“We’ll find the answers, all in good time,” shrugged Leam. “No sense in rushin’ things. Fellers our age got to be patient.”
“What’re we waitin’ for?” demanded Grisson.
“Waitin’ for Ellinger to make a mistake—what else?” said Leam.
“I’d as soon throw him in a cell before he can break the law,” declared Grisson.
“Couldn’t hold him five minutes,” sighed Leam. “Got to wait for his first wrong move, Hobie.”
“You mean his first wrong move that we know about,” frowned Grisson.
“Uh huh,” nodded Leam. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Weil, in the meanwhile,” said Grisson, “I sure feel sorry for Buck Gould’s little gal. I’d like to believe Ellinger’s treatin’ her right—but I don’t think so. I don’t think so no how.”
“Buck’s daughter,” the sheriff moodily opined, “could likely of done a heap better for herself.”
It was typical of these aged lawmen that they should always refer to Wilma Ellinger as ‘Buck Gould’s little gal’ or just ‘Buck’s daughter’. The same Buck Gould had been an old friend of theirs. In many ways, they lived in the past. The wife of Todd Ellinger had never changed identity in their eyes with the passing of almost twenty years. Other locals spoke of her as Mrs. Todd Ellinger, or Ellinger’s wife or the Ellinger woman. To Leam and Grisson, she was still Buck Gould’s little gal.
As they returned to their game, Grisson sourly confided, “I never could abide a hombre that totes fancy hardware—like that Cheyenne Kid.”
“The gunslicks and troublemakers are gettin’ younger every year,” mused Leam. “And that’s somethin’ I can’t abide.”
It was 10.50 of that morning when Jason Croll and his three companions reached the waterhole on Rafter 7’s north quarter and suddenly found themselves confronted by their employer. With Ellinger were the other hired guns of Rafter 7, all twelve of them. Nick Farnley had swung down from his pinto and was grinning a lazy grin while listening to the stream of abuse aimed at Croll by his employer.
“Thought you could lead a raid of your own planning, was that it, Croll?” fumed Ellinger. “Since when do you consider yourself qualified to take my place? Damn you, Croll, I’ll …”
“Take it easy, boss …” began Croll.
“Don’t interrupt!” snarled Ellinger. He stepped closer to the cigar-chewing Croll and swung a vicious back-hander. The blow robbed Croll of his cigar and started his face smarting. “When I talk, you’ll listen!”
“Yeah—sure,” breathed Croll.
“You had the nerve, the stone-cold nerve,” raged Ellinger, “to cross the border without my permission! And now you come back with one man wounded …”
“Blanton ain’t hurt bad,” protested Croll. “We hit a coach bound south to Frankston, grabbed the cashbox and got away clear.”
“Got away clear,” jeered Ellinger. “Except that Blanton is too weak to stay on his horse.”
“I didn’t reckon you’d act sore,” shrugged Croll. “All I wanted was to prove I could handle such a chore by myself.” He delved into his saddlebag for the wads of bank-. notes taken from the strongbox. “Here it is—the whole ten thousand.”
He stepped forward, held out the money. Ellinger called him a name and struck him again, and he just stood there with blood on his mouth and the bundles of banknotes balanced on his outstretched arms, because to strike back at Ellinger would have been more than his life was worth. Farnley was watching him, grinning, his right hand caressing the gleaming butt of a Colt .45. The others, all the men to whom he had relayed Ellinger’s commands over the past months, sat their mounts, watched and waited, offering no comment.
For another minute, Ellinger snarled abuse at him. Then, curtly, he muttered a command to Farnley.
“Take the money from Croll. Divide it among the men. Make sure everybody gets a share—everybody except Croll.”
To Croll, this was the crowning indignity.
“Now wait a minute …” he began.
“What’s the matter, Croll?” challenged Ellinger. “The arrangement doesn’t suit you?” He was still flushed with rage. “I’m penalizing you, Croll. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll never again dare to go against my orders.” He snatched the money from Croll a bundle at a time, tossed all the wealth over his shoulders. “If you think you’re man enough, try and stop the Kid from picking up that cash.” He moved clear of Croll and the young gunslinger. “You can’t give orders until you’ve learned to take orders, Croll. As of this moment, you’re no longer ramrod of Rafter 7. The Kid gets your job. You’re just one of the hired hands now—understand?”
