Chancy took aim, but compared to Jelly Varnes, he was molasses. Jelly’s smoke wagon cracked twice and the outlaw’s face exploded in a shower of blood and flesh.
The man was dead before his head smacked the earth.
“Told you,” Jelly said.
They went from body to body, both of them limping, but Jelly limped worse. His bleeding had apparently stopped, though.
The outlaw who was gasping and gulping looked up. Blood ran from his nose and dribbled from both sides of his mouth. Every breath was ragged. His six-shooter lay well out of his reach.
“Lung-shot,” Jelly said.
“I’ll put him out of his misery,” Chancy said.
“Like hell you will. Him and his friends did in our friends. Let the buzzard suffer.”
Chancy wasn’t disposed to argue. He kicked the six-shooter farther away and they moved on to the next man. Hooking his boot under the outlaw’s shoulder, Chancy rolled him over. An eye had been shot out.
“One of mine,” Jelly said. “I usually go for the face.”
They were almost to the last outlaw when hooves pounded. In unison they swung around, their six-guns leveled, but the horse was moving away.
“Who. . . ?” Jelly said.
Chancy glanced all around and felt a stab of bafflement. “Where’s Krine’s body?”
Jelly swiveled from side to side and swore a blue streak. “That must have been him. The bastard is getting away.”
“Not if we can help it,” Chancy vowed, and bobbed his chin at the string of outlaw mounts, theirs for the taking.
Jelly grinned and took a couple of strides and almost collapsed when his leg gave out. Clutching his thigh, he gritted his teeth and hissed through his nose. “Damn. It’s seizing up on me.”
Chancy was about to suggest they should take a look at it when a low groan caused them to spin yet again. But it wasn’t an outlaw.
It was Ben Rigenaw.
Quickly they hobbled over. Chancy dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. There was one, but oh so weak. “Ben?” he said. “Ben, can you hear me?”
Jelly couldn’t seem to bend his wounded leg. He gave up trying, and simply tucked at the waist. “Rigenaw? Don’t you die on us, you ornery so-and-so.”
Ben Rigenaw’s eyelids fluttered open. As if pulling himself back from a great inner void, he focused on Chancy and then on Jelly, and his lips quirked. “Dang,” he said. “I was hoping for angels.”
Jelly laughed.
Not Chancy. He gripped Rigenaw’s arm. “Is there anything we can do?” He knew full well there wasn’t.
“Did we get them all?”
“Krine lit a shuck,” Jelly said. “But his days of murdering cowpokes are over. I’ll hunt him down if it’s the last thing I do.”
Rigenaw smiled. “You got the herd back, trail boss. Congratulations.”
“As much your doing as ours,” Chancy said. “You shouldn’t have braced them alone.”
“Had it to do,” Rigenaw said. “I reckon you can guess why.”
“You should have told us how bad off you were,” Chancy said. “There might have been something we could do.”
“Or that sawbones,” Jelly said. “He saved Finger.”
“No time for that,” Rigenaw said. “The herd came first.” He grimaced, and quaked, and dug his fingers into the dirt.
“Ben?” Chancy said.
“Sawbones couldn’t have done much anyway,” Rigenaw said. “Had two slugs in me.”
“Two!” Chancy shook his head in awe at the iron will it must have taken for Rigenaw to last as long as he did.
“You’ve got more grit than any hombre I’ve ever known,” Jelly said. “I hope when my time comes, I go out half as glorious.”
Rigenaw closed his eyes. “You two should light a shuck after Krine. If he gets away, this was all for nothing.”
“We’re not leaving you,” Chancy said.
“You’re the trail boss now,” Rigenaw said. “You have to do what’s best for the outfit, not for one man.”
“What outfit?” Jelly said. “There’s us, and Ollie, and that’s it.”
“Go after him,” Ben Rigenaw insisted. “Don’t worry about me. Do what you have to.”
“Not yet.” Chancy would be damned if he’d leave him to die alone.
