by Paul Colt
Waite met his eyes and nodded. He soaked up the last of his beans with a bite of biscuit and pushed his plate back. He pulled the makin’s out of his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke. He scraped his chair back, took his plate to the washbasin and sauntered outside for a smoke.
Brewer finished his plate and followed Waite outside. Pale new moonlight painted the yard silver. Waite cast a dark shadow leaning against the corral rail, the orange glow of his smoke a pinpoint in the night.
Brewer ambled down to the corral. He propped a boot heel on the bottom rail and leaned against a post. He shook a dark line of fragrant tobacco into a paper, rolled and sealed it with a lick. He drew a lucifer from his vest pocket and scratched it on his rough canvas pant leg. The match flared smoky sulfur. He drew flame to his smoke and sucked a lung full of harsh satisfaction.
Waite’s eyes creased at the corners, looking out over the corral. “Somethin’ on your mind, Dick?”
“Santa Fe scum, they ain’t never gonna see them two come to justice.”
“Likely not.”
“They’re slippery bastards. You’ll have to be real careful they don’t make a break for it.”
“Real careful would be easier without McCloskey.”
“Still easier than havin’ to deal with Ledger.”
Waite lifted a sidelong glance. “McCloskey may forget which side he’s on.”
“That’d be a shame.”
Waite flicked the butt of his smoke on a glowing arc into the corral and started back to the house. “It would indeed.”
March 7th
Dawn turned the sky pink. Smoke poured out the stovepipe and drifted off on the breeze. The smells of cooked bacon and fresh coffee colored the morning air on the porch. Men spilled out into the yard and trooped down to the corral. They fed, watered and saddled horses. Ty found McCloskey saddling a sturdy buckskin.
“Mornin,’ Bill.”
“Mornin,’ Ty.”
“Roth wants me to ride down to South Spring with him. I can come along with you if you think you might need help.”
“Brewer said his piece. I don’t expect no trouble.”
“Are you sure?”
He rested one hand on the butt of his gun and the other on the stock in his rifle boot. “Sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“I’m countin’ on you to make sure those boys make it to Lincoln.”
“We’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to lynch anybody while I’m around.”
Ty met his eyes with a small nod and went off to saddle the steeldust.
South Spring
Late afternoon sky surrendered red-orange mountaintops and long purple shadows. Patches of yellow light dotted the dark outlines of the bunkhouse and hacienda below as Roth and Ledger rode out of the hills. They slow loped through the gate. Roth led the way to the house. Halfway across the yard a shaft of light appeared in the doorway. She stepped out into silhouette. Roth drew rein and leaped down. He bounded up the porch in one long stride and swallowed her up in his arms.
Ty stepped down, chuckling to himself. Ground tied for sure, corral gate in sight.
“Figured that for you, the way she run off from the supper table like that.” Chisum filled the door frame. “I see you brought company. Dawn you best set another couple of places. Come in, come in.” He clapped Roth on the back in something of an admission of defeat. He held out his hand. “Ty, good to see you.”
The men filed into the dining room while Dawn Sky bustled off to the kitchen. Chisum took his seat at the head of the table.
“So, how’d you boys do?”
Ty scraped a chair back. “Baker and Morton are on their way up to Lincoln.”
“You think Brady will actually hold ’em?”
“Brewer sent some of his boys along with them. They’re to turn them over to Justice Wilson and hold them at his direction.”
“That should work.” He glanced at Roth, no need to ask the question. He felt Dawn enter the room behind him.
Roth met his eyes. “I got him. He won’t cause any more trouble.”
She rushed to stand beside him, hand on his shoulder.
Chisum knew when he was beat. “Oh, all right you two, it’s plain you’ll not give me a moment’s peace until I give in. I expect that explains why Ty’s here.”
Roth smiled. “It does.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
March 8th
The stand of white oak along the creek bottom made a good place to camp some halfway up the trail to Lincoln. Waite pushed the best part of the last hour to get there before sunset. The shadows were long, the light gray and hazy by the time they drew rein and stepped down.
“Doc, you and Henry picket the horses downstream along the bottom. Bill, see if you can find us some firewood while me and Billy settle the prisoners.”
