Wanted: Dead or Alive

by Ray Hogan

  “Keep bearin’ right! He’s headin’ that way!”

  Jordan grinned and began to curve the sorrel to the left. The brush was dragging at him, tearing at his legs but it was screening his flight effectively. He pressed on, letting the gelding have his head and pick his own way. Through the trees he began to see open ground, realizing they were coming into the open again. He angled the big horse more sharply to the left, and was now riding in the exact opposite direction to that he had taken at the beginning. He listened for sounds of Crawford and the others, but could hear nothing. Evidently they were hanging to the course they had chosen at the start and still believed him to be somewhere ahead.

  He broke out onto cleared ground suddenly and saw that he was on the lane that fronted the Woodward house. He pulled the sorrel to a stop and looked about. He was several hundred yards below the house—and below the point where he had last seen the woman. He cut around, sent the gelding up the lane at a trot, his glance searching through the brush for some signs of her. When he came to a fork where a second lane angled off, he halted again. He dropped from the saddle and made a close inspection of the loose dust. The narrow, pointed toe imprints of a woman’s foot were unmistakable. Jordan went back onto the gelding and headed him down the side lane. He held the horse to a quiet walk. Olivia Woodward could not have gotten far.

  He had no difficulty in following her. Every few yards the print of her small foot was visible, and he knew he had only to use care to catch up eventually with her. Just what it would mean when he did, he had no idea, but that it all tied in with Sharpe and the money, he was certain. Stolen money—and he had aided an outlaw in the furtherance of his crime. That he was an innocent party in the scheme was beside the point; the law would make no allowances for his actions unless, of course, he could recover the money and hand it over to the authorities. Only then might they be inclined to listen. The money—$20,000 in gold coin and currency—where was it? He had last seen it when Al Sharpe, the deputy, had taken it from him, stating that he would take it to Olivia Woodward. The delivery had never been made, and now, here he was, Jordan thought, blindly following the woman for no good reason other than on a hunch that she was more involved than she purported to be, and would lead him to it. If the hunch didn’t pan out …? Jordan brushed the possibility from his mind. He would ford that creek when he came to it.

  The area was becoming more overgrown, the lane less clearly cut. They were somewhere east of the settlement, he reckoned, in a section that was seldom visited by the residents. A few moments later he caught the first glimpse of Olivia. She was still walking fast, the coat in one hand, the small bag in the other. Jordan halted, allowed her to get well ahead again. He did not want her looking over her shoulder and seeing him on her trail. But she seemed in much too great a hurry for that. She was bent on reaching some particular place—or meeting some person, as quickly as possible.

  Ben thought he heard sounds of Crawford and his men shortly after that and he continued to wait and listen in the warm hush. The noise came from the direction where he had last seen the five riders and he wondered if they had discovered their error and had turned back and were now combing through the brush for him. In all likelihood this was the case. The trees and rocks ended a short distance to the south, just as they had to the east. The grove had appeared to be a sort of oasis in the center of which Langford had sprung up. He heard nothing more and put the sorrel into motion once again. He covered a hundred yards, rounded a sharp turn in the lane—and found it empty for a considerable distance. Olivia Woodward had disappeared.

  He glanced around hurriedly. She could have done nothing other than turn off. In that next moment he saw her again, a brief flash of color through the trees to his left. She was walking up a narrow path toward a cabin that was set deep in the tangled brush. As Ben watched, she reached the door, lifted the latch, and without hesitation entered. Jordan wheeled off the lane and quietly made his way to a point fifty yards or so from the weathered shack. Tying the sorrel securely to a clump of juniper, he worked in on the rear of the structure. There was but one small window, low off the ground. He dropped to his hands and knees, crept to the opening. Voices, laughter, and conversation reached him. Removing his hat, he raised himself carefully, quietly to where he could look in. The first face he saw was that of Al Sharpe.

  XV

  Sharpe said: “Always figured I’d make a dang’ good lawman! Got that square look.”

