“That’s true, boss,” said one of the Rocking W men crouched behind a wagon near where Wardell now stood. “We chased cows from hell to breakfast and back again; yet some of us fellas had a hunch there still might be others—”
“Shut up, Evans!” barked Barnett, treating somebody else to getting his words cut off. “Mr. Wardell is handling this. He wants anything out of you, he’ll ask for it.”
There was movement from the front of the main house, causing all eyes to snap in that direction. The front door slowly opened and Carlos Vandez emerged. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, the arm suspended in a sling. Splotches of blood had seeped through the bandaging, and as the cattleman came forward it was obvious he was in a good deal of pain. Two V-Slash wranglers walked on either side of him, each fisting a drawn gun but holding it down alongside his hip.
Watching Vandez approach, Wardell stepped the rest of the way clear of his concealment and edged forward, too. For the first time, Bob saw that he also was wounded. His left arm hung limp, punctured by a bullet hole just below the elbow. Blood was dripping from the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
“I, too, found myself short of cattle this spring, and many of those we rounded up were widely scattered,” said Vandez as he drew closer to where Bob still sat his horse with his flag held out at a sagging angle. “It seems I was not missing as many as my neighbor, however, so neither did I think to send my vaqueros searching as far as the Shirley foothills.”
“I’m not saying all the missing cattle are to be found there,” Bob tried to make clear. “The winter no doubt claimed many. But some good-sized bunches of ’em survived. I saw ’em with my own eyes.”
“If that turns out to be true,” said Wardell somewhat woodenly, “then all of this . . .” He let his words trail off as his gaze swept over the grounds of the ranch headquarters. Wispy layers of gunsmoke remained hanging in the still air. It became clear that the sight of the fallen and the wounded and the thought of what had been transpiring here only moments earlier were suddenly weighing heavy on the embittered cattleman.
“Now hold on a minute,” said Barnett, also stepping out from behind a wagon wheel. “You’ll have to excuse me, boss, but I need to speak on this. You can believe the marshal’s fairy tale about those far-wandered beeves if you want, but what about the stolen cattle we found in that hollow where we skirmished only a little while ago? That was smack on V-Slash range, and those cows didn’t get there by wanderin’ off in no winter storm.”
“That’s a real interesting question, Barnett,” Bob said through clenched teeth. “What about those cattle back in the hollow? Maybe you can explain to your boss and the rest of us how—after you pulled the nighthawk crew originally slotted to watch over that herd and then rode out yourself at the head of a replacement bunch including three Texas gunnies who never worked cattle before—you all managed to let a rustling supposedly take place right under your noses. And then, miraculously, you were Johnny-on-the-spot when it came to tracking ’em straight onto Vandez property so’s you could raise the big alarm that set this whole thing in motion.”
Wardell glared at Barnett, his expression clearly saying he expected a response.
Bob nudged it along, saying, “Come on, Wardell. You don’t have to ponder those facts for very long to see that they stink to high heaven. Those cattle ending up where they did was a setup job aimed at finally blowing the lid off the powder keg you’ve been packing full of your hate for Vandez ever since he bought land bordering yours.”
Wardell’s glare melted into an expression of anguish. “Is it true, Smoky? Is that how and why those cattle got moved to where you showed me?”
Barnett looked half-confused, half-angry. “I thought it’s what you wanted. All this time you been lookin’ for proof... Brannigan said it was up to us to make some for you.”
As Wardell’s eyes cut in his direction, Brannigan came out around the opposite end of the same wagon Barnett had been behind. The Texan’s mouth was spread in a wide sneer. “Spare me the violins and the mournful looks, Wardell. For Christ’s sake. I told you right from the get-go that me and my boys weren’t here for the long haul. I told you we’d do things our way to get the end results you wanted. What the hell did you expect?”
“What did I expect?” Wardell’s voice was strident, quavering. “I wanted an end to the rustling I was convinced was taking place. I was willing to fight and even kill to protect what was rightfully mine. But I never wanted . . . this.” He swept his good arm, indicating the battlefield the V-Slash ranch headquarters had been turned into. “Certainly not over some trumped-up piece of trickery.”
