He sifted tobacco into the paper. "We had that bank down in Kelsey lined up. I done the linin'. Never did trust nobody to do that. The others always overlooked something.
On'y thing I overlooked was Charlie Venk.
"You seen him? He's a big, fine-lookin' young man. Strong-made, but quick. I seen plenty of' em come an' go in my time. Seen the James boys an' the Youngers. Cole, he was the best of that lot. Jesse, he had a streak of meanness in him, like the time he shot that schoolboy with his arms full of books. No need for it.
"Charlie reminded me of Cole. Big man, like Cole, an' good-lookin'. I never trust them kind. Always figure they're better'n anybody else. 'Cept maybe Cole. He never did.
"We got that bank job lined up. There was four of us in it. Charlie, Rollie Burns, Jim Sloan, an' me, of course. Burns an' Sloan, they were bad. Mean men, if you know what I mean, and they couldn't be trusted. Not that it mattered, because I never trusted anybody myself. An' nobody ever trusted me.
"Ever see Charlie sling a gun? I've heard you're fast, Bowdrie, but if you ever tangle with Charlie you'll go down. Not only is he fast but he can lay 'em right where he wants 'em, no matter how rough it gets.
"He was slick on a trail, too, but if you've already trailed him across three states, you know that. He was a first-rate horse thief. Given time, I'll tell you about that.
"Anyway, about noon we come down this street into town. No nice town like this'n.
She was a dusty, miserable place with six saloons, two general stores, a bank, and a few odds and ends of places. We come in about noon, like I say. Sloan, he was holdin' the horses, so the rest of us got down an' went in.
"There was a woman an' two men in that bank. Two customers an' the teller. Rollie, he put his gun on the woman an' the man customer an' backed them into a corner, faced against the wall. At least, the man was. Rollie, he didn't pay much mind to the woman.
"Charlie, he pushed the teller over alongside of them an' vaulted the rail to start scoopin' money into a sack.
"Out front Sloan leans over to look into the bank an' he says, 'Watch it! The town's wakin' up fast!'
"Charlie, he was a smooth worker with no lost motion and he had cleaned up more cash than I had. We started for the door an' the teller, he takes a dive for his desk.
Maybe he had a gun back there. Rollie backs his hammer to shoot an' Charlie says, 'Hold it, you fool!' An' he slaps the teller with his gun barrel an' the teller i hit the floor cold as a wedge.
"Then we hit the leather and shot our way out of town. We rode like the devil for those first six miles, knowin' there would be a posse. Then we reached the grove where more horses were waitin'. It taken us on'y a moment to switch saddles. We rode out at a canter an' held it, knowin' the posse would almost kill their horses gettin' to that grove.
"We got away. Ten miles further we switched horses for the third and last time. By then the posse was out of the runnin" and we doubled back in the hills, headed for our hangout. Rollie was ridin' a grouch an' Charlie, he was singin'. Nice voice, he had.
"Suddenly Rollie says, his . Voice kind of funny, 'Nobody calls me a fool!' We all look arourd an' he had the drop on Charlie. Had the gun right on him. Well, what d'you expect? Me an' Sloan, we just backed off. Whoever won, it was more money for the rest of us, an' Charlie had always figured he was pretty salty.
He was, too. Right then we found out how salty.
" 'Aim to kill me, Rollie?'
" 'What d'you expect? I had that durned teller dead to rights.' " 'Sure you did,'
Charlie said, easy-like. 'Sure you did. But maybe that teller had a wife and kids.
If you've got no thought for them, think of this. Nobody back there is dead. All that's gone is the bank's money. Nobody will run us very far for that, but if we killed a family man they'd never quit.' "
"He was right," Bowdrie said.
" 'You ain't talkin' yourself out o' this!' Rollie says. 'I aim to--' "Charlie Venk shot him right between the eyes. That's right! Got him to talkin' an' off guard, then drew an' fired so fast we scarcely knowed what happened. Rollie, he slid from the saddle an' Charlie never looked at him. He just looked at us. He had that gun in his hand an' was smilin' a little. 'I wasn't askin' for trouble,' he said. 'You boys want to take it up?'
" 'Hell no! Rollie always had a grouch on,' Sloan says. 'Leave him lay.'
