through each chamber. Empty .45 hulls pinged on the ground as Alicante and Montoya, still holding their fire, continued to close the gap to get within firing range of the two outlaws.
Mitch started to cram fresh cartridges into each cylinder, one chamber at a time, until all six chambers were full. He closed the gate while Lyle was dropping fresh cartridges from his nervous fingers.
“Shit, they’re on us,” Mitch exclaimed.
Lyle had four chambers filled with fresh rounds and he closed the gate and looked up to see the two Mexicans raise their pistols and take aim.
“Damn it all,” Lyle spat, and thumbed the hammer back to cock his .45.
Mitch squeezed off a shot just as Alicante and Montoya split and fired their weapons. His shot fried the air between the two Mexicans, missing them clean.
Carlos saw his bullet strike Mitch first. It ripped into his left shoulder with a hard smack. The impact twisted Mitch in his saddle, and his gun hand went out of control.
Alicante’s bullet ripped into his right lung, cracking ribs and pulping the lung, until it collapsed and robbed Mitch of a full breath. The bullet smashed through and out his back, leaving a hole the size of a tennis ball.
Mitch screamed in pain with his last short breath.
Blood stained the front of his shirt, and his eyes glazed over with the frost of death as if they had been frozen into solid ice.
Lyle fired his pistol, but it struck a white-faced steer and rocked it off its course.
Carlos swung his Colt to bear on Lyle. He halted his horse for a moment, despite the jostling of the cattle as they brushed past his horse. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Smoke billowed out of the six-inch barrel, and sparks flew on the heels of the lead projectile.
Lyle thought he could see it coming and started to duck.
Too late.
The bullet smashed into the top of his head as he bent over his saddle horn, and it turned his brains to mush. Blood spray filled the air with a scarlet haze and he moaned as if it were some kind of afterthought. He continued his slump and rolled out of the saddle, stone dead.
Dane prodded Reno in the flanks and the horse jumped a foot straight toward Concho. Several head of Herefords rammed into Joe Eagle’s horse and shoved him out of the way.
Concho glared at Dane and lifted his gun to take aim.
Dane hunkered low in the saddle and sighted his pistol along the horse’s neck.
It would be close, he thought. A tough shot for him and maybe for Concho as well.
He saw the outlaw in slow motion as if his mind had locked on to the man and turned him into a mannequin that did not move for a split second that stretched into an eternity.
He was close now and Reno seemed to sense that it was time to stop running and hold steady. Reno moved his head slightly to the right and Dane had a clear vision of Concho aiming his pistol at him.
Then the mannequin came to life and Dane squeezed the trigger as he hugged the saddle horn and caressed it with his left hand.
The explosion made Reno jump.
Dane held on tight and thumbed back the hammer of his Colt.
Just in case, he thought.
Then he heard Concho’s gun boom. Dane felt as if he were riding into a private hell where neither man would come out alive.
Chapter 43
Dane jerked the reins taut. Reno halted in his tracks as cattle avoided him and streamed around on both sides.
He sat up straight in the saddle even as he heard the keening whine of Concho’s bullet as it zizzed past, inches from his ear.
Concho just sat his horse for a long moment as if he were untouched.
Dane thumbed the hammer of his pistol backward to full cock, prepared to fire again. Then he saw a small black hole at the base of Concho’s neck. Concho dropped his pistol and reached upward. His finger touched the wound. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
No scream. No sob. No words.
Nothing.
Dane drew a bead on Concho to finish him off, but Concho’s arm dropped lifeless to his side. His eyes flapped closed. Then he fell sideways out of his saddle and hit the ground with a resounding thud. His horse jumped as if electrocuted and ran into three cows that knocked him to one side as they passed. The horse kicked up its heels and scampered around in a circle, confused and disoriented. A slash of red appeared on its side. One of the horns had grazed its ribs and left a bloody streak of white flesh.
“Him dead,” Joe said as he rode up alongside.
“Hold the cattle off me, Joe,” Dane said. “I want to go through Concho’s pockets.”
“Be quick,” Joe said as Dane let his hammer drop back to half cock and holstered his pistol.
He ran to Concho and turned him over. He put two fingers to his throat, just under the ear.
“He’s dead, Joe. The bastard is dead.”
Joe nodded.
Dane straddled the legs of Concho and bent over. He went through his pants and shirt pockets. He pulled out a wad of greenbacks from a front pocket, a worn brown wallet from his back pocket, a pouch of chewing tobacco out of the other back pocket. In his shirt pocket, he drew out a square piece of cardboard folded in half. He opened the cardboard and saw a note that was also folded over. On the note were handwritten words and a signature that he recognized.
The heading stated PROMISSORY NOTE in block letters.