“Well, it’s what you got,” Brannigan said coldly. “You made your statement, you whittled down your enemy, and, if the high and mighty marshal is to be believed, your rustlin’ problem is solved. What more do you want?”
“What I want right at this minute,” Wardell said in a strained voice, “is you gone from my sight. Gone from these parts. Damn my soul for ever bringing you here! And if you think for one second I’m going to pay you the balance of what we agreed—”
“You damn well will pay the rest of what you owe me,” Brannigan snarled. “If you think otherwise, then this little bit of lead tradin’ that seems to have turned your spine to jelly will look like a game of patty-cake compared to what I’ll rain down on you, you crawfishin’ bastard.”
“I might have a little something to say about that,” drawled Bob.
CHAPTER 56
Brannigan’s snarl turned into a condescending smile. “Well, well. Mr. High and Mighty Marshal. I was about ready to get around to you anyway. So let’s cut to it. You and me have got some long-unfinished business. What say we go ahead and get it settled?”
“You need to be settled with. No argument there,” Bob allowed.
“Señors,” spoke up Carlos Vandez, “perhaps you should take time to look to the south. I think something more is about to happen.”
All eyes followed Vandez’s words. What they saw was a group of riders approaching at a hard gallop. Riding at the head of these new arrivals was a wide-shouldered figure immediately recognizable to some. The U.S. Marshal’s badge glinting on the front of his shirt was recognizable to everyone.
Moments later, one-eyed Marshal Buford Morrison reined up just short of where Bob still calmly sat his horse. Behind Morrison, a half dozen other riders also reined to a halt, fanning out slightly. All of these were Rattlesnake Wells townsmen familiar to Bob. Among them was Ray Monte, one of the “deputies” he’d left behind to guard the jail with Bullock and McTeague.
“Well now,” said Morrison in his booming voice. “Bein’ the sharp-eyed lawman and trained investigator that I am, I can quickly see you fellas have had yourselves a real eventful morning. So the only question that leaves is: What in hellfire thunderation is this all about?”
“It started out as a matter of rustling,” Bob began to explain.
“Wait a minute,” Morrison interrupted him. “First, I’ve got an even bigger question. Why in blazes are you sitting there holding out a pair of your long johns?”
“It’s a flag of truce,” Bob said, feeling his ears burn a little. He lowered the Winchester and pulled off its “flag,” adding, “And just for the record, they’re not my long johns.”
Morrison looked skeptical. “You folks around here sure have some mighty strange practices when it comes to fighting a range war, that’s all I got to say.”
“Be that as it may,” said Bob, “I think this particular range war has about run its course. Is that a statement you can agree with . . . Vandez? Wardell?”
“Sí. My vaqueros and I want no more of shooting and killing . . . Though we remain ready to fight if attacked,” replied Vandez.
“You got no more worries about being bothered by me or mine, Vandez,” Wardell told him. “I may have been misled but, like the marshal pointed out right from the get-go, I came into this with a chip on my shoulder and a whole wrongheaded notion . . . I’ll car
ry the blame and the guilt of what happened because of that all the rest of my days.”
“There’s blame to go around,” Bob stated. “But what’s more important to worry about, right at the moment, is getting some of these injured men tended to. We need to send a rider back to town to fetch the doc as soon as possible.”
“Way ahead of you, son,” said Morrison. “I was afraid we wasn’t gonna make it out here in time to stop the trouble, so I asked the doc to come along before we left. He’s trailing a ways behind in his buggy, but he should be here before long.”
“That’ll be good.” Bob squinted. “And not that it ain’t good to see you, too—but how come you to show up here?”
