CHAPTER 6
“That ol’ boy sure looked funny when we came up behind him and caught him bendin’ over that fire,” Jesse Becker blustered. “He liked to fell in the middle of it when he saw us.”
“I thought he was gonna fill his drawers when Whip shoved Pride’s body off the horse,” Billy Tarbow said, laughing. “What was it you told him, Whip?”
“Here’s your daddy, come home for supper,” Whip Doolin repeated. Then they all laughed, recalling Charlie Tate’s fright. “He took off for that shotgun on the wagon, though,” Whip went on. “I think he mighta made it, if he hadn’ta got shot so full of lead he couldn’t tote it all.”
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Billy said, “the ol’ boy made some pretty good pan biscuits. Maybe we shouldn’t have shot him till he showed Tom how to make ’em like that.”
“Ain’t nobody said you gotta eat my biscuits,” Tom Blanton responded, his arm in a makeshift sling. “I don’t see any of ’em left after I make a batch. Ain’t that right, Max?”
“Yeah, I s’pose,” Max answered, his thoughts on a more serious plane than those of his men. “What I’m wonderin’ is what became of that other deputy marshal? I don’t know for a fact that he ain’t still around here somewhere.” His comment served to dampen the jovial mood around the campfire somewhat.
“I don’t know, Max,” Billy said. “If he was with Pride when he sneaked up here, he sure didn’t try to help him. And he wasn’t down there at the wagon with that other feller when we got there. I’m bettin’ he mighta been close enough to see what happened to Pride and figured it weren’t good for his health to stick around.”
“That’s what I think,” Jesse seconded. “I bet that child is headin’ back to Fort Smith as fast as a horse can carry him.”
“Maybe,” Max allowed, but not enthusiastically. “I’d like to know for sure. Might not be a bad idea for one or two of us to ride back down to that wagon in the mornin’ and see if he’s been back there snoopin’ around.”
“I’ll go,” Jeb Stark volunteered immediately, thinking it an opportunity to impress Max, and maybe an invitation to join Max’s gang.
“I figured you’d be headin’ back home,” Max said.
“Ain’t nothin’ there I’m interested in,” Jeb replied. “I was just there visitin’ Pap for a spell. Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind joinin’ up with you boys. I’m pretty handy with a six-shooter.”
“Is that a fact?” Max asked. “You’d have to be better ’n pretty good to ride with us.” He winked at Billy. “You’d have to be damn good.”
“I’m damn good,” Jeb replied.
“I reckon we’d find out pretty quick,” Max said. He had no objection to having Jeb join them, figuring there was safety in numbers. And he had to give him credit for riding up from Tishomingo in the middle of the night to alert them that the deputies were following them. “All right, you ride on down there in the mornin’ and look around that wagon real good—see if anybody’s been back there since we left. Right now, pass that whiskey back over here.”
“If they have, I’ll know it,” Jeb boasted. “I’m pretty good at trackin’.”
“There you go again, just pretty good,” Whip couldn’t resist japing.
“Better ’n anybody here,” Jeb responded with a show of temper, a little irritated at what he perceived as a dose of hazing.
“Whoa!” Whip whooped in mock alarm. “Got your back up a little, didn’t ya, boy?”
“I ain’t no boy,” Jeb replied.
Not inclined to let up on him, Whip kept pressing to see how far he could push him. “Around here, you gotta prove you’re a man before you walk around brayin’ like a donkey.”
“Who you callin’ a donkey?” Jeb flared up.
“Take it easy on the kid,” Max said, stepping in. “Ain’t no need to get him all riled up. You’ve had your fun.”
“All right,” Whip said. “I was just funnin’ with him.” He shrugged and chuckled. “I believe he was about ready to call me out, so I reckon I’d better let him be.”
“I expect you’d better,” Jeb blustered, thinking Whip was backing down. “Maybe I am thinkin’ about callin’ you out. I don’t take no japin’ from nobody.”
