A Stranger in Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “Makes sense,” Pop said. “How you wanna do it?”

  “One of you work your way down the side of this ravine, even with his camp,” Ben said. “One of you go down the other side.” He nodded to Coy and Pop. “One of you go back down the hill and circle around to come up on the bottom of the ravine—just in case he tries to run out that way. Me and Brock will stay up here where we can make sure he don’t get to his horses.” If there were any objections to the two of them remaining in the choice position, no one had the boldness to say so. “We’ll give everybody time to get in place, and when I fire the first shot, everybody cut loose and fill that blanket full of holes.” The three rustlers responded right away and started for their assigned positions. “And don’t shoot at them horses,” Ben called softly after them. “They’re worth somethin’.”

  After the three went back to get their horses, Brock and Ben readied themselves to start the assault. As he stared down at the helpless form by the fire, Ben’s anticipation of a large score grew and grew until he was certain Walker was transporting a sizable treasure. If he wasn’t, why would he slip off in the middle of the night? As the treasure grew in his mind, he also had second thoughts about the shares he had agreed to. Why should he and Brock share it with anyone—especially the likes of the three small-time thieves riding with them? He looked at Brock and grinned.

  * * *

  “You reckon they’ve had time to find ’em a spot?” Brock asked, his eyes steadily focused upon the motionless form by the fire. “It’s been a good while.”

  “Maybe a little bit longer,” Ben said. “We’d best give Slim a little more time to get around to the mouth of the ravine.” They waited awhile longer before Ben could restrain his eagerness no more. “All right,” he said. “Let’s put some holes in that blanket.”

  They fired almost simultaneously, triggering a constant hail of rifle fire, as Coy and Pop joined in from the sides of the ravine. Fast and furious, the four rifles rained shot after shot down upon the unsuspecting form by the fire. Those shots that missed plowed into the snow nearby; some kicked up sparks and pieces of wood from the fire, sending them flying. The almost constant rain of rifle fire, combined with the frightened screaming of the horses, created a storm of merciless slaughter as it echoed up from the narrow confines of the ravine. As Ben cranked out shot after shot at the riddled form by the fire, he caught sight of Coy when he moved up closer to the edge of the ravine. Without hesitation, Ben brought his rifle around to bear on the heavyset rustler. A moment later, Coy doubled over when the bullet struck him in the stomach. A second shot finished him off when it struck him in the back, causing him to fall over the edge of the ravine and slide halfway down the slope.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Brock muttered, just then aware of Ben’s actions.

  Ben grinned at him. “Too bad he caught a stray bullet,” he said. “I reckon that’s one less share of what’s in them packs.”

  Brock nodded and grinned back at him. Then he immediately shifted his rifle around to see if he could spot Pop on the other side of the ravine. Unfortunately for the assassin, Pop had found concealment in the darkness of the trees, and all Brock could find to shoot at were the muzzle flashes when Pop had fired. Nevertheless, he cranked out a series of rounds at that spot, in hopes of a lucky shot. Ben joined in to send a rain of lead toward the target. Finally pausing to reload once again, they watched the spot carefully for any signs of life. There were none, and there were no more muzzle flashes from that area. “Think we got him?” Brock asked.

  “We threw a helluva lot of lead on that little bunch of trees he was hidin’ in,” Ben said. “I don’t see how he coulda helped catchin’ some of it. He ain’t fired no more, that’s for sure.” He took another look down at the camp, silent now, as the quiet little ravine recovered from the sudden storm of gunfire. “I’d say we done a pretty good job of takin’ care of business.”

  “What about Slim?” Brock asked, thinking he had heard no shots fired from the mouth of the ravine.

  “I almost forgot about him,” Ben admitted. “I reckon he’ll come in when we go down to that camp. We’ll send him to hell with his partners when he shows up.” Satisfied that the only living things left in the ravine were the two horses in the narrow part, the two assassins moved back from the ledge and returned to get their horses. They figured that, if the camp had been set up as an ambush, there would have been return fire from somewhere. “Now, I’m ready to see if that jasper was worth all the cartridges we spent on him,” Ben said.

