Justice at Red River

by John Glasby

  ‘His business in Benton, maybe?’ inquired Clay tonelessly. There was something in his voice which implied more than a casual interest.

  ‘Maybe.’ Foran stiffened. ‘But when I give him orders, he carries them out. I expect that loyalty from every man on my payroll, no matter what his own opinions might be or whether he had some personal interest in the matter.’

  ‘Meanin’ what?’

  ‘Just that while you’ve been here I’ve had the feelin’ that there’s something on your minds concernin’ Frank Condor. Whatever it is — forget it! He’s my problem and I’ll get rid of him in any way I think fit.’

  ‘And you’ve sent Frisco into town to eliminate that particular problem.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  The other scratched his chin. There was a belligerent note to his harsh voice as he said: ‘I always figured you brought us here to do that particular chore for you. Seems I was mistaken.’

  ‘You got any grouse with Condor?’

  The other said nothing for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Reckon you might as well know it. Me and my brother were teamed up with a hombre named Condor coupla years ago, down Texas way. This kid was Frank Condor’s brother, turned back. He reckoned that with him alongside us, we could figure the marshal out of any deals we made. Weren’t likely he’d make a play for his own brother.’

  ‘And — ?’ prompted Foran interestedly as the other paused to light a quirly.

  Macey blew smoke into the air. He spoke through it thinly, with a voice edged by anger. ‘Guess we had him figured all wrong. We’d stuck up this bank in town. No trouble at all. Just as we were pullin’ out, the marshal appears on the scene, called on us to throw down our guns. Young Condor wasn’t havin’ any, pulled on his brother. It was a damnfool thing to do anyway. Frank Condor shot him down like he was any other outlaw. We only managed to escape by the skin of our teeth. Young Condor had the money in his saddlebags, so we lost it all.’

  ‘So that’s why Condor lit out of Texas and headed this way, why he put his guns away,’ mused Foran speculatively. He furrowed his brow. A lot of things were making sense now, things which he had not previously understood about the tall lawman.

  ‘And that’s why we want him. When he dies, I want him to know we did it — and why. That’s why I don’t cotton on to this idea of yours sendin’ Frisco after him.’

  ‘All right, so it’s done now. Maybe if you’d spoken up sooner about this, things could’ve been different. Far as I’m concerned, so long as he’s dead, it doesn’t matter who kills him; so long as they get him out of my hair. He’s been talkin’ to the other ranchers hereabouts, stirrin’ ’em up. Could mean trouble for me if he gets his way.’

  Macey dragged deeply on his smoke. ‘You skeert of them?’ Naked sarcasm edged his tone.

  ‘Not scared. But I don’t want to lose more men than I need. If I could pick ’em off one at a time, there’d be no trouble.’

  ‘Then why not hit ’em now, before they’re ready? No sense in givin’ them time to prepare. Let me have a dozen men and I’ll take ’em all for you.’

  Foran pondered that for a moment. In the heat of all that had happened over the last few days, it was a possibility which he had overlooked. Certainly it made sense. Finally, he nodded. ‘All right. Start tonight. I suggest you ride out to the Lazy L ranch, run by a fella named Credin. It borders this spread to the north on a bend of the Red.’

  ‘This fella Credin may object,’ grinned Macey evilly. ‘Kinda hope that he does. Things have been pretty tame around here since we arrived in spite of the excitement you promised us.’

  ‘They’re liable to hot up soon,’ Foran promised. ‘Maybe sooner than you think. Credin isn’t a pushover by any means and he’ll have been alerted by Condor.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ Macey nodded. He gave a smothered laugh, turned on his heel and walked insolently back to the bunkhouse. Foran watched him go with a slight shiver. He was used to having killers around him, had been forced to rely on their help to get where he was and he thought he knew every type. But these two men were different from any others he had ever known. Soulless, utterly ruthless, caring less than nothing for human life. He figured he could forget about Credin and his crew after that night.

