by Lauran Paine
“Mister Waite, you got a real knack for makin’ a man feel good.”
Charley would have laughed, but he had the vivid image fixed squarely behind his eyes of the way Boss had fallen after the bullet hit him.
A coyote yelped and fled from the scent of humans. Other coyotes were also out there; they also fled but did not sound.
Charley went after his horse and was slipping the bridle into place when Marshal Pierce led his bay over and said, “You know the country; how are we goin’ to get up to them if there’s no cover?”
Charley was snugging up the cinch when he answered. “By tryin’ to reach their camp before sunrise.”
“Where will it be?”
Charley swung up over leather. “By the creek. That’s the only water out there.”
“Where along the creek?”
Charley was reining away as he answered curtly, “I don’t know. We’ll have to find it.”
The bays were right up there in the bit. The rest had helped, but they hadn’t actually needed it. They were in good condition, young enough to be stout with lots of “bottom” and old enough not to act coltish.
The night was pleasantly cool. It was also inhabited by a variety of nocturnal creatures, most of whom picked up man scent well in advance and simply were not there when the riders loped by. A dog-wolf was in a spit of trees, where he could make out the intruders riding past. He watched them out of sight, then tipped his head back and made a mournful howl.
Charley had landmarks to go by, but only as long as the land was uneven or timbered. When he was finally passing over very gently undulating country without a tree in sight, he told the lawman they were no more than two or three miles from his old wagoncamp, beyond which was the willow creek.
From this point on they did not lope.
Charley studied the eastern horizon by sitting twisted in the saddle with his palm flat down on the bay horse’s rump. There was no sign of daybreak, but it was not far off because the night was beginning to feel chilly.
Marshal Pierce rubbed his hands together and swung both arms. He had a perfectly serviceable rider’s coat in his room back at Harmonville. To kill time he asked about Mose Harrison. Charley told him of finding Mose dead with a shattered skull. He also told him where they had buried Mose, and a short while later when they passed the spot, he pointed out the grave.
After that they said very little, finally drifting off into silence, and paced through the chilly late night—or early morning—concentrating on what was ahead.
They had made excellent time getting out here. Better time than Charley had thought possible, but whatever they did now would have to be done promptly. They had left the last vestige of shelter far behind; from now on they would be clearly visible after daylight arrived.
They angled northward, saw creek willows, paralleled them for a mile, and when they halted as Marshal Pierce leaned to speak, Charley silenced him with an upraised hand. He turned back the way they had come to begin exploring southward.
Only one thing mattered to Charley now: Find Baxter’s camp. Beyond that he had only a vague idea of what to do. He was a stockman, not a manhunter. He had never stalked anyone before in his life.
Pierce’s bay horse missed his lead, recovered, and continued onward with both ears forward and his head up. The marshal hissed at Charley, swung to the ground, and moved to the bay’s head to keep it from nickering.
Both men stood ready to stifle a nicker. They could see nothing nor detect a scent, but clearly their horses had detected something ahead through the darkness that held their attention.
Pierce shoved his reins into Charley’s hand and scouted ahead. Within two minutes Charley could not see him. It was not a long wait, although it seemed to be.
Marshal Pierce came soundlessly out of the gloom, wagged his head, and spoke quietly. “I think maybe you were right. I don’t know whether it’s Baxter or not, but there’s a roundup camp down there. No wagon but a rope corral of horses an’ as near as I could make out, maybe eight or so men in their soogans.”
As Pierce retrieved his reins he indicated that this was something he knew a little about. “We don’t have a hell of a lot of time. We can sneak up and set there with cocked pistols to maybe take them without trouble when they awaken.”
Charley shook his head. “Not Baxter.”
“All right. Here, hold my horse again. I’ll cut their corral rope and stampede the horses. I’d guess they’re a hell of a distance from getting more saddle stock. . . . Mister Waite, you’d better take the horses back up the creek a ways and stay in among the willows. Sure as hell those horses will run for it, and that’ll bring those men up out of their blankets like hitting a hornet’s nest with a stick. I hope they’ll think the rope broke. It’s too dark for them to find my tracks. All the same, you get hid up yonder.”
