by Ralph Cotton
Taking a seat, Hardaway poured tequila from a jug into a wooden cup and motioned toward the bar for the bartender to bring a fresh cup for the Ranger.
“No, thanks,” said Sam.
“It beats the water around here,” Hardaway said. He turned up a drink of tequila and slammed the cup down. Stifling a cough, he said, “The town well draws its water from a spring running under the graveyard.” He gave a sour expression. “Makes me think I’m drinking somebody’s rotted feet.” His expression soured even more. “All the more reason why I miss ol’ San Antoine.”
“I understand,” the Ranger said.
“All right, then,” said Hardaway. “I can’t stand waiting another minute. What’s my situation? Am I still marked for a Texas hanging party, or do I remain forever stuck here in Infierno mexicano eterno?”
“Hell eternal is putting it a little strong, Hardaway,” the Ranger said, looking around appraisingly.
“Spend a week here, Ranger,” said Hardaway. “You’ll see what I mean.”
“Obliged, but no, thanks,” the Ranger replied. “Anyway, you’re free to do as you please, Hardaway. It turns out the man you killed was wanted for murdering three people in Ohio a couple years back.”
“No fooling?” said Hardaway, surprised. “So that gets me off the hook?”
“In this case, yes,” Sam said. “The folks he killed come from a respectable family in Cleveland.”
“Respectable meaning rich?” Hardaway grinned.
“That would be my guess,” said Sam, continuing. “There was some scandal to it. The family would just as soon let everything settle down as quick as possible. So Texas is saying one dead murderer is no great concern.”
Hardaway kept his grin. “How is that for a stroke of luck? A murderer, you say.” He paused, considering everything for a moment, then said, “Let me ask you, was there any reward money on ol’ Lonnie Lyngrid?”
Sam just looked at him for a moment.
“No harm in me asking, is there,” said Hardaway, “him being a craven murderer and all?”
“No harm,” said Sam. “As it turns out there is a reward. There’s a five-thousand-dollar reward posted by members of the deceased’s family through the city of Cincinnati.” As he spoke he took out a folded reward notice and spread it on the table.
“Ha! I can’t believe it,” said Hardaway, reading the reward notice and amount to himself. He shook his head, grinning, his lips moving quietly across the printed word.
“Don’t forget you would have to travel all the way to Cincinnati to collect the five thousand dollars.” Sam studied the expression on Hardaway’s face.
“So?” said Hardaway. “I’ve gone a lot farther for a lot less money. Besides, as fast as traveling is these modern days, I could go get my reward money in Cleveland and ride out on the next train to Texas—whole trip wouldn’t take over two or three weeks, four at the most.”
“You’ve got a point there.” The Ranger nodded. “You might want to walk a little quiet if you go on back to Texas afterward,” he warned him. “You could still face charges for murder and arson if you made somebody mad. The man you killed was a wanted murderer, but that doesn’t make you a saint in anybody’s eyes.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Hardaway said, dismissing the Ranger’s warning. “I am damn obliged to you for bringing me this news,” he added.
“Don’t forget,” said the Ranger, seeing Hardaway appeared ready to bolt and start packing his belongings, “you agreed to tell me where to find your pards Ty and Wes Traybo.”
“You mean my ex-partners,” said Hardaway, settling back down into his chair. He gave a wince. “I nearly forgot that this was a trade we agreed to.”
“I didn’t,” Sam said flatly. “Don’t start tightening up on me now, Hardaway,” he cautioned. “I did what I said I’d do for you. Now pay it up.”
“Dang, you just don’t know how bad it feels, double-crossing your pards, even if they’re a couple of crazy sons a’ bitches like the Traybos.”
“We made a deal, Hardaway,” the Ranger reminded him, rising slightly in his chair.
“All right, I know, I know,” Hardaway said, fanning Sam back down. “I agreed to tell you, and I’m trying to. I’m nothing if not a man of my word—most times anyway . . . well, sometimes that is, provided everything—”
“Stop stalling around and tell me where they lie low,” Sam said, cutting him off. “The law has looked everywhere.”
