Bounty Guns

by Short, Luke;

  Lucy shrugged. “It’s—it’s Cam,” she said. “Buck doesn’t like to leave the place, now—and we’ve got to eat. Buck won’t leave for long in the daytime, and not at all at night. He thinks maybe Cam will come back at night, and I’d be there alone, or with Pate.”

  “So he sends you to town?”

  “He didn’t send me to town,” Lucy said loyally. “I went over to Dockstaders’ this afternoon, and I figured since I was so close to town, I’d better get my shopping done. It—it was a little later than I thought.”

  “And you’re going home now?”

  “Why not? The horses know the way home.”

  Tip looked at her and he knew she was afraid. He felt a sudden pity for this girl, and at the same time was a little angry at her foolishness.

  “You can’t do it,” he said firmly.

  “But I’ve got to. They’re expecting me.”

  “Let ’em expect. They can get their own breakfast. You’ll stay in town.”

  “Is that an order?”

  Tip nodded. “From the sheriff’s office.” He thought he saw Lucy relax with relief, and he said quickly, positive he was right, “I think you’re glad this happened.”

  “I am,” Lucy said quietly, looking uncertainly at Tip. “I was afraid. I—I’ve seen some of the Bolling crew around town, and I don’t like them.”

  “Three B men?”

  Lucy nodded. Tip said half angrily, “Then you were foolish to try and make it home.”

  Lucy smiled faintly. “I know it. Still, Buck and Pate run more risk than that every time they ride out.”

  Tip only grunted. He pointed downstreet. “You go to the hotel and stay there.”

  “No such thing. I’m going to see Lynn, now that I have to stay in town.”

  “I’ll take the team down to the feed stable.”

  “Thanks,” Lucy said. There was more color in her cheeks now, and she was pretty. She crossed the street, and Tip stood there watching her. She was a cool customer, Tip thought, the kind of a girl who sets herself a task and does it, come hell or high water. She was pretty, too; dark and warm and fresh-looking. He heard a voice say at his shoulder, “Wasn’t that Lucy, Tip?”

  He turned to face Lynn, and for a reason that he couldn’t fathom his face felt hot. “Yes. She’s headed for your place.”

  Lynn looked at him curiously. “Why, Tip, what have you been stealing? You’re blushing.”

  “I’ve been standing on my head trying to pick up these packages.”

  And then Lynn, with quick intuition, understood, and she blushed, too, and turned away, saying, “Good night, Tip.”

  As he had done with Lucy, Tip watched Lynn cross the street. There was a difference between those two girls, he thought idly; Lynn had a grace, a swing to her walk, and the way her hair came up over her collar, leaving a few wild strands of hair curling there, was a nice thing to look at. He caught himself then, and looked guiltily around him. The clerk was picking up the sacks that had rolled into the road.

  Tip took the buckboard and team down to the feed stable, his thoughts troubled. None of this was right, here. Lucy shouldn’t have to carry a gun, as if she were afraid for her life. And Lynn. He realized suddenly that Lynn didn’t belong here, Lynn, who had Rig Holman’s money and did not have to live in this wild and savage town. Both those girls carried a burden that they couldn’t share, and shouldn’t be carrying. Lucy’s talk drifted back through his mind. She had seen Three B men here in town, she said. For some reason that seemed curious to Tip, and he wondered what was up.

  He asked the hostler, “Any Three B riders in town tonight?”

  “Ain’t seen any.”

  Upstreet, Tip dropped into the Mountain saloon. This was the dead hour, but a few men were playing cards. The bartender said he hadn’t seen any of Bolling’s crew. Tip went into the lobby, and it was deserted. He tried Morgan’s blacksmith shop and found it closed. There weren’t many places to loaf in Hagen, perhaps because Hagen had never been allowed to get in the habit of loafing. He tried the Mexican cantina down off the main street and found only a couple of transients drinking there.

  Suddenly he remembered that Ball was still waiting to go to supper and he went back to the office. By the time he reached it, he had concluded that whatever Three B men were in town had ridden out by now. Still, he felt an uneasiness that would not go.