"We camped that night at a good place Charlie knew. Three ways out, good water, grass an' cover. We ate good that night. Charlie, he was a good cook when he wanted to be, an' he really laid it on. Like a dumb fool, I ate it up an' so did Sloan. After all, none of us had et a good meal in a week. We et it up an' then Charlie outs with a bottle an' we had a few drinks. Charlie was a talker, an' he was yarnin' away that night in a low, kind of dronin' voice. An' we'd come a hard ride that day. Before we knew it, we were dozin'.
"Of a sudden I come awake an' it was broad daylight! Yessir, I'd fallen asleep right where I lay, boots anr all! What made me maddest of all was that I'd figured on gettin' up whilst the others were asleep an' skippin' with the cash.
"There was Sloan, still fast asleep. An' Charlie? You guessed it. Charlie was gone.
"He had hightailed. No, he didn't take our money but he did take Rollie's share, but that was half of it. Oh, yeah! He dipped into our share for a dollar each an' left a note sayin' it was for the extra grub an' the whiskey. Why, that--!"
Bowdrie chuckled. "You never saw him again?"
"Not hide nor hair." Mose got to his feet. "You catch up with him, you watch it.
Charlie's got him some tricks. Slips out of cuffs, ropes, anything tied to his wrists.
Mighty supple, he is. I seen him do it.
"Good at imitatin', too. He can listen to a man talk, then imitate him so's his own wife wouldn't know the difference."
One hundred and four miles north, the cowtown of Chollo gathered memories in the sun. Along the boardwalk a half-dozen idlers avoided work by sitting in the shade.
Chick Bowdrie's hammerhead roan sloped along the street like a hungry hound looking for a bone.
Outside the livery stable a man kept his stomach on his knees by using a rope for a belt. When Bowdrie swung to the ground the flesh around what seemed to be one of the man's chins quivered and a voice issued, a high, thin voice.
"Hay inside, oats in the bin, water at the trough. He'p yourself an' it's two bits the night. You stayin' long?"
"Just passin' through." Bowdrie shoved his hat back on his head, a characteristic gesture, and watched the roan. Bowdrie lived with the roan the way Pete Kitchen had lived with Apaches.
Safe as long as he watched them. "Any strangers around?" "Rarely is. Rarely."
"Ever hear of Charlie Venk?'
"Nope."
"Big gent, nice-lookin', an' prob'ly ridin' a black horse. Good with his gun."
Both eyes were wide open now, and the fat man peered at him with genuine interest.
"We never knowed his name. Never saw him use a gun, but we know him. He's the gent that hung our sheriff."
"Hung your what?'"
"Sheriff. Ed Lightsen." A fat middle finger pointed. "Hung him to that big limb on the cottonwood yonder."
"He hung the sherifj?.'"
A chuckle issued from the rolls of fat. "Uh-huh. He surely did! Best joke aroun' here in a ye. The sheriff, he was aimin' to hang this gent, an' he got hung hiself.
Funny part of it was, it was the sheriff's own rope."
The fat man leaned forward. There were rolls of fat on the back of his neck and shoulders.
"This gent you speak of. Venk, his name was? He come in here about an hour before sunset ridin' a wore-out bronc. He was carrying some mighty heavy saddlebags an' he was a big man himself, an' that bronc had been runnin'.
"Nobody has any extry horses in this town. All out on roundups. Stingy with 'em, anyway. This gent, he tried to buy one, had no luck a-tall, but he hung around. Split a quart with the boys over at the saloon. Sang 'em some songs an' yarned with 'em.
Come sundown, he walked out of there an' stole the sheriff's sorrel.
"That's right, the sheriff's sorrel. Now, the sheriff had been makin' his brag that nobody but him could ride that horse. This here Venk, as you call him, he got astride an' he stayed astride for just one mile. Then he came head-on into ten of those hard-case riders of Fairly's. They recognized the horse and threw down on him before he even realized he was in trouble. They brought him back into town.
"Now, the sheriff was mighty sore. I don't know whether it was for stealin' the horse or because this here Venk actually rode him. 'You can put him in jail,' Webb Fairly says, but the sheriff was havin' none of it. 'Jail? For a horse thief?. We'll hang him!'
"There was argyment, but not much. It looked to be a quiet time in town, so the boys figured a hangin' would liven things up a mite. Then this here Venk comes up with his own argyment.