The text read as follows:
I, Earl Throckmorton, President of the Prairie Bank of Shawnee Mission, Oklahoma, do hereby promise to pay the bearer the sum of $10.00 (ten dollars) per head for any cattle returned to my custody upon the successful foreclosure of the property known as the Circle K Ranch, formerly owned by Dane Kramer. It is understood that these cattle came from Kansas and had been abandoned by the former owner, one Dane Kramer.
The note was signed Earl Throckmorton in florid cursive script.
“I’ll be damned, Joe. That tinhorn Throckmorton was payin’ Concho ten dollars a head for my cattle.”
“Concho no have cattle,” Joe said.
“No, but he tried to rustle them.”
They heard Paddy yell orders. The firing had stopped.
“Round ’em up,” Paddy hollered. “Head ’em all back to the river.”
The call was repeated by several cowhands including Len Crowell.
Men on cutting horses started turning the herd back as Dane stood up. Cattle were scattered all over the prairie, but they were no longer running. They were, instead, panting and docile, worn out from the stampede.
“You know what this paper means,
Joe?”
“White man’s words.”
“They mean that I can have Throckmorton put in prison for trying to rustle my cattle. I might even get him put away for murder, since Concho killed so many of my men.”
“That good,” Joe said.
Dane folded the cardboard back over the promissory note and put it in his pocket. He shoved the bills in his front pocket and put the tobacco pouch in his back pocket.
Montoya and Alicante rode up.
“He’s dead, no?” Montoya said.
“Yes,” Dane replied.
“Can I take his pistol and his knife?”
“You can take anything Concho owned, Carlos,” Dane said. “And the both of you can strip the dead rustlers of their guns and personals and stow ’em in the supply wagon. And add their horses to the remuda.”
“We will do this,” Alicante said, and saluted Dane.
Then Paddy rode up, his face puffy and red from exertion. But he was smiling.
“Would you believe we got prisoners, Dane? They just up and surrendered.”
“Where are they?” Dane asked. “I want to talk to them.”
“Jim and Donny are herdin’ ’em over to the chuck wagons. We got their guns. They’re a surly bunch, but they got their tails tucked atween their sorry legs.”
“Joe and I will ride over. How’s the herd?”
“They’re ready to drink at the river, and when you give the word, we’ll run ’em acrost and head for Kansas City.”
“Let’s make sure we account for all the strays and get Wu and Barney to butcherin’ the dead cows, as many as they can take on.”
“Wu’s already sharpenin’ his skinnin’ knife and Barney’s got his butcher’s apron on.”
“How many men did we lose, Paddy?” Dane asked.
“Two or three that I know of, boss. I got Steve and Whit checkin’ on it. Don’t know if we got any wounded or not. Your idea to stampede the cattle worked real good.”
“But we did lose some men,” Dane said. He seemed to be in a momentary daze.
“Yep. We got graves to dig. Charley’s goin’ to pick up our dead and take them to a nice place under some trees over at the river.”
Dane rested his forehead in his hand and seemed to be shaking off his grief. “Thanks, Paddy. I’ll be over there soon.”
“Don’t take it too hard, Dane,” Paddy said. “It could have been worse. At least we took down Concho and got all his men corralled. We ought to line ’em all up for a firin’ squad.”
“Let’s not sink to their level, Paddy. Now, get on with what you have to do.”
“Sure, boss.” Paddy rode off, skirting the cattle that were being driven back to the river.
Dane looked at Joe. “Those men counted on me, Joe. Now some of them are dead.”
“You no give life,” Joe said. “Great Spirit give life. Some lives long. Some lives short.”
“I can’t look at it that way,” Dane said. “I’m responsible. In some way, I’m responsible.”
“Good men die. Bad men die. You kill one bad man. Good men go to star path. Bad men die many times, for long time.”
“You believe that, Joe?”
Joe nodded.
“I wish I knew for sure,” Dane said, more to himself than to Joe. Death was not something he liked to think about. Once he had asked his father whether or not he was afraid to die.
“I ain’t afraid to die, son,” Thor had said. “Way I look at it is we were put on this earth for a good reason. When we die, we leave this life knowin’ more’n we did when we come into it. If there ain’t nothin’ after death, no more life for us, then we won’t know it once we quit breathin’. If there is, then we will remember what we learned and maybe get the chance to rub out our mistakes. Either way, ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. We live and we die, and dyin’s just one more part of life.”
Dane wished he had some philosophy about death. He wished he could let grief wash over him and drip onto the ground like water. But he knew he could not. He didn’t want to bury any of his men. He didn’t know how to face death and lived in dread for the day when his father would die. It seemed to him that when a friend or a relative died, the person left behind a hole in the world, an empty place that no other person could ever fill.
He watched the Mexicans strip Concho’s corpse of gun belt and boots. He turned away, ashamed of himself. He had killed a man and now there was a hole in his heart that would never fill up, never heal.
Yes, Concho was a bad man. He probably deserved to die. He was a killer and had taken many lives.