  The south mail was in today, and there was a stack of newspapers on Ball’s desk. Tip first went upstairs, set up his cot in the corridor, spread his blankets on it, and came down.

  After that, he took off his coat, put his feet on the desk, and started looking through the newspapers. He didn’t know how long he had been reading them when he heard the door open and looked up. Cam Shields, his eyes as shifty as ever, walked into the room.

  “I heard you were lookin’ for me,” he said flatly.

  Tip laid down his paper. “Who told you?”

  “A rider.”

  Tip slowly came to his feet. “Yeah, we want you,” he said. “About a hundred dollars’ worth.”

  “What for?”

  “Attempted murder.”

  “It’s a lie, and I can prove it. Where’s Ball?”

  “I dunno. He’ll be back, though. You can wait for him upstairs.”

  “Hunh-unh. I don’t roost in any jail till I see Ball.”

  Tip smiled thinly. “That’s where you’re wrong, mister.” He pointed to the stair doorway. “Get up them stairs.”

  Cam shook his head. Tip reached out to grab him, and Cam lashed out with a blow that caught Tip on the jaw and sent him back into the desk. He came off with a low growl in his throat, feinted with his right hand, then drove his left into Cam’s face. Cam crashed into the table and carried it down with him.

  Over the racket Tip made out the sound of many men running. He kicked the door shut, just as a shot drummed into its wood. Remembering that Cam had worn no gun, Tip forgot him. He locked the door, then picked the chair up and threw it at the lamp. It went out and crashed to the floor. Tip got a glimpse of Cam clawing to his feet. Tip flattened against the wall, palming up his gun, trying to see in that pitch-dark.

  He heard men shouting outside, and it puzzled him. Who were they? They were kicking at the door now, and Tip placed a couple of shots through it. Suddenly the side window crashed out, and Tip shot in that direction. He heard a man curse softly and then back away and yell, “Give me a hand here!”

  Tip thought he understood it now. These were Three B men and they had been waiting for Cam to come in, so as to get him. But how did they know he was coming? Tip whispered, “Cam, get upstairs!”

  There was no answer.

  Tip raced for the desk now, swung it out and against the window, then crouched in the corner as somebody systematically shot the lock off the door. Tip emptied his gun at the door, and in the ensuing silence called, “Cam!”

  A sudden racket of gunfire poured in through the window, booming into the desk behind which Tip was crouched. Somebody outside was crashing at the door, battering it open. In a few seconds, Tip knew, the door would go, and then the whole lot of them would pour in on him.

  He crawled to the stairway door, opened it, and from the top of the stairway a shot hammered out, its orange flash lighting up the stair well. Tip rolled to one side and lay there on the floor. He was trapped now, it seemed, by Cam and the Bollings. He crawled to his feet, raced across the room, and pushed the table and everything that was loose except the file cabinet in front of the doorway. Then he emptied his gun into the door, and the chopping stopped. He squatted against the wall then, feeling in his gun belt for fresh loads. His fingers settled on the loose cartridge loops, and he fumbled along the belt for shells. His fingers came to the last loop—and it was empty. Frantically he felt again, carefully this time, and then a black wave of despair washed over him.

  He was out of shells. He lunged for the desk, pulled open the drawer where they kept the ammunition, and fumbled around among the ammunit
ion boxes. They were all empty. He came erect, looking down in the dark at his gun. And then with a savage oath he flung it from him. He heard it hit the wall over the filing-cabinet and clatter to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man crawling through the window. Tip picked up the swivel chair and swung it with all his might at the window. The man screamed and disappeared, and suddenly the chopping was resumed.

  Tip hunkered down there, sizing up his chances, bitterly understanding what had happened. Cam Shields had thrown in with the Bollings, and this raid was to rescue Ben and to get him, Tip. Outside there was probably the whole Three B crew, while up there Cam Shields held the stairway. His only chance lay in getting up that stairway.

  Outside he heard Jeff Bolling say, “Why ain’t he shootin’?”

  “No shells, maybe,” Murray Seth said.