Morrison smiled. “That pretty wife of yours sent me a telegram. Said you were in trouble but too proud to ask for help, so she was asking for you. After that inquiry you sent a couple days prior to hers, I decided there must be something serious enough going on to warrant paying a visit. I got into town on the train just minutes after you and your men lit out. The fellas at the jail told me what was up and where you was headed, then these gents”—he jabbed a thumb toward Monte and the others—“offered to show me the way. So here we are.”
Bob’s eyebrows lifted during the telling. “Seems like I got more friends than I thought I needed. Reckon you ain’t got a patent on being wrongheaded, Wardell.”
Brannigan edged forward some more. His sneer was back, wider than ever. “You keep believing that, Hat-field. But before you tally your number of friends too high, let’s find out how chummy the federal man wants to be with a wanted outlaw who used to go by the name of Devil’s River Kid.”
“Who the hell are you? And what are you talking about?” Morrison wanted to know.
“My name’s Brannigan,” the Texan said. “I’m going to reach into my vest pocket for a piece of paper that will explain everything. So don’t nobody get too proddy with none of those damn guns.”
Slowly, Brannigan did what he’d announced. Unfolding the wanted poster, he walked to where Morrison still sat his horse and handed it up to him, saying, “That says it quicker and plainer than I can with words.”
Morrison scowled down at the paper, studying it long and hard. When he lifted his face again, his single eye darted back and forth several times between Bob and Brannigan. Then it settled on Brannigan and he said, “Seems like your idea of what’s supposed to be so plain must differ quite a bit from mine. What am I supposed to be looking at here? What is this supposed to be telling me?”
Brannigan’s eyes bugged and his mouth sagged open in astonishment before he was able to find his voice. “Are you kidding me? Are you blind? The man described and depicted on that wanted dodger is who everybody around here calls Bob Hatfield! He’s really a wanted outlaw and killer from down in Texas. He’s been on the run for seven years, but now I’ve caught up with him!”
“You’d better haul back on the reins a little, bub, before you blow a gasket,” advised Morrison. “In the first place, I may only have one eye but I am a long way from being blind. I can see just fine, thank you, and what I can see in this instance is that there ain’t a damn thing on this wanted dodger to make anybody think it pertains to Bob Hatfield. I say you’re making a big mistake and you owe a big apology to the good marshal and everybody here for wasting their time.”
“Like hell! I chased that bastard and came within inches of nabbing him all those years ago.” The cords on Brannigan’s unshaven neck bulged like they were going to burst from his neck. “You think I’d ever forget that face? It’s the same damn one that’s right there on that paper!”
“You calling me a liar?” Morrison challenged.
“For God’s sake . . . Will you please at least show it to somebody else? Get another opinion?”
Morrison considered this, his expression stony. At length, he gave a single nod of his head. “All right. One more pass at humoring you, then that had better be the end of it . . . Deputy Fred, will you and those two other young fellas come over here and have a look at this, please?”
From over on the edge of the open space, Fred, Peter, and Vern nudged their horses into motion and moved toward Morrison.
“Now wait a damn minute!” Brannigan protested. “That ain’t fair. Those are his own men. They won’t call it straight!”
“Straight?” Morrison echoed. “You strike me as the type who never gave one single damn about the straight of anything in your whole miserable life, mister, so stop your caterwauling. Three honorable officers of the law are going to look at this paper—at your request, I might add—and give their judgment on your claims. In the meantime, you’d be advised to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
The three deputies took the paper from Morrison and quickly passed it among themselves. When Fred handed it back, Morrison said, “Well?”
“No likeness I can recognize, sir,” said Fred.
“Never saw that face before in my life,” said Vern.
“Nobody I remember ever seeing, and it’s a mug too damn homely to forget,” said Peter.
“This is outrageous!” wailed Brannigan. He spread his arms and turned in a circle, imploring all the cowboys looking on. “Are you going to allow this kind of injustice from those who are supposed to be upholding the law around here? You deserve better than that. I deserve better than that—me and my pards are here to remove a dangerous fugitive from the midst of decent, hardworkin’ folks like all of you, and this is how we get treated?”
