Charlie’s gun exploded and a bullet fanned Zeb’s ear, and then he saw Floyd was coming up with a gun. Cad Pickett jerked free, bringing his gun down, and Zeb shot, smashing a bullet into the outlaw who was immediately behind Floyd, and Floyd fired, plunging to his feet as he did so. Zeb shot, then turned his gun and threw a quick shot at Charlie, who jumped back. Everything happened in a matter of split seconds, but Zeb would never forget the look on Charlie as that gun flared in his face. Zeb felt the blow of a bullet, and then Floyd was on his feet and firing at him. They were scarcely ten feet apart when Zeb fired and the two heavy .44 slugs knocked Floyd back. Zeb had put two bullets right through his heart at point-blank range. He put a third shot into Floyd’s skull, and then dropped the muzzle of his gun on Cad.
Pickett screamed, No! No! and Zeb wheeled to fire again at Charlie.
But Charlie Gant was gone-the side door stood open.
It ended like that. He had taken Pickett in, wounded, but glad to be alive. Floyd was dead and, outlaw though the man was, Zeb Rawlings regretted the killing, knowing that Charlie had trapped his brother into a gun battle he had never wanted.
Charlie Gant was seen no more in the Territory, and there had been that rumor that he had gone to Montana-but that had been several years ago. Like it or not, Zeb Rawlings knew that he was tied to Charlie Gant as long as both of them lived, tied by the hatred and the frustration that was in Charlie. And now Charlie was back, and Zeb Rawlings was taking his family to a lonely ranch, where he himself would for a time at least be the only hand. He could expect Charlie to know that.
Chapter 22
Zeb Rawlings looked across the table at Julie, then at Lilith. I want an end to it, Lil. I don’t want my boys growing up with that hanging over their heads. There’s something driving Charlie Gant that won’t rest. What about you? Julie demanded. What of you, Zeb Rawlings? He’s leaving you alone now, he’s left town. We can leave in a matter of minutes, but you won’t go.
I have something to do first, he said quietly. I’ve got to do it, Julie. There’s been times … the times you’ve hunted someone, gone for weeks, even months. Or the times you were hurt … like that summer you were left for dead up on Yellow Ridge. And you would have died if someone hadn’t come along. I never complained, Zeb. I didn’t say anything. It was your job, and you knew how to do it better than anything. But not this-this isn’t your town. Julie …
No one’s asked you to face Gant. It isn’t your job to hunt him down. We could leave right now, but you won’t.
We could forget all this, Zeb. We could leave it all behind. We could go down to that ranch where the boys could grow up, free and clear of all this. The times are changing. Look down the street, you’ll see only a few men wear guns any more, where eight out of ten used to. Lou Ramsey knows. Think, Zeb. Is it so important that you go after Gant? Is it?
Yes.
Why? Because it’s an old score you’ve never settled? Because he shot you once?
Because you think you’re leaving something unfinished? Is it your pride, Zeb?
I’m sorry, Julie.
Zeb! What is it? I’m your wife! I’m Julie, remember? What about the time after we were married in Salt Lake when you worked on the Comstock? Remember the fire at the Yellow Jack and Crown Point when you worked for hours helping with the rescue? Wasn’t I there? Was I anywhere but at the collar of the shaft, making coffee, ready with blankets when you came out of that hole? … Zeb? What is it?
It’s Charlie Gant. I made the boys promise not to tell you. He said he would hunt us down, wherever we were … he hinted he’d strike at me through you, maybe through the boys. He said he’d find us … I can’t leave that hanging, Julie. I could never ride away from the ranch thinking he might come while I’m gone. He’s a coward, Julie, and being a coward he would strike at me any way he could … but he could only get at me through you. I think I know what he’s planning, and if I do, I’ll be doing the law a service.
Turning on his heel, he walked away from them and went out of the door. I guess there’s nothing more pig-headed than a man with a sense of honor, Lilith said. Cleve was the same way.
She put her hand over Julie’s. But you know as well as I do that this time he’s right; and believe me, it’s better this way.