“I’d like to lie here in peace and quiet,” Rigenaw said. “Or is that too much to ask?”
“You’re not fooling anyone,” Chancy said.
“And you’re too softhearted. A good trail boss has to be hard inside to do what needs doing.”
“Stop with that,” Chancy said. “Lucas Stout cared about his hands as much as the herd. Look at the trouble he went to for Finger.”
“And look at what that cost him.”
“Why are you making such a fuss?” Jelly broke in. “You lived like a man, now die like one and quit your bellyaching.”
“Jelly,” Chancy said.
“That’s all right,” Ben Rigenaw said weakly. “I’m about done in. If you can find the time later, bury me. I hate to think I’d be food for the coyotes.”
“Count on it,” Chancy promised.
“You’re a good man, Chancy Gantry,” Rigenaw said, and died with a smile on his lips.
“Finally,” Jelly said.
Chancy felt a surge of anger. “Must you?”
Jelly hitched at his gun belt. “Time to go after the high and mighty Krine and end this once and for all.”
Chapter 71
They weren’t halfway to the string when Jelly Varnes bleated in pain, and staggered. His hands splayed to his thigh, he came to a stop. “Just what I need at a time like this.”
Chancy had been thinking. Rigenaw was right about the herd coming first. And if both he and Jelly lit out after Krine, there’d be no one to look after the cattle. Granted, one man couldn’t do much, but it was better than none. “You’re staying here,” he announced.
“Like hell I am.”
“I’m your boss now. You’ll do as I say.” Chancy walked on. “Look after the herd until I get back.”
“Hold on,” Jelly said, hobbling to catch up. “You can’t take Krine on by yourself. He’s too quick on the shoot. Maybe even quicker than me.”
“Then it doesn’t make a difference which ones of us braces him, does it?” Chancy deliberately walked faster.
Hobbling furiously, wincing with every step, Jelly declared, “This ain’t right, damn it. Leaving me to twiddle my thumbs while you put your hide at risk.”
“You won’t have time to twiddle,” Chancy said over his shoulder. “You’re to look after the longhorns and try not to let too many stray off.”
“Likely as not they’ll stay put until daylight,” Jelly said, “so there’s no reason not to let me tag along.”
“Your leg,” Chancy said.
“I can manage.”
“I’ve made my decision,” Chancy said firmly.
The commotion and din of gunfire had made the horses nervous. Several pranced and sought to pull free.
“Look after these too,” Chancy said. “The ladies can use them on the drive to Wichita.”
“You still intend to let a flock of doves lend us a hand?”
“Unless you can pull five or six cowpokes out of your pocket, I do.” Chancy picked a sorrel that was standing quietly. A saddle was still on it. Patting its neck, he led it a little way from the rest and forked leather.
Jelly hobbled after him. “I’m begging you. Don’t do this. We’ve lost too many as it is.”
“If you’re going to be my top hand from here on out,” Chancy said, “you should show more respect.” He leaned down. “If I don’t make it back, I expect you to see to the herd. Get it to the railhead, no matter what. Some would say it’s impossible. Prove them wrong.”
“Your top hand?”
“Lucas Stout had Ben Rigenaw. I have you.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Jelly said, and smiled. “I’m beginning to see why Stout picked you and not one of us others. He must have seen something in you I didn’t.”
Chancy raised the reins.
“Wait. How will you find him in the dark?”
“He’ll likely head north,” Chancy speculated. “All his men have been wiped out and his town burned. There’s nothing for him to go back to.”
“Makes sense.”
“If I haven’t caught up by, say, noon tomorrow, I’ll turn around and come back.”
“If you do catch up,” Jelly said, “don’t take chances.”
“As if I would.”
“Don’t go at him straight up or he’ll gun you for sure,” Jelly advised. “Shoot him from ambush. In the back if you have to. Whatever it takes.”
“I’m not no back-shooter,” Chancy said indignantly, and tapped his heels to the sorrel. The gall, to suggest he commit so cowardly an act.