  *

  There was a low moon swinging above the Red River as Flint and Clay Macey rode out of the Double Circle ranch at the head of a group of gunhawks. They rode through the narrow cut of a long-dry creek towards a tall stand of oak and scrub. Now that they were set for some killing and burning, Flint Macey was filled with a strangely heightened anticipation. This was not the first time he had ridden out on a night mission such as this and the sly fox of eager exhilaration in his brain kept whispering: ‘Burn! Destroy!’

  On either side of them, the thick brush which grew along the banks of the creek sheltered them from the icy wind that rustled the stiff stems of the sage with a harsh crackling sound. Down here, too, they were protected from the chance view of anybody in the country above and that was the way he wanted it. He wanted to hit the Lazy L spread without warning. Anyway, who was there up above to see or hear them? The whole vast stretch of the country around them was deathly, almost ghostly, silent. At the end of the creek bed, he pulled up and listened intently, motioning the others to be quiet. Macey was not a superstitious man, but he did not like anything connected with ghosts to move into his thoughts. He had probably killed more men in his lifetime than most other gunmen, not only through the war, but since. Now, sometimes, in spite of his efforts to erase these memories from his mind, things came back to remind him of his victims. The wind in the brush was now a constant reminder of the cries of the men and women he had shot down without mercy and he did not like it.

  ‘You hear somethin’?’ Clay edged his mount forward until he drew level with his brother.

  ‘Nothin’ but the wind,’ growled the other harshly. He tugged hard on the reins. ‘Let’s go.’

  For a while, the trail led them through a series of depressions, across bare ground with only an occasional stunted tree as a landmark. Then, as they turned their mounts and swung north, they rode along the narrow strip of ground, covered with mesquite and Spanish Sword, which divided the Double Circle spread from the Lazy L.

  It was bad ground, especially as far as the horses were concerned. The razor-edged Spanish Sword cut at their feet until they were slashed and bloody. But it was the one approach to the Lazy L ranch which Credin would not think of guarding, simply because it was virtually suicidal for men to try to push their mounts through these terrible growths.

  ‘Hell,’ swore Clay as his horse stumbled. ‘This ain’t no trail at all. Why can’t we just ride in and put a torch to the place like we used to do in the old days?’

  ‘We’ll do that soon enough,’ snapped the other. ‘Now keep your voice down. We’ll be on the Lazy L spread any minute now if Foran is right, the ranch ain’t far from the boundary markers.’

  ‘It can’t be near enough for me,’ grunted the other. He lapsed into a sullen silence.

  Ten minutes later, they ran into barbed wire stretched across the trail. Flint pushed his mount right up to it, so that the barbs touched his horse’s chest. He stared down to where the cruel strands glinted faintly in the flooding moonlight. ‘Reckon that Credin don’t trust our new boss none too much. Guess he’s got some real cause.’ He jogged the horse a few yards to one side, wound the loop of his riata securely around the top of the post, fastened the other end to his saddle horn and kicked savagely with his rowels at the animal’s flanks, causing it to rear upward and back, dragging the rope taut. Another touch of the spurs, a further backward tug and the post came up from the ground, the wire collapsing in both directions.

  In single file, they made their way through the gap in the boundary fence, rode across a low hill, covered with lush grass that grew along the bank of the Red River. It was good cattle country, Flint admitted. He could guess why Foran wanted
it all so badly. If a man owned all of this land, he would be extremely powerful indeed, well able to fight off any of the settlers when any of the nesters moved in on Government grants. It had happened before. These squatters obtained grants from the Government in Washington giving them claim to much of the land which the ranchers believed to be theirs by right of prior occupation and only the really big men were sufficiently strong to retain their hold on the range. Clearly, Foran intended to be one of those men, no matter what happened to the others.

  Topping a rise, they came within sight of the ranch house. It lay at the end of a long valley, within hailing distance of the river which moved wide and sluggish at this point. Whoever had originally built that ranch had certainly picked the best spot for it, Macey thought grudgingly. Then the little voice of hate began muttering in his brain once more, setting it afire.

  They put their horses to the slope, fanning out. They slid from their saddles on the edge of the courtyard, their guns out as they ran for cover. Macey scanned either side of the cluster of buildings. It wasn’t likely that Credin would leave the place entirely unguarded, but at the moment he could see no sign of any of the Lazy L crew and it was doubtful if any look-out would have allowed them to get so close without giving a warning shot to alert the others.