Charley eyed the rawboned older man. “Baxter and the fellers who was with him down in Harmonville couldn’t have got back here very long ago. My guess is that some of them won’t be asleep. They’ll have someone standin’ watch down there, marshal.”
Dallas Pierce smiled without humor. “I’ll be careful. Mister Waite, this isn’t somethin’ I haven’t done before.”
Pierce turned away. Charley watched him out of sight, then started walking northward over beside the creek. If something went wrong, and something usually did even when lives weren’t at stake, he and the U.S. marshal were about as vulnerable as men could be.
He kept walking, the bays trailing him on slack reins, heads down and relaxed.
They started up a horned owl, who normally soared in total silence, but this time he made whispery sounds by frantically beating his wings to hasten his escape.
When Charley thought he might have covered a decent distance, better than a half mile, he began searching for a place to get in among the creek willows. What he eventually found was a place where there were no willows; the creek was wider up here with a shallow bottom. Charley had found an animal crossing. Over the years indifferent bodies and sharp hooves had killed out willow shoots to a width of about fifteen feet.
He led the bays in there. The ground was spongy. Both horses pulled for slack and began nipping off tender willow shoots.
Charley had time to reflect on his fierce rush for vengeance. It might have been wiser to round up some possemen, even though that would have cost valuable time. What convinced him that it could not have been done was the basic fact that he had been a prisoner of the law back in Harmonville. Men would not have followed him; they would have handed him over to Marshal Poole.
In the utter hush of predawn, a slow-gathering accumulation of reverberations underfoot—running horses—told him that Dallas Pierce had been successful; he had put Baxter’s crew on foot.
Charley did not feel especially elated. Dawn was no more than an hour off. After daylight arrived Baxter would find boot tracks and a cut rope instead of a frayed, broken one.
Chapter Twenty
Through Darkness Toward Dawn
When Marshal Pierce found the animal-crossing he stood a while sucking down deep sweeps of air. He was sweating. Charley waited patiently until the lawman caught his breath from running.
“I cut the rope in back, to the west, and their horses ran that way when they discovered they were loose. Maybe they’ll find tracks, but not by the corral.” Pierce lifted his hat, pushed sweat off with a soiled cuff and replaced the hat, then held out a hand for his reins. He did not say any more until he had led the way eastward from the creek in a big, half-mile-deep half circle. Out where he halted facing the direction of an aroused camp, he smiled at Charley. “You’re goin’ to earn your keep from here on,” he said. He swung to the ground, unbuckled one rein, and fashioned Mormon hobbles with it.
Charley did the same. When Pierce started walking in the direction of the shouting and cursing, Charley was beside him carrying the livery barn nighthawk’s Winchester.
The cursing was subsiding by the time Pierce and Waite we
re close enough to dimly make out moving silhouettes. They halted, sank low, and listened to an angry man giving orders.
“Couple of you trail ’em. Arch, you’n Slim head in the direction of the yard. Someone’s got to catch at least one horse and bring him back here.”
A man replied to these orders with a question. “Mister Baxter, wasn’t that new rope?”
The angry man retorted shortly. “Yeah, but ropes break. You fellers get moving. I’ll go over the rope.”
The same voice that had spoken before had something else to say. “Supposin’ a posse comes out here, Mister Baxter?”
This time the angry man exploded. He swore fiercely at the other speaker, then yelled at him. “Gawddammit, start walking! Take ropes or bridles, but get the hell on the trail of those horses.”
For a while the camp was quiet except for men moving, scuffing the ground, rummaging among saddlebags, or making momentary match flares as they lighted smokes.
Marshal Pierce leaned to nudge Charley. “That’s what I admire, Mister Waite. A cooperative son of a bitch. Four men goin’ after horses. Two of ’em goin’ in the wrong direction. How many you reckon he’s got left?”
