by Tim Champlin
He attempted to reply, but nothing came out. Licking his lips, he tried again. “Rankin,” he whispered hoarsely. Charvein had to lean close to catch his words. “Buck Rankin,” he said.
“Rankin?” Charvein had known a Buck Rankin when they were both lawmen—Buck, a deputy marshal, and Charvein, a railroad detective.
Charvein rocked back on his heels, his mind in a whirl. Buck Rankin shot this man? Then this wounded man must be a fugitive.
“Where is Rankin?”
The man was fading. “Posse,” he whispered.
Rankin had retired years ago. Had he volunteered to lead a posse?
“Where is this posse?” Charvein asked urgently. Surely Rankin wouldn’t have shot a man and left him to die out here—unless Rankin was also wounded and had gone off for help—or to die himself. What the hell had happened here?
Charvein gave him another drink. After two swallows, the man coughed and a bloody froth came to his lips. He gasped, took two or three long breaths, as if clinging to life, then went limp. Charvein checked his throat for a pulse. Nothing. He eased the man’s head to the ground.
He sighed and stood up. A man dead on the playa at the hand of Buck Rankin. Maybe it was a long-range gun battle, or the horse wouldn’t be wounded. Buck Rankin was too good a shot for that.
He walked over to the docile animal and gave him another drink out of the soggy felt hat. He noted the saddle carried no saddlebags, no rifle scabbard, no canteen. Had Buck taken them? Or had this man fled from somewhere and left them behind? He checked the holstered Colt. It was fully loaded. No burned powder residue on the face of the cylinder, and it smelled of gun oil. It had been cleaned since last fired. That compounded the mystery. Buck Rankin would never shoot a man multiple times from ambush.
Charvein stooped and muscled the man’s heavy body up onto his shoulder, draped it across the saddle, tied the hands and feet together under the belly, then ran a loop of the lariat from the man’s belt to the saddle horn.
After this exertion in the heat, he paused for a drink and to wipe the sweat from his face. He put on his wet, cool hat and looked around. Now what? The weathered buildings of Lodestar were barely visible to the east. He began to have second thoughts about his pursuit of Boyd. It’d be a different matter if there were a clear trail to follow. But Boyd’s direction was only a guess, although Stepenaw and Weasel were betting on Virginia City and were headed there themselves. Now Charvein had a nagging doubt. If this dead man’s horse stayed close while his owner lived, then whose horse had he and Sandoval found running loose in Lodestar this morning? Was there another dead man out here somewhere—Buck Rankin perhaps?
The heat of midday was growing intense. He’d bury this body on the spot had he brought anything to dig with. Hauling the big man across the playa to God knew where didn’t make sense. Yet Charvein couldn’t just leave him to the vultures. Outlaw or not, he deserved better than that.
Charvein decided to ride another hour to the west in a wide circle to see if he could cut Boyd’s trail. It would be easily recognizable because there were five animals. If he found nothing, he’d return to Lodestar and see if Sandoval knew this man. They could bury him in the long unused town graveyard.
The sun slid past meridian, and Charvein pulled down his hat brim against its rays. He again regretted the loss of his field glasses. Those twin lenses would have extended his vision a long way, eliminating the need for so much useless riding. But he had to deal with what was, not what he wished for.
After a monotonous hour, he began to doze in the heat, swaying in the saddle. He jerked upright and scanned the sand- and salt-streaked playa. Nothing. He dismounted and scooped some oats from the sack into the nose bag and put it on his mule. He fed the horse a double handful of grain from his hat. When they’d finished, he watered both animals from the hat.
It was then he confirmed his decision to return to Lodestar; he didn’t have enough water for himself and both animals to go another day. As cunning as Boyd was, he would likely head for the desert mountains first to hide the gold in one of the thousands of canyons or caves.
Charvein put on his hat and remounted. A large, black spot caught his attention. It was some distance off, wavering in the dancing water mirage. Before turning back, he would investigate. Probably nothing more than some lava rocks, or a dark clump of shrubs.
Within a few minutes, he picked up the clear trail of three horses, all heading in the same direction. His heart rate quickened, thinking at first he’d cut Boyd’s trail. But then, he knew his quarry had five animals—not three. And four of them would be trailed, one behind the other, so the tracks would be atop one another. These were spread out abreast and were cut deeper into the soft soil, as if the horses carried the weight of riders. These tracks had been made since the wind had ceased this morning. Charvein urged his mule to a trot to catch up, hoping the bouncing would not jar the body off the led horse.
In twenty minutes the black blob had grown and split into three. Charvein slowed his mule to a walk to save his strength and wind. As he did so, he realized the three dark figures were three riders approaching at a gallop. They rapidly closed the gap. He drew rein and stopped, reaching for his Colt. What was he riding into? It wouldn’t be the first time curiosity had imperiled him. If these three riders proved to be hostile, there was nothing he could do about it now. The three had spread several yards apart and would shortly have him boxed in. Even if he turned to flee, his tired mule wasn’t fast enough to outrun them. Sun glinted on rifle barrels. He breathed deeply and steeled himself to await the outcome.