  ‘Reckon we must’ve hit ’em at the right moment,’ grunted one of the men.

  ‘Could be,’ Flint agreed. He still looked straight ahead but the corners of his mouth twisted up a little and he thumbed back the hammer of his Colt.

  ‘Somebody comin’ over that way,’ murmured Clay tightly. He pointed with the barrel of his sixgun.

  The solitary rider had approached from the far side of the ranch, riding down the grassy hill, which explained why they had not heard his approach. The man was almost at the house, had just slid from his saddle, was reaching up to take the long-barrelled Winchester from its scabbard, when Flint hissed tightly: ‘Get him!’

  In a split second. Clay had lifted his gun and three shots rattled out, the echoes of them blending into a single blur of sound. The rider reeled as the shots hammered home into his body, then straightened, jerked back behind the horse and levelled the Winchester. He loosed off only one shot, with the last ounce of strength left in his trigger finger, but by some freak of chance, the slug found its mark and the man close beside Flint swayed back with a coughing grunt, hand clutching at his chest, the blood spurting from his mouth with every spluttering exhalation as he toppled sideways.

  Within seconds pandemonium broke loose. Less than a quarter of a minute after the first shots, guns were firing from the windows of the ranch house while others joined in from the bunkhouse and the barn nearby. A window shattered and even as Macey went down behind a piece of deadwood, three men rushed from the bunkhouse, flung themselves down behind the horse trough in the courtyard, ripping off shots as they did so.

  ‘Spread out!’ Flint roared at the top of his lungs, bellowing the order. Another man fell, but the rest ran, humped over, for the thin fringe of trees, ducking out of sight. Lead hummed viciously across the courtyard. In the corral, the horses whined in fright, stampeded for the far corner.

  ‘Most of the crew are in the bunkhouse,’ muttered Clay, edging close. He let his gaze wander over the smooth slope which led down to it. ‘Now if we was to get torches and fire it, the wind’s just right to carry over to the ranch house.’

  ‘OK, get goin’. We’ll hold ’em off until you’re ready.’

  Clay scuttled away, calling to a couple of men to follow him. Flint saw them dive out of sight into the trees, then turned his attention back to the gun battle, grinning wolfishly. A head lifted inquisitively above the edge of the water bough and Flint’s Colt spat spitefully. The head dropped out of sight.

  Now the volume of gunfire had shifted around towards the rear of the buildings where the rest of the Double Circle men had moved into position to cut off any escape from that direction. Credin and his crew were bottled up nicely. But the return fire had doubled in volume too and bullets rustled eerily through the grass all around him as he wriggled sideways into a fresh position.

  What the hell was Clay doing, he wondered fiercely. The sooner they burned those men out, the better. Once they panicked them into the open it would be like shooting down sitting ducks. There was a rustle at his back and the three men came crawling down the slope, carrying the pine torches in their hands.

  ‘All set?’ Flint growled. ‘They’re gettin’ powerful close with that lead.’

  The other grinned, teeth showing whitely in his shadowed face. He nodded, leaned back on to his side and struck a match, setting light to the bundle of twigs and shavings. It sparked at once, flaming brilliantly.

  ‘Give us some covering fire,’ muttered the other hoarsely.

  Flint punched fresh shells into the Colt, spun the chamber, then ripped off shot after shot, aiming for the door of the bunkhouse from which most of the fire was coming. The three men raced down the slope, flopped behind a rock, the flaring torches lighting their position. Lead crashed all about them and Flint saw one of the three stagger and fall, the torch dropping from his fingers. Within seconds, the dry grass was alight, fanned by the breeze. Clay and the other man hesitated for a moment then, as though recognizing the precariousness of their position, hurled their torches in twin blazing arcs at the bunkhouse. The first hit the side of the building, fell back on to the sun-baked earth, spluttering and throwing off a shower of sparks; but the second sailed through the open doorway, landing amid the straw piled high just inside the bunkhouse, obviously an overflow from the nearby barn.