  Everyone laughed. Jordan’s body tensed. Sharpe was no deputy—he was an outlaw, too. And so were Tubo Frick and Barney Rosen. He had been wrong all the way. He shifted to where he had a better view of the cabin’s interior. Olivia Woodward sat on the edge of a cot upon which the saddlebags had been laid. The pouches were open and the money was partially visible. Sharpe leaned against a crudely built table, a bottle in his hand. Squatted on their heels, backs pressed against a wall, were Rosen and Frick.

  “Well, you sure was right,” Frick said, fumbling with his cigarette makings. “You kept sayin’ if we watched that road long enough, old Walt’d show up. He didn’t, but the money sure did.”

  Sharpe nodded, took a drink from the bottle, and handed it to Rosen. “When I saw him line out that night after we robbed the bank, I knew he was bad hit. I aimed to follow and then some of that damned posse got on my tail, and I lost him. Didn’t worry me none, however. I figured he’d come wagging back to Olivia sooner or later. Or, if he couldn’t make it, he’d be sucker enough to send the money to her somehow.”

  Olivia Woodward turned to Sharpe. “That’s why you’ve been playing the good family friend so much here lately. You were keeping an eye on me.”

  “Man looks after his own interests,” Sharpe said.

  She nodded. “I still come in for my share …Walt’s share, don’t I, Al?”

  Sharpe grinned. “I got a better idea. Two shares make one big one. Why don’t you and me tie up? Won’t have to be worrying about Walt now. Could have ourselves quite a time with ten thousand dollars.”

  Olivia Woodward shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  Sharpe studied her for several moments. “Never could figure what you seen in Walt. He sure wasn’t your kind.”

  “He was good to me,” the woman said tiredly. “And he usually had some money.”

  “We’ll have plenty of that from now on,” Sharpe said. “And when this runs out, the boys and me’ll find us another hick town bank to bust open.”

  The woman looked down. “And you’ll die out in the brush somewhere, just like Walt did, someday. I had a feeling the night you came over to the house and planned it all out … a feeling that something bad was going to happen …”

  “None of that now!” Sharpe broke in. “You’re sounding like a wife already and I won’t have it.”

  Olivia moved her shoulders in a faint gesture of resignation. She extended her hand to Rosen for the whiskey bottle. She took a swallow, shuddered, passed it on to Tubo Frick. “I’ll never learn to like that stuff,” she murmured. “When do we leave, Al?”

  “Soon as it’s dark.”

  “I don’t think we ought to wait that long.”

  “Why not? We sure don’t want nobody seeing us leaving the country.”

  “That cowboy, Jordan, that brought the money. He was pretty upset when he found out you hadn’t given it to me. I think I smoothed it over but he still might go to the marshal, and start asking questions.”

  “Let him,” Sharpe said. “And if he comes around again, tell him you’ve got it … the money your loving husband sent you for selling his ranch.” Sharpe began to laugh, unable to continue. Frick and Rosen joined in but Olivia Woodward only smiled. “Old Walt sure must’ve given him a yarn. And making him promise to tote all that money to his poor little wife, come hell or high water. Lord, what a sucker.”

  Ben Jordan felt his face begin to burn. He had been a sucker, a greenhorn from the word go. Woodward ha
d really taken him in.

  “He’s an honest man,” Olivia said in a quiet voice. “Something we’ve all forgot how to be.”

  “No difference,” Rosen observed dryly. “A sucker and an honest man is the same thing.”

  “Maybe Walt wasn’t playing him for a sucker so much as he was interested in getting the money to us, so I could have his share,” the woman said. “I’d like to think that’s the way it was. And it could be.”

  “Sure, sure,” Sharpe said impatiently. “But Walt’s dead, gone, buried. He done us a favor, getting the cash to us after he got shot up and knew he wasn’t going to make it. That’s fine, but forget about it and him. Does no good to keep hashing over the dead.”

  “I’m for that,” Rosen said, wagging his head. “Gives a man the creeps.”

