by Ralph Cotton
As the first streak of dawn mantled the eastern horizon, Hector looked back at the silver-gray mist hanging low over the land, then said to the ranger, “Just up this hill, Ranger, and we are there.”
Sam looked at Beck lying unconscious in his saddle, his arm dangling down the horse’s side. “Then let’s not stop here,” he said. Without taking the time to even check Beck’s pulse, the two turned and rode on.
Near the top of the hill, in a clearing to their right overlooking the trail, Hector raised his sombrero and waved it back and forth at Clarimonde, who had stopped and stood staring from the front yard, a bundle of split firewood piled in her arms. Sam saw her drop the firewood and come running at the sight of Memphis Beck lying slumped on his horse’s neck.
“Oh no, Memphis!” she cried out.
Beck stirred a bit at the sound of her voice, then slumped again, but this time managing to remain sitting upright instead of falling forward. “Let us get him inside,” Sam said to the woman as she ran alongside Beck’s horse. “We’ve got Sabott on our tails.”
At the front porch, Sam and Hector swung down from their saddles, carried Beck inside and laid him down on a soft feather bed. “I’m . . . all right . . . ,” Beck said in a loose, drifting voice, taking Clarimonde’s hand and holding on to it as she looked closely at his wound.
Standing beside the bed, Sam drew his Colt, checked it and kept it in his hand. “They’ll be here any minute, Clair,” he said. “Hector will be in here with you while you take care of Beck. Keep the door and windows locked until it’s over. Do you have a rifle you can use if you need to?”
“Yes,” Clarimonde said quickly. “Where will you be?”
“S’í,” Hector said to the ranger, with a concerned look on his face, “where will you be?”
“I’ll be outside, Hector,” Sam said quickly. “I’m going to try to get around them before they ride up. Our best chance will be to catch them in a cross fire between the two of us.”
“I will get my rifle and put the horses away,” said Hector, hurrying along beside Sam, out the door and down off the porch to the horses.
At the bottom of the long hill trail leading up to Beck’s cabin, Sabott stopped his horse and looked around at Bobby Zackarow and the seven other mounted men, all of them scratched, bruised and battered, and covered with dark soot and engrained dust from the explosion.
“All right, men, we know Beck’s here, and so are his two pards,” said Sabott. “We all know what they did to us. We all know how hard we’ve rode to catch up to them. Now it’s our turn to take vengeance for what Beck caused us to lose. Does everybody agree they’ve got to die?”
“Hell yes, me too!” shouted Crazy Lou Ozlow.
The men just looked at him.
Ignoring Ozlow, Sabott shook his head and said, “Let’s kill these jakes and be done with them.” He batted his heels to his horse’s sides and rode up the hill. As Beck’s cabin came into sight, a shot flew through the air from the front window.
“Everybody spread out!” Sabott shouted. “Let the killing commence!”
Chapter 25
The ranger had run around the side of the house and into the woods without being seen. By the time Sabott and his men had spread out and advanced upward toward the front, Sam was in place, with his rifle, huddled in a long coulee halfway down the hillside. When he raised just enough to fire, Frank Farrel saw him. But before Farrel could warn the others, Sam’s first shot lifted him from his saddle and sent him sprawling, dead on the ground.
Even as Hector’s rifle exploded toward the gunmen from the front window, Zackarow shouted, “They’re in the woods too!”
Seeing that they wouldn’t be able to storm the cabin on horseback with rifle fire flanking them, the men slipped down from their saddles and sought cover on the hillside. Shots whistled past the ranger as he ducked down into the coulee, hurried ten feet away and raised and fired again.
The ranger’s shot punched Al Heakland high in his shoulder. Heakland yelled, hit the ground, then came up into a crouch, running. He raced away into the woods, discarding his Spencer rifle on his way. “Heakland, you coward! Nobody runs out on this!” Sabott shouted. He fired three quick shots after Heakland, but he was too late.
Sabott ducked back down just as Hector’s shot from the front window whistled past his head. But the outlaw leader had raised enough for Sam to catch a glimpse of him. Now that the ranger knew Sabott’s position, he concentrated his fire on it. Sabott hugged the rough ground. He dared not raise his head as shots from two directions sliced through the air above him.
