Their fire, he discovered, had been kindled near a bubbling spring in a small box canyon. Two of Holbrook’s cronies were knee-deep in the pool with the off-saddled horses, treating the animals to a much-needed rubdown. Holbrook and another man were trying to rustle up a meal out of the miserable remnants of their collective rations. Truscott grinned inwardly. It was just as he had surmised. These weary, hungry malefactors were vulnerable now; he couldn’t have chosen a better time for seeking Holbrook out.
Smiling complacently, he dawdled his mount into the canyon and made straight for the fire. Holbrook and Clayburn rose to their feet, their hands dropping to their holsters. Standing in the pool, the other two froze, eyeing the newcomer warily.
“Relax,” drawled Truscott. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“And that’s somethin’ you better remember—whoever you are,” Holbrook gruffly retorted. “We outnumber you four to one—so you bet we got nothin’ to fear.”
“Are you always so infernally aggressive, Holbrook?” grinned Truscott. He unslung the sack of rations, let it drop beside the fire. “There. Fix yourselves a man-sized meal. I heard you say you were short on rations.”
Clayburn investigated the sack. After a brief check of the contents, he informed his colleagues:
“Enough chow to keep us eatin’ steady for a whole week.”
“And that’s not all,” said Truscott, as he dug out the whisky.
One by one, Holbrook took the bottles from him.
“You know me?” he challenged.
“I was in town when you passed through,” nodded Truscott. “Heard the sheriff address you by name. Mine’s Truscott, by the way. Calvin Truscott.”
“All right,” frowned Holbrook. “You named me right, and this here’s Gus Clayburn.” He indicated the two men in the pool, one a powerfully-built redhead, the other a slim, lynx-eyed, youngish man with a mane of lank black hair. “That’s Red Weems and Billy Joe Hale.”
“Weems—Hale ...” Truscott nodded affably.
“You didn’t follow us all the way from town and fetch these supplies,” opined Holbrook, “just from sweet charity.”
“I thought the provisions would serve as a gesture of good-will,” shrugged Truscott. “Invite me to stay for lunch, Holbrook. After we’ve dined, perhaps you’d be interested in listening to a little proposition.”
“Pete,” called Billy Joe Hale, “he looks like a tinhorn.”
“Talks like one too,” growled Red Weems.
“It won’t hurt to hear him out, Pete,” suggested Clayburn.
“You’re welcome to the provisions and liquor,” said Truscott, “whether or not you agree with my proposition. No obligation.”
“What’s the pay-off on this proposition?” demanded Holbrook.
“A straight thousand,” said Truscott. “I’m sorry, boys. I realize it mightn’t seem much ...”
“It’s chicken-feed,” scowled Holbrook.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” retorted Truscott. “Stop me if I’m wrong—but you boys don’t look any too prosperous to me.”
“He’s askin’,” Clayburn sourly opined to Holbrook, “for a faceful of knuckles.”
“We’ll be drinkin’ his liquor,” drawled Holbrook. “Maybe that gives him the right to talk sassy.” He called to the men in the pool. “Get those prads rubbed down good. Time you’re through, the grub’ll be ready.” Then, nodding to Truscott, “Climb down and set. I’ll listen to your proposition after we eat.”
An hour later, having eaten their fill and washed it down with coffee spiked with whisky, the four outlaws were ready to give their benefactor a hearing. Red Weems carefully distributed the bulk of the rations into the four saddlebags. Clayburn rolled and lit a cigarette. Holbrook and the lynx-eyed Billy Joe Hale squatted close to Truscott, one on each side of him, and stared into the fire.
“Ready to listen now?” demanded Truscott.
“Ready enough—sure,” grunted Holbrook. “Go ahead. Talk.”
“Well,” smiled Truscott, “there really isn’t much to tell. For certain personal reasons, I need to prevent a marriage.”
“You talkin’ about some female you want for yourself?” prodded Holbrook. “She took a shine to some other hombre and you want I should get rid of him—is that how it goes?”
“Not exactly,” said Truscott. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never even met the lady. All I can tell you is that I’d be—uh—greatly inconvenienced if she married before the twenty-seventh of this month. If she is still a spinster on that date or if, between now and then, she should become the victim of—uh—a violent accident ...”