  Sharpe reached down, picked up a packet of the currency. He rifled the edges thoughtfully. “Maybe you ought to go back to your house,” he said, settling his attention on the woman. “Just in case that greenhorn does take Bardett over to see you. We’ll swing by when it’s time and pick you up.”

  Distrust was frank on Olivia Woodward’s features. “No, I’ll stay here. I think we ought to leave now, but if you don’t, all right, we’ll wait.”

  Sharpe laughed. “Afraid we might forget to come by?”

  Olivia said, “Yes,” in a bold, candid way.

  Sharpe roared with laughter. “That’s right, girl. Don’t trust nobody. Look out for yourself.”

  “What we goin’ to do about eatin’?” Frick asked. “Barney ain’t got nothin’ here in his shack. You reckon it’s safe for one of us to go into town?”

  “No,” Sharpe answered. “Might run into that Jordan. He’s still waiting for me to tell him he can pull out.”

  “How about Ollie then? Nobody’d pay any mind to her.”

  “I’m not leaving here,” the woman said stubbornly. “If you want some food, one of you run over to my place and help yourself. You’re not likely to bump into that cowboy there. He wasn’t coming back until dark.”

  “Coming to your house?” Sharpe asked.

  “For supper. Wanted me to sign some papers giving him Walt’s horse.”

  “A horse,” Frick said. “We’ll be needin’ one for Ollie. Where’ll we get one?”

  Sharpe thought for a moment. “Guess I should have grabbed Walt’s sorrel when I had the chance. You know people around here, Barney. Where can we get a nag for her?”

  “Rancher about ten miles east of here. Reckon we can get one from him.”

  “Settles that. Ollie can ride double with me until we get there. We’ll figure to eat and get ourselves some grub from that rancher, too.”

  Ben pulled back from the window, crouched low in the brush. He had all the answers now, but the problem that faced him was how to recover the money and capture the outlaws. Once accomplished he could turn them and the saddlebags over to Marshal Bardett—or to Bart Crawford—it didn’t matter to whom. He considered the advisability of moving in on the men, but the odds were too long. It would be his one gun against three desperate outlaws, plus possibly Olivia Woodward, who showed every sign of being as coolly efficient as they were. And the arrangement of the cabin would double his problem. After a moment he discarded the idea. He could not afford to make a mistake now; already he had allowed himself to be made a fool. This time he must be sure.

  Bardett—the town marshal. There was the solution. Sharpe and the others planned to stay in the shack until dark. There would be plenty of time to ride to Langford, locate the lawman, recruit a posse, and return. But why go that far? Why not call on Bart Crawford and his deputies? To allow him and his men to make the capture would undoubtedly ease some of the hard feeling that existed between the lawmen and himself. And they were somewhere close by.

  On his hands and knees Ben started back for the gelding. He could hear Al Sharpe off on another tale of some sort, one that was providing much laughter for Tubo Frick and Barney Rosen. He could not hear Olivia Woodward’s voice. Apparently she was not finding Al Sharpe’s words amusing. That the widow had little use for the companions of her late husband was evident, but it was also clear that she was determined to have her share of the stolen money. Still low, Jordan reached the stand of thick growth where he had hidden the sorrel. He was on the verge of rising when Bart Crawford’s voice, in a hoarse whisper and coming from only a few steps ahead, halted him. “His horse, all right. Means he’s around close. Now, I want him … any way you can get him … dead or alive.”

  XVI

  Bart Crawford’s grim words hammered at Jordan’s brain—dead or alive! They were giving him no chance at all, no opportunity to prove his innocence. Crawford had determined only that the chase would end here. The corners of Ben Jordan’s mouth hardened, a whiteness began to show along the edge of his jaw as anger swept through him. Dead or alive—he would have something to say about that. Sure, he had let both Walt Woodward and Al Sharpe make a fool of him, but now he was in a position to rectify his mistakes. And whether Crawford and his men liked it or not, they were going to help him do it.