Hardaway struggled with it for a moment, then let out a long sigh and slumped in his chair.
“I can’t do it, Ranger,” he said. “I hate to crawfish on a deal, but I’ve got to.” He paused, then said, “I almost wish you hadn’t told me I’m free and clear and have some reward money waiting.” He held back a crooked little smile. “I fear it might have taken away any incentive for telling you about the Traybos.”
The Ranger just stared at him.
“I expect you’ll make some threats now, act like you’re going to kill me, or shoot me in the foot . . . stuff like that,” Hardaway said. “But I’m prepared to call your bluff. See, I don’t think you’ll shoot a man over something like this.”
The Ranger raised his gun hand away from his holstered Colt and placed it on the tabletop.
“It looks like you’ve got me there, Hardaway,” Sam said. “I warned myself you might do something like this—”
“Awww. Don’t feel too bad, Ranger,” Hardaway cut in. “You’re young, still learning. Let this be a good lesson—”
“That’s why I went ahead and had your reward money for Lonnie Lyngrid deposited in an Arizona Territory bank before I came looking for you,” Sam continued. He raised a folded paper from his hip pocket and pitched it over in front of Hardaway beside the reward poster. “I figured it would save you a trip to Cincinnati, and keep me from putting a bullet through your foot.”
“You did what?” said Hardaway, unfolding the paper, seeing the heading First Bank of Cottonwood Arizona across the top.
“That’s a promissory note for your five thousand dollars, Hardaway,” Sam said. “It requires you showing up in person in Cottonwood, and me—a duly sworn officer of Arizona Territory—signing an affidavit attesting that you did indeed kill Lonnie Lyngrid.”
“Damn my breaking heart,” Hardaway said sadly, shaking his head. “What has this world turned into, when a man can’t kill a murdering son of a bitch like Lonnie Lyngrid and get the reward without all this rigmarole?”
“You didn’t know he was a murderer at the time, Hardaway,” Sam said, trying to keep him on track. “You had no idea there was reward money coming.”
Hardaway didn’t seem to hear him.
“It was starting that damn fire,” he said. “I knew arson was a bad idea—that it would come back on me someday.” He rapped a fist down on the tabletop. “And I never should have trusted a lawman,” he added, giving the Ranger a cold stare. “You jackpotted me, Burrack. That’s all you can call this.”
Sam just stared at him for a moment.
“Listen to me, Hardaway,” he said finally, rising from the table, picking up the promissory banknote. “I’m going to water and grain my horse, let him rest out awhile before I turn back. You take a few minutes and decide if you want to go along with me, show me where the Traybo brothers hole up.” He paused, then added, “On our way to Cottonwood.”
“Damn, I hate Cottonwood,” said Hardaway. “And I’ve got my interest in this place I need to keep watch on.”
“Five thousand dollars is a lot of money. Figure it out and do what suits you,” the Ranger said, turning, walking toward the front door. “I’ve told you how it’s going to be. Now I’m through fooling with you.” He let Hardaway see him shove the folded note down into his hip pocket. Then he walked out the front door, through the three leering gunmen, toward the hitch rail up the dirt street.
• • •
On the front porch of the Gatos Malos Cantina, the three gunmen stepped back as the Ranger walked between them. They stood watching as he walked away in the wavering heat.
“Big Iron. Ha!” said Ross McCloud. “Gun or knife, he don’t show me nothing.” He spat in disgust as they watched the Ranger step over to his speckled barb at the iron hitch rail. “If he needs to learn himself some manners about not sneaking up on folks, I’d be more than happy to teach him a thing or—”
“Noooo! Wait!” shouted Fatch Hardaway, charging headlong out of the cantina doorway, knocking McCloud down as he ran into the street flailing his arms, his Colt swinging wildly in his hand. “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!” He raced toward the Ranger shouting at the top of his lungs, staring toward an empty store across the street.
Quick on his reflexes, the Ranger saw what was happening and dropped into a crouch, spinning fast, raising his Colt from its holster, cocking it on the upswing.