McCloskey had a fragrant mesquite fire built and a pot of coffee on to boil by the time the evening star and a pale moon climbed up on the horizon. With prisoners and horses alike secured for the night, the men gathered around the fire. Bonney sat off by himself cleaning his gun.
Scurlock washed down the last of a hardtack biscuit with a mouthful of coffee. “I can’t believe we’re actually gonna waste our time turnin’ them two over to Wilson and nurse maid ’em until they stand trial.”
McCloskey didn’t like the edge of suggestion in Scurlock’s tone. “You heard Dick. McSween and Chisum want this done legal. We’re servin’ Justice Wilson’s court.”
“There you go again, McCloskey. You best remember which side you’re on this trip.” Brown didn’t have much use for Mc-Closkey. It showed and he didn’t give a damn if it did.
“I got no trouble rememberin’ I’m on the side of the law, Brown.”
The fire popped sending a shower of sparks into the night. Brown’s eye caught the glint. “He says so like he’s some expert on New Mexico politics, which is all this shit is. Dolan never lets the law get in the way when it don’t suit his purpose. He’ll have Brady take jurisdiction the minute we got them two in arm’s reach.”
“Best not be any politics.” Billy spun the cylinder of his gun, checking the loads. “Either one of them sons of bitches tries to let them bastards go, I’ll blow their sorry ass straight to hell. They can warm the place up for all the rest that had a hand in killin’ Mr. Tunstall.”
Scurlock smiled. “Billy may not say much, but when he does, he surly has a poetry way with his words.”
McCloskey felt a little uneasy. Maybe he’d been a bit too confident about keeping a lid on the vigilante intentions of this group. He’d feel some better if Marshal Ledger were here about now. “No need for all them threats. You all heard Brewer. The law will handle this. Right, Fred?”
Waite squinted across the fire. “Dolan’s law? Sure thing.”
No help there. McCloskey felt alone. Well they’d got this far. One more day and they’d be in Lincoln. One more day and he’d have Widenmann and McSween to help keep a lid on things. For the moment he needed a cool head and a gun for a pillow.
Lincoln
The visitor bell seldom got Dolan’s attention when he was in his office. This bell piqued his interest. He reached his office door to find Territorial Governor Samuel Axtell standing in the late afternoon sun splash at the front counter.
“Governor, welcome to Lincoln. I’m pleased to see you.”
Tall and handsome Axtell had soft waves of brown hair, graying at the temples, and a dignified bearing. He wore a politician’s affected smile and dark suit, calculated to impress thoughtful competence on those he met.
“Jimmy.” He extended his hand. “Your telegram impressed me with the gravity of the situation here. I decided it merited my coming down here to have a look for myself.”
Dolan took his hand. “The situation is serious. With your help, I believe we can manage the problem. Please step into my office.” He showed Axtell in and closed the door. “Have a seat.” He gestured to a side chair.
Axtell folded his frame into the off
ered chair as Dolan took his seat at the desk.
“Your telegram was somewhat brief. Tell me what’s going on.”
“You know we’ve had tension between the large and small ranchers in Lincoln County for years. Mostly the disputes were about public grazing land. Last year a man named Tunstall came to town. He bought a large ranch and cornered the market on the winter feed supply serving a number of small ranchers. Unfortunately he didn’t always pay his bills. The Territorial Court granted me a lien on some of his livestock to satisfy a debt he owed me. When the sheriff attempted to serve the court’s order, Tunstall resisted. He fired on the deputies. They returned fire. He was killed in the gunfight.”
“Seems pretty cut and dried.”
“There’s more. Tunstall’s business partner, a local lawyer named McSween, disputed the deputies’ story. McSween convinced John Wilson, the local justice of the peace to issue warrants for the sheriff’s posse men on murder charges. Wilson then appointed Dick Brewer constable to serve the warrants. Brewer managed Tunstall’s ranch.”
“Not exactly a disinterested third party.”