“Would you go at a grizzly straight on?” Jelly yelled. “No. You’d shoot it from far off to be safe.”
“Not the same,” Chancy shouted back.
“You’re too pigheaded for your own good! Do you know that?”
Chancy didn’t answer. He fixed on the North Star and willed himself to relax. It might be a long ride. Krine would probably seek to cover as much distance as he could before sunrise.
The miles fell behind him, the wind strong on his face.
Chancy couldn’t stop yawning. He was sore and weary and would dearly love to catch some sleep. In a real bed with a soft pillow, and a quilt to keep him warm and snug. He’d curl up and not stir for a week. Just thinking about it made his eyelids grow leaden and his chin start to droop.
With a sharp toss of his head, Chancy sat straighter. He couldn’t afford to doze off. He was alone in the middle of the vast prairie. A single mistake could cost him his life.
Ahead, dark bumps appeared, swelling to become a line of hills.
Chancy climbed the first. From the crest he had a sweeping view of the benighted land ahead. He half hoped that Krine had stopped and kindled a fire, but there wasn’t a glimmer of light to be seen.
“Knew it wouldn’t be that easy,” Chancy said to the sorrel, and headed down the other side.
In half an hour he was out of the hills and crossing a tableland. The wind was even worse, and got dust into his eyes.
Chancy grew despondent. He was searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. For all he knew, Krine had gone west or east instead of north.
Chancy was acting on a hunch, nothing more. It could be a complete waste of his time. He was tempted to rein around and head back to the herd, but since he had come this far, he figured he’d stick to his original plan and push on until at least daybreak. If he didn’t come across sign of Krine by then, he’d call it quits.
The idea of Krine getting away didn’t sit well, though. Not after all the man had cost them. All the lives lost. All the suffering. If ever a man deserved an early grave, it was Artemis Krine.
Chancy would give anything to see him dangling from the end of a rope. Barring that, a slug to the head would suffice.
He chuckled at how bloodthirsty he’d become. Not a week ago he would have said that killing was wrong. Not anymore. There were times when it had to be done, when a person had to set personal feelings aside and do what needed doing.
Chancy consoled himself with the thought that if Krine did get away, he could always go after him later. After the herd was sold, and he had turned the proceeds over to the Flying V’s owner. He would make the rounds of the cow towns and ask every bartender and barber if they’d seen a gent answering to Krine’s description. It was a long shot, but it might work.
Suddenly a dry wash spread before him.
Chancy slowed to a walk to descend. The last thing he needed was for the sorrel to take a spill and maybe break a leg. He reached the bottom and was about to goad the sorrel up the other side when he distinctly heard the metallic click of a gun hammer being cocked.
“Any fast moves and you’re dead.”
Chapter 72
Chancy drew rein and imitated a statue. His hands were in front of him. To try to draw would be futile.
A horseshoe pinged on rock, and a horse came up next to the sorrel.
“Well, look who it is,” Artemis Krine said. “The boy who’s caused me so much trouble. If this isn’t fitting, I don’t know what is.”
Chancy slowly turned his head and stared into the muzzle of the Starr revolver. “You came north after all.”
“I have a new gang to recruit,” Krine said, “and the towns in Kansas are full of hard cases.”
“How did you know I was after you?”
“I didn’t,” Krine said. “I came down here to get out of the wind and to rest my animal.” He patted his bay. “Good thing I did.”
Chancy suspected he had mere minutes to live. Krine wasn’t the kind to toy with him, like a cat with a mouse. Krine would simply shoot him dead and push on. Frantic to save his skin, he said, “I’m not alone.”
“Liar.”
“We spread out to cover more ground,” Chancy said. “You shoot and they’ll hear and come on the run.”
Krine rose in the stirrups but couldn’t see over the rims on either side. “I don’t believe you,” he growled, but he didn’t sound entirely confident.
“Then squeeze that trigger and see what happens,” Chancy bluffed, shifting slightly.
Krine tilted his head, listening. “I don’t hear anything. I still think you’re a damn liar.”