A buckboard rattled by in the streets, trace chains jingling.
At least, Lilith said, you won’t be waiting alone.
Linus came in suddenly. Where’d pa go?
Out … he had some business to attend to.
Is something wrong? Prescott looked at his mother. Is it that Charlie Gant?
Pa’s not afraid of him!
You can be sure of that, Lilith said. Do you boys know any games?
You mean like tag? Linus asked.
Or musical chairs? Prescott suggested.
I mean like poker, Lilith said.
Poker?
Let’s go up to the room. Seems to me I’ve a deck of cards.
But we never … ma wouldn’t let us play cards. Part of your education, Lilith said brusquely. A man’s a fool to gamble, take that from me, who was married to a gambler. But you’d best know how, because there might come a time.
Why, later on I’ll even show you how the ones gamble who don’t plan to gamble-I mean the ones that want to take the gamble out of cards and make it a sure thing. Cleve was a straight gambler, but he had to know how that was done so he wouldn’t be cheated. I think there’s nothing to cure a person of wanting to gamble like knowing how many ways you can be cheated. Now, you just sit down and let your Aunt Lilith show you something about sleeve hold-outs, bugs, slick aces, shiners, readers, and second deals. First thing to learn is percentages. Ninty-nine men out of a hundred, Linus, who play cards or shoot craps all their lives never know the correct odds. That’s what gives an honest gambler an edge. If he knows the correct chances of filling a hand or making a point, he’s got something going for him. Aunt Lilith, Julie protested, do you think you should? I surely do. Now you hush up, Julie, and let an old lady-my heavens, did I say that?-have her way for once.
Most things in life are a gamble. Take mining … we made several fortunes out of mining, and put at least two of them right back in the ground trying to get more.
Did I ever tell you where we got the last one? It was out of the first claim we ever had … left to me by a man I used to talk to once in a while, cheered him up, sort of. Well, he left me this claim, and Cleve and I went out there and found it all worked out, so we left it. Years later, when we were broke, Cleve got to thinking about it, and he remembered a formation out there that was just like it was in one of the best mines on the Comstock. When we first got that claim everybody was looking for gold-gold was all they could think of, and there on the Comstock this black stuff kept getting in the way. Finally, a man investigated and found out that black stuff they had been cussing and throwing out was silver!
Well, Cleve remembered that rock formation and he remembered there had been black stuff on that dump, so we went back. Spent our last on beans and salt pork and a little bit of flour.
We worked it ourselves, worked to get enough ore out to ship. Cleve, he went back there and started digging out where he saw that formation, and he found a little powder left over from the old working, and used that. He used to throw the ore in the wheelbarrow and I’d wheel it out. I’d wheel fifty or sixty a day, and do what cooking and washing there was to … but we got out a good many tons of it and shipped it out. Sure enough, it was silver, and we’d made a big strike!
Now, Linus, you look here. You hold the cards like this for a bottom deal, and you keep the top card out a bit over the edge of the pack, drawing it back as you take off the bottom card.
One thing you’ve got to remember. A clever gambler never does anything fancy with a deck-that’s for show-offs. It even helps to seem a little clumsy, like this …
Zeb Rawlings walked down the wide space between the two rows of stalls in the livery barn. His wagon, loaded with household g
ear, had been left in front of one of the stalls. Going to it, he lifted the lid on a long, narrow box tied to the side of the wagon, and from it he took his rifle scabbard. He drew the Winchester from the scabbard and began feeding shells into the magazine. Lou Ramsey came in the door behind him, and Zeb glanced around. I’ll take that rifle, Zeb, Ramsey said.
Zeb looked at him, but made no move to hand over the rifle; he simply slipped another cartridge into the magazine.
Your pistol, too.
Sony, Lou, but I can’t oblige.
Lou Ramsey pushed his coat back and placed his hand on the butt of his gun. With his other hand he reached toward Zeb.
Zeb indicated the hand on the pistol. Thought you didn’t use that any more.
I’ll use it if I have to. I’d rather you didn’t make me use it. Lou, Zeb said quietly, I’m going out of here, and I’m taking this rifle with me.