  He raised himself cautiously. Crawford was off his horse, stood only a few paces away. He was facing the opposite way, having his close look at the sorrel’s gear, apparently hopeful of finding the stolen money hidden about the saddle. Beyond him, still mounted, were Aaron, Gates, Davis, and Oran Bishop. Jordan drew his pistol. He would have to move fast. The instant he stepped from the brush he would reveal himself to the four riders. Everything depended on his reaching Crawford, jamming his gun into the man’s back, and forcing the others to hold their fire.

  “What about that cabin over yonder?” Gates said. “Could be he’s holed up in there.”

  “And leave his horse standing out here like this?” Crawford answered, his tone derisive. “No, he won’t be doing that. Place don’t look much like anybody’s been near it for years.”

  “Still figure we ought to look.”

  Ben Jordan, like a dark, shifting shadow, moved from the depths of the brush suddenly. In three strides he was crowding in behind Crawford and had his revolver digging into the man’s spine.

  “Hey … look out!” Gates exclaimed, startled. His hand swept downward for the weapon at his hip.

  The others stared and then came to life. Jordan’s sharp words froze them on their saddles.

  “Don’t try anything … not unless you want me to blow his guts out!” Crawford, swearing in a deep angry voice, slowly raised his hands. Ben reached forward, pulled the lawman’s weapon from its holster, and thrust it into his own belt. “Keep looking in that direction,” he ordered. “I’ve got some talking to do.”

  Crawford only grunted. Oran Bishop, his face red, his eyes snapping, said: “You damned owlhoot! Knew there was something wrong the moment you rode into Ashburn’s. You ought to be right pleased with yourself, fooling that old man like you did.”

  “I didn’t try to fool him.”

  “Hell you didn’t! And if I could have found those saddlebags you were so proud of, I …”

  Then it had been Bishop who searched his quarters. And Colby would have been the rider in the hills who kept watch. “You don’t know what it’s all about, Oran. Just shut up and listen,” Jordan snapped.

  “You’ve got nothing to say I want to hear.”

  “You’ll hear it anyway … and I’m warning you all once more … make a wrong move and Crawford’s a dead man. That clear?”

  There was a long moment of silence, and then Crawford said: “Come on, come on, get it over with. What’s on your mind?”

  “Just this,” Ben said, “I never stole that money.”

  Crawford laughed, a low, forced chuckle. “Don’t give me that. I seen you, watched you ride off on that sorrel. All of us did, except Bishop there.”

  “Wasn’t me you saw. That horse and the jacket I’m wearing belonged to a man named
Woodward. Found him in a shack, dying.”

  “And now you’re telling me he handed over a pair of saddlebags loaded with twenty thousand dollars of the bank’s money …?”

  “He did, but he didn’t say it was hold-up money. Claimed he got it from selling some property.”

  “And was on his way home when some outlaws, meaning us, jumped him. That it?”

  “Just what he said. He was shot up pretty bad. Made me promise to deliver the money to his wife here in Langford, personally. That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

  “How’s it happen you’re forking his horse and wearing his brush jacket?” Cleve Aaron asked skeptically.

  “Lost mine in a storm. Horse went over a cliff in the Mogollon Mountains with all I owned tied on the saddle. I was afoot when I ran into Woodward.”

  Again there was silence. Oran Bishop spoke first. “You expect us to swallow a yarn like that?”

  Jordan swore impatiently. “I don’t give a damn what you think … it’s the truth. And if I thought it was important enough, I could take you back to where my buckskin is laying dead, halfway down a cañon slope. I can show you where I buried Woodward. But it’s not important.”

  “What’s important,” Crawford broke in, “is the money. Where is it?”

  “I haven’t got it.”

  “Haven’t got it!” Gates echoed. “What in the hell did you do …?”

  “I was on my way to hand it over to Woodward’s widow, like I promised. Three men stopped me at the edge of town. They’d been watching for Woodward, and when they saw his horse, they figured something was wrong. Anyway they stopped me. One of them flashed a deputy marshal badge and said he was the law. He took the money, said he would turn it over to Missus Woodward.”

  “Did he?” Crawford asked in a low, tight voice.