by Ralph Cotton
“Yeah, well, let’s get on back,” Crispe said. “Bo said we can ride in as soon as the shooting dies down some.” He started to turn his horse alongside the buggy. Let’s go, law-woman,” he said to Sheriff Deluna, mimicking Mexican Charlie. “Get this rig rolling.”
But instead of unwrapping the reins, the woman stood straight up from the driver’s seat. She had been sitting watching, studying, searching for any chance to make an escape. She knew the single worn-out bay pulling a two-horse rig wouldn’t stand a chance getting away from two mounted riders. But she had to do something and do it fast before they got back to the rest of the men.
“I must relieve myself,” she said, as if struggling to maintain her dignity under the circumstance.
“Like hell,” said Roland. “Sit down and unwrap the reins and let’s go. Relieve yourself when we get around the trail.”
“No, I’m going before we leave,” Deluna said. She stepped down from the buggy and started to walk away.
“I’ll be damned. Do you believe this?” Crispe said, surprised by Deluna’s defiance, he and Charlie glancing at each other.
“See what I mean?” Mexican Charlie said. He shook his head and let out a breath. “The world’s gone plumb to hell. In France I hear they’ve got men doing things to them that no man should do—”
“Get back in this rig, woman!” Crispe shouted, interrupting Mexican Charlie. But Deluna walked on with rigid determination toward a stand of rock and brush ten yards away.
“She ain’t listening to you, Roland,” Charlie said in sheer wonderment.
“Damn it, that’s it!” Crispe said. “I’m smacking her around some!” He gigged his horse forward sharply.
The sheriff walked on, hearing Crispe’s horse pounding up behind her. She heard the hooves sliding to a halt, dust billowing around her. She felt Crispe’s arm reach down around her and yank her up onto his lap almost effortlessly.
“I’ll teach you to ignore me, law-woman!” he shouted. He slapped her head back and forth with his gloved hands. But they were glancing blows and she took them, her hand slipping down into her boot well.
Mexican Charlie watched, rocking in his saddle with laughter at the sight.
“You teach her, Roland. Give it to her good!” he shouted, seeing the horse slow to a walk in the rising dust. He saw the woman fall from Crispe’s lap and land on all fours in the dirt. Sunlight glinted off some metal object in her right hand. Dust began to settle around her. “What the hell . . . ?” he commented, seeing Crispe’s horse stop and start to turn.
Charlie didn’t know what was going on over there, but he knew something was wrong. He instinctively threw his hand around the butt of his holstered Remington. As he raised the revolver he saw Crispe topple sidelong from his saddle as the turning horse now stopped, facing him.
“Holy Joseph!” said Mexican Charlie, seeing the blood down Roland Crispe’s front, the bone handle of a knife standing out of his chest—stuck deep from the looks of it. He swung his gun toward the woman. “You murdering bitch!” he raged. He tried to take aim, but before he could get his shot lined up, he saw the woman kneeling down on one knee, holding Crispe’s gun out at arm’s length in both hands.
Uh-oh!
She had him; he knew it, seeing her head tilted to one side staring at him down the gun sights. Blue-orange fire blossomed around her. Shot after shot pounded Charlie in his chest. The first shot lifted him backward, his faded Mexican poncho flaring out around him. The second shot nailed him only two inches from the first. Blood spewed from both wounds. The third shot hit him up under his chin as his body fell backward. The shot blew his hat off and sent a portion of blood, bone and brain matter streaking from the top of his head.
Sheriff Deluna stood slowly, the smoking gun still up and out, moving back and forth between the two gunmen lying dead in the dirt. Feeling the weight of the gun, she bent both elbows and held it up in front of her. She reached her left hand over and gathered the reins to Crispe’s horse. The animal hadn’t flinched at the sound of gunfire.
“Good boy,” she said. She hurriedly led the animal forward and stopped at the buggy. Mexican Charlie’s horse milled in the same spot, blood streaked and splattered on its rump. “Sheriff Stone, wake up, help me,” she said, raising her voice to the head-bowed sheriff. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Stone had heard the shooting and already started to stir. As Deluna grabbed a handful of chest hair and shook him, he awakened fully.