“You can’t treat me that way!” gasped Croll.
“Tell it to the Kid,” jibed Ellinger.
Throughout his none too distinguished career as a gun-toting opportunist, Jason Croll had known many a humiliation, but, this was the worst, this harrowing, soul-destroying moment of indecision, while he stood face to face with the smiling, cold-eyed Cheyenne Kid. He had seen Farnley in action and knew his chances of beating his speed were about one in a hundred; such odds didn’t appeal to. him. He would have to stomach the humiliation.
“You first, Croll,” Farnley invited. He leaned forward slightly, his right arm hanging slack, his teeth bared in a mirthless, challenging grin. “It won’t help you any, Croll, but you can make the first move anyway.” He snapped the fingers of his left hand. “Any of you jaspers bring a shovel? You might’s well start diggin’—because Croll will need a grave in just a couple minutes.”
Croll’s scalp crawled. He heard Durango and Murle chuckling derisively and his defeat was final and complete, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. Softly, he said: “All right, Kid, so you’re the fastest. You don’t have to prove it by me.”
The laughter increased, as Farnley coolly gathered up the money, turned his back on Croll and began the division of the loot. Croll mumbled something unintelligible, moved back to his horse and remounted. Blanton, clinging to his saddle horn, eyeing Ellinger pleadingly, declared:
“I need a doctor—awful bad. I ache all over …”
“How serious is this man’s wound?” Ellinger demanded of Croll.
“He’ll mend,” grunted Croll. “I patched him good.”
“Croll’s a damn-blasted butcher!” groaned Blanton. “It’s too bad that the three medicos of Brigg County are true-blue and honest,” scowled Ellinger. He swung astride the bay, lit a cigar and studied Blanton thoughtfully. “We’re making our fortune the easy way, Blanton. The pickings have been prime, and there’s better to come. At this stage of the game, we just can’t risk arousing the suspicions of the local law.”
“I can take care of Leam and Grisson,” offered Farnley, “any time you say the word.”
“No.” Ellinger shook his head emphatically. “As things stand at the moment, we have nothing to gain by eliminating those worn-out old-timers. Brigg County is a safe refuge for us. Let’s keep it that way.” He looked at Blanton again. "‘Don’t worry. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
“I—can’t have a doctor?” blinked the injured man.
“As soon as we get you back to Rafter 7,” said Ellinger, “I’ll have the chuck-boss take a look at that wound of yours.”
“Alvaredo’s a cook,” panted Blanton, “not a doctor.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time Juan patched a bullet-hole,” Durango consoled him. “A mighty handy hombre is Juan Alvaredo.”
“Well—for pity’s sakes get me home,” mumbled Blanton. “I’m burnin’ up.”
Jubilant at this windfall and with their easily-acquired wealth already burning holes in their pockets, the men of Rafter 7 headed for home. Tonight, most of them would ride to town for the inevitable celebration; Murle and Durango were already headed in that direction. It seemed Croll alone was to be penalized for defiance of Ellinger’s orders. The uniforms used by Murle and Durango were removed from their saddlebags and passed to
two of the other riders for transfer back to Rafter 7. Ellinger was adamant in his resolve that none of his men should ever ride to Brigg City with such incendiary evidence rolled in their packs or stowed in their saddlebags.
At 11.20 a.m., when he rode into the patio fronting the Rafter 7 ranch-house, Ellinger saw his wife standing on the balcony of her bedroom. She had wrapped a robe about her sleeping attire, but hadn’t thought to brush her hair. It hung about her shoulders, as she leaned against’ the balcony rail, eyeing him anxiously.
“Lean further this way, my beloved wife.” He grinned inwardly as this dark thought came to him. “Fall, Wilma. Fall thirty feet to the patio, and then it will all be over—and I’ll be well rid of you.”