“He don’t talk plain, does he, Pete?” mused Billy Joe.
“He sure don’t,” muttered Holbrook. “Still—I’m startin’ to savvy him.” He threw Truscott a scathing sidelong glance. “This is the first time I run into a hombre that wants a woman killed.”
“If you’re squeamish ...” began Truscott.
“I didn’t say I was squeamish,” growled Holbrook. “Killin’ a woman wouldn’t trouble me one little bit, Truscott. And that’s the big difference between men like me and you. You’re the kind that always needs to play it safe —pay some other hombre to do your dirty work and take all the risks.”
“It might not be absolutely necessary to liquidate the lady,” frowned Truscott. “The important thing is to prevent her marrying.”
“Why?” Holbrook bluntly challenged. “What d’you care if she hitches up or stays single—if you never even met her?”
“I did say my reasons are personal,” Truscott reminded him.
“Billy Joe,” said Holbrook, “I declare this hombre just don’t savvy how to answer a straight question. And that irks me plenty.”
“It irks me too, Pete,” drawled Billy Joe.
Without even glancing at Truscott, still staring impassively into the fire, he lunged sideways with his right elbow, striking none too gently at Truscott’s ribs. Truscott made a gasping sound, began muttering a protest which was cut off by Holbrook, who savagely backhanded him. Seated on the other side of the fire, Weems and Clayburn chuckled unsympathetically. The force of the blow toppled Truscott backward. He lay sprawled for a moment, before resuming his seated posture. Panting heavily, he hastened to warn the boss-outlaw:
“This is—no way to—negotiate.”
“You’d pay a thousand dollars to have a woman killed—or kidnapped maybe,” said Holbrook, “just so long as she don’t get wed before the twenty-seventh. Boy—you better have good reasons.”
“They’re my reasons!” snapped Truscott.
He gave vent to another anguished gasp, as Billy Joe turned slightly, bunched his right fist and drove it hard into his belly. Almost simultaneously, Holbrook struck him again, another backhander, hard, vicious, hurting. For the second time, he went over backward, sprawled with his arms outflung and his legs twisted. Holbrook leaned sideways, got a grip on the front of his vest and hauled him back to his sitting position.
“I guess,” he suggested, “you don’t hear so good.”
“What the hell, Pete?” With a fine show of impatience, Weems emptied his holster, thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and lined its muzzle on Truscott’s belly. “Why do we waste our time with this galoot? We might’s well strip him, bury him and ride on.”
“Wait a minute ...!” protested Truscott.
“You keep yappin’,” drawled Holbrook, “but you don’t say nothin’.”
This time, he used both hands, gripping Truscott’s cravat in his left, using his right to backhand him again—and again. “The whole score—or nothin’, Truscott. You tell me everything—and no more stallin’—or I’ll follow Red’s advice.”
“Tell him—to—stop pointing that gun at me ...!” groaned Truscott.
“Hell, Red,” chided Holbrook. “Ain’t you got no shame? Is this a way to treat our host?”
“Let me shoot him just once, Pete,” begged Weems. “I got a bead on his belly—and I ha
nker to hear him wail.”
“You hear that, Truscott?” prodded Holbrook.
“Don’t ...!” gasped Truscott.
“You tell us everything,” said Holbrook, “or you tell us nothin’.”
“It’s—all because of a legacy ...” mumbled Truscott.
“Put your iron away, Red,” frowned Holbrook. “Legacy” was a word he understood. “Go on, Truscott.”
Badly scared, but still desperate to acquire the second half of his dead kinsman’s estate, Truscott haltingly explained all the terms of Brigg Fullerton’s will. In only one respect did he deviate from the truth. Thinking it unlikely Holbrook could ever establish the exact amount, he quoted only half of it.
“How much?” prodded Holbrook.
“Five thousand,” sighed Truscott. “And—I need it badly, Holbrook. Most of it anyway. I have—gambling debts that must be paid.”
“Would a thousand help you any?” grinned Holbrook. “Well, it don’t much matter how you answer—because a thousand is all you’ll get.”
“You mean ...?” Truscott eyed him aghast.