“I’m awake!” he said, trying hard to shake the cobwebs from his brain. He looked around, at the two horses, at the woman, the gun smoking in her hand, then at the two dead gunmen lying sprawled in the dirt.
“Good—good shooting,” he stammered. He scrambled shakily out of the buggy. “Yes, I know . . . we’ve got to get going.” But he only seemed to stagger about shakily in place.
Deluna handed him the reins to Crispe’s horse. When he took them she lowered the gun and watched him fumble with uncertainty. She hurried over, gun in hand, got the other horse by its reins and ran back with it. Stone was still standing looking confused.
“Sheriff, I need your help,” she said. “Do you even know what’s going on?”
“Yes, yes. Now I do,” he said. He seemed to snap out of his stupor a little. He grabbed the reins to both horses and started to lead them to the front of the buggy. Deluna grabbed his arm and jerked him and the horses to a halt.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Tu-turning the . . . bay loose,” Stone stammered, his voice trembling, sounding pressured. “Hitching these two horses to the buggy?”
“Wake up!” Sheriff Deluna cried out. “We’re not taking the buggy!” She swung a hard roundhouse slap across his face. The blow stung his jaw, staggered him backward a step. But Stone shook his head and looked at her.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’m good now.” He handed her the horse’s reins, hurried over near Mexican Charlie’s body and grabbed the Remington up off the ground. He looked himself up and down as if puzzled by his sparse wearing apparel. He looked at Charlie’s bloody poncho, then glanced at Deluna as if needing her permission.
“Grab it, and let’s go!” Sheriff Deluna said. “They’re going to be coming anytime.” Firing from across the hills had fallen to only sporadic shots that silenced the wounded and dying.
“All right, I’m ready, let’s go,” Stone said. He slipped the revolver into his empty holster. Even as they leaped up into the saddles, he couldn’t help looking himself up and down once again. He wanted to know why he was wearing a loincloth. But he saw the impatient look on the woman’s face and decided not to ask right then.
“Okay, don’t shoot yourself,” Deluna said, nodding at the holstered Remington, the rifle standing in the saddle boot.
“I won’t. I learned my lesson two toes ago,” Stone said, forcing the shakiness from his voice.
“I know you won’t,” Deluna reassured him. She looked at him and nodded favorably, the slight trace of a smile on her lips. They turned the horses and raced away deeper into the hills, opposite the gunmen.
* * *
On the trail back to Resting just before dark, the Ranger had spotted a long line of black smoke streaking upward and drifting on the horizon. Knowing the smoke spelled trouble, he’d hurried on through the night. He stopped only long enough to rest his horse for a few minutes and give the animal a short drink of tepid water from the deep crown of his sombrero.
In the first purple-silver light of morning, he rode onto the streets of the badly burnt town. Along one side of the wide dirt street, the devastation was complete. The wind had swept the fire from end to end of the town and taken out everything: every business, shop, home, barn and toolshed. A church lay in smoldering ashes. Charred remnants of timbers and framing stood blackened in the growing morning light.
Acr
oss the street the homes and businesses were smudged, blackened and singed, yet they had escaped the spreading rage of the flames. Torches that had been thrown by Anson’s men had burned out in sandy alleyway dirt, or had been trampled out by townsmen as soon as Anson and his marauders rode away. As they rode away, they’d taken any cashboxes left in stores, any ammunition, any guns that happened to suit them and enough trail supplies and coffee to last them a long time. Anson had threatened to shoot any man caught trying to carry whiskey out onto the trail with him.
Inside the badly smudged and blackened cantina, two outlaws who had been sent deeper into Mexico to gather fresh horses stood looking out the smoky window at the Ranger riding in. One of them, Doyle Hickey, tossed back another drink of rye and let out a whiskey hiss. Out front a string of a dozen bareback horses stood bunched up, the end of their lead rope tied to a hitch rail.
“That’s him all right,” he said in a low half growl. “Wonder if Bo knew it was my birthday coming up, and this is a present.” He chuckled at his dark little joke.