“Wait, it gets better. Brewer raised a posse of Tunstall’s hired guns to serve the warrants. Not only do these people defy Sheriff Brady’s jurisdictional authority, they’ve turned the county into an armed camp. It’s a powder keg ready to blow. I’m afraid we could lose control of the situation. If we do, we could be looking at all-out war.”
Axtell rocked back in his chair, his brows knit. “Not the sort of thing we need when we’re seeking statehood. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Justice Wilson created the jurisdictional conflict when he issued those warrants and appointed Brewer constable. It undermines Sheriff Brady’s authority. Tunstall was already stirring up the Democrats to oppose Brady in the fall election.”
“The Democrats, you say, we surely don’t need to hear from that bunch.” The governor drummed his fingers on the desk. “I can’t order Wilson to withdraw the warrants on the sheriff’s men. The Territorial Court will have to sort that out. That said, we can’t have lawmen gunning each other down. Somebody’s got to be in charge. I can order Wilson to withdraw his appointment of that constable if I call in the army to establish martial law.”
“If you did, that should keep a lid on things until the Territorial Court convenes next month.”
Axtell waved his hand. “I’ll take the matter up with Justice Wilson. John is reasonable when he sees things clearly.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Leave it to me, Jimmy. I’ll send word as soon as I’ve talked to him. If you need me, I’ll be staying at the Wortley. Now, where can I find Justice Wilson?”
March 9th
McCloskey didn’t sleep worth a damn. He had a bad feelin’ that wouldn’t shake. He got up when Doc stirred the fire to light just before dawn. He took hardtack and water for the prisoners and went off to the trees where they were tied. He untied Morton.
Morton rubbed his wrists, working some feeling back to his fingers. “They’re fixin to hang us, ain’t they, Bill?”
“Shut up, Buck,” Baker said.
“Ain’t nobody gonna get hung unless a judge says so.” Mc-Closkey hoped he sounded convinced.
“I heard ’em talkin’ last night. I swear they’re fixin’ to hang us.”
“I said shut up, Buck!”
“I ain’t shuttin’ up, Frank. Bill here might be our onliest chance.”
“Nobody’s gonna hang anybody. You got my word on it.” He untied Baker.
“Appears to me they got you outnumbered, Bill. You’re in a poor position to be givin’ assurance to such things.”
“I got my eyes open and my guns handy, Frank. Now maybe you’d best take your own advice.”
“Slip us a couple of guns, Bill. We’d even up the sides and get shut of these bastards.”
“Hey!” Brown stood silhouetted in gray light. “You feedin’ them two or jawin’ over old times?”
McCloskey ignored him.
“Bring ’em on over here where we can keep an eye on things.
Wouldn’t want you to take a notion to let ’em go for old time’s sake.”
McCloskey stood. “You heard the man. Com’on, let’s go.”
“They’s fixin’ to hang us.”
“Shut up, Buck.”
The morning passed without incident. Waite and Bonney led the way, followed by the prisoners. McCloskey took the prisoner’s backs flanked by Scurlock and Brown. They made Blackwater Canyon by midday. McCloskey began to relax. They’d make Lincoln by late afternoon and this little trip would be over.
Waite signaled a halt. He said something to Bonney and wheeled his horse around the prisoners. He drew up beside Scurlock.
“Well, McCloskey, this is it. What’s the best way to kill these sons a bitches?”
Morton cut his eyes to Baker. Baker let his drift toward the canyon.
McCloskey felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He eased off a breath. “Now, Fred, we been all through that. Brewer made it real clear. We’re takin’ these two into Lincoln. What happens from there is for a court to decide.”
Waite shifted his chaw from one cheek to the other. He leaned over his saddle and spit a black-brown tobacco stream. “Dick made it real clear for Marshal Ledger. He had a different talk with me the night before we left. He don’t think Dolan’ll let them two come to justice.”
“One man’s opinion ain’t reason to take the law into our hands.”
“Enough of this shit.” Scurlock wheeled his horse in front of McCloskey, boxing him in.
“Damn right.” Brown drew and fired.
Baker and Morton bolted for the canyon.
The bullet hit McCloskey in the side, glanced off a rib and exited his throat just below the chin. He twisted in the saddle. “You back-shootin’ son of a . . .” His eyes rolled white. The body slid out of the saddle.