  Flint’s primitive lust to kill was whipped to a frenzy of excitement by the sight of the licking flames which gained a firm hold within moments. As the fire leapt up to the roof of the building, burning with a fierce orange glow, he moved with the speed of a rattler, yelling to the others. Flinging himself forward, he reached the edge of the courtyard in a couple of bounds, the Colt jerking against his wrist as he triggered off a series of shots at the men who came tumbling out of the bunkhouse. He shot down three of them before they could return his fire. From inside the building there came the agonized yells of men trapped at the rear by the barrier of fire which now blocked the exit. Already, the flames had caught at the timber-dry roof and sparks were being carried across in the direction of the barn and the house itself as Clay had guessed they would.

  Within minutes, the place was a scene of chaos, lit by the crimson glare. Careless now of a possible bullet from inside the house, Flint raced across the courtyard. The compulsion for killing was riding him hard, the blood throbbing and pounding through his veins, his whole body afire with the power he experienced. As he reached the corner of the house, a side door opened, spilling a shaft of yellow lamplight into the dimness. Two men stumbled out. One of them was an old, grey-bearded man holding an old-fashioned Peacemaker in his right hand. The light fell squarely on his face as he turned, made to run in Flint’s direction, skidded to a halt as he saw the gunman standing there, grinning broadly.

  ‘Macey!’ he yelled and fired in the same moment. Flint had seen the gun lifting, flung himself flat against the wall, heard the thin mosquito whine of the bullet through the tremendous blast of the explosion. He brought up his own gun then, sent a bullet smashing into the oldster’s chest, the impact slamming the man back through the doorway through which smoke was already beginning to pour as the roof caught.

  The second man uttered a savage roar of anger. He swung his gun on Macey, pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click as the hammer fell on a spent cartridge. Flint curled his lips back over his teeth, walked forward slowly, relishing each moment.

  ‘I guess you’re Credin,’ he said thinly. ‘Seems you were aimin’ to throw in your lot with Condor and the others. Foran figured it about time you learned a lesson.’ For a moment, he debated whether to shoot the other down in cold blood or not. The urge to do so was strong in him, his finger tightening convulsively on the trigger.

&nb
sp; Then Clay’s hoarse voice yelled from somewhere at the front of the building: ‘They’re all surrenderin’, Flint. They’ve had enough.’

  Slowly, Flint eased the pressure on the trigger, made a quick jerky motion with the gun. ‘Get along there with the rest of ’em,’ he snarled. ‘We’re goin’ to burn this place to ashes. I figure you can make it back into Benton with anybody who’s still alive. Maybe when they hear about this, they’ll think twice about goin’ against Foran. Now move.’

  The Lazy L riders who were still alive were herded into the courtyard, together with Credin’s wife who was sobbing hysterically. Their faces were grey and drawn in the flickering glow of the fire which had now spread rapidly until everything was alight. Flint Macey moved over to where Credin stood a little apart from the others, watching all he had fought and lived for go up in flame and smoke. The other turned sharply, his face tight. ‘You goddamn stinkin’ killer, Macey!’ he spat. ‘One of these days you’re goin’ to pay in full for this. Believe me, I’ll see you and the rest of these gunhawks swinging from that cottonwood in Benton and —’

  ‘Cut the gab, Credin,’ Macey said softly, dangerously softly. He lashed out with the barrel of the Colt, the foresight drawing a long streak of blood down the other man’s cheek. ‘Be thankful that we haven’t shot you and your wife.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of men like you, Macey,’ retorted the other. He put up a hand to his bleeding face, eyes narrowed down. ‘But I don’t intend to place my wife in any further jeopardy.’

  There was a fraught silence. For a moment it seemed that Macey would blast away in spite of the fact that the other was unarmed, but some spark of decency remained, staying his hand. ‘Now you’re seein’ sense,’ he muttered. Pointing to the far side of the courtyard, well away from the blazing inferno he said: ‘There’s a buckboard yonder. Hitch a couple of horses to it and get out of here before we change our minds.’