A Montana gunman named Jim Purser eased closer and stood beside him. He took the bottle from Hickey’s hand, swirled its contents and raised a long swig.
“Bo ain’t big on birthdays is what I’m guessing. I’m just a little put out that he didn’t wait for us to get back to Bexnar before ripping out of there and burning this dung hill.” He grinned through a dusty black beard stubble lining his leathery face. “I like fires too, don’t you?”
Hickey reached around without looking and took the bottle of rye back from him. “Not as much as I’d like shooting this Ranger’s belly open, see what he et this morning.” He grinned, a little drunk first thing in the morning. Both of them watched as the Ranger looked over at the string of horses, rode to the hitch rail and stepped down, rifle in hand. The two watched him give the horses a closer look.
“Ain’t it just like a law dog?” said Purser. “Half the damn town lying in smoke and he’s curious about these horses.”
“It does look peculiar, you have to admit,” Hickey said. “These horses are the only ones left here that ain’t tail- and mane-singed.”
“That ain’t our fault,” said Purser, the two still watching Sam as a townsman walked up to him. Both gunmen stopped talking, listening close, trying to make out the conversation.
“Thank goodness you’re here, Ranger Burrack. This has been a mess from beginning to end.” He held out a smudged hand. “I’m Silas Radler. I often serve as temporary deputy when our sheriff is away—which she is right now.” He gestured a hand, taking in the half-burnt town. “You can see what’s been done to us—a mounted raid. White men, I might add.”
“Any idea who they are?” Sam asked. He’d already caught a glimpse of the two men standing inside the cantina window.
“Oh yes. Half the town recognized them. They’re a bunch of border trash who’ve drifted into Bexnar,” Radler said, pointing at the hill line between Resting and Bexnar, the Mexican border town. “Two Mexicans who live here said the leader is a gun-killer named Bo Anson. Malas noticias, they said he is.”
“Bad news,” Sam translated, turning back to the horses, giving them a closer look. “Where are Sheriff Deluna and Stone?” he asked.
“Sheppard Stone wandered off drunk, is what we heard,” said Radler. “Sheriff Deluna went out to deliver a baby. We haven’t seen her since. The gunmen released a prisoner that Stone was supposed to be guarding. The prisoner rode off with them, carrying an anvil shackled to his leg.” He shook his head. “I have to say, I’m most concerned something has happened to our sheriff.”
Sam didn’t answer. Instead he ran a hand down one of the horses’ withers, inspecting it, taking note of how many were there. A dozen horses? Was that how many men would need fresh horses?
“My dun’s worn out. I’m going to need a rested horse to go look for her,” he said. “These are some fine-looking animals.” He rubbed the horse’s withers a moment longer and said, “Maybe I can swap my dun out.”
“Pull your hand off that cayuse, Ranger,” said Doyle Hickey, stepping out of the cantina. “These horses ain’t for sale.”
Sam looked up, feigning surprise, as if he hadn’t known he was being watched. Behind Hickey, Purser stepped out; the two spread apart a few feet, their hands hanging close to their holstered revolvers. Sam recognized the nameless faces from the posters he’d seen. He’d met Doyle Hickey before. The other he would know soon enough. He also knew their connection to Bo Anson, thanks to Sheriff Deluna’s posters.
“Too bad,” Sam said. “I’m paying top dollar.” He studied the two men, seeing a whiskey glow on their faces. They stared at him stone-faced.
“I said they ain’t for sale, lawman,” said Hickey. “Don’t you hear good?”
Sam ignored him. He saw them both stiffen as he casually lifted his Colt from its holster. But they settled as he raised the Colt to clamp it under his left arm and lifted his empty holster to get to his trouser pocket. His right hand pulled out some folded bills and spread the edges a little for the gunmen to see.
“Cash?” he said. “American greenback?” He stared at them, his rifle in his left hand, his Colt clamped up under his left arm. Finally he saw the trace of a smile come to Purser’s lips. Probably thinking how bold and dandy that would be, Sam decided, selling what might be a stolen horse to an unsuspecting lawman.