“I mean—for this kind of a chore,” drawled Holbrook, “I’d insist on an even pay-off for all four of us. A thousand apiece.” He looked at his cronies. “That sound okay to you hombres?”
“For a thousand,” grinned Weems, “I’d shoot a half-dozen females.”
“That’s the deal, Truscott,” said Holbrook. “We’ll do your dirty work, but on my terms. We divvy that five thousand five ways.”
“Well ...” began Truscott.
“And another thing,” said Holbrook.
“Yes?” frowned Truscott.
“You got any notion where to find this Box G spread?” asked Holbrook.
“I understand the Gillery place is about two days’ ride to the south,” said Truscott. “I don’t imagine it would be too hard to find.”
“Bueno,” grunted Holbrook. “You wouldn’t be much use as a guide, but we’ll take you along anyway.”
“No!” Truscott’s eyebrows shot up. “That isn’t how I planned it. I intended waiting for you in Byrne City—until the twenty-eighth ...”
“Oh, sure ...” sniggered Billy Joe.
“As soon as I collect the legacy,” said Truscott, “I’d meet you outside of town—any place you care to name—and pay your fee.”
“Truscott, d’you think you’re dealin’ with fools?” jeered Holbrook. “The way I figure it, you’re damn near worth five thousand dollars—if the Gillery girl stays manless or gets to be suddenly dead. Well, damnitall, you ain’t goin’ back to Byrne City to collect that dinero all by yourself. I don’t trust you, Truscott. What’s more, there’s none of us can show bur face in Byrne City without stoppin’ a bullet. So we’ll wire the lawyer-man from some other town. That’ll be on or after the twenty-eighth—savvy? By then, he’ll know the little lady just never made it.”
“But ...” began Truscott.
“You’ll have him wire you the dinero,” said Holbrook, “and then me and the boys’ll collect our share. It’s as simple as that, Truscott.” He uncorked a bottle, took a stiff pull at it, and grinned complacently, enjoying Truscott’s dismay. “Meantime—you stay with us.”
“No!” gasped Truscott.
“Couldn’t call him sociable, could you now?” chuckled Clayburn.
“He ain’t scarce had time to get to know us,” leered Weems, “but already he craves to tell us goodbye.”
“Oh, he’ll get to know us,” Holbrook assured them.
“He’ll get to know us real close. He’ll see how we work. He’ll be there when we hit this Box G outfit. Four brothers the girl has, he says. And likely mighty proddy. Well, they’ll get theirs muy pronto, if they act up rough.”
“This hombre wouldn’t be no use in a fight,” opined Billy Joe.
“No use at all,” agreed Holbrook. His eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a hard line. “But he has to be there.”
“Why insist on taking me along?” wondered Truscott.
“You ain’t the first smooth-talkin’, fancy-rigged dude that ever hired me, Truscott,” scowled Holbrook. “There have been others. All I needed to know was where to find the target. I did their killin’ for ’em, collected what they agreed to pay me—and that was that. And I’ll tell you somethin’, Truscott. I hated them yeller-bellied coyotes, them buzzards that never dared to pack a six-gun—let alone use it.” He nodded vehemently. “I hated ’em—the way I hate you. So this time it’s gonna be different. If it’s good enough for us to do your dirty work, it’s good enough for you to ride with us, make camp with us, get warm from the same fire, eat the same grub.”
“And handle his share of the chores, huh, Pete?” suggested Weems.
“Good idea, Red,” approved Holbrook. “He can take his turn at cookin’, settin’ guard, tendin’ the horses.”
“I don’t reckon he’s gonna argue ’bout it, Pete,” grinned Billy Joe. He brandished a fist, chuckled jeeringly as Truscott flinched. “Naw! This fine gentleman knows what’s good for him. He’ll ride south with us—and never a word of complaint from him.”
At the moment, Truscott’s brain was in turmoil. He had gotten in beyond his depth; that much was painfully obvious. But, gradually, his disquiet would ease. He would learn to keep his temper under control, to maintain a pretence of collaboration with these uncouth, callous, coldblooded outlaws. Did he have any choice? Of course not. Pete Holbrook had made that all too clear. As for the legacy, he would end up minus four thousand dollars of what he had set out to acquire. A great pity, but unavoidable, because he didn’t dare defy these conscienceless butchers who would gun him down in an attitude of nonchalance—almost of complete indifference.