  * * *

  Long minutes after the relentless hailstorm of lead ceased, Pop Strawbridge lay still behind a log that had been literally chewed up by the barrage of rifle fire from the top of the ravine. He waited a few minutes longer before risking his head above the safety of the log. It had only taken him a few seconds to dive for the log after he saw Coy’s body slide over the side of the ravine. He cursed himself for trusting the two evil gunmen to honor their agreement. He should have known they wouldn’t hesitate to murder Coy, Slim, and him to eliminate the necessity of sharing Walker’s fortune. He counted himself lucky to have taken some precautions purely as a matter of common sense. And that was when he went back to get his horse, instead of simply scrambling down the side of the ravine on foot. And he had advised Coy to do the same. Poor Coy, he thought, he just wasn’t lucky. He realized, too, that it was also pure luck that they hadn’t shot at him first, otherwise, he’d be the one lying halfway down the slope, and Coy would be hugging the ground behind a log.

  Reasonably sure the firing was over and Brock and Ben were probably on their way back to their horses, Pop rose to his hands and knees. Once he was assured that he could not be seen in the darkness, he got to his feet and hurried down the side of the hill to get to his horse. There was no thought of retaliation against the two murderers. He knew his salvation was to run, since he would have very little chance in a confrontation with the hardened killers. When he reached his horse, he led it down through the trees until the slope leveled out near the bottom, and he could ride. There was a moment’s hesitation when he thought about Slim—to run, or to alert him? He had heard no shots coming from the mouth of the ravine, where Slim was supposed to be waiting in ambush to prevent Walker from escaping. There was no doubt that Slim was next on the list of the assassinations Ben and Brock planned. Pop figured he owed Slim a warning. To hell with the idea of riding with the notorious pair of train robbers. He and Slim should get back to stealing cattle before they came to the same fate as Coy. The healthiest course of action for them now was to put this place behind them. So he stepped up into the saddle and galloped around the foot of the hill toward the mouth of the ravine.

  * * *

  Having taken cover in a deep gully, Slim had waited nervously through what sounded to be a thunderstorm of shooting. His eyes glued to the mouth of the ravine before him, he held his Henry rifle ready, the barrel resting on the edge of the gully. If Walker comes hightailing it out of there, he told himself, I won’t hesitate to shoot him. It was not the first time he had assured himself of that since he had been sitting in ambush, even though he had never shot a man before. He wished, however, that Pop or Coy had taken this position at the foot of the hill. He would have preferred to be closer to the others. But I will shoot the son of a bitch, he told himself again, even though he had willingly taken this position because he knew there was little likelihood Walker would have a chance to run.

  Now the silence that hung over the ravine seemed almost as ominous as the gunfire had been. At this point, he struggled with the decision on whether or not he should leave his gully and ride on up to the camp. His partners might even now be sorting through Walker’s packs, and he wanted to be there for that. That was enough to make him decide to get his horse.

  There was no time to think! The horse and rider charged around the foot of the hill at a gallop, catching Slim halfway out of the gully. Terrified, he raised his rifle and fired, knocking the rider out of the saddl
e. Still startled, and trembling with excitement, he cranked another cartridge into the chamber and held the Henry ready to fire again. But the rider lay still on the ground.