Everything suddenly got quiet around the campfire until Max said to Jeb, “Be careful what you say, boy. You don’t wanna call Whip out. Just settle yourself down.”
But Jeb had already gone too far, and being called boy again, this time by Max, he couldn’t stop his mouth from making a contract he couldn’t complete with his .44. Looking Whip straight in the eye, he said. “We’ll forget the whole thing just as soon as you tell me you’re sorry about ever’thin’ you said.”
“Shit,” Whip drawled out contemptuously, no longer in a playful mood. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I say I’m sorry to you, or anybody else. Now, you just set down over there and keep your mouth shut before you start somethin’ you can’t finish.”
Jeb’s ears were burning, and he felt as if he had been shamed and left with no alternative except to call the arrogant gunman out. The only other option would be to slink away and sit down as Whip had ordered, and then every one of them would feel nothing but contempt for him. “I’m callin’ you out,” he finally said, barely over a mutter.
“What did you say?” Whip demanded.
“I said I’m callin’ you out,” Jeb declared, this time with more conviction.
“Well, you’re a damn fool then,” Whip said. “But if you’re lookin’ to die young, then I’ll sure as hell accommodate you.” He got to his feet, walked several paces toward the corner of the cabin, and turned back to face the fire while he shifted his pistol belt to a comfortable position on his hip.
As Jeb got to his feet to face him, everyone else backed away from the fire to give them room. Aware then of the smug confidence reflected in the older man’s smiling face, Jeb suddenly realized his opponent was not at all worried about the outcome of the contest. He shot a quick glance in Max’s direction, but Max gave no indication of interfering, figuring he had warned the young fool, and the rest was on Jeb’s shoulders. Also, like the other men, Max was curious to see the outcome, knowing how fast Whip was with a gun, faster than any man he had ever seen, in fact. Maybe the brash young kid was fast himself, he thought. We’ll know in about three seconds, he told himself. “How you wanna do it, Whip?” Max asked. “Wait for the first to move, or count to three?”
“I didn’t know there was any rules to it,” Whip replied. “I’ll just leave it up to him. Just go for it when you feel lucky, boy.”
The two combatants stood poised, staring each other down, while the amused spectators watched in anticipation of an outright assassination at the hands of the older gunman. All participants were totally unaware of the lone rifleman in the trees at the edge of the clearing, his Winchester steadied on a limb of a large oak tree.
“You wanna call it off, boy?” Max asked after several tense moments passed. It was at that moment that Jeb suddenly made his fatal move. He was quicker than anyone expected, clearing his holster with the Colt .44 he wore, but not before Whip’s first shot tore into his belly. Already on his way down, he still tried to shoot, managing to get off two harmless shots before he crumpled to the ground. In answer, Whip pumped two more shots into him. The spectators were stunned an instant later when Whip stumbled backward a couple of steps before collapsing, a fatal wound in his chest.
“What the hell . . . ?” Billy Tarbow blurted amid cries of disbelief from the others. Everyone stood frozen for a second before suddenly rushing to crowd around Whip.
“I never saw that comin’,” Jesse muttered.
“That was nothin’ but bad luck,” Max declared. “One of those wild shots hit Whip right in the chest—pure luck.” He bent low to get a closer look at the dying man. His throat already filling with blood, Whip was unable to speak, his eyes wide in confusion as he made a feeble attempt to cough the blood from his windpipe. They all stood ar
ound him until he finally stopped struggling and lay still. No one bothered to take a look at Jeb. There was no need to.
“If that don’t beat all I’ve ever seen,” Tom Blanton declared. “Killed by a shot from a dead man, ’cause that boy was dead before he even pulled the trigger.” He thought about it for a moment more. “Them shots even sounded different.” He turned to Max and asked, “Didn’t you think them shots had a different sound to ’em?”
Max shrugged, having not really given it any thought. “Just the echo down in this canyon, I reckon,” he said.
“You reckon we oughta bury ’em?” Tom asked.
