The runty Mex tugged his battered straw sombrero more firmly onto his head and began crawling through the aperture, an opening shaped like an inverted half moon. First his sombreroed head disappeared, then his scrawny torso, then his legs and feet. Jim pressed his face to the crack in time to see the little man struggle to his feet and hustle directly away from him, keeping the shack between himself and the man seated on the box out front.
Before donning his Stetson and thrusting himself through the opening, Jim stepped across to the front wall and checked on Dewey. The eldest Gillery was smoking, still staring toward the house, probably wondering how soon his sister would call him to breakfast—probably resenting that the prisoners had been fed first. Rick was trudging into the barn.
On an afterthought, Jim moved to the side wall and, through a knot-hole, studied the ranch house. That mesquite straggled here, there and everywhere. For him to work his way around back of the main building without Dewey sighting him would not be an impossible task. No siree. It could be done—would be done.
He sidled across to the excavation, bellied down and shoved his head and shoulders through. There was very little noise—nothing but a slight shifting of dry earth; no creaking of wood. He drew himself through, struggled up to a bent-double position and made for the brush.
No sooner had he stepped into the concealment of the mesquite than he heard Benito’s familiar greeting.
“Saludos, amigo.”
The Mex was right beside him. He nodded, darted a glance toward the ranch house and said, “So far, so good. I’ll be seeing you.”
“This is my great hope,” Benito fervently declared.
“Yeah,” grunted Jim. “I’ll bet.”
He moved through the brush quietly, keeping the house in sight and also a wary eye on the barn and the area in front of the harness-shack. When he came to the open stretch—fifteen yards of open ground to be traversed before he could reach the straggle of brush behind the house—he paused to check his chances. Rick hadn’t emerged from the barn. Dewey was flicking his cigarette-butt away and turning his head slightly.
It would have to be now.
On his toes, and taking care to avoid contact with a bean-can, a discarded piece of planking, anything at all that might set up a clatter to alert the shotgun-toting Dewey, he broke cover and made for the other strip of brush.
Dewey again glanced toward the house, but not before Jim had disappeared from view. Jim heard his shouted query.
“How much longer, for gosh sakes? You want we should starve? You waitin’ for Waldo to get back with them jackrabbits?”
“The jackrabbits are for my stew!” Lucy Rose had obviously moved to the front kitchen doorway to call a reply. “And the stew’s for lunch. You get bacon and eggs for your breakfast—and not till it’s cooked proper!”
Jim moved another twenty yards through the brush, then stepped to its outer edge to reconnoiter. Directly in front of him, less than ten feet away, was an open window. He had intended entering the house—forcing entry, if needs be—but hadn’t dared hope it would prove such an easy chore. Could that be the kitchen? No. Lucy Rose’s voice had come from further to his right. This window might open into a bedroom or the parlor. Well—only one way to find out.
He strode to the window, crouched and stared into the room. A bedroom for sure, and mighty tidy, too neat to be the retreat of any Gillery man. This had to be Lucy Rose’s bedroom. He threw a leg over the sill, climbed in and began a brief search.
Away to the north, crouching beside the bound and gagged Waldo, the architect of the impending showdown was suddenly conscious of a slight vibration, a drumming of distant hooves. Perspiration beaded on his brow, as he rose to his feet and stared northward. The lone rider was only dimly visible, little more than a speck on the horizon as yet, but he was certainly moving in this direction, coming south. Truscott licked his lips, grimaced uneasily. Waldo mumbled something unintelligible through his gag. In hot fury, Truscott whirled and glared down at him.
“Not one sound out of you!” he breathed. “Not a grunt or a whine! If this stranger hears you, I’ll have to kill him.” He tugged the six-gun from his pocket, brandished it. “And—if I have to kill him—I’ll certainly kill you as well! That’s a promise—do you understand?”
Waldo shrugged and nodded. Truscott restored the Colt to his pocket so that his coat sagged at the right side.
Quickly and roughly, he dragged Waldo around to the far side of the mound.
“Remember,” he warned. “It’s his life—and yours. I’m desperate. I won’t hesitate.”
Sam Beech would have ridden past the rock-mound and well clear of it had he not spotted Truscott’s rented horse. As he drew closer, he noted the well-groomed man standing beside his horse, puffing at a cigar. And, being as gregarious as he was clumsy, Calamity Sam just had to stop by long enough to say ‘howdy’.