  Slim waited for a minute or two before leaving the gully, until he was certain there would be no return fire, then he moved cautiously toward the body. It was the first man he had ever killed, but that thought would not sink in until later. For now, he wanted to make sure Walker was not playing possum. He was still twenty yards from the body when he recognized him. Pop! The horrible realization of what he had just done staggered him, almost dropping him to his knees. He ran to the body and dropped to the ground beside it, frantic in his efforts to will his friend to live. “Pop,” he pleaded. “I didn’t know it was you!” He looked around him, as if begging for help from some quarter. “Talk to me, Pop. You’re gonna be all right, ain’tcha?” But there was no response from the gray-haired little man, seeming now to look older and smaller than he had in life. Slim rocked back from his kneeling position to sit down heavily on the ground, dazed by the realization of what he had done. Lost without the one person who had always told him what to do, he clasped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth while he tried to understand what had just happened. Looking at Pop’s cold face, he suddenly knew that he didn’t want Coy to find out. Pop was probably just coming to get him and tell him that Walker was dead. In a panic to put this place and everything that had suddenly happened here behind him, he cursed himself for being led into a job with two gunmen like Ben Trout and Brock Larsen. He thought of Pop again, and the picture of him coming around the foot of the hill. He had come at a gallop, as if something was wrong. What if he was really coming to warn him that something had gone wrong? There had been so many shots fired. A strong feeling struck him then that maybe Coy was dead, too. “I’ve gotta get outta here,” he blurted, and got to his feet. Taking one more long look at his late partner, he said, “I didn’t go to do it, Pop. I’da never done it if I’d knowed it was you on that horse. I hope you know that.” He started to turn away, but hesitated, then pulled Pop’s gun belt from around him, searched his pockets, and said, “Hope there ain’t no hard feelin’s, but you ain’t got no use for ’em anymore.” He grabbed the reins of Pop’s horse and led it to the clump of trees where his horse was tied. After tying Pop’s horse to a lead rope, he was in the saddle, not sure where he was going, just so it was far removed from this ravine and the two murdering outlaws.

  CHAPTER 7

  “There ain’t much doubt about ol’ Coy, down there,” Ben said, looking at the body lying halfway down the side of the ravine. “But I expect we’d best make sure we hit Pop.” They started to withdraw from the rocky ledge when they heard the shot from below the camp, sounding as if from the bottom of the hill. It caused them both to stop to listen for more, but there was only the single shot.

  “What the hell was that?” Brock wondered. “That had to come from the mouth of the ravine. You reckon that was Slim?” The only explanation he could think of was that Walker had somehow survived the attack and made a run for it on foot—and Slim shot him.

  Thinking the same as his partner, Ben said, “It sounded like that Henry rifle Slim carries. If that was Walker he shot, then Walker sure as hell wasn’t in those blankets we just shot up. Never mind Pop, we’d best get down to the bottom of this ravine and make sure Slim shot Walker, and not the other way around.” They hurried up the hill where their horses were tied.

  Down the back of the hill, they descended as fast as the slope would allow until reaching the bottom. Then following the same trail that Pop had, they galloped along the base of the hills until they reached the one with the ravine. In the lead, Brock reined his horse back as soon as he rounded the corner of the ravine and spotted the body lying on the ground. “Whoa!” he exclaimed as Ben pulled up beside him, leading Coy’s horse by the reins.

  “Careful!” Ben cautioned. They both scanned the entrance to the ravine, back and forth, looking for anyone waiting in ambush. When there was no sign of Slim, they pulled their rifles and nudged their horses forward, walking slowly toward the body. A few feet from it, they were surprised to see that the dead man was not Walker or Slim. It was Pop. “Well, how the hell did he get here?” Ben blurted. “Where’s his horse?”

  “Walker musta got away,” Brock said.

  “On foot?” Ben asked, not so sure.

  “Maybe he took Pop’s and Slim’s horses,” Brock offered, every bit as confused as Ben and still wondering how Pop ended up lying on the cold ground in the mouth of the ravine. “If we look around, maybe we can find which way he lit out, and most likely find Slim’s body not far away.”

  “Unless Slim’s done rode up to that camp,” Ben said. “I think we’d do good to get up there ourselves before he digs into any of them packs.”

  With the odd occurrences of the last half hour, which were still not explainable, there was no need for either of them to caution the other. Each of them cradling his rifle across one arm, they guided their horses up into the ravine, constantly scanning the steep sides of the gulch for any signs of ambush. When they reached the point where the ravine formed an almost level shelf, they dismounted. Taking no chances, they held their horses by their bridles, and walking between them for cover, led them up onto the shelf. All was quiet except for a whinny from one of the horses tied in the narrow part of the defile, and the answering whinny from Brock’s sorrel. After a long moment with no sign of anyone else in the camp, Ben said, “I don’t know what happened down at the foot of the hill, but there sure ain’t nobody in this camp now.” He released his hold on his horse’s bridle and walked over to the rolled blankets, riddled with bullet holes. “He mighta had an idea about ambushin’ us, but I reckon when we peppered this gulch with all that lead, he decided it wasn’t good for his health.”