" 'Well, boys, you got me. I guess I've come to the end of my trail, but I'll be damned if I go out with money in my pocket. Nor should a man be hung with a dry throat.
I don't favor that, an' I reckon you boys don't.
" 'Actually, I feel sorry for you. Here you come to town for fun, now you've got to hang me. So let's go over to the saloon an' drink up my money.' "
The fat man hitched up that rope belt, which did no good, and shrugged. "Well, now.
Who's to argy agin that? We all lit a shuck over to Bob's, an' this horse thief showed hisself a true-blue man. He had 'em set out eight bottles. That's right, eight!
"Webb Fairly, he said, 'Stranger, if there was ary thing to do in town tonight, we'd not hang you! But you know how it is?'
"Those eight bottles went quick, and that stranger bought four more. By that time ever'body was palooted, but nobody had forgot the hangin'. This here was a story to tell their grandchildren! It was almighty dark, but this Venk, as you say his name was, he told us, 'Boys,' he says, 'when I was a youngster I played under cottonwood trees. I noticed a big ol' cottonwood down the street by the blacksmith shop, an' if you'd hang me from that tree I'd be almighty proud!'
"Why not? We agreed. It isn't ever' day a man gits hung, an' it ain't ever' day we hang a gent who stages his own wake, sort of.
"It was little enough to do. Now, that there cottonwood was in the darkest place in town and we rode over there. We felt this feller was gettin' mighty sad, as he sort of choked up an' we heard what we figured was sobbin'.
"Nobody likes to hear a growed man cry, least of all a dead-game sport like this stranger, so we turned our faces away, slung a rope over the branch, and the sheriff--at least we figured it was the sheriff--he puts the noose over this man's head an' says, 'Let 'er go, boys!' an' the sorrel jumped out from under him and that gent was hangin' right where he wanted it. We watched him kick a mite an' then the sheriff says, 'Drinks are on me, boys, an' the last one into the saloon's a greenhorn!'
"We taken out on the run for the saloon and it was not until two drinks later we realized the sheriff wasn't with us.
"Nobody paid it much mind, 'cept one o' the boys did speak up an' say, 'You know?
He must take to hangin', because that's the first time the sheriff ever bought anybody a drink!'
"Come daylight, those of us who could walk started for home, an' when we seen that gent hangin', we went over for a last look, an' what d'you think? We'd hung the sherit."
The fat man slapped his thigh and chuckled. "Funniest thing happened around here in years! That gent sure had him a sense of humor! Somehow he'd got those ropes off his wrists an' he must have slugged an' gagged the sheriff. Then he slipped that noose over . . .
"But I'd have sworn that was the sheri I heard him plain! I-Ie"
"Charlie Venk is a good mimic," Bowdrie commented. "Did you try to trail him?"
"What for? We figured it was a good joke on the sheriff, an' he wasn't much account, anyways."
There was a trail when Bowdrie left town, a good clean trail, as the sorrel had a nice stride. Bowdrie followed the trail into an area of small rolling hills, across slabs of rock that left but indistinct white scars to mark Venk's passing, and when Bowdrie rode up to the next water hole there was a message scratched in the mud.
Whoever's trailin" me better light a shuck. I ain't foolin'.
Bowdrie glanced at it, then drank and filled canteen his and led the roan to drink. As the horse drank, Bowdrie's eyes kept moving, and when he was again in the saddle he continued his searching of the hills. His dark features were somber, for he had no illusions about the man he trailed. Charlie Venk watched his back trail, and Venk would be either seeing him now or at some time within the next few minutes. From here on it would be tough, and the advantage lay with Venk in that he knew where he was going and could choose the ground. If he wanted a battle, he could also choose the place.
Four years now Bowdrie had been riding with the Rangers, and if they wanted a man, they got him. If not now, later, but get him they would.
The odds were all against the criminal, for the law had time, and the law was tireless.
An outlaw might scoff and claim that he was "smarter than any dumb Ranger." Even that was doubtful, but was he smarter than fifty Rangers? And the thousands of citizens who had eyes in their heads and could remember?
Very few things that people do remain unnoticed by somebody. All the law has to do is find that somebody who saw or heard something. Not always easy, but always possible.