“Lawman, I said these horses ain’t—”
“Go on, Doyle, sell the man a horse,” said Purser, cutting Hickey off. “We’ve got plenty.”
“Huh-uh, put your money away,” Hickey said, having none of it.
“I tried,” Sam said, looking disappointed. He tipped the empty holster up and shoved the bills back into his pocket. When the holster fell back into place, he reached over and took the Colt from under his arm. But instead of dropping it into the holster, he held on to it, the tip of the barrel pointed loosely at the two. He tipped the rifle just enough in his left hand to aim it at their bellies. Both the Colt and the Winchester cocked at once. The two gunmen looked dumbfounded, caught off guard, seeing both gun barrels aimed at them.
“I’m through horse talking,” Sam said in a flat, even tone. “Skin your shooters out real slow and let them fall.”
The two gunmen knew they’d been taken by the Ranger. They stared, smoldering, neither one wanting to feel the bite of the bullets they knew were coming if they didn’t do as they were told. Still, Hickey wasn’t having it.
“You’ve got some damn gall, Ranger—” he said. Before he could continue, the Ranger cut him off.
“Let them fall or fall with them, Doyle Hickey,” he said grimly, seeing the look of defeat had already come into Purser’s eyes.
Hickey stiffened and said, “You know me, Ranger?”
“Not as well as I’m going to,” Sam said. He was through talking, through warning. His next move would be the pull of both triggers.
Hickey saw it too. But it didn’t seem to matter to him.
“To hell with this!” he shouted, his hand grabbing his gun butt.
“Doyle, wait!” shouted Purser. But it was too late. The Ranger fired both guns at once. The shot from his Colt slammed Hickey in his chest and sent him flying backward in a red mist. His Winchester bucked as the bullet punched Purser high in his right shoulder and spun him like a broken child’s toy. Both men went down. Luckily the townsman Radler had seen the seriousness of the situation and backed out of the way just in time.
“Are—are you all right, Ranger?” he said shakily, in spite of hearing no gunfire except for Sam’s.
“I’m all right,” Sam said, both rifle and Colt smoking in his hands. Hickey lay lifeless in a dark pool of blood, and Purser writhed in pain, clutching his shoulder. Sam nodded toward the wounded outlaw.
“Let’s get this one inside,” he said to Radler. “See what he knows about Bo Anson and his men.”
&nb
sp; Chapter 15
Inside the cantina where the air smelled of stale whiskey and mescal laced with wood smoke, Silas Radler and the Ranger helped the wounded gunman to a table and lowered him into a chair. Radler looked all around the empty cantina as if at a loss for what to do next. Behind the bar a short, stocky bartender stood staring, having only cleaned the floor moments earlier.
“My, my,” Radler said, “this is the sort of thing our sheriff always handles so well. We have no doctor here.”
“I’m bleeding bad here,” said Purser, frightened, clearly in pain. “And I wasn’t even going for my gun!” He gripped his bloody shoulder. “Hey, am I arrested?”
“Not yet, but keep talking,” Sam warned.
“Sometimes our barber helps out doctoring,” said Radler, touching a finger to his lips in contemplation.
“I don’t need a damn haircut! I’m shot!” Purser shouted. He tried to stand up and attack the townsman with a bloody fist. Sam intercepted him and sat him back down.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Carrying on just makes the bleeding worse.” He stepped over to the bar with an outstretched hand.
The staring bartender reached down and came up with a short stack of bar towels, handing them over as if surrendering something of great value.
Sam stepped back to the table and dropped the towels on it. Radler stood watching wide-eyed. The bartender shook his head and sipped his morning coffee from a thick mug.
“Go get your barber,” Sam said to the townsman. “I’ll press a towel on this wound until he gets here.”
“Right away,” Radler said, turning and hurrying out the door. As his boots pounded across the plank walkway, Sam picked up a towel, stuck it up under Purser’s bloody shirt and pressed it firmly over the gaping shoulder wound.
“Breathe deep and try to steel down some,” he said to the shaken gunman. “Is this the first time you’ve been shot?”