Truscott’s cigar seemed to taste of wet rope; he felt a chill in the pit of his belly, as he followed the approach of the lean, shaggy-haired young cowpoke on the neat-stepping pinto. And then, when Sam was less than twenty-five yards away, Truscott’s tension eased. Surely he had nothing to fear from such a simpleton? Sam’s grin was guileless— not to mention slightly vacant. He came on unhurriedly, drew rein beside Truscott’s rented horse and raised a hand in friendly salute.
“Howdy, mister. Kinda hot, huh?”
“Hot? Oh—yes.” Truscott nodded curtly.
“Looks like you found yourself the only patch of shade hereabouts,” Sam observed.
“Just resting my horse,” muttered Truscott.
“Beech is my handle,” offered Sam. “Sam Beech. Used to ride for the Double L. That’s a sizeable spread ’way north of here.”
“My name is Jones ...” It was the first name that came to Truscott’s mind. “George Jones.”
“Right proud to meetcha,” Sam declared.
“Well,” frowned Truscott, “don’t let me detain you.”
“Reckon I oughta be movin’ on.” Sam nodded vehemently. “Gotta find the Box G spread. Got some mighty important news for them Gillerys.” He didn’t notice Truscott’s sudden change of expression because he was staring southward again.
“You’re looking for—uh—for the Box G Ranch?” blinked Truscott.
“Sure enough,” nodded Sam. “Say, maybe you can tell me if I’m headed right. You happen to know that outfit—Box G?”
Truscott’s mind was turning over fast. Did it really matter if this nondescript cowhand arrived at Box G during Holbrook’s kidnapping of the Gillery girl? Viewed from any angle, this Beech fellow didn’t appear formidable—or overly intelligent.
He shrugged and drawled, “I believe you’re headed in the right direction.”
“Well then,” grinned Sam, “I reckon I can spare a couple minutes to rest my prad. Guess I’ll cool my saddle and have me a smoke.”
Any other cowpoke in the entirety of the Arizona Territory would have dismounted from that placid pinto without mishap, but not Sam, not awkward, clumsy, well-meaning Sam. As he swung one long leg up, his spur raked the rump of Truscott’s hired horse—not so deeply as to cause serious injury, or even to draw blood, but enough to sting and startle the animal. It reacted instinctively, and so quickly that Truscott was taken by surprise. It reared, neighing shrilly, and Sam’s pinto decided to do likewise. With one foot already free of stirrup, Sam had no option but to release the other. He went to ground ungracefully, but suffered no more than a jolting of his muscles and a faceful of alkali. Truscott was less fortunate. A flailing hoof sent him reeling backward. His head struck the side of the rock-mound with jarring force. Stars danced in the blackness before his eyes, in the instant before he lost consciousness. He sagged at the knees, flopped and rolled over on his side.
Sam scrambled to his feet, gaping worriedly at the victim of his clumsiness. The horses stamped and snorted. Fearing they might take off for the yonder, he hobbled them. Then, stepping gingerly to where Truscott lay,
he bent over him and said, “’Scuse me. You ain’t hurt bad, are you, Mr. Jones?”
He was disquieted that “Mr. Jones” refrained from answering.
“Ain’t no call to get sore,” he pointed out. “I sure didn’t mean no harm, Mr. Jones. Didn’t mean to spur your cayuse. How’d I know he’d rear up and knock you down?”
He froze, blinking incredulously at the senseless Truscott. A sound had reached his ears—a muffled, frantic grunting. Maybe his ears were playing tricks but, by golly, those sounds weren’t coming from the man slumped before him. Close by, sure, but not from this one. Where was the other? Mystified, he stared to right and left—and the sound was repeated.
It didn’t occur to him to draw his six-gun when he sidled around the mound, and this was typical of him. There might have been a half-dozen gunslinging bandidos lying in wait for him around there; it just wouldn’t have occurred to him until it was too late.
In acute astonishment, he stood staring down at the bound and gagged Waldo, who returned his stare with interest and made urgent noises from behind his tightly knotted bandanna.
“Great day in the mornin’,” he breathed. “What in heck are you doin’ there, boy? All trussed up like a calf ready for brandin’ ...?”