She waved eagerly. He ignored her, as he dismounted and handed his rein to a Mexican servant. It was far more pleasant to let his mind dwell on the well-curved, boldly-beautiful Cass Broderick. Unhurriedly, he entered the house and sauntered the ground floor hall to the room that served as his office. The swivel chair was placed near an open window. He sat there smoking, gazing away towards the clapboard bunkhouse into which the groaning Blanton was now being carried. And he thrust all thought of Blanton from his mind just as easily as he ignored Wilma.
She had seemed passably pretty at the time of their marriage, but he had soon tired of her. The marriage, of course, had boosted his financial status, since Wilma was the daughter and sole beneficiary in the Will of old Buck Gould, Rafter 7’s original owner. He was, however, a man of expensive tastes and larcenous instincts. He had no intention of living, the life of a struggling cattleman indefinitely. On the day that he broke down Cass’ resistance, persuading her to accompany him to the west coast, he would be in a position to do it all in style. That at least was his plan. It never occurred to him that, faced with such a proposition, the auburn-haired owner of the Lucky Chance might flatly reject it.
Curiously, this hirer of thieves and murderers was himself squeamish, personally opposed to violence. He didn’t have what it took to dispose of the wife who, nowadays, earned naught but his contempt. A bullet or a carefully-arranged accident would have been far more merciful than the method he now used. In the second year of their marriage, day by day and insidiously, he had transformed a teetotaler into a drunkard. He had cajoled Wilma into taking drink for drink with him, deliberately playing on her childish eagerness to please him. With a woman of strong character it would not have been possible. Wilma, unfortunately, was weak-willed and easily led, fair game for a schemer of Ellinger’s treacherous instincts.
He heard the door opened and closed and, without turning to face her, knew the identity of his visitor. He heard her uncertain footsteps, the slight squealing sound made by the door-hinges of the liquor cabinet, and then the sound of a drawn cork, the clink of a bottleneck against glass.
“Thirsty, my dear—as usual?” he jibed.
From the liquor cabinet, Wilma Ellinger toted her glass to the window. Wearily, she sank onto the window-ledge and stared at him. He grimaced in disgust. At such close quarters, he found her far more repulsive than when viewed from the yard. The skin under her hazel eyes was pouchy. The crow’s feet and the lines between nose and mouth seemed deeper nowadays. Her complexion was pasty. The robe sagged so that portion of her bosom was revealed.
“Where were you?” she wearily enquired. “I was—looking for you—and I couldn’t find you …”
“Out,” he told her, boredly. “Go ahead, Wilma. Drink hearty.”
“I don’t really want it,” she mumbled. “Don’t—understand what came over me. Yesterday I made myself—made myself—promise. No drinking. Went all day—and no drinking. But when the night came, I couldn’t do without it any longer. I just had to …”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I noticed.”
She stared worriedly at her glass, lifted it with both hands and took a generous mouthful. As the raw liquor coursed through her, she blinked dazedly at him and voiced a thought.
“Am I going to be—this way—all the time?”
“It’s up to you,” he shrugged. “I’ve heard it said that no man should touch the stuff unless he can carry it—and surely the same applies to the ladies.” He grinned sardonically. “I use the term loosely, of course.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Todd,” she begged. “Don’t make fun of me. I have to drink now! It’s getting to be—like a sickness!”
“That’s one way of describing it,” he supposed.
“I’ve been thinking …” she began.
“You still know how to think?” he jeered. “Remarkable!”
“I was—kind of hoping—Doc Wesley could help me,” she sighed.
“Maybe I’ll look in on Wesley tonight.” This was a convenient lie designed to get rid of her for the time being. He intended visiting Brigg City tonight, but a discussion of his wife’s condition with austere old Asa Wesley was not his idea of fun. “I’ll ask his opinion, if it’ll make you feel any easier.”
She swigged the rest of her drink, shuddered and repeated, “I need help—a lot of help.”
Papers slid from atop his desk and fluttered to the floor. The gust of wind was gentle at first, but it started her shivering. He felt its velocity increasing, as he rose to secure the window. Dust-clouds billowed on the horizon. She moved around behind the desk, trembling, still clutching the empty glass.
“I hate storms,” she murmured.
“It won’t be a severe storm,” he calmly predicted. “Probably blow itself out in a couple of hours.”