  At that there was a renewed chopping, and Tip moved his hands frantically across the floor, looking for some kind of a weapon. And then his fingers touched the barrel of Cam Shields’s broken-stock rifle. It made a wicked club as he hefted it. Then he braced himself and ran for the stairway and swung open the door. Nothing happened from the top of the stairs. Cam was gone. Tip swung the door shut behind him and battered off the knob and then took the steps two at a time. A sudden draft of air down the stairs told him that Cam Shields had shot the padlock off the roof trap door and had escaped through the roof. The lantern in the cell block to the front was still burning. Tip called to Bolling, “I’ll come back and take you again, Bolling!” on his way to the trap door. There was no answer. Suddenly suspicious, Tip stopped and raced back into the cell block. Bolling was lying sprawled on the floor, a pool of blood under his back. He had been shot.

  Only the savage hammering and shooting downstairs brought Tip to his senses. Grasping his carbine barrel, his only weapon, he raced for the trap door, swung up into it just as the first man hit the stairs.

  Out in the night he heard a man yell, “He’s on the roof. Around in back!”

  He ran along the ridgepole, slipped, fell, rolled down the roof, plummeted off, and dropped the ten feet onto the next roof. Already below him he heard a man yell, “There he went!” and a shot on the heel of it. He clawed at the roof with his free hand, but still he slipped, and then he fell again, this time between the buildings. He came down on top of a man who yelled and fought wildly. Tip kicked out savagely when he got his footing, and felt the man roll away from him. On hands and knees in the weedy passageway Tip could see two dark forms at the end of the narrow space between the two buildings. He wheeled toward the back, and came to an abrupt halt. There was another figure back there.

  He heard one of the men call out, “He’s in there, Jeff. Careful of Mart, though. He’s down in there.”

  Tip hunkered down in the dark shadows, sweat beading his forehead. Something moved at his feet, and he slashed out with his club. He hit something, for he heard a groan, and the movement stopped. Slowly, hugging the wall, three men were moving in toward him.

  Tip licked his lips, dragging in long breaths of air that had been pommeled out of him in the fall. A kind of wicked elation came over him now, and back of it fear was pushing. They were asking no quarter tonight, and he was giving none. He took a fresh grip on his club and then started to crawl toward the street. Ahead ten feet there was a boarded window in the saddle shop next door. The blackness here was so dense that Tip had to feel along the wall until he found it.

  Then he braced himself, his back against the jail, and kicked at the boarded window. The noise drew a racket of gunfire from both ends of the alleyway, but it was all high, for fear of hitting the Three-B hand they had called Mart.

  The boards gave way and he heard something inside the building fall over with a crash. Out on the street there were people yelling, and over the din he could hear men running on the boardwalks. He crawled into the building. The light from the street came through the big windows in front.

  Tip kneeled there a moment, sizing up his chances. In back they were expecting him, and doubtless there were men spread up and down the alley waiting for his break. But out in the street all was turmoil. Men Tip had seen behind store counters were running toward the jail, guns in hand. A tangle of horses blocked the street. Someone shouted, “Ain’t Ball goin’ to head this hunt?”

  “He’s back here!” someone yelled. The sound of his voice came in through the window. Tip reflected bitterly that this town was like a pack of dogs—let one dog get down, and the rest of the pack jumped on him.

  He knew now that he was going to have to move, and move quickly. The back or the front? He chose the front, hoping that in the confusion he could lose himself long enough to make his escape.

  Moving toward the doorway, he found it locked, then he came to the window. Men were jamming the entrance to the sheriff’s office.