  “I don’t know, Ben,” Brock said, still not ready to step out from between the horses. “It don’t seem likely that he’d just cut and run, and leave everything he had for the takin’. I ain’t sure he ain’t settin’ up above us somewhere with that Winchester he’s always totin’.”

  “Well, if he is, what’s he waitin’ for, a special invitation? As long as I’ve been standin’ out in the open, if he was lookin’ to pick us off, he woulda already been shootin’.” He looked over at Will’s horses then and the stack of packs next to them. “Let’s go take a look in them packs, and see if it was worth our trouble.” Eager to see for himself, Brock finally left the protection provided by the two horses and followed Ben to the neck of the ravine.

  They paused only a moment to look at the horses tied there by the tiny stream that found its way through a narrow opening in the rocks above. “I’ll say this for him,” Brock said, “he was ridin’ a fine-lookin’ pair of horses.”

  Ben grunted an acknowledgment, but he was more interested in opening the packs, as he was eager to see the jackpot he had built up in his mind. Spotting one that appeared to be bulky, he picked it up. When he did, it produced a clinking sound, like that of metal against metal. With a gleam of anticipation, he winked at Brock and hefted the pack a couple of times. “It’s got some weight, too,” he announced. “I knew that ol’ boy was carryin’ something valuable.”

  “Well, open it and let’s see what it is,” Brock said, even as Ben was untying the flap.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Ben muttered, confused by what he found. He pulled out one end of a bracelet linked to a chain before he realized what the treasure was. “Handcuffs,” he declared, astonished.

  “That’s a fact,” a voice behind them confirmed. “And they’re just your size.” Both men froze, taken completely by surprise. “I’m arrestin’ you for train robbery and murder. Drop those rifles on the ground and unbuckle your gun belts and let ’em drop.” Stunned, both men remained frozen for another moment. Finally, first Brock, then Ben released his rifle to fall on the ground. “Now the belts,” Will ordered.

  Regaining his wits somewhat, Ben was not inclined to surrender s
o easily. “I knew there was somethin’ fishy about you. So whaddaya gonna do if we don’t drop ’em,” he asked, “shoot us in the back?”

  “I expect so,” was the calm reply.

  “You can’t do that!” Brock blurted. “Are you a U.S. Marshal? There’s rules you gotta follow!”

  “I don’t hold myself to many rules at all,” Will replied. “I reckon I’m kinda like you two. Now drop ’em and turn around real slow.”

  Still stalling for time, in hopes of somehow getting the jump on the lawman, Ben countered. “What if we don’t drop ’em and both of us turn around at the same time? Me and Brock are pretty quick with a .44. You might get one of us, but I’ll guarantee you one of us will get you before you can crank another cartridge in the chamber.”

  “Is that a fact?” Will replied. “Well, in that case, you boys better decide which one gets shot, and I’ll be sure to cut that one down. Who’s it gonna be?”

  Brock had heard enough to know he wasn’t willing to risk being the sacrifice. Ben was talking crazy talk, when a man was standing behind them with a cocked Winchester. “Hold on!” he exclaimed. “I’m droppin’ my belt.” He unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop, then he held his hands in the air and slowly turned around to face Will.

  “Damn, Brock,” Ben complained. “We coulda took this bastard. You threw our trump card away. I reckon you ain’t left me no choice. I gotta give up, too.” He started unbuckling his gun belt. Wary of the deceitful gunman’s intentions, Will took two steps to the side while Ben made a show of pulling the belt off with his left hand before suddenly making his move. He yanked his .44 from the holster as it dropped to the ground, and spun around to fire.

  It was over in a fraction of a second. Will’s shot slammed into Ben’s chest before the unfortunate man could raise his pistol waist high to aim at the spot where Will was no longer standing. Just as quickly as the fatal shot was fired, a new cartridge was chambered, and the Winchester aimed at Brock’s chest. Stunned, Brock cried out when the rifle spoke and Ben stumbled backward a few steps before crumbling to the ground. He started to go to his partner’s side, but hesitated to see if the next bullet was to be his. “Go ahead,” Will said. “Just be real careful.”