The marshal smiled. “That’s Cullen’s problem.” He glanced at Mae’s body, then back to Sam. “She does mean something to me. She was real purty an’ she sang real sweet. She didn’t deserve to die like this.” His eyes lifted to the oak again. “We’ll cut them down an’ bury them decent. Then I’m riding out.”
“And who’s goin’ to bury you decent, Logan?” Sam said.
They buried Mae, Buck and Ed Brady near the oak, but far enough away to avoid the tree’s roots. As a reluctant concession to Sam, Kane allowed Stringfellow to stand at the graveside.
When the praying was done, the outlaw said, “She was a good woman, a decent woman, but they pushed her to the wall, all them rich ranchers who wanted her miserable few acres.” He looked at Kane. “You going after Cullen?”
“He’s got my hoss.”
“Take me with you, Marshal. Give me a gun an’ let me put a bullet in him.”
Kane smiled. “Stringfellow, I wouldn’t trust you at my back with a gun in your hand.”
“Damn you, I never back-shot a man in my life.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Kane looked at Sam. “Take him to the cage.”
Stringfellow’s eyes swung to the old man, desperately seeking an ally. “Tell him, Sam. Tell him it’s my place.”
Sam shook his head. “Buff, you ain’t got a hoss.”
“Then I’ll walk. I’ll run.”
“You’ll walk to the cage,” Kane said. “Then your walkin’ is done.”
“Kane, when it’s over an’ Cullen is dead, you can chain me up again, on my word of honor. Hear me, Kane. I’m breaking apart here.”
The marshal spat onto the ground at Stringfellow’s feet. “Your word of honor ain’t worth that. Now, let the dead lie quiet an’ get back to the wagon.”
A ragged, bearded man with sun-scorched skin and hollow eyes, and stinking of his own rank sweat, Stringfellow somehow managed to draw his dignity around him like a tattered cloak. “Kane, the man who rides next to Cullen is Lewt Mantles. There’s nobody better with a gun than him. You ain’t comin’ back here.”
Kane seemed to think that over. Finally he turned to Sam. “If I don’t come back, shoot Stringfellow. After that the others will follow you willingly enough.”
“Marshal, if’n you want him dead that bad, why don’t you shoot him your ownself afore you leave?” Sam asked. He looked irritated.
“Because I plan on comin’ back. An’ besides, the judge would take it hard if it turned out I killed a prisoner I didn’t need to.” Kane’s eyes moved to Stringfellow. “Right you, back in the cage.”
“Kane, I hope you burn in hell,” the outlaw said. His raw hatred was a living entity, pushing against the marshal.
Kane smiled. “Then you better save a place for me, hadn’t you?”
Kane tightened the cinch on the wagon dray, an ugly little mustang with a hammerhead and a mean eye. “Sam, I won’t waste any time getting back. Don’t take any chances with the prisoners. Feed them in the cage if you have to, and keep your eyes skinned for Jack Henry. Maybe he studied on how things were shaping up around here an’ moved on, but maybe he didn’t.”
“He didn’t move on, Logan. He’s close. I can sense him.”
“Then watch for him. I took Henry fer a bushwhacker an’ a sure-thing killer.” He looked at Sam. “What you seein’ in the fire?”
“I ain’t seein’ nothing, an’ that’s what troubles me.”
Kane swung into the saddle. The yellow mustang halfheartedly bucked a few times to keep him honest, then settled down. It was an old horse and not much given to energetic displays.
The marshal looked down at the old man. “I’ll be back soon, Sam. I meant what I said about Stringfellow. Don’t take any lip, an’ if it comes down to it an’ you have to lead the prisoners north, shoot him first.”
“I ain’t like you, Logan,” Sam said. “I’m not that hard.”
Kane shook his head. “You may have to be.”
Sam was quiet for a moment, his eyes measuring the younger man. Then he said, “Know what sits on that hoss? Pride. An’ fer what? Because you let a man best you, an’ now you can’t let that go. It’s false pride, Marshal. Ride out now and all you are is a droop-tailed rooster crowing on a dung heap.”
“Then them people who was hung don’t matter, huh?”