“You can if you want to,” Max said. “Me, I don’t feel much like diggin’ a grave. It sure ain’t gonna make no difference to Whip. Dead’s dead—I expect he’s more worried about goin’ to hell right about now. Might as well see what they got in their pockets and check their saddlebags and stuff, and we’ll split it up. Then just drag their carcasses over beyond that ridge and let the buzzards take care of ’em.” He walked back to the fire then and poured himself another cup of coffee. “I still want one of us to ride back down to that wagon to see if there’s any sign of anybody sniffin’ around there,” he called back.
“I’m kinda gonna miss ol’ Whip,” Jesse said. “He was fast with a gun—not as fast as I thought, though.”
“I wish he had bigger feet,” Tom said. “I’ve always admired them boots of his.”
* * *
The shadowy figure in the darkness of the forest pulled his rifle down from the oak limb and moved back deeper into the trees, being careful not to make a sound. The opportunity had come as a complete surprise and it had worked to his satisfaction. He had expected at least one of them to realize the shot that killed Whip had come from behind Jeb, and was from a rifle. I reckon I can thank corn whiskey for that, he thought. His opposition had been reduced by two, and they were still unaware of his presence. He would be waiting near the wagon in the morning, hoping to further cut the odds against him. On the backside of the ridge again, he untied his horse and led him down the mountain, waiting until he reached the mouth of the canyon before ejecting the spent cartridge from his rifle.
* * *
He was ready and waiting early the next morning, although he didn’t expect anyone from the cabin to make an early appearance. His horse was saddled and tucked out of sight in a small clearing about a hundred yards from where he sat in a berry thicket a dozen yards from the wagon. From his position, he could see the gruesome spectacle that Max Tarbow had left as a warning to lawmen, as well as the crumpled body of Charlie Tate. Will had been in place when the sun first began to probe the darkness of the valley, and the eerie image of Fletcher Pride’s body, hanging grotesquely from the limb of the tree, was gradually backlighted by the rising sun. The sight of it served to enrage the very blood in Will’s veins and renewed his determination to finish the grim task he had vowed to complete. There was still no feeling of guilt on his part for his simple plan of assassination. Being honest with himself, he realized there was very little chance of his arresting the Tarbow gang and taking them back for trial. And he rationalized that the outlaws’ crimes would certainly call for the death penalty. With circumstances being the way they were, it was nothing more than swifter justice if he performed their executions himself. He asked himself if he could live with that on his conscience, and he answered that he could. His thoughts were interrupted then by the sound of a horse’s hooves plodding along the bank of the stream.
* * *
Before he approached the body hanging at the end of the rope, Jesse Becker reined his horse to a stop while he looked the eerie scene over. Everything appeared to be just as he had last seen it, but to satisfy Max, he nudged his horse forward to take a closer look. Stepping down, he dropped his reins on the ground and studied the tracks before the wagon. He felt sure they were tracks that he and the others had left before. No one else had been there, he decided, so he walked over to the wagon, just to see if there was anything useful that they might have overlooked. Walking around it to stand at the tailgate, he was unaware of the grim figure stepping out into the open behind him. He remained unaware until the metallic sound of a rifle cranking a cartridge into the chamber suddenly sent an icy chill down his spine. A man of violence, he reacted automatically, spinning around while reaching for the .44 at his side. Will’s shot slammed into his chest before he could turn to face him. He staggered from the impact, then tried to raise his arm to fire, but sent a harmless round into the ground when Will cranked a second shot into his chest. Knowing he was finished, he dropped to his knees and stared at his grim assassin. “You’ve kilt me, you son of a bitch,” he muttered weakly, as the pistol fell from his hand.
“I reckon,” Will replied. They remained where they were, the outlaw still on his knees, the lawman staring into his eyes, still wary. Even had there been second thoughts about executing the man, he had been given no choice except to shoot before he was shot. He continued to watch Becker carefully, their eyes locked, until Will realized that the spark of life in Becker’s eyes was gone. Only then did he relax his grip on the Winchester. He walked up to him, raised his boot, and kicked him over on his side. He glanced at the foreboding body hanging from the limb then. “That’s three of ’em, partner.”