Chancy shifted a little more. “That’s your problem. You’ve underestimated us all along.”
“I had your outfit licked,” Krine said. “You burned down my town and killed a lot of my men, but I beat you.”
“We’ve taken the herd back,” Chancy said to keep him talking. “You haven’t beaten anyone.”
“I wish you and that damn herd never showed up,” Krine said bitterly.
“For what it’s worth, the feeling is mutual.” Chancy shifted farther, only an inch or so. He’d made up his mind he wouldn’t die meekly. He would try to get off a shot. Even if he missed, it was better than just sitting there.
“I wouldn’t have reckoned it possible. A bunch of cowpokes against some of the worst bad men in the territory, and you licked us.”
“We were fighting for the brand,” Chancy said.
“It was more than that. Others fought us. But they weren’t shucks compared to you. From your trail boss on down, you were as salty as Comanches.”
Yet again Chancy shifted. Now he was almost facing Krine. “You prod a man, you have to expect him to prod back.”
“There are men and there are men.” Krine gestured with his Starr. “How about you climb down? I still don’t believe you’re alone, but I’ve learned not to push my luck with your outfit.”
“You have to back off,” Chancy said. “I can’t swing down with your horse so close.”
“Slide off,” Krine said. “Real slow.”
Chancy was hoping he’d say that. He slid his boot out of the stirrup and started to raise his leg over the saddle horn. All he had to do was swing it over and he could slide off as Krine wanted. Instead, when his leg reached its highest point, he let go of the reins and swung his leg at Krine’s gun hand. The Starr went off, but the shot missed.
Startled, the sorrel wheeled away from the bay, and Chancy was nearly unhorsed. Clinging to the saddle horn, he jabbed his heels.
The sorrel bolted up out of the gully and came to a gallop with its mane flying.
Another shot boomed. Hugging his saddle, Chancy fled for his life. Or that was the impression he wanted to give.
Krine gave chas
e.
Chancy couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried. He was no match for Krine with a six-gun, but he’d match his riding ability against anyone else’s any day of the week. Krine had made the blunder a lot of bad men made: he was too confident by half.
Lashing his reins, Chancy maintained his lead. Twenty, forty, fifty yards, they covered. Chancy reckoned that was enough. With a silent prayer, Chancy did the last thing Krine would expect. Drawing his Remington, he clutched it tight and launched himself from the saddle.
Cowboys took spills all the time. It was a common hazard of the job. Which was why some of them, Chancy included, learned how to fall without breaking their necks, or worse. Chancy knew to loosen his body and to turn so his shoulder and side bore the brunt. He came down hard enough that it knocked the breath from his lungs, but otherwise he was unhurt. Rolling, he pushed to his knees.
The bay came abreast of him, Krine intent on the still-moving sorrel.
Chancy extended his six-shooter, cocking it as he did, and centered the barrel on the mass in the bay’s saddle, the best he could do given the dim starlight. He fired, thumbed the hammer, fired again. There were answering blasts, and it felt as if his head were kicked by a mule. The next moment he was on his back, the stars spinning crazily overhead, his hat gone.
Chancy thought he heard a thud, and blacked out.
* * *
As if he had popped out of a black hole, Chancy was suddenly awake and aware, his eyes open. He lay still, afraid his wound was mortal. There wasn’t much pain, but he’d heard that sometimes was the case. The Remington was still in his right hand. Gingerly he flexed the fingers of his left and raised it to his head. He was bleeding, but not a lot. The slug had only grazed him, taking off skin and flesh and hair, and sparing his brainpan.
Thank you, God, Chancy thought, and went to raise his head to look around. Pain pounded fiercely at his skull. Stifling a groan, he stayed still until the pain subsided.
He was about to try again when a strange sound intruded on the stillness of the night.
A slight scraping noise, as if something were being dragged along the ground. He couldn’t make sense of it.
The sound stopped and after a bit began again.
Ralph Compton Outlaw Town Page 26