Bowdrie rode on into the dancing heat waves where the dust devils did their queer, dervishlike dances out upon the white bottoms where no water was. Blue lakes appeared and vanished. Again and again he lost the trail. Again and again he found it.
He followed the man on the sheriff's sorrel where the only trace was left by the wind, and he followed him where the wind died and curled itself in sleep among the dead hills or against the hot fiat faces of the cliffs. By desert, ridge, and mountain, by alkali sink and timberline, by deep green forest and bald hill, through lands where the ghosts of long-dead Apaches rode, and to the trails where the stages followed their rutted routes.
He ate where Venk had eaten, slept where he had slept, and came to know his little ways and how he thought and acted. He drank with men who had drunk with Venk, and four times he found places where Venk had circled back to get a look at the strange dark rider who followed him. Then the trail disappeared. It ended at the edge of an alkali lake and there was nothing . . . not a track, not a wisp, simply nothing at all.
Yet the trail of a man is not left on sand alone or on the broken twigs or the scars upon rock. The trail of a man is worked into the way he thinks and in what he wants, so the silent Ranger rode on, his mind reaching out ahead of his horse. His thoughts crossed ridges and searched out in memory of towns he knew and of talk among Rangers as to places and possibilities, and one Saturday afternoon Bowdrie rode into a quiet little cowtown.
He was, he believed, four days behind the sheriff's sorrel, but he had noticed the stride was shorter. Occasionally the sorrel stopped; there had been places where it was almost too tired to graze. The sorrel was going to have to stop or fall dead in its tracks. The roan was unchanged. It was just as tireless and just as mean as ever.
When Bowdrie rode into town, almost the first thing he saw was the sorrel, standing head hanging, in a corral. When he rode closer, he could see the horse had been curried, cared for. He rode his own horse to a livery stable, led it to a stall, fed, watered, and curried it. Few western horses were used to being curried. The roan was, and it liked it, but had no intention of letting its rider know. Twice the roan tried to kick, and once it reached around to nip the Ranger. Bowdrie skillfully avoided the nip with a skill born of long experience, cuffed the roan lightly on the nose, and walked to a bench.
He sat down on the bench, and one at a time, keeping one always loaded and ready for use, he cleaned his guns.
There were nine saloons in town, and the usual assortment of subsidiary structures.
The town was like other such to
wns in other such places. The same horses dozed at the hitching rails, the same dogs slept in the dust, and their tails slapped the dust or the gray boards as he approached with the pleasant acknowledgment that all was friendly in this sunny, dusty world and all they wanted was to be left alone.
Chick Bowdrie pushed through the bat-wing doors and walked to the bar. He accepted the lye whiskey pushed toward him and downed a glass, then filled it again. His eyes kept to the bar, then lifted to the mirror behind it. His mind spelled out the faces in the room. The man he wanted was not present, but he had not expected him to be.
An aging cowhand in faded blue denim with a tobacco tag hanging from his breast-pocket, his face seamed with years, weather, kindness, and irony. The town drunk; his face was a mirror for lost illusions, his eyes hungry with hope, his boots worn, and the old hands trembling. The solid, square-built rancher with new heels on his boots and an air of belligerent prosperity and affluence. The bartender, slightly bald back of the plastered black hair above a smooth, ageless face and brow. The wise, cold eyes and the deft, active hands.
They were types, men without names, faces from a page of life he had turned many times, and faces he had often seen, like the husky young cowboy at the end of the bar who had a split lip and a welt on his cheekbone.
A movement stirred beside him and Bowdrie's muscles relaxed like those of a cat, relaxed to a poised alertness that preceded movement.
In the mirror he saw it was the drunk. Sober now, but hopeful.
"Howdy, stranger." He looked at Bowdrie in the mirror. "I could use a dollar."
Bowdrie's expression did not change. "If I gave you a dollar, how do I know you wouldn't spend it for food?"
For a moment the drunk simply blinked. Then he drew himself up and with great dignity replied, "Sir, I assure you that no such idea ever crossed my mind."
Bowdrie's eyes wrinkled at the corners. "I'm in a good mood. I'll buy you a drink, and then you can show me where the best restaurant is and we'll eat. Both of us.
Bowdrie's Law (Ss) (1983) Page 18