But Dane didn’t want the job of executioner.
Yet he knew that this was the way of the world. When threatened, a man had the right to defend himself.
Concho had meant to kill him.
It could have gone either way. He might be lying there, dead, instead of Concho.
There was just no way he could make any sense out of it.
Except it felt good to be alive and know that he now had the proof to send Throckmorton to prison.
He might even enjoy seeing Throckmorton hang for his evil deeds.
He shuddered at the contradiction.
But that was how he felt at that moment.
And it made him ashamed of himself for just a few long and introspective seconds.
Chapter 44
Dane and Joe rode over to where the rustler captives stood tied to one of the supply wagons. Their hands were bound behind them. They all glared at Dane with sullen expressions on their faces. Some of them appeared to have been dragged after their capture, since their pants and shirts were torn and caked with dirt.
Charlie Moss stood behind them in the wagon and was handing down coils of rope to some of the Circle K hands.
Maynard Cuzzins already had one of the manila ropes. He had uncoiled it and was looping the bitter end around the rope.
Chad Ransom also had a length of rope. He watched Maynard and duplicated his actions.
“What in hell are you doin’, Maynard?” Dane asked.
“Makin’ a hangman’s knot in this here rope,” he said.
“What for?”
Maynard stopped coiling the rope and stared blankly at Dane.
“Well, we’re aimin’ to hang these here rustlers,” he said. There was a belligerence to his tone, and the other men crowded around Maynard and Chad. Chad too had stopped wrapping one end of the rope around the long line.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, “that’s what we do with cattle rustlers. We hang ’em. Same as horse thieves.”
Dane’s eyes flashed with anger.
“You’re not hangin’ nobody, Maynard,” he said. “Nor any of you. Do you hear me?”
There were shouts of protest from all the cowhands gathered there. One or two raised their fists and shook them.
“How come?” Maynard asked.
“Well, first of all, these men didn’t rustle any of my cattle. And second, I aim to turn them over to the U.S. Marshal in Kansas City. You’ll all be witnesses and will sign depositions.”
“They tried to rustle the cattle, Mr. Kramer,” Charlie said.
“But they didn’t,” Dane replied.
“Well, they’re guilty of murder, then,” Maynard said. “We can hang ’em for that.”
Dane shook his head. “We aren’t going to do that neither. I’ll file murder charges against them in Kansas City, and attempted cattle rustling to boot. They’ll probably hang, but they’ll be tried in a court of law. We aren’t vigilantes, men. I’d like to shoot every one of them right between the eyes, but we’re not the law. We don’t have that right. Or that privilege.”
“Shit,” some of the men said.
“We want justice,” Dewey yelled above the din of the others who were grumbling.
“They’ll be brought to justice,” Dane said. “But not here. In Kansas City.”
The men all glared at him. The rustlers all stared at Dane as if they were watching a madman. Their faces reflected disbelie
f.
“Throw the ropes back in the wagon,” Dane said. “We’ve got men to bury and we still have to drive these cattle across the Caney and up to Omaha.”
Nobody moved.
Dane’s right hand dropped to his side and gripped the butt of his pistol. “Now,” he said softly, and stared down Maynard, Chad, and Charlie.
Maynard swallowed and unwound his hangman’s knot. He tossed his rope up to Charlie. Chad did the same.
Paddy rode up a few seconds later.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Dane said. “It’s all over. Get these men to work and get some graves dug. I don’t want Concho or any of his men we killed buried anywhere near my men.”
“We was just goin’ to bury Concho and them others out on the prairie,” Paddy said.
“Yeah, not too deep,” Maynard said, “and fill up their graves with cow shit.”
“Maynard,” Dane said, “you’d better get a shovel from Charlie and start diggin’. Maybe it’ll take some of that anger starch out of you. Chad, you get to diggin’ too.”
“Yes, sir,” Chad said. “Charlie give me a shovel. But I ain’t buryin’ no rustler.”
“Me neither,” Maynard said.
“Paddy, show ’em where to dig and let’s get this over with.”
“You boys foller me,” Paddy said, and rode off toward the tree-lined river.
Montoya rode up. Concho’s pistol hung from his saddle horn.
“Light down, Carlos,” Dane said. “I want you to take a look at these prisoners, tell me if you know ’em.”
Montoya dismounted and walked over to the bound prisoners. There were four of them. Dane had never seen any of them before.
“Sure,” Carlos said. He looked at each man’s face.
The prisoners glared at him. There was anger on their faces and something else that Dane not only recognized but felt, as if they were burning inside with it. Hatred.
“That first one, the tall one, he is called Leroy Eckersley. The man next to him is Frank Groves. The short one they call Whiskey Bill, but his name is Bill Vickers, and that last one, with the knife scar on his face, is Bart Norman. They call him ‘Blackie’ because of his black hair and beard. You are going to hang them, no?”
The Omaha Trail Page 24