“Don’t kill that Ranger!” Hardaway bellowed toward the empty storefront. He skidded to a halt, firing round after round toward the storefront.
Sam saw two figures through the large, dusty display window; he saw bullet holes appear, forming large spiderweb cracks on the wavy glass. Gunfire erupted from within the plank and adobe building. A bullet whistled past his head; he fired twice into the spiderwebs of cracked glass, then moved a step to the side and started to fire again. But before he got the shot off, a body fell forward, crashed through the glass, frame and all, and spilled onto the plank boardwalk.
The Ranger stood tense, crouched, waiting, fanning his Colt back and forth between the abandoned store and Fatch Hardaway, who stood with his hands above his head, holding his smoking Colt pointed at the sky.
“Don’t shoot, Ranger!” he shouted. “See? I come to warn you—to save your life! Clifford Spears and Rodney Gaines are in there laying for you!” He held his gun hand to the side and dropped his smoking Colt to the dirt street. “There, you see? I’m on your side, all the way!”
The reward money, Sam told himself.
“You had me all set up for them, Hardaway,” he said. But as he spoke he had to turn quickly toward the creaking door opening on the empty storefront. He saw a tall, broad-shouldered gunman stagger out and stop, his gun hanging from one hand, his other hand clutching his bloody stomach. A battered Stetson sat lopsided on his head; blood dribbled down from his lip and dripped from his chin.
“Fatch . . . you son of a bitch . . . ,” the man muttered, his words failing. He stumbled forward, trying to raise his revolver. But he couldn’t gather the strength.
The Ranger turned his Colt toward the wounded gunman, but only in time to see him buckle down onto his knees, then pitch face-forward onto the street.
“There, then. I suppose that about settles it,” said Hardaway. He stooped to pick up his gun from the dirt. But Sam turned back toward him, his Colt pointed at him.
“Leave it lie,” he demanded. As he spoke he saw the three gunmen from the cantina running up the street, their rifles in their hands.
“Leave it lie?” Hardaway said as if in disbelief. “Ranger, I just saved your life here. No two ways about it.”
“Yep,” said the Ranger. “After you found out you won’t draw the reward money without me signing for it. Before that you had me jackpotted for these two.” He gestured a nod toward the two dead gunmen lying in the street.
“That’s an ugly, hateful thing to say,” said Hardaway. He continued to stoop and reach out for his gun, paying no regard to the Ranger’s words.
The sound of the Ranger cocking his Colt stopped him.
“You’re ahead of the game right now, Hardaway. Don’t end it with me putting a bullet in you.”
Hardaway heard the seriousness in the Ranger’s voice. He straightened and rubbed his palms on his trouser legs.
“All right, Ranger,” Hardaway said. “I’ll forgo your lack of gratitude for now.”
“Tell your men to drop their rifles,” the Ranger said.
“All right, men, you heard the voice of authority here,” Hardaway said with sarcasm. “Lower those rifles.”
“I said drop them,” the Ranger demanded.
“Very well, then, drop your rifles,” Hardaway said to his men, sounding put out by the Ranger’s persistence.
Sam stepped in closer to Hardaway as the bodyguards let their rifles fall.
“You and I have a lot of ground to cover, Hardaway,” Sam said quietly. “If this ride is not worth the money to you, let me know right now, before I waste any more time on you.”
“All right, Ranger, it’s true I knew Clifford and Rodney were waiting there for you. They hit town yesterday. Said they’d spotted you on the trail headed this way. Like every gunman on these badlands, they wanted to kill you.” He shrugged. “What was I to do? It was none of my business.”
“But the money changed everything,” Sam said.
“Well, hell yes, it changed things,” Hardaway said. “Doesn’t it always?”
“You’re some piece of work, Fatch Hardaway.”
“Be that as it may, in the course of things, I did come running to your defense, didn’t I?” Hardaway reasoned.