Ten yards from Sabott, Willard Hargrove hurriedly belly-crawled his way to the shelter of a half-sunken rock embedded in the hillside. Already hiding behind the rock, Bill Weydell and James Tott looked at him. “Go find yourself another spot,” said Weydell. “If we bunch up here, they’ll pick us off like tin ducks.”
“I’m not going anywhere till I can see a place to crawl to,” said Hargrove. A shot kicked up bits of rock above his head.
“This is no place to be,” Tott said to Weydell. “I say at the count of three we both try rushing the one in the woods.”
“Start counting,” said Weydell, checking his rifle. “I’m ready when you are.”
Tott counted to three, quickly, then shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”
Weydell jumped up and started running in a crouch, yelling and firing. But instead of making the rush with him, Tott had stayed covered and watched for the ranger to show himself.
As soon as Weydell looked around and realized Tott had only used him as bait, he shouted, “James, you dirty son of a—”
But the ranger’s shot nailed him before he could finish cursing Tott.
“Sorry, Billy Boy,” said Tott. Seeing the ranger raise and fire, Tott took aim and pulled the trigger. Sam’s sombrero flipped away, as did his rifle. He let out a sharp yelp. Tott looked at Hargrove and said, “That’s the way we do it where I come from.”
“Think he’s dead, or just nicked?” Hargrove asked, still smelling of whiskey.
“Well, I suppose we’d best check and see,” Tott said with a smug grin. “Come on, Willard.”
“After you,” said Hargrove. “I saw your poor way of getting started.”
Tott frowned. He eased up from behind the rock and stalked forward, his rifle out, cocked and ready.
Farther up the hill, Bobby Zackarow looked around the side of a tall pine toward the front window, catching only a glimpse of Hector before the Mexican lawman ducked back out of sight. “Who has some matches?” he asked Crazy Lou and Donald Keyes, the two huddled behind another pine a few feet away.
“What have you got in mind?” Keyes asked, fishing a tin of wooden matches from his vest pocket.
“Keep some for yourself and throw the tin to me,” said Zackarow. “The way I see it, there’s only one lone Mex in there, wielding a repeater rifle.” He racked his hand across the ground and came up with a wad of brown pine needles and wiry dried grass. “I’m going to light this Mex up like a Tijuana cigar.”
“Good move. I’ve got you covered,” said Keyes.
“Like hell,” said Zackarow, “I’ve been lied to by dentists before. Get yourself a fistful of these babies and come with me.” He looked at Crazy Lou and said, “Hey you, simpleminded. Are you able to think straight enough to stay here and give us some cover?”
Crazy Lou just stared at him.
“Don’t worry, he’ll do it,” said Keyes, wincing as a round slammed into the tree where he lay. He took out some matches, closed the tin and pitched it to Zackarow.
“Do it like this,” said Zackarow. He took off his hat and raked handful upon handful of needles into it. Keyes did the same. Hector sent more shots from the front window of the cabin, realizing the gunmen were up to something.
In the coulee, Sam lay back against the dirt, the graze along the side of his head throbbing, blood dripping down from the lobe of his left ear. Dizziness set in, but he shook it off, drew his big C
olt, cocked it and waited, hearing the sound of boots trying to creep quietly toward his position.
Above the rim of the coulee, Tott motioned for Hargrove to go around and approach from the other side. As Hargrove did so, Tott eased up closer and looked in at the ranger lying against the dirt, blood smeared down the side of his face. “I nailed him good,” said Tott, letting his rifle slump. In the coulee, the ranger waited, holding his breath, for the other man to make himself seen.
“No fooling? Good work,” said Hargove, stepping forward without hesitation.
Sam’s Colt came up from the dirt at his side. His first shot hit Hargrove in the center of his belly and threw him backward onto the ground. Tott recovered quickly from letting his guard down. But he wasn’t quick enough. As he swung up his rifle, the ranger’s second shot hit him squarely in the heart and spun him backward like a human top.