The riders slowed as they approached, each man carrying a long gun across his saddle. Wide hats hid their faces in shadow. They reined up within talking distance, one man wide to each side and one facing him. The spokesman in front said, “Holster that shooter.” He raised his rifle a few inches for emphasis.
Charvein complied. Without turning his head, he saw the other two bring their rifles to bear. The three were rough-looking characters—unshaven and dirty, apparently on the trail for some days.
The leader jabbed his rifle toward the led horse. “That’s Schooner Douglas’s hoss.”
“Found him back there, wounded,” Charvein said, his own voice sounding oddly rough and strained.
The rider to his left dismounted and came forward on foot.
“Just set easy, mister,” the man in front said.
Charvein glanced at the walker, who bent down to get a look at the face of the man tied across the saddle. “It’s Schooner, all right,” the man said, retreating to his own horse.
“I found him back there on the playa, near dead. Gave him a little water, but he was too far gone. Lung shot, I’d guess. He died in a few minutes.”
“A damned lie,” the leader growled. “You and your pardner likely gunned him down when he and Rankin came after you. Where is your little pardner, anyway? You two split up? Well, I reckon one’s better than none. Maybe the reward’ll be just as good for one jailbird as two—especially since we’re saving the state the expense of trying and hanging a murderer.”
Charvein caught his breath as three rounds were racheted into the chambers of three Winchesters, and the men brought the weapons to their shoulders.
SIXTEEN
“Wait!” Charvein raised his hands, still clutching both sets of reins. “I didn’t kill him!” he shouted, staring at each man in turn. He didn’t think any of them would shoot him while their gazes were locked. “If I shot him, why would I be hauling his body with me?” He held his breath, expecting to feel three rifle bullets slam into his chest. Sweat trickled down his sides under his shirt. He didn’t dare move.
“Hold up, boys. Let’s hear him out,” the leader said. “Climb down off that mule, mister.”
Charvein dismounted, ground reining the animals.
The three men remained in their saddles.
“Where’d you find him?”
“Two miles back. He was only able to say a couple words before
he died.”
“I’ll bet!” the rider to his right said, spitting his derision into the dust. “Can’t you see he’s makin’ it up as he goes? Tryin’ to think of a quick alibi to keep us from carrying out a proper execution right now.”
The leader in front held up his hand for silence. “Give him his say. Once we shoot him, he’s a long time dead.”
Charvein looked closer at the man’s round face under the hat brim. A coating of brown stubble made him look older than he likely was. The wire-rimmed glasses suggested a land office clerk or salesman. But there was no mistaking the look of determination.
“I left Lodestar this morning headed for Virginia City,” Charvein said, more to break the tension than anything else.
“We’ll get to you later. Tell us about Douglas.”
Charvein sucked in the heated air, glad to still be breathing. He’d try to stretch this brief reprieve. “The buzzards led me to him. Found this wounded horse. He was lying nearly dead nearby. He’d lost a lot of blood.” He paused and took another deep breath.
“Quit stalling. What did he say?”
“I gave him water and asked who shot him. He whispered, ‘Brackin,’ or something like that. Could hardly hear him, so I asked again. This time I was sure he said, ‘Buck Rankin.’” Charvein didn’t indicate he knew Rankin.
A significant look passed among the three men.
“Go on,” the leader said.
“He was able to say only one more word—‘posse.’ Then he died. That’s all I can tell you. No saddlebags to look through, so I had no idea who he was.” He shook his head. “Didn’t know what to make of that. But I didn’t have a shovel to bury him, and I wasn’t about to leave him for the buzzards. Thought I’d take his body to Virginia City.”
The leader gazed at him silently for a moment. “What’s your name and where you from?”
“Marc Charvein. Virginia City.”
“Your name sounds familiar.
“I was a railroad detective a few years back.”
“What’s your business out here?”
“I might ask you the same.”
“You forget who’s holding the guns here. Answer the question.”
“I was deputized to find a man.”
“Who?”
“Denson Boyd.”
“Boyd… Boyd? Didn’t I see in the paper where he was recently released from prison?”
“Right. The governor pardoned him.”
“He’s already a wanted man?”
Charvein wasn’t sure how much he should reveal. For all he knew, they could be trying to get their hands on the gold bullion as well. Without answering the question, he said, “You boys after somebody, too?”
“We’re the posse.”
Charvein jerked his head toward the dead man. “The one he mentioned?”
“The same. He was one of us. Lemme see your papers or your badge.”
“In my pocket.”
The man nodded, and Charvein slowly put a hand into his vest pocket, withdrawing the worn silver star he’d been issued. He stepped forward and handed it up for inspection. The man grunted and handed it back. “I reckon we’re all on the same side. I believe what you’re telling us, Charvein. What I can’t figure out is why Rankin did it.” He dismounted and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jude Belcher. This here’s Tommy Conway and Bill Owens.”
The two sheathed their carbines and dismounted, apparently glad to stretch their legs.
“Who’s Buck Rankin?” Charvein asked.