  Tip took one last glance at the street, saw a half-dozen nervous horses at the tie rail, and made his decision. Lifting his foot, he kicked out the window, then, crouched low, crawled through it and lunged across the sidewalk. Jeff Bolling, wheeling from the entrance to the passageway between the buildings, saw him and shot. Tip tripped, sprawled between two horses, and crawled to his feet. He came up, saw a man on horseback ahead of him, and reached up and yanked him out of the saddle. He swung up into the saddle, just as a half-dozen shots raked the night. Instead of going downstreet, he pulled his horse around and crashed into the midst of the horsemen waiting. It was pandemonium. Everybody was afraid to shoot, and they slashed at Tip with their rifles. His horse was pushed against the tie rail, and Tip heard it crack and give way. He lifted the horse onto the boardwalk and roweled him through the crowd milling in front of the door to the sheriff’s office. His rush knocked men sprawling, and Tip lashed out with his foot, kicking anything in his way. And then he broke free of the press, still on the sidewalk. Leaning forward over his pony’s neck, he raced down the walk. Once he thought he was gone when his pony stepped through a rotten board, stumbled, and almost fell. Tip yanked him up, the shots from the posse now searching out the night around him. Out on the street, horses were racing abreast of him, riders shooting. At the first corner, still clinging to the boardwalk, Tip pulled his horse around the corner. Now they were on a cinder walk, and he sank in his spurs. Only seconds later the riders swung around the corner at full cry. Tip swung into the alley behind the jail, hoping this maneuver would throw them off, for there were men back here, too. But those riders had seen him, and they poured into the alley behind him. He ran the gauntlet of fire from the men afoot here, too, but it was a wild shooting, because these men had not known he was mounted. He scattered them at the jail, his passage drawing a scatter of shots.

  Hitting the next side street, he turned back to the main street past the hotel. The posse, jammed in the narrow confines of the alley, had lost a little way, and by the time they hit the main street Tip had a whole block’s advantage. They poured out after him, however, letting their guns off into the night.

  As he passed the feed stable, the hostler shot at him, whether out of exuberance, because he recognized him and disliked him, or because there was a posse behind him, Tip didn’t know.

  He let his horse run now, knowing there was no way out of the canyon except this road. He gained a little there in the darkness, but now that he couldn’t see his pursuers he felt they were closer than ever. That fear and excitement of the manhunt, old as man himself, came over him, this time with a violence that seemed to chill to the bone. For this time he was the hunted—and he didn’t even have a gun.

  At the opening of the canyon Tip cut across the park, forded the creek, and was almost into the timber when the posse came out. He knew they would spread out in groups, working the ground between the few scattered roads. As soon as daylight came they would pick up his tracks, and then close in on him. The thing to do, the only thing to do if he wanted to live, was to head for the peaks, traveling in a straight line and riding hard.

  When Jeff Bolling, on Tip’s heels, climbe
d the stairs to the cell block, he paused and glanced at his father’s cell. Murray Seth came after him. They paused, motionless, and looked at Ben Bolling’s body. Downstairs, the racket was thunderous, but here it was quiet.

  Murray spoke first, softly. “That dirty double-crosser of a Cam Shields. We were crazy, Jeff.”

  Jeff’s face, tight and wicked and baleful, didn’t change. He said, “How do you know it was Cam?”

  “Who else came up here besides Cam? Woodring. All right. He was out of shells, wasn’t he?”

  Jeff lifted a hand to his gun belt and flipped three shells onto the floor and then looked up at Murray. “Now do you think Woodring was out of shells?”

  Murray stared at him. “You mean you’ll hang it on—”

  “Hell, yes, I will!” Jeff blazed. “Woodring is the man we’ve got to lick! Cam killed Dad, of course. We were suckers enough to fall for his story! But we’ll use this to hang Woodring higher than a kite! Get downstairs, quick, and let me take care of this!”

  One of the Three B crew raced up the stairs and Murray yelled, “Get up on the roof, you fool!” The man raced up the ladder without looking at the cell block. Murray and Jeff exchanged the briefest of glances, and then Murray plunged down the stairs, Jeff on his heels. Jeff stopped at the passageway, listening to his men call back and forth through that passageway that held Tip Woodring. A wild desire to go in there after him rode Jeff Bolling for a moment, but a look at that dark strip and knowledge that it held a wickedly dangerous man stopped him. He flattened against the wall, throwing shots into the darkness. He heard the noise of smashing wood, and paused to listen. Then, to one side of him on the boardwalk, he heard a window jangle brokenly, and wheeled.

  He had only a glimpse of Tip Woodring lunging for the protection of the horses, and he shot wildly. After that it was bedlam. He fought to get out in the street, and was run down by a rider and knocked sprawling. He had only the briefest glimpse of a man crashing through the tie rail, while everyone was shouting and shooting, and then the mob flowed past him.