To kill Gant.
Maybe … and maybe I’ll get killed. That’s your idea of this, isn’t it, Lou? That it’s him or me, a personal thing. Well, it could become that. If I settled down with my family and he came hunting me … and he will come-he as much as told me so.
Unless I can stop him now, stop him red-handed in the process of breaking the law. Then it will be up to the law to put him away for good. The law, Lou. But I haven’t much chance without your help.
Lou drew his gun slowly. Your rifle first. Just as he seemed about to hand it over, Zeb swung the rifle barrel with a quick gesture. It caught Lou on the side of the skull and he dropped as if shot.
Quickly, Zeb turned and went out of the stable. The train was whistling for the station, and he wasted no time. He knew what he had to do, and he knew just how difficult it would be to do alone. He bought his ticket and boarded the train as soon as it stopped. Hurriedly he found a seat and sank into it, putting a newspaper over his face, as if asleep. If Lou came to soon enough he would stop him, and this time he could not evade him, nor would he resist him again. He thought too much of Lou, and understood his problems too well.
He waited, his mouth dry, listening to every sound within the car and on the platform outside. Every hurried step, every surreptitious movement made him positive that he had been discovered and that the next instant the paper would be pulled from his face.
Suddenly the cars jerked, the train chugged and spat steam, and the big drivers began to turn slowly. He heard running feet upon the platform and somebody swung onto the train. Zeb remained where he was, his face covered. The wheels began to move faster; the train chug-chugged ahead, then picked up speed, the whistle blowing.
Not until the tram was rolling fast did Zeb remove the newspaper and look around, searching for Ramsey, or for any of the men who rode with Charlie Gant. For an hour at least the train would be crossing a wide plain, with only occasional cuts through the hills, and no place where it would slow up or where thieves would be likely to bring it to a stop.
Zeb took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. This was the one luxury he allowed himself. He sat back in the seat and thought of the railroad that lay ahead. He had been over every foot of it, and one by one he checked off the possibilities.
Yet in the last analysis it mattered very litte where they stopped the train. It would be a showdown there, regardless. However, it would, more than likely, be in the mountains.
The train, as usual, consisted of a locomotive and tender, a baggage-express car, one passenger coach, two flatcars, and a caboose. One flatcar was loaded with freshly cut logs, the other with rolls of barbed wire. On the car with the barbed wire was a donkey engine.
The conductor came along to take his ticket and Zeb looked up at him. How many men back in that caboose?
Just one. The brakeman.
Is he armed?
No reason to be.
The conductor glanced down at the badge on Zeb’s vest. You expecting trouble?
Zeb Rawlings sat up. Yes, I am. You know what you’re carrying?
Of course.
Well, too many others know, too.
I don’t want my passengers hurt.
Neither do I, and there’s no protection for them in this car.
Behind the seats? the conductor suggested.
Zeb looked his disgust. Easy to see you’ve never been shot at by a forty-four. A pistol bullet would go through the backs of four or five of those seats before it stopped. Maybe more.
He got to his feet and walked slowly through the car, glancing at each man to see if he recognized any of them. Of course, Gant might be working with men Zeb had never seen, as well as with those who had appeared at the station with him. Any one of the men on board might be one of the outlaws. Taking his rifle, he went to the front end of the car and then stepped over to the express car. The door was not locked, and he went in, to face a six-shooter held in the capable hand of Marshal Lou Ramsey. There was a bandage around his head. Zeb saw Stover, Clay and Sims behind him. I’m sorry, Lou.
Well, Ramsey replied irritably, it got me here, didn’t it?
Chapter 23
Charlie Gant walked back to the horses, inspecting the hoofs of each one in turn. They were excellent horses, chosen carefully for speed and bottom, but principally for speed. The first dash in their escape would be important, for the more distance they could put between themselves and the actual crime, the better.
He had planned every detail of the holdup with infinite care, and the horses had been tested at doing what they must do. First a three-mile dash at top speed, then a half-mile at a trot, a half-mile at a walk, and then a short dash. The space for the walk was through a patch of woods and they would make separate trails, all within sight of each other, then a dash across the intervening stretch into another patch of woods.