“They rustled cattle an’ took their chances. Logan, you don’t owe them a damned thing.” Sam’s talking was done. He reached down, slid his Colt from the leather and held it up to Kane. “Take this. If you get into close work, you may need it.”
Kane nodded and shoved the gun into his waistband. “Be seein’ you, old-timer.”
Sam didn’t say anything. But when the marshal swung his horse away, he whispered, “Vaya con Dios, Logan.”
His eyes were very old—and very tired.
Chapter 15
Clay Cullen and his men were not difficult to track. He was driving the cattle along the same trail that had brought them north. He’d taken along the chuck wagon and it followed in the same ruts.
Kane rode under a pale blue sky. The sun was dropping lower and shadows were angling among the trees. The day was still hot and only a soft wind stirred the prairie grass. For the past hour the mustang had stepped out willingly enough, but it had a short-coupled, choppy gait and was uncomfortable to ride.
The marshal took off his hat and wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. The air was astonishingly clear and he could see for miles across the high plains. Only in the far distance, where heat waves danced, could his gaze penetrate no farther. Once he saw a herd of antelope emerge from the haze; distorted by the shimmer, their legs stretched impossibly long and slender. As they came closer, they slowly returned to their normal shape and headed north, toward water.
Kane began to smell dust as the day shaded into evening. He swung out of the saddle and studied the cattle dung. It was moist and fresh, dropped no more than a couple of hours before.
He rode on as the night birds pecked at the first stars of night and an owl in the trees demanded over and over again to know his identity. With the coming of the dark, the wind rose, tossing the long grass, and the coyotes had begun to call back and forth.
An hour later, in full darkness, Kane saw the fires.
He rode closer, trusting to the gloom, and scouted the camp. This close, he heard the quiet talk of men. There was none of the drinking and carousing he’d heard the night before. Maybe the deaths of Mae St. John and the others were weighing on them. But more likely this was a crowd with a hangover, tuckered out by the rigors of a cattle drive.
The remuda was near to the tree line, the herd grazing close to him, upwind from the camp. In the darkness Kane detected no sign of water, but there must be a source somewhere since this part of the Oklahoma Territory was cut through by many streams that were fed by the Little and the fall rains.
Kane swung the mustang to the east, riding close to the trees. Nothing on his clothes or saddle reflected light, and the moon was hiding behind cloud. Over at the camp, men had already sought their blankets and the only movement was when somebody rose and reached for the coffeepot.
Used to men on horseback, the remuda did not stir as Kane got closer. A few raised their heads and looked at him, their ears pricked, but they soon ignored him and went back to grazing. A problem for Kane was that the horses slowly moved away from him as he rode among them, their footfalls stirring up the night.
But even in the darkness, a red horse is not hard to find. He shook out a loop, then dabbed it over his horse’s head. The big sorrel balked, pulling back on the rope, and for a moment Kane’s heart stopped in his chest; he feared the big stud would cut and bolt. He spoke softly to the animal and it calmed at the sound of his voice. He led the sorrel out of the remuda and back to the black wall of the trees.
When the cattle herd was between him and camp, Kane switched his saddle to the sorrel and looped a rope around the mustang’s neck. He
tied the little horse to a tree, then swung onto the sorrel’s back. Then he stood and considered his options.
Logan Kane was not by nature a deep-thinking man. When presented with a situation he reacted to it instantly, heedlessly, without considering the consequences of his actions. It was this that had helped him establish a reputation as a named gunfighter who was mighty sudden on the draw and shoot. But it had impaired his relationships with the few women with whom he’d allowed himself to get close and had all but assured him of a life without wife or child. Kane knew this and, aware of the limitations his character imposed upon him, accepted it.
Now he sat his horse, alone in the sheeted darkness, tangling with his alternatives. He had his horse and Sam was alone with the prisoners. He should go back, not needlessly risk his life. Yet he couldn’t get Cullen out of his mind. He owed the man, not only for a bump on the head, but for what he’d done to Mae St. John.