Between the desk and the doorway, she paused for another brief visit to the liquor cabinet, another formidable libation. Her voice was blurred, almost incoherent, as she voiced a challenge.
“If you—planned on riding—town tonight—I can guess the real reason …”
“Go to your room, Wilma dear.” He grinned satirically, “You need your rest.”
“You think I—never overhear talk?” she breathed. “I’ve heard, Todd, and I know—about you and—that—that redhead at the Lucky Chance. She’s not good enough for you, don’t you know that?” The reprimand became an abject plea. “She’s no good, Todd! Just a—a man-chasing widow!”
“You’ve been wrongly informed, my dear,” he countered. “To describe Cass Broderick as a man-chaser is downright ludicrous.” He turned away from her, as he added, “She doesn’t need to Chase any man. They flock to her—because she’s a rare one.”
“Stay away from her,” she groaned. “Please—Todd—stay away from her!”
“Go back to bed,” he drawled. “You need your rest.” Wearily, she trudged from the room. Todd Ellinger then seated himself at his desk, unrolled a map and began planning another raid, another bank robbery to be executed by the bandit pack disguised as soldiers.
SIX
THE REVEREND BIG JIM
As the Rafter 7 boss had predicted, that gale subsided in a matter of hours. Big Jim and the Mex were sheltering within a cedar brake when, at 2.15 that afternoon, the leaves ceased to rustle and the force of the wind was broken; the alkali that had canopied the area a short time before now settled on the trees as white as the first snow of winter.
“Was not so bad, eh, amigo?” yawned Benito, as he remounted the burro. “At least we find shelter.”
“We could’ve been worse off,” Jim agreed. “But it’s too bad that gale hit when it did.”
He swung astride the sorrel, hooked a leg over the saddle horn and began rolling a cigarette. Benito eyed him expectantly.
“This wind sweeps all the ground, eh? There will be no more tracks to follow?”
“Nary a hoof print,” scowled Jim.
“¡Muy bien!” grinned Benito. “So, if we cannot track these bandidos, we go back to Frankston—no?”
“We don’t go back to Frankston,” growled Jim, “until I’m through with this chore—and I won’t be through with it till that owlhoot pack is finished.” He scratched a match for his cigarette, squinted at Benito through the smoke-haze. “You might as we
ll know it, cucaracha. I’m in this deal to the death.”
“Ah, sí.” Benito shrugged philosophically. “For the honor of the caballeria.”
“But, like I told you before,” said Jim, “you can quit any time you want—such as right now, for instance.”
“This I will consider,” said Benito.
“Sure.” Jim’s grin was mirthless. “Later on, when the guns start talking.”
He lowered his boot to stirrup and wheeled the sorrel as they ambled their mounts through the cedars towards open country.
They emerged from the timber, and Jim’s hunch concerning the condition of the terrain was proved accurate; the land had been swept clean. Well, maybe it had been too much to hope for—the easy way, the prospect of his quarry leaving clear track all the way to their lair. He nudged the sorrel to a loping run and, with Benito’s burro plodding along in the rear, made for the summit of a rise. From that elevated position, he was able to scout much of the territory to the northwest. From an even higher position, the peak of a rock-littered hill some three quarters of a mile farther north, he was able to see much more—cattle grazing to the north and south, a forest of cottonwood, a line-shack perched on the slope of a ridge, a trail that looked to be well-used, winding away to the west.
When they reached the trail, he made his decision. “We’ll follow this to the first. sign of civilization. Our supplies are getting low anyway.”
“And, when we find this town?” prodded Benito.
“I’ll damn soon find out if there’s an army post hereabouts,” muttered Jim, “or if anybody has sighted four soldiers on the loose.”
“People may be too much afraid to answer questions,” warned Benito.
“That’s the chance I’ll have to take,” said Jim.
At 2.45 p.m., an eastbound stagecoach came speeding towards them. They edged their mounts over to the side of the trail and traded waves with the driver and guard as the vehicle rumbled past. To Jim, it now seemed more than likely that the town was close. He was right. Brigg City was less than a quarter-mile to the west.
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