An hour after the start of their escape they would come up to the other horses. The saddles they rode during that first part were all stolen ones, and would be abandoned with the stolen horses. Mounted on other horses, they would enter a creek and ride for slightly more than a mile. The creek had a sandy bottom, and there were no obstructions about which to worry. This course would cause the pursuit to lose time in finding the point at which they emerged, and when they did emerge it would be in a sandy wash where they left only indentations in the sand but no tracks that could be defined. They would leave the wash at separate points to further confuse their trail. After three hours they would change horses again, this time taking time to switch saddles. By noon of the day following the holdup they would be eating at a ranch over a hundred miles from the scene of the crime, and in another state, where friends were prepared to swear they had never left the area. Over much of the distance they would travel there were few water holes-some of them known only to Gant and to a few Indians long since dead. Without knowledge of those water holes any pursuit must fail. At one point, where there were no water holes for some distance, he had made an emergency cache of water to tide them over. The plan was fool-proof.
Now, seated near the tracks, Gant took them over the route once more to be sure each man understood. The plan was to stick together; but if they could not, if one man was cut off, he was to choose an alternative hide-out equally as well hidden.
Each of the five men he had selected for the holdup was a man wanted for a killing.
If shooting starts, he instructed them now, shoot to kill. If any man’s mask slips, everyone within seeing range is to be killed. What about that guard?
His name is Clay, and he will be alone in the car. The end of the car next to the passenger car will have the door locked, but that next the tender will also be barred. The bar bracket on the end toward the passenger car has been broken and was not repaired. A bullet will smash the lock on the door and allow us to enter.
Remember, now, when we reach the river we will make our crossing below Pyramid Canyon; and once on the other side we will cut the ferryboat adrift and let it go on down the river. But I believe we will have lost any pursuit long before that time.
Sounds too good to be true, Jenks
said admiringly. I never did know a job planned so thorough.
You ride with me, Gant replied shortly, and they will all be planned that way.
He walked out of the tiny hollow in which they waited, to look again at the track. The barricade of logs and boulders would force the train to stop, and they could board easily.
Again he went over every step in his mind, trying to find a loophole he might have overlooked. There was none.
Jenks, Indian Charlie, Gyp Wells, and Ike Fillmore had all worked with him before. Only Lund was a new man, but he had more experience than any of the others. There was nothing to worry about there. So, then-why was he worried? Zeb Rawlings.
The man was bad luck, the worst kind of bad luck; for every time their paths crossed, things turned sour. If for no other reason than that Rawlings was becoming an obsession, he must be killed.
But first his wife and children. Rawlings must see them die, knowing he could do nothing about it. Thoughtfully, Gant considered the men with him. Only Lund and Indian Charlie would be apt to go along with him on that. He spat bitterly. It angered him to think of how shocked he had been at the station when he had turned and seen Zeb Rawlings. He had had no idea Rawlings was even in Arizona, for after the fight at Boggy Depot Gant had left Indian Territory and gone north, and for several months he had lived quietly, holding down a railroad job in Dakota.
Gant had been in Jimtown, a small place on the Northern Pacific, when Lund came to him with the story of the gold shipments. Jenks was waiting for him in Deadwood, and they had picked up Fillmore in Cheyenne on the way south. Carefully, they had avoided all their old haunts, coming into Arizona from California, after arranging the rendezvous at a small ranch owned by the Indian. Nobody had seen them, nobody knew who they were; and then they had to run into Rawlings, of all people.
Gant lifted his eyes from the barricade and studied the bleak desert mountains opposite. It was through those mountains they would soon be riding, for half a mile down the tracks they would cross over and head into the hills. Rawlings! Gant would never forget that day at Boggy Depot when Rawlings had stood there so calmly, shooting as if on a target range. Gant would have sworn that nobody-nobody at all-could outshoot his brother. Not Hardin, Hickok, Allison, or any of them.
How the West Was Won (1963) Page 25