Hearing the rifle fire back and forth out front of the cabin, Sam grabbed his bullet-scarred sombrero and his Winchester and crawled up out of the coulee. He ran toward Sabott’s position, ready, his Colt in one hand and his rifle in the other. Just as he expected, Sabott, letting out a war cry, jumped up, firing wildly.
But Sam made no sound, nor did he waste any shots. As he slid to a fast halt, his Colt streaked up and fired. The bullet hit Sabott in the center of his forehead. The gang leader disappeared backward, leaving a mist of blood looming in the air for a second.
Sam turned toward the cabin at the top of the hillside, knowing Sabott was dead. On the porch beneath the window where Hector stood, he saw flames licking upward from Bobby Zackarow’s burning hat. Zackarow had managed to not get himself shot as he ran in a fast half circle and threw the hatful of fire onto the porch.
Now Zackarow shouted from the cover of woods to the left of the cabin, “Throw it, Keyes, damn it to hell!”
Carrying his own hat full of fire, Donald Keyes made it almost to the porch in his broken half-circle run. But as he drew the hat back to throw it, Hector’s bullet hit him high in the shoulder, staggering him backward as the fire spilled from the hat and down his front.
Keyes screamed and slapped at himself, spinning wildly in a fiery circle, until both Hector and the ranger fired as one, hitting him from two directions. The former dentist hit the ground, dead. His screaming stopped suddenly, but the fire covering him rose and billowed.
Sam turned his rifle toward the sound of Zackarow breaking brush and twigs as he raced away. But the fleeing gunman dropped away out of sight before Sam managed to get a shot off. “Hector, is everybody okay in there?” Sam called out, scanning the hillside below the cabin back and forth, his Colt still cocked and ready. Blood ran freely from the graze alongside his head.
From behind the tree where he’d been hiding, Crazy Lou Ozlow looked back and forth at the bodies strewn out on the hillside, and at Keyes lying in a ball of fire in the front yard. “Hunh,” he whispered to himself, looking down at the gun in his hand. “They call me Crazy, but I ain’t no dern fool.” He uncocked the gun, slid quietly down away from the tree and crawled silently into the woods, toward three horses who stood watching through the flames through wary eyes.
A moment later, Sam looked around toward the sound of hooves pounding away on the trail below while he and Hector finished beating out the fire burning on the front porch and up toward the open window. “Let them go,” Sam said. “I expect a couple were bound to get away.” He stepped back from the porch and waved smoke away from his face.
“You are hit?” Hector asked, noticing the blood for the first time as he turned away from putting out the fire.
“It’s nothing, just a bullet graze,” said Sam. He touched the bloody, elongated knot forming alongside his head. “I’ll have a dandy headache the next day or two,” he said. Turning, the two watched Clarimonde run across the yard carrying a wooden bucket full of water. She drew it back and pitched the water the length of Keyes’ body, then stepped back as the flames died and a terrible black smoke filled the air.
“Hector, this has been a rough ride,” Sam said, letting out a tired breath.
“S’í, a rough ride indeed,” the Mexican lawman replied.
Three days after the gun battle, the ranger and Hector had rested themselves and their horses and finished burying the gunmen’s bodies on the hillside where they had fallen. As the ranger and Hector gathered their gear and their mounts and prepared for the long ride south, Memphis Beck walked out onto the porch with the help of a cane and called down to them, “If either of you is ever interested in making some real money, there’s work waiting for you here.”
Sam gave him a stiff look. Hector smiled and shook his head. “He is only joking, Ranger.”
“Yeah, I’m only joking, Ranger,” Beck added quickly, and shrugged. He stepped down off the porch and up closer to where Sam stood. “How’s the bullet graze?”
“I’m good,” Sam said. “How’s the back?”
“I could ride if I had to,” Beck said, even though he still looked weak in Sam’s eyes.
Sam glanced toward the cabin where Clarimonde stood in the doorway. “Fortunate for you, you don’t have to ride. If I were you, I’d rest awhile longer, maybe do some reflecting on things.”
“Don’t start, Ranger,” said Beck.
“I don’t intend to,” Sam said. Turning toward Clarimonde he said, “Morning, Miss Clair,” with a touch to his sombrero.