He rolled Jesse Becker’s body over and pulled the cartridge belt out from under him. Replacing the pistol in the holster, he hung it over the saddle horn on Becker’s saddle. The outlaw had ridden a red roan. It would now serve as Will’s packhorse. The three remaining outlaws should soon be on their way to investigate. The shots just fired could be heard at the cabin. It was now a question of how soon they would come, so he prepared to be ready for them. He looked around him and decided that the little ravine the wagon had been backed into offered him the best position to defend, if the outlaws were cautious enough to come at him from three directions. His concern then was protection for the horses, so he led Becker’s horse to the clearing where he had left Buster. When he was satisfied that they were as safe as he could make them, he positioned himself behind the wagon and laid his weapons and cartridge belts on the wagon bed before him. Checking his Winchester to make sure he had a full magazine, he then did the same for the rifle he had gained from Becker’s death, a Spencer cavalry carbine. There was nothing left for him to do but wait for the three remaining outlaws.
His stomach reminded him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, so he took a couple of strips of beef jerky from the bag he had recovered and chewed the tough repast, wishing that he had some coffee to wash it down.
* * *
“That don’t sound too good,” Billy Tarbow said when they heard the faint sound of shots from below the cabin.
“Three shots, sounded like to me, weren’t it?” Tom Blanton asked.
“That’s what I heard,” Max agreed. “Like two rifle shots and one pistol.”
All three men paused to remain dead still, listening for additional shots. When no more were heard, Blanton wondered aloud, “Whaddaya s’pose he was shootin’ at?”
“Who knows?” Max replied. “I’d say a buzzard or a coyote or somethin’, but it seems kinda funny they weren’t all from the same gun. Whatever it was, I expect it’d be a good idea to find out. Jesse ain’t one to waste bullets on buzzards. Let’s saddle the horses and take a ride down there.”
While they saddled their horses, Max was still concentrating on the three shots they had just heard. Two from a rifle, one from a pistol, and he was reminded of the casual comment made about the odd sound of the gunfire the night before. Thinking about it now, it caused him to wonder. The exchange of shots between Whip and Jeb had occurred almost at the same time. Max couldn’t help wondering if the shots they just heard had been closer together, might they have sounded the same as those the night before? It was enough to make him question their assumption that one of Jeb’s wild shots had struck Whip. And, when he recalled, that shot had nailed Whip dead center in his chest. The possi
bilities that thought provoked were troubling. Had they been too careless in figuring that other deputy had hightailed it? But if Whip Doolin had really been shot by the deputy, why didn’t he take another shot? They were all standing around, easy targets. It didn’t make sense that he’d shoot Whip and then back off. Unless, it occurred to him, he was set on picking us off one at a time without us knowing what he was up to. That way, he wouldn’t have to go up against all of us at the same time. Damn! he thought, anxious now to find out if Jesse was all right, at the same time deciding to take extra caution in doing so.
When they were all ready, Max casually rode up beside his younger brother’s horse and took hold of his bridle to hold him back, so Tom Blanton could lead them down the narrow trail beside the stream. When Billy gave him a puzzled look, Max shook his head, and when Tom was out of earshot, he cautioned his brother. “I got a funny feelin’ about them shots,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Let Tom lead out, and when we get close to that ravine where that wagon is, let him get on ahead.” He nodded once for emphasis, and added. “And Billy, keep a sharp eye.”
They followed the stream down into the foothills, and as they approached the narrow ravine where the wagon had been left, Max and Billy reined their horses back cautiously. Max reasoned that if everything was as it should be, they would have probably met Jesse on the trail, coming back to the cabin. It shouldn’t have taken him long to take a good look around, if nothing had changed.
Will Tanner Page 8