Something abruptly clicked inside Bob. This business with Brannigan had dragged on for too long. It was time to end it. And he saw now, before anybody else got dragged into it or hurt, there was only one way.
“You’re right, Brannigan,” he said as he swung down from his saddle.
“Huh?” said the Texan, his face snapping around.
Bob stepped clear of his horse and planted his feet wide. “You heard me. I said you’re right . . . You got deserves coming.”
Brannigan shifted to face Bob squarely. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You figure it out. You said a minute ago you deserve different than what you’re getting. I agree, though I imagine what each of us thinks you deserve is something mighty far apart. So have those two noble, civic-minded pards of yours step up there beside you and let’s settle it. We’ll let the winner earn what he deserves.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s rich,” scoffed Brannigan. “Us three against you and all your lyin’, badge-wearin’ pals, eh? Five on three. Real fair odds for earnin’ the right outcome, ain’t it?”
Bob said, “You’re right about the odds being a little lopsided. But your numbers are off . . . I’m calling it three to one, and I want everybody to understand that’s the way I demand for it to be.”
“Now wait a minute, Bob,” protested Morrison. “You can’t—”
“Yes, I can! You and the fellas did what you could, Buford, and for that I’m grateful,” said Bob. “But now it goes to this. I’ll be damned if I walk away and leave these three peckerwoods alive to hound me—and possibly my family, because that’s the kind of lowlife scum they are—at another time. No, it needs to end now. Once and for all. If these bastards can take me . . . they can have me. I’m giving my word on that.”
Morrison’s mouth pulled into a tight, grim line. Then he said, “Okay. If that’s the way you want it, then go ahead . . . Sundown Bob.”
Brannigan frowned. “What’s this ‘Sundown Bob’ shit? How many names you got, Hat-field?”
“No need to concern yourself over it,” Bob told him. “Ain’t like you’re gonna be around long enough to have to worry about remembering all of ’em.”
By now Drake and Wilbur had moved up on either side of Brannigan. They didn’t look quite so eager to be participating in this, but neither were they backing out.
Brannigan showed his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “I been waitin’ seven years for this. I can’t tell you how much I’m lookin’ forward to sendin’ the Devil’s River Kid to finally meet
the Devil . . .”
Nearly fifty men stood looking on when the gunplay suddenly erupted between the four men. Not one of the onlookers could ever claim afterward to have been able to follow the speed of Bob’s draw. It came quicker than an eye blink. One instant he was standing poised and ready, the next his Colt was in his fist, spitting flame and thunder and hot lead.
Bob took out Brannigan first. Two rapid-fire slugs, punching less than an inch apart, straight into the bounty hunter’s black heart. Then a quick adjust to the left to plant a pill in Drake’s throat, blowing his Adam’s apple out the back of his neck. Wilbur was targeted last but no less effectively, taking two hits, one to the center of his chest, then another to the outside edge of his heart as he twisted away from the first impact.
Brannigan and Wilbur toppled together in a heap. Drake was slammed backward three or four feet and hit the ground that far separated from his pards.
With his remaining bullet under the .44’s cocked hammer, Bob swung the gun one more time in a flat arc and brought it to bear on Smoky Barnett. “How about you?” he grated. “You wanting any of this?”
Barnett lifted his hands, jerking them away from his body like they were on springs. “N-No, not me. I’m no part of it,” he stammered.
Bob continued to glare at him for a long count, then broke open the Colt and methodically reloaded before returning it to its holster.
For their part, the Texans got off a total of three shots. None came anywhere close to Bob. Brannigan’s gun never cleared leather, so he didn’t fire at all. Drake triggered one round into the dirt as his throat was exploding. Wilbur fired skyward twice as he was twisting and falling away.
It all happened so fast that one of the Rocking W wranglers would later lament how he turned his head to stifle a sneeze and missed the whole thing in the brief time his face was averted.
CHAPTER 57
Unfortunately too late to do any good for the men who were killed or injured, the range war between the Rocking W and the V-Slash was over.
Right between the Eyes Page 30