It was a quarter of three when Truscott and the four gunmen quit the box canyon and, by a roundabout route, began making their way to the trail that led south to the border. Riding stirrup-to-stirrup with Holbrook, the nephew of the late Brigg Fullerton found it difficult to maintain his pose of self-assurance. He was in rough company and could only hope that, by the twenty-eighth of the month, he would still be alive to enjoy the squandering of another six grand.
Four – The Nonchalant Bride-to-Be
At about the same time that Calvin Truscott was riding into the box canyon to proposition the Holbrook gang, Big Jim Rand had almost struggled free of his bonds. But “almost” was a big word. His ankles were still secured and he hadn’t completely extricated his hands from the ropes, when he heard the padlock rattle.
“Por Dios …!” breathed Benito.
“Silencio!” warned Jim. “If I sit quiet; maybe they won’t think to check my ropes ...”
As the door was shoved open, a pleasing aroma smote their nostrils—familiar and very welcome. This beef stew, Jim reflected, had been created by an expert cook. If Lucy Rose Gillery’s looks matched her culinary skill ...
“You hombres set real quiet—savvy?”
That warning was drawled by Waldo from behind the leveled barrels of a shotgun. Jim wasn’t listening to him, nor looking at him; all his attention was focused on the girl who had moved just beyond the threshold. The appetizing aromas came from the contents of the tray held in her hands—good, shapely and very clean hands, but not slim, not delicate. Lucy Rose, obviously, was a ranch-woman through and through.
In the matter of good looks, she had the edge on her hefty and unprepossessing brothers. Her figure was medium; she was neither too slender nor too bulky, a very happy medium. The patched and tattered gingham gown needed washing, though its wearer appeared scrupulously clean. Her features were well formed, her blue eyes alert and expressive. Jim heard no girlish giggle, saw no mirth on that serious, oval-shaped countenance. Damn and blast, she was surveying him as impersonally as if he were a stud bull! What manner of folk were these Gillerys?
She spoke, and her voice was musical, easier on the ear than the nasal, grating voices of her kinsmen. But her grammar was no better.
“Waldo,” she frowned, “hol
ler for Brother Rickard— but keep that shotgun pointed at these fellers, and don’t take your eyes off ’em.”
“Buenos dias, senorita,” grinned Benito.
“You hush up,” she ordered, still with her shrewd gaze on Jim. “Waldo—what’re you waitin’ for?”
“You don’t need Rick,” protested the youngest brother. “Not with me keepin’ an eye on these hombres.”
Jim’s heart sank, as she replied:
“I want Rickard to check their ropes—while you keep ’em covered.”
“Oh, sure,” shrugged Waldo. He called over his shoulder: “Rick ...!”
While they awaited the coming of the second eldest, Jim addressed the girl.
“Miss Lucy Rose—it’s hard for me to believe a lady would permit this. Kidnappers suffer heavy penalties from the law. And—as for forcing a man to marry you …”
“Folks do what they gotta do,” frowned Lucy Rose.
“That’s about the size of it, Big Jim,” nodded Waldo. “We just gotta do it.”
They heard heavy footsteps heralding the approach of Brother Rickard. Balancing the tray, the girl leaned her back against the wall, eyed Jim curiously and enquired: “How’d a big, rough-lookin’ feller like you learn to talk so fancy?”
“I never talk fancy,” Jim acidly replied. “A long time ago, I decided plain English was the fastest and easiest way for a man to communicate with other folk. So I read a lot, taught myself the meaning of words, and ...”
“Sure sounds high-falutin’ to me,” grunted Waldo.
“Well, it isn’t high-falutin’—nor fancy!” snapped Jim. “It’s plain, basic English!”
“Ain’t no call for you to act sore,” shrugged Waldo.
“What’s he gripin’ about?” demanded Rickard Gillery, who had just arrived in the doorway.
“He ain’t feelin’ sociable, I guess,” said Lucy Rose.
“I’m funny that way,” declared Jim, with heavy sarcasm. “I always feel unsociable when a bunch of halfwits kidnap me—try to make me the bridegroom at a shotgun wedding.”
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