“He’s a retired marshal and was leading this posse, trailing Boyd’s two ex-partners who busted outta prison in Carson and kidnapped a girl.” He stepped to the horse Charvein led and lifted the dead man’s head by the hair. “Um… He was a tough one. Never figured him to get gunned down.” He looked up at Charvein. “Rankin and Douglas musta got into it.” He paused. “Rankin didn’t think much of us as a posse. My gut feeling is that he wanted the reward money for himself. Sometime in the middle o’ all that wind and dust last night, he and Douglas took off. Dunno what happened or why. The way Rankin’d been talking, I figure one or both of them were leaving us to make do on our own while they went after the convicts.” He returned to his horse and helped himself to a drink from his canteen. “You didn’t see nothing of another man, did you?”
“Nope.” Charvein didn’t mention finding the loose horse in Lodestar, but now he suspected it belonged to the missing Rankin.
“Reckon you didn’t catch up with Boyd.”
“Tracked him to Lodestar, but he got away from me. Don’t know where he went. I was just on my way home.”
“What’d you say he did?”
“I didn’t. Just trying to snag him retrieving that gold he stole five years ago. It was never recovered, and the owner wants it back.”
“Well, we got something in common, then, since we’re after his two ex-partners.” His face brightened. “You don’t reckon they’re all after that stolen gold?”
Charvein shrugged.
“We’ll bury poor Schooner here on the playa and then you can come with us back to Lodestar.”
“Waste of time,” Charvein said. “I just come from there and the town’s empty.”
“Hmmm.”
“But I recollect something that might be of use to you.”
“What’s that?”
“Before I got sidetracked by those buzzards, I was traveling along the trail of a horse and a man afoot leading west toward Washoe. Reckon that might be your two fugitives?”
“Could be.” Belcher gave him a dubious look. “Mighty convenient of you to think of that.”
“I was more concerned with keeping you boys from ventilating my hide. The business end of three Winchesters affected my memory.”
“Where is this trail?”
Charvein glanced at the sun and then back the way he’d come, to orient himself. He pointed to the right. “Just go straight north. You should cut it in less than a mile unless they changed direction.”
Belcher swung into the saddle. “Come along and show us.” He failed to keep the distrust out of his voice.
“I wasn’t really going that direction.”
“Won’t be much outta your way.”
“What about him?” Charvein jerked a thumb toward the body.
“Schooner will keep a little longer.” Belcher wheeled his horse around, followed by Owens and Conway. “When we cut the trail you mentioned, we can stop and bury him. We’re packin’ a short shovel and our belt knives. We can bust through this soft crust.”
Charvein could see he had no choice. Thrusting a foot into the stirrup, he swung aboard the mule, took up the reins of both animals, and led the way north. The other three fell in beside and slightly behind him, spreading out to avoid the disturbed dust.
They rode in silence, Charvein hoping the two escapees hadn’t stopped or veered off course. If he didn’t find the track, he was in trouble.
But, luckily, the track was there, just where he’d guessed they’d find it, only now it showed two men afoot and one horse. Rankin’s horse must have been further gone than he realized, or the two convicts were just saving him.
“There it is.” He pointed at the fresh trail.
The three men dismounted for a closer look, apparently eager to see the first real signs of their elusive quarry.
“Pair of big boots and some smaller ones,” Conway said. “Fits the sheriff’s description of Stepenaw and Savage.”
“But why’re they headed west toward Virginia City or Carson?” Belcher mused, half-aloud. “That’s where they come from. And why only one horse? Where’s the woman?”
“Yeah. We were told they got away with three horses, the woman hostage riding one of them,” Owens said.
“Hell, you know how we were pounded by those dust storms,” Belcher said. “They likely lost two of the horses and have the woman riding this one remaining animal. Betcha they’re in bad need of food and water, or they’d be trying to hide their tr
ail.”
“Could be anything,” Owens said, taking off his hat and mopping his bald head with a blue bandanna.
“Okay, boys, let’s get poor Schooner underground. These tracks are fresh. With the two of them walking, it won’t take us long to catch them.”
Charvein pitched in with his sheath knife to help scrape out a grave for Douglas. Owens took the short shovel and made the dirt fly. Under the cracked crust, the earth was soft for two feet down before he reached solid subsoil. Then he turned the shovel over to Belcher, and in another ten minutes, they’d cut a hole three feet deep and were ready to quit.
Conway pulled the rolled blanket off the dead man’s horse while Charvein untied the body and retrieved his lariat. They shortly had the big man wrapped and in the ground.
“No rocks around to keep off wolves and coyotes,” Belcher panted, stamping down the dirt. “That’s the best we can do.”
“Reckon we ought to say a prayer, or something?” Conway asked.
“Schooner was a hard drinker and a hard man. Reckon he’s the Lord’s or the Devil’s now,” Belcher replied.
“You ain’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, no matter what they done in life,” Owens said. “Lemme think… He gave me a free drink once. And I hear tell he was kind to whores down on their luck.”
“Not much of a recommendation, but I reckon it’ll have to do,” Belcher said. “Let’s get going.” He replaced his hat and mounted. “We’ll take his horse with us,” he added, reaching for the reins. “He left his saddlebags and rifle in camp. We can return all his stuff to his next of kin.”
“That horse has a couple of minor wounds,” Charvein said. “He’ll need some looking after.”