“You’re both welcome to stay longer,” Beck said, “but I have to admit, it might be hard explaining your being here to these neighbors of mine.” He nodded toward the wide rugged terrain. “Hector they learned to live with last winter, but an Arizona Ranger?” He gave a weak smile.
“I understand,” said Sam, checking the cinch under Black Pot’s belly. After a pause he said, “I’d still watch my backside, if I were you. Don’t forget, the Dutchman is still roaming free. He’s still got to kill you to get his railroad bounty.”
“I know,” said Beck. “Since I didn’t go looking for him, there’s no doubt he’ll come looking for me.”
After a pause, Beck said in a serious tone, “You saved my life, Ranger. I’m beholden to you.”
“Don’t be,” said Sam, equally serious. “Being beholden to a lawman could get you killed.” He let the stirrup down and rubbed the stallion’s side with his gloved hand. “Besides, don’t forget you saved my life last summer, not to mention you took care of Black Pot all winter.”
“Yeah, I got him stolen,” Beck said, denigrating himself.
“But you helped get him back,” Sam said in his defense.
“Say, are you taking up for an outlaw, Ranger?” Beck said.
“Call me Sam,” the ranger said quietly without answering him.
Beck looked stunned for a moment, uncertain of how to respond. Finally, he said, “Obliged, Sam.”
With that, the ranger swung up into his saddle, Hector doing the same beside him. The two lawmen tipped their sombreros toward Clarimonde. “Ma’am,” they said, and turned their horses in the front yard and rode away, leaving the barb and the dead outlaw’s horses for Beck to keep.
They made little conversation throughout the day. They camped by a wide shallow stream and rode on the next morning before dawn. At daylight the two stopped and turned their horses and gazed back at the high red wall surrounding Hole-in-the-wall Valley. The entrance opening in the wall had become smaller with distance.
Hector commented, “Senor Beck has everything a man looks for in life, a good home, a good woman. Still, he has to break out of it and risk his life and everything he has.” He considered it for a moment, then asked the ranger, “Why does a man do that?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said quietly, “but a lot of men do. It’s not just train robbers.”
“S’í, I know,” said Hector, “I too am guilty of it. I rode with you to avenge my brother, Ramon, and bring back his horse.” As he spoke he patted the big paint horse’s neck. “But now that I think about it, there were more reasons, many that I canno
t explain.”
“It doesn’t need explaining,” Sam said. “I believe I understand.” He turned the stallion away from Hole-in-the-wall and nudged it forward, Hector beside him. “I expect there’s a little wild outlaw in most of us. We let it out in different ways. Some of us break wild horses, some of us trek new land—anything that the odds are against us doing, or that somebody tells us we can never do.”
“That is me, I think,” said Hector. He grinned a little to himself.
“And me as well,” said the ranger. “It takes an outlaw like Beck to make us see it in ourselves. I expect it’s that little bit of ‘wild outlaw’ in a man that makes him think he will start out with nothing, and someday have it all, a home, a family, all the things that the odds were against him ever having.”
They rode on.
Two days later, they rode into the Havelin Mining complex. The streets were cleared, the hole that the safe had made when it hit the ground had been filled in and smoothed over. Steam machinery groaned and whirred; metal on metal resounded from the open shafts in the rocky, barren hillsides.
In a supply store, the ranger inquired about the Lowdens, and a weathered clerk replied, “Yeah, I know Stanley and Shala Lowden, the lucky jackasses!”
“Lucky how?” Sam asked.
“I’ll tell you how,” said the clerk. “She rode in here without a dime in her pockets, found her dimwitted husband recuperating from falling out of a tree—had us all feeling sorry for them. I helped her get a job mucking out stalls just so’s they could keep body and soul together. Damned if they didn’t leave here yesterday rich as sugarcane!”
Sam and Hector looked at each other in surprise.
“That’s right,” the clerk continued. “The corporation put up a five-percent reward for the money stolen from our safe. Her first day on the job, damned if Shala Lowden didn’t climb up to clean the hayloft and stuck a pitchfork into a grain sack full of that stolen cash! I never seen nothing like it.”
“You said a sack?” Sam asked, recalling Lockhart telling him he’d hidden two more sacks of money inside the complex.