“After ’em, boys!”
Billy put his heels to the roan, followed by gunfire. He filled his hand as the big roan pounded after the fleeing prisoners. He drew a bead on Baker. Tunstall’s first killer danced on his sight. He settled into the rhythm of the horse’s stride and squeezed. The Colt bucked. Baker jerked. Billy smiled that gap-toothed grin of his and fired two more shots. Baker pitched from the saddle. He slid to a stop beside the body.
One.He took some satisfaction. Up the trail Morton disappeared among the rocks at the mouth of the canyon. The Regulators swept past, hot on his heels. This is where it begins, Mr. Tunstall.He didn’t feel like a kid anymore. He’d taken on a man’s responsibility. They might call him “kid,” but he’d show them. He meant business, deadly business.
He swept his eyes across the mouth of the canyon. He checked his gun, put his heels to the roan with a half smile and broke away to the east. He circled the canyon wall. Shots sounded below the canyon rim. He rode on. Far enough,he drew rein and dropped to the ground. He scrambled up the rise to the canyon rim, picked out a handsome boulder and looked down. Morton crouched in the rocks below, hidden from his pursuers. Billy cracked a crooked grin. He slipped his gun out of its holster, content to watch his prey for the moment.
“Give it up, Morton! You haven’t got a chance.”
Billy recognized Scurlock’s voice. Morton twisted around, searching for a way out. On foot, the only good option pointed up. Sure enough, he started working his way through the rocks toward the rim. The climb would bring him up further north. Billy eased along the rim, cautious not to alert Morton to his presence. The unarmed man posed no threat, but he saw no point in spoiling the fun. He imagined the surprise and fear Morton would feel when he found himself looking down the muzzle of a gun held by John Tunstall’s avenger. He settled into a crevice in the rock wall near the place Morton would come up thinking he might escape.
Minutes passed. A boot scraped a rock. The murderer eased his way over the rim. He took off his hat and wiped sweat from his moon face on a sleeve. Billy cocked his gun. M
orton froze. He turned slowly to the sound.
“Hello, Buck.” Billy smiled, his vacant eyes mirthless. “You know I swore on John Tunstall’s grave I’d kill every last one of you murderin’ sons a bitches.”
Morton’s eyes went wide, white, staring. “Don’t shoot, Billy. I didn’t kill him, I swear. It was Evans and Mathews. Them’s the ones you want.”
“Your mama didn’t never tell you to be careful of the friends you keep, did she? It might matter some who done the shootin,’ but you was all in on it. Adios, Buck.”
The muzzle flashed, the concussion charged a cloud of blue smoke. Red stain splattered Morton’s belly. The gun exploded again, powder smoke masked another grin. Morton grabbed his mortal wounds in both hands as if to staunch the flow of life. His eyes turned wide in disbelief, pinched in realization. He staggered and pitched forward like an overstuffed sack.
Billy holstered his gun. Moments later Scurlock and Brown scrambled over the canyon rim. He looked up and met their eyes.
“What took you boys so long?”
Two.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lincoln
Dolan clasped his hands behind his back and scowled at the sun-soaked muddy street beyond the store window. An ox-drawn freight wagon plodded past, the heavily loaded wagon plowing deep ruts in its wake. The bullwhacker flicked his profanity-laced whip across the backs of the mud-spattered yoke. The scene suited Dolan’s troubles. Tunstall’s death hadn’t solved the problem. McSween had found a spine, likely with Chisum’s help. The damn bank and store continued to bleed his profits. He had to put a stop to it, but how? McSween wouldn’t be bought off. The civil suit he’d filed up in Las Vegas would distract McSween for having to defend it, but even he doubted it would stop him. The liquidity provided by the bank meant time was on his opponent’s side. McSween had made it plain enough. He wouldn’t be goaded into an excusable killing as easily as the fool Englishman, either. The longer it went on the worse things got. His cash receipts continued to decline. If that didn’t change and soon, he’d find himself bankrupt. If he couldn’t find a way to stop the lawyer legally, well then, he just might have to . . . Wait, what the hell is this?