Charley didn’t guess. “More than two, marshal, an’ daylight’s coming.”
Dallas Pierce looked eastward, arose to yank loose the tiedown over his holstered Colt, and started to slowly pick a path closer to the camp. Charley drifted off to one side. He did not know whether Dallas Pierce was one of those shoot-it-out lawmen or not, and he did not intend to be close to him if he turned out to be one.
They could see each other faintly. Up ahead a man with a growly voice said, “Suppose I didn’t kill the son of a bitch?”
Baxter’s identifiable voice answered brusquely. “You killed him. I’ve seen ’em go down like that before an’ they never got up again.”
A lighter voice spoke. Charley thought this speaker was younger than his companions. “That was a good lick, blindfolding that liveryman. He not only didn’t see any of our faces, but he was so scairt I thought he’d wet his pants.”
Baxter growled at the younger man. “See if there’re any coals left. Stir up something so’s we can have breakfast.”
Charley concentrated on the place where the man with the growly voice had spoken. This was the man he had come out here to settle with for the shooting of Boss Spearman.
Without warning, a striding rider appeared through the gloom in Charley’s direction. He would pass less than five feet away. There was no way he could avoid seeing Charley.
There was not very much time to react. Charley got both legs positioned so he could spring up, gripping the carbine tightly, until the silhouette got so close he could see a soiled bandage on the man’s arm, then came up off the ground as he cocked the Winchester.
The man wearing the bandage stopped so abruptly he nearly tripped. Charley heard his quick intake of breath.
He approached the astonished rider, pushed his gunbarrel into the man’s stomach, and whispered to him, “Not a sound.” The rider wore an ivory-stocked six-gun on the same side as his bandaged arm. Charley lifted it from the holster and used it to gesture in the direction he wanted the rider to walk.
When they got over where the lawman had been, he was not there. Charley knocked his prisoner unconscious with the man’s own gun, knelt to gag him and lash his arms and ankles, then sat back considering the rider. He thought this was the man who had shot Mose Harrison. He certainly was one of the men Mose had fought with in the store down in Harmonville. He had to be the man whose arm Mose had broken. His name would be Butler.
Marshal Pierce appeared without a sound. He gazed at the man, whose hat had been punched violently down to his ears when Charley had knocked him senseless.
He hunkered down, took the ivory-handled Colt from Charley, and held it close to his face examining it before he said, “I know him. I know this gun. He’s Ed Carlin, wanted for murder in Montana and Idaho.” Pierce handed back the weapon and stood up. “Mister Waite, we got to assume Baxter’s got maybe another hired gunfighter over there. . . . You go south, I’ll go north. You get flat down on your belly, an’ when I call Baxter, don’t be a hero. Hold off until you’re fired at or I’m fired at, then just pick a target and shoot.”
Charley arose looking eastward. Finally, there was a thin wedge of soiled gray limning the farthest horizon. He walked away from Marshal Pierce without a word, intending to indeed find a target—the man with the deep, growly voice.
A spindly little flicker of fire came to life amid the jumble of camp and horse gear. It reflected off three men. One of them was Denton Baxter; Charley remembered him from their first meeting in the marshal’s office.
Another man was tall and thin. He moved with the grace and ease of youth. He would be the one with the young voice. Charley settled flat down with the Winchester pushed ahead, studying the man farthest from him, stooping over to paw through saddlebags. He was about Baxter’s age but hadn’t run as much to fat as yet. He looked dark by feeble firelight. Charley concentrated on him. By the process of elimination this had to be the growly voiced man who had mentioned the possibility of his shot not having killed Boss Spearman.
Charley slowly snugged back the Winchester and waited.
Marshal Pierce must have taken plenty of time to get into position before challenging the camp. Charley was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to do it, when the lawman sang out.
“Don’t move! Don’t even breathe! Now straighten up and toss away those guns with your left hands!”