Understandably, Waldo Gillery was as yet unable to offer an explanation. His frantic grunting and groaning continued until it finally occurred to Sam to remove his bandanna. Waldo then gasped an oath and begged him to, “Untie me, for gosh sakes!”
“Be glad to oblige,” frowned Sam and, so deftly that he surprised himself, he unraveled the knots in the rope imprisoning Waldo’s hands. He then went to work on that section of the lariat securing Waldo’s ankles, the while he fired questions. “How’d this all happen, friend? My name’s Sam Beech. Who hog-tied you? Didn’t Mr. Jones know you was here?”
“I’m Waldo Gillery,” panted Waldo, as he sat up and clasped hands to his aching head. “And that other hombre —I bet his name ain’t Jones. He’s part of the bunch that’s raidin’ Box G. We gotta get outa here and ...!”
He made to rise, groaned and flopped back onto his behind. Sam made haste to fetch his whisky bottle and to offer Waldo a stiff slug. Waldo gulped gratefully.
“Feelin’ better?” asked Sam.
“These bandidos,” scowled Waldo. “Four of ’em. Real bad medicine. They talk of raidin’ Box G and maybe kidnappin’ my sister—or even killin’ her. Seems there’s some other hombre got a chance to inherit old Brigg’s dinero, if ...” He broke off, realizing the futility of offering an involved explanation to a stranger. “Help me up, Sam.”
“Glad to oblige, Waldo,” nodded Sam, as he got a grip on Waldo’s arm. “And if you figure to head for Box G, I reckon I’ll ride along with you.”
“Gimme a hand with this lariat,” muttered Waldo. “We’ll hog-tie this galoot and take him along.”
“Yeah—sure,” frowned Sam. They moved around to the other side of the mound and began the chore of securing Truscott’s hands and feet; he was only now returning to consciousness and appeared badly scared. “Sure glad to meet up with you, Waldo. I guess you’d be brother to Archer, huh?”
“You know brother Archer?” blinked Waldo.
“Don’t worry—he’s gonna be fine,” Sam assured him. “He’s laid up at Double L right now. Got a bullet-hole through him and a busted head.”
“What ...?” gasped Waldo.
“He’s gonna be fine,” repeated Sam.
Waldo finished lashing Truscott’s hands behind his back and, with great relish, tightly gagged him with his own cravat. Then, staring hard at his benefactor, he said, “Sam, you sure got a roundabout way of explainin’ things. Where in tarnation did you run into brother Archer? How come he got shot? Talk plain, boy, so I can savvy you.”
And so, while they secured Truscott’s feet, lifted him and draped him across the back of the hired horse, Sam recounted all that had happened since his being banished from Double L. He told it quickly and with many an interruption—the interruptions being Waldo’s bursts of blistering profanity. At the end of it, when he swung up behind Sam on the pinto and took the rein of the hired horse, Waldo sourly asserted, “The sooner we get home, the happier I’ll be. Brother Dewey—he’ll know how to handle them lousy owlhooters. We’ll make ’em regret the day they trespassed on Box G range, I guarantee that.”
“Hey, Waldo,” frowned Sam, “are we apt to ride into a shootin’ fight?”
“That’s what I’m hopin’ for,” growled Waldo.
“Well, doggone it,” protested Sam, “all we got is one gun—my six-shooter.”
“When I get my hands on the skunk that stole my rifle ...” began Waldo. And then, on an afterthought, he tugged on the hired animal’s rein, bringing it up level with the pinto, the better for him to reach over and check Truscott’s pockets. It wasn’t a difficult chore, locating the Colt in Truscott’s sagging coat-pocket. “My own six-gun,” he scowled.
“Well,” shrugged Sam, “if you’re ready to move ...”
“Damn right,” nodded Waldo. “Let’s go.”
At Box G, meanwhile, Jim had concluded a quiet search of Lucy Rose’s bedroom, but without locating any of his personal effects. And the four gunmen were in position, concealing themselves in the cottonwoods atop the rise to the north of the house. The scene was set for the final act of the drama, the last moments of tension, the inevitable showdown.
Ten – No Bride for the Big Man
Pete Holbrook had finished his appraisal of the ranch-house and the buildings adjacent to it—the small shack outside which Dewey Gillery sat with a shotgun across his knees—the barn in which Rick Gillery labored with a pitchfork.
“I don’t see the girl,” he muttered. “Well, no matter. She’s likely in the house.”