And the old man had been right. There was pride. It was the gunfighter’s stiff-necked pride, the most important part of the code he lived by, and it was honored by the best of them—Hardin, Hickok, Thompson, Longley and the rest. He could not let Cullen go unpunished, not if he ever again wanted to hold up his head in the company of belted men.
It had to be done. Clay Cullen had chosen the dance and now he must pay the fiddler.
His mind made up, Kane’s eyes reached through the darkness to the herd. He had to get them running, but there must be a night herder and maybe two or three. He kneed his horse closer to the cattle.
Unlike longhorns, Herefords were a docile breed not much inclined to be skittish, and it was possible only one man was out with the herd and he’d be as hungover as the rest. The night was on Kane’s side. The dark sky quivered white with lightning and the rising wind was talking loud. The few longhorns in the herd might be feeling uneasy, and if they cut and ran, the Herefords would follow.
He walked his horse to the edge of the herd and drew rein, his gaze scanning the darkness. He waited, so much on edge he felt like his belly was being pulled out. He could get them running, he figured, but if the night herder was somewhere close in the darkness, he could be rifle-shot right out of the saddle. After a couple of minutes his patience was rewarded. A man rode toward him, slumped, his chin on his chest, his face hidden behind his hat.
“Howdy,” Kane said. He rode close to the man.
The rider’s head snapped up. “You sent to relieve me?” He was groggy from sleep, but suddenly his eyes widened. “Hey, who the hell are—”
Kane drew and shot into the middle of the man’s chest. The herder immediately threw up his arms and fell backward off the saddle. “That was for Mae,” he said.
Kane shoved his Colt into the air and fired, then fired again. Led by the longhorns, the herd started to run. To Kane’s joy they were headed right for the camp where up until his first shot every man had been rolled in his blankets.
The cattle were running hard and Kane followed them at a gallop. Men scattered as the cattle charged among them, and the marshal saw one puncher go down, screaming as he was trampled under pounding hooves.
The night became a shambles of charging cattle, roaring guns, angry shouts and the flickering forms of running men backed by the firelight. Fractured images hurtled toward Kane at breakneck speed: open mouths that bellowed curses, orange muzzle flashes blasting near him, the backs of running men.
Then Clay Cullen’s face, twisted in rage, swung into Kane’s line of vision. The rancher was bringing up a rifle. Kane’s horse reared as he cut loose with both Colts. Hit hard, with scarlet blood suddenly thick in his mouth, Cullen called out, then went down. A shot split the air next to Kane’s head, then another. Lewt Mantles was standing with his legs spread, calmly working his guns, his eyes red in the firelight, intent on Kane. The marshal fired at the man but missed. Heedless of the men around him, he rode right at Mantles, the gun in his right hand flaring. Hit, Mantles took a step back.
Kane’s gun was empty. His reins trailing, he did a perfect border shift and Sam’s Colt thudded into his hand. Kane was right on top of Mantles now. The gunman fired and Kane felt a sledgehammer blow to his right thigh. He leaned out of the saddle, shoved his gun into Mantles’ face and pulled the trigger. Instantly the man’s face turned into a crimson mask of blood and bone. Mantles staggered to his right, still trying to bring up his guns, but couldn’t find the strength. He toppled into the fire, an upset coffeepot hissing over the coals around him.
Then Kane was through them, riding hell-for-leather into the gloom. Bullets zinged around him and one burned across the thick meat of his shoulder. The rest went wild. All at once he was swallowed by darkness, and the shooting staggered to a ragged halt.
His leg on fire, Kane rode into the plain, then looped wide around the camp and swung north. Behind him, borne on the wind, he heard men yelling. Distance and darkness shredded the sound, and soon there were only the whisper of the prairie and the drumbeat hammer of his heart.
The violence Kane had wrought had been brief, shocking and sudden. It had been brought about by a man trained in arms, using the latest black-powder weapons of the time, designed to fire big, low-velocity lead bullets that inflicted terrible wounds. For a few brief, terrifying seconds he’d been a ravening wolf among sheep and his attack had been devastating.
He stared into the night ahead of him, but saw only the eyes of Lewt Mantles as the gunfighter died in the flame-streaked night. The man had not died clean and had breathed his last, facedown in fire. Somewhere, along the back trail of his years, Mantles had taken the gunfighter’s path and had known and accepted the risks. But no man should meet an end like his.