“Yes, you did,” the Ranger said. He eased a little, realizing there was no point in discussing the matter any further. Hardaway would do whatever he needed to keep him alive so long as there was money involved. “Obliged,” he said.
Hardaway smiled and nodded as if to say you’re welcome.
Sam took another step and picked up Hardaway’s pistol from the dirt, shook it free of dust and handed it to him, butt first. He looked at the three gunmen staring at him and gave them a nod toward their rifles. “Pick them up,” he told the three.
“Gracias, Ranger,” Hardaway said, taking his Remington and holstering it. He gave a nod toward the dead men in the dirt street as a few townsfolk ventured forward from behind closed doors. “I’m wondering now. Do you suppose Clifford and Rodney has any reward on them anywhere? This bounty business might be a good thing to look into.”
The Ranger turned and started toward the speckled barb.
“Get ready to ride, Hardaway,” he said over his shoulder. “The sooner we’re done with this, the better.”
Chapter 3
Maley, Arizona Territory
Two strangers dressed in black linen suits stood at the customer service counter in the middle of the Cattleman’s Bank. Over their business clothes, they both wore tan trail dusters that hung down to their scuffed bootheels. One wore a stylish but battered bowler hat cocked at a rake above his right eye. The other wore a black wide-brimmed Stetson. Both stood filling out deposit receipts. They looked up at each other as the sound and feel of rumbling hooves began to swell underfoot.
“Vot is dis?” questioned a Swedish shopkeeper who turned on his heel at the teller cage, cash in hand, and looked off in the direction of the deep, powerful rumbling.
“Goodness gracious! It sounds like a stampede,” said a townswoman in a long black gingham dress, standing behind the shopkeeper. “My poor Albert was in one once—said it was terrible.”
“Stampede indeed, Widow Jenson,” said the bank manager, a short, hefty man who unlocked the thick wooden door at the far end of the barred teller counter and hurried around toward the front door. “I prefer to think Maley is a good deal more civilized these days than to have a stampede in our streets.”
The two men in dusters gave him a dubious look. So did the shopkeeper.
“It is coming from the rail pens, Mr. Bird,” Widow Jenson offered.
“Yes, I know,” the manager, Phillip Bird, said in a patient but condescending tone.
Behind the long teller counter a serious-looking man wearing a full beard and a green clerk’s visor stood staring down at an ink pen as the floor trembled with the low-rumbling vibration
.
“Mr. Bird, sir,” the man said calmly.
Phillip Bird didn’t reply. Instead he smiled confidently at the two strangers.
“No cause for concern, gentlemen,” he said over his shoulder. He set a heavy bolt across the front door, locking it. “I’ll lock this just in case. We’ve had reports of the Traybo Gang being in this area. “But I assure you, this is nothing.”
“The Traybos! Really?” the man in the bowler hat said, looking worried.
“I should not have mentioned it,” said Phillip Bird. He waved the matter away as he turned back toward the door. “At any rate, to be on the safe side, we have armed railroad detectives and town volunteer guards positioned everywhere. If those craven cowards were to show their faces here, I daresay—”
His words came to a halt as he saw the men’s trail dusters part down the front and guns come out pointed at him. The man in the bowler raised a double-barrel sawed-off shotgun and cocked both hammers. The man in the Stetson held a long, sleek Remington .45 conversion leveled at his chest.
Bird’s eyes widened in terror as the one with the shotgun took a step forward.
“Craven cowards, huh?” he said to the trembling bank manager. Without taking his eyes off Phillip Bird, he spoke to the man in the Stetson. “Want me to butt-smack him, brother Wesley?” he asked.
“Only if he doesn’t do what we tell him, Tyrone,” the man in the Stetson replied. He looked at the shopkeeper and the woman. “You two get behind the counter with us. Come on, let’s go!” He wagged them toward the open door with the barrel of his big Remington.
“You’re them—the Traybo brothers, that is,” said the banker, having turned pale in the face. “You’re not even wearing masks!”
Wes Traybo touched his stubbled cheeks as if in surprise and said, “I knew we forgot something.”