“All right, Pete,” grunted Clayburn. “What’s the score?”
“Simple,” grinned Holbrook. “You come when I holler.”
He nudged his mount to movement, putting it to the slope. In a matter of moments, the thudding of hooves was audible to Lucy Rose and her brothers; also to the apprehensive little Mexican hidden in the mesquite and the big man now furtively emerging from Lucy Rose’s bedroom. Rick Gillery came to the barn doorway and sauntered out into the sunlight to follow the approach of the stranger. Dewey maintained his position. Lucy Rose appeared on the porch of the ranch house. At Box G, visitors were something of a novelty.
Inside the house, Jim had discovered that the door of the girl’s room opened into a parlor, as did two other doors. He assumed these opened into the bedrooms shared by the brothers, and this assumption was proved correct after he crossed the parlor and opened another door. This room contained two beds. More importantly, it contained a familiar saddle, bridle, rifle and gunbelt. The grips of the long-barreled Colt protruding from the holster were of pure ivory. He would have known that six-shooter anywhere. Along with the rifle, it had been presented to him as a farewell token of esteem by his old sidekicks of the 11th Cavalry. He strapped the belt about his loins, emptied the holster and was checking the loading cylinder of the .45, when Holbrook dawdled his mount into the front yard, reined up and nodded to the Gillerys.
“’Mornin’, ma’am—gents.” He shoved his Stetson back off his brow, hooked a leg over his saddlehorn. “Sure glad to find a well hereabouts. My canteen’s near empty and my horse needs a drink real bad. Ran into your brother back there …” He gestured. “Young feller huntin’ cottontail ...?”
“Waldo had any luck?” enquired Rick.
“Downed one before I run into him,” drawled Holbrook. “He invited me to stop by and water my horse. That okay by you?”
“Cool your saddle and help yourself,” invited Dewey.
“Sure obliged to you,” Holbrook acknowledged. He dismounted, led his horse to the pump. Ignoring her brothers’ complaints of her tardiness, Lucy Rose remained on the porch, subjecting the stranger to a none-too-approving scrutiny. Rick lounged in the barn entrance. At the pump, Holbrook pr
etended to be in difficulties. “Can’t seem to get the hang of this handle ...” he complained.
And, inevitably, one of the brothers jumped to the bait. Rick grimaced impatiently and came striding toward him, saying, “I’ll show you how. Hell —there ain’t nothin’ to workin’ a pump-handle.”
Holbrook waited until Rick was standing beside him. When he made his move, it was so fast, so unexpected that Dewey and his sister were momentarily frozen. He took one step to his right, positioning himself directly behind Rick. His left arm crooked around Rick’s neck, almost choking him. His right hand whisked his Colt clear of leather. In the twinkling of an eye, the weapon was cocked and the muzzle pressing against Rick’s head.
“Throw that scattergun clear!” he called to Dewey. “Then stand real still.” As the girl made to retreat into the house, “Stay right where you are, lady! You budge before I tell you to and so help me I’ll blow this hombre’s head off!”
Dewey spent a moment of anguished indecision before he lowered the hammers of his shotgun and hurled the weapon away to his left. He stood mute, his eyes wild with anger. Holbrook threw a sidelong glance at the girl, as he raised his voice to summon his cronies. At full pitch, his cry travelled clear to the trio atop the rise.
“C’mon in, boys!”
Dewey finally found his voice.
“What’d you do with my brother?” he demanded.
“Which one?” enquired Holbrook, baring his teeth in a derisive grin. “The jackrabbit-hunter—or the one you sent to Byrne City?”
“Brother Archer ...!” groaned Lucy Rose. Ashen-faced, she leaned against a porch-post and watched the other desperadoes ride into the yard. They were led by the leering Billy Joe Hale. That youthful, braggart gunhawk eyed her avidly, and the expression on his face was an insult. Clayburn ignored her, as he hustled his mount toward the pump. Weems dismounted near the porch, stared eagerly toward the harness-shack and called a query to Billy Joe.
“That’s it? That’s where they’re holdin’ the bridegroom?”
“That’s where,” nodded Billy Joe. “I saw the girl deliver his breakfast.” Again he ogled Lucy Rose. “Beats me why they’d have to keep him locked up. If it was me. I’d need no persuadin’—and that’s a fact.”
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