Kane gritted his teeth against the pain in his thigh as he untied the mustang and led the little horse behind the sorrel. He turned his head, listening. He heard no sound of a chase, and he thanked God for it. There had already been enough killing.
Bitterly, Kane realized he could see no end to it. The vicious, mindless violence, the belted men dying hard and defiant, would go on and on . . . until the day he lay with his own face in the flames, his open eyes already staring into hell.
The prairie wind tugged at him, teasing, and the sky was black, without stars. A fine rain pattered against him and ticked through the trees, and he shrugged into his slicker.
It had to end, he knew that now. Kane had killed three men that night and their deaths weighed more heavily on him than any others. And he thought he knew the reason. He had acted out of pride, not a sense of justice. He’d used the deaths of Mae St. John and her riders only as an excuse to gun Clay Cullen. His fingers strayed to the star pinned to his gun belt. He could have arrested Cullen, taken him to Fort Smith and let Judge Parker deal with him. The chances were he would have died in the attempt, but the judge had already lost threescore deputy marshals in the line of duty and maybe that’s what was expected of him. Maybe that was what the law expected of him.
The marshal was a troubled man as he rode through the rainy canopy of the night, because all at once he knew exactly who and what he was, and that knowledge cut deep, like a knife.
He was Logan Kane, the violent gunman, an outlaw with a badge.
Chapter 16
The night had turned cold and there was sleet in the rain as Logan Kane rode into camp. The fire was out and there was no sign of Sam Shaver.
He swung out of the saddle and let the mustang’s lead rope drop. Then his eyes sought to penetrate the darkness, looking for movement in the shadows. Nothing stirred, the only sound the rustle of the oak and the distant cry of coyotes.
He drew his gun and limped toward the wagon, the pain in his leg beating at him. The cage loomed ahead of him, an obscene thing of wood and iron. It was empty, the open door creaking in the wind.
“Logan, is that you?”
Sam’s voice, thin and strained.
“Behind the wagon, Logan.”
The old man was lying on his back, his face wet with sleet and rain. Death shadows had gathere
d in his eyes and cheeks; his breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling with every shuddering gasp.
Kane kneeled beside him. He took off his slicker, rolled it up and placed it under Sam’s head. “Take it easy, old-timer,” he said, attempting to smile. “You’ll be fine.”
“Not fine, no, Logan. They’ve kilt me.” His eyes dropped to the front of his shirt where blood gleamed. “I’m shot through and through, Logan.” He lifted a thin, blue-veined hand and touched Kane’s chest with his fingertips. “I held on—figgered you’d be back.” His eyes met those of the younger man. “Get yore sorrel back?”
“Sure did. Brung the dray back too.”
“Take care of that mustang, Logan. He ain’t a bad hoss.” Sam’s hand fell to his side and for a moment Kane thought he was gone, but then the old man whispered, “Cullen?”
“Dead.”
“Did he have iron in his hand?”
“He did, and he had his face to me.”
“Then you done what you had to do, Logan.”
“Maybe so.” He brushed a wisp of gray hair from Sam’s forehead. “What happened, old-timer?”
“Ol’ Buff called me over to the wagon, tole me Joe Foster was awful sick because o’ that kick in the head you gave him. The kid was groanin’ an’ carryin’ on, an’ I set my scattergun down and stepped over there.”
Sam was fighting for breath, desperately clinging to life.
“You take it easy, Sam,” Kane said. “You can tell me later when you feel up to it.”
It didn’t matter how it had happened; the prisoners were gone and Sam was dying. The circumstances told their own story.
But the old man shook his head. “Listen . . . Buff grabbed me and held me against the bars. Then he yelled, ‘Now, Jack!’ Next thing I know, a bullet hits me atween the shoulder blades an’ they’d done gone an’ kilt me.” He smiled weakly. “I didn’t have no Colt or I would have drawed it an’ at least plugged ol’ Buff.”
Kane’s voice was tight in his throat. “Which way are they headed?”
Ralph Compton The Convict Trail Page 11