None of the surprised men near the little fire had moved since Pierce’s first word. Baxter turned his head in the direction of the lawman’s voice. Charley could see his features clearly; they were twisted with equal parts surprise and defiance.
Charley eased back the Winchester’s hammer. It made almost no noise, certainly not enough to reach the utterly still men by the fire.
It wasn’t Baxter who precipitated what followed, but the thick-bodied dark man. He dropped and rolled. Charley squeezed the trigger. His muzzleblast stopped the gangling younger man dead still with his hand inches above his gun grip.
The dark man arched up off the ground as though to whip around facing southward. Charley shot him again, levered up, and shot him a third time. Each slug rocked the heavy body.
Baxter dove across the fire to land in the midst of camp boxes and mounded horse equipment.
Charley did not take his eyes off the man he had shot as Marshal Pierce fired three times with his six-gun. The shots were so closely spaced they sounded like one continuous drumroll of muzzleblast as they ripped into Baxter’s hiding place.
Echoes spiraled violently in all directions. They were still audible, but just barely, when Marshal Pierce called to the younger man. “Shuck the gun!”
The rider very slowly lifted out his weapon and let it fall. Then he sank to the ground in a slump.
Neither Charley nor Dallas Pierce arose for a long while, and before they did Pierce ordered the younger man to drag Denton Baxter to the fire.
After that had been done and there was clear evidence that Baxter was dead, the dark man was also dead, and the remaining rider was completely demoralized, Marshal Pierce stood up, cocked six-gun in his right fist, and walked slowly toward the camp.
Charley watched without moving. Pierce went over to nudge the dead men with a boot toe, looked down at the man on the ground with his face in his hands, and called softly. “Fetch in the other one, Mister Waite.”
Charley got stiffly upright with the Winchester at his side and walked away from the camp southward. The man he had hit over the head was conscious; he didn’t blink as he watched Charley walk up.
Charley knelt to free the man’s ankles. Then he pulled him to his feet, half turned him, untied the gag, and punched him toward the campfire. They hadn’t covered twenty feet when his prisoner said, “What happened?”
“Your boss is dead. So is that son of a bitch who shot Boss Spearman in Har
monville, and you’re teetering on the edge.”
Marshal Pierce had emptied the pockets of the dead men into their hats. He had found a bottle of whiskey and was squatting across from the youngest rider, sipping. When the other survivor came into the light, Pierce looked up at him for a long time before speaking.
“Carlin. We come pretty close to meeting once before, near Laramie up in Wyoming.”
The prisoner looked at the dead men and at the young man who was still covering his face with both hands. Charley growled for him to sit down, and he obeyed.
Pierce sipped and regarded the fugitive. “What happened to your arm?” he eventually asked, in a tone that clearly indicated that Marshal Pierce did not care what had happened to it.
“Broke it,” replied the outlaw. “An’ it don’t help havin’ it tied behind my back.”
Pierce gestured. “You can untie him, Mister Waite.”
The moment Carlin could rub his arms, he did so. “A little whiskey would help,” he told Pierce, who handed over the bottle, then took it back after the prisoner had swallowed several times.
Marshal Pierce was comfortable. The violence was over. Dead men were no novelty to him, so he did not take his eyes off the outlaw. “Who shot the freegrazer in Harmonville?”
Carlin bobbed his jaw in the direction of the dark man. “Him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Brant. Pete Brant. Mister Baxter hired him after I busted my arm.”
“How’d you bust it?”
Carlin held out his hand for the bottle, and Pierce handed it to him, then took it back after Carlin had swallowed a couple more times.
“I asked how you busted it.”
Carlin shot a sideways look at Charley Waite, standing back there with a Winchester at his side. “Well, I got into a fight with a big cowboy at the store in Harmonville. That’s how it got busted, during the tussle.”
Marshal Pierce stoppered the bottle and put it aside, lifted out his Colt, and methodically began shucking out empty loads. As he was punching out fresh loads from his shell belt he said, “What was the big cowboy’s name?”
