The pounding chase continued up rises and down into dips in the countryside, then out once again across the flatlands. The masked men showed a preference to head north, so Rawley and Chaw cut in that direction to force them to veer southward as much as possible. It was a lot like hunting game. Never let your quarry go in the direction it wants to. After a quarter of an hour, all the riders—pursuer and pursued alike—galloped in an easterly route toward the prairie horizon.
The two spoilers drew in close together, shouting to each other. Rawley and Chaw knew what that meant. They went for their guns at about the same time the freebooters reined to a sudden stop and leaped to the ground.
Rawley and Chaw veered off as a brief flurry of shots followed. Within moments, they too were out of the saddle and afoot on the Diablos. The sudden cessation of pounding hooves on the prairie made the range eerily silent to the men who had been going hell-for-leather across the lush grass country only moments before.
“Chaw!” Rawley whispered. “I noticed a draw up there. Them two must’ve decided to hole up there.”
“Yeah,” Chaw said. “That’s why we can’t see the sumbitches now.”
“Keep an eye out.” Rawley crawled forward a few yards, then suddenly leaped to his feet and ran a few paces before diving down. Several shots burst out. “You see ’em, Chaw?”
“Straight ahead,” Chaw responded.
“Cover me!”
Both Rawley and Chaw jumped in. Chaw cut loose with several shots in the direction of the outlaws, while Rawley went forward a distance before flinging himself back into the cover of the grass. They repeated the action, this time with Rawley firing while Chaw maneuvered toward the bushwhackers.
The masked duo was confused by the action. Each time either Rawley or Chaw made a dash, they tried to hit them, but the opportunity for a good shot was too fleeting.
Finally, Rawley had worked himself down into the draw and gone a few yards toward the outlaws. He could easily see both bushwhackers as they strained to catch sight of something to shoot at out on the prairie. Rawley put his carbine in his left hand and drew his Colt. He took a deep breath, then shouted, “Hold there, you two!”
The raiders did not hesitate even a split second before turning toward Rawley with their guns leveled on him. He had no choice but to shoot first and fast. His pistol bucked with each squeeze of the trigger, the bullets flying into the bodies of the hooded desperadoes.
They crumpled under the accurate shooting, dropping to the ground like bags of grain falling from a wagon.
Chaw appeared from the other side. He could see there was no sense in using his own gun. He went to the man nearest him and ripped the hood off. “Here’s a stranger.”
Rawley took care of the other and saw a familiar face. “Farley Buchanan.”
Buchanan wasn’t dead yet. Blood came from his nose, mouth, and ears, but he was still conscious. “Howdy, Rawley,” he said weakly. “I was right surprised to find it was you when we whipped around there.”
“I should’ve known we’d be seeing you, Farley,” Rawley said. “We shot up Jack Freeman a coupla days ago. You and him rode together, didn’t you?”
“Hell, yes! Me and him was pards for a long time,” Buchanan said. “Was you the one that got him?”
“I don’t know,” Rawley answered matter-of-factly.
Chaw squatted down beside the fallen gunman. “Howdy, Farley.”
“Howdy, Chaw. I got it good, didn’t I?”
“You ain’t gonna make it,” Chaw said bluntly. Buchanan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “At least it don’t hurt much.”
“I’m glad o’ that, Farley,” Rawley said sincerely. “You don’t mind telling us who’s put you up to this, do you?”
“Are you two packing stars?” Buchanan asked.
Rawley shook his head. “We’re working cowboys for one o’ the ranches you and your pards keep hitting. And we’d like to know who’s paying for your gun.”
“I don’t know,” Farley said. “And even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I don’t give a good goddamn if you’re lawmen or not.”
“I reckon you don’t,” Rawley said. “But would you mind telling me the why of it?”
Buchanan groaned. “They want us to run the Diablos clear o’ ranchers. That’s all I know.”
“How’s come you don’t raid the ranches and burn ’em down?” Chaw asked.
“They don’t want the buildings and property ruined,” Buchanan replied. He started to speak again, but his breath came up short. “Damn!” He relaxed a moment. “But if I was you fellers I’d get the hell off the Diablos. Whoever wants the range for theirselves has got lots o’ money and a strong hankering to own the place.”
“Thanks for the warning, Farley,” Chaw said.
“You two don’t look worried,” Buchanan said. He grinned, then the forced smile turned into a grimace. “You winged me once near San Antone, Rawley. So this ain’t the first time you shot me, is it?”
Rawley shook his head. “Nope.”
“But it’s the last,” Chaw remarked.
Farley Buchanan grinned again and died.
Eleven
The stage driver tugged the reins, bellowing cuss words and loud abuse at the team of horses as the lumbering vehicle left the main trail and rolled over the bumpy prairie toward the nearby town of Duncan. He glanced over at his partner riding shotgun and said, “That uppity sonofabitch is damn lucky I don’t throw his ass off right here.” He referred to one of the passengers inside. “I should make him walk the rest o’ the way and lug that damn suitcase too.”
The guard laughed. “Serve him right too for insisting that we take him off the reg’lar route and into town.”
“He must think the price of a ticket makes him more powerful than the Almighty,” the driver said.
“Them Easterners has got a way about ’em that flat rubs a feller raw, don’t they?” the guard complained. “And they talk so damn funny too.”
“Gospel truth! Gospel truth!” the driver agreed. “I wonder what brings him out on the Diablos anyhow. This place ain’t got shit but stubborn ranchers and bad weather most o’ the time.”
“Maybe he thinks there’s a fancy hotel out here,” the guard said.
Five minutes later the stage came to a clattering, squeaking half in front of the most imposing building in the town—the Deep River Saloon. The driver bellowed, “Duncan! Out for Duncan, Texas, on the Diablos Range.”
The guard climbed up on the top of the conveyance and grabbed a large, heavy leather suitcase. He heaved it to the ground, where the expensive piece of luggage bounced twice before ending up against the saloon porch.
Calvin Witherspoon stepped from the stage and slammed the door. “Which one of you threw that suitcase to the ground like that?”
“It wasn’t me,” the driver said. He looked at the ' guard. “Was it you?”
The guard shook his head. “Nope. It did it on its own.”
“That’s right,” the driver said. “When we come to a stop it hollered out, ‘At last!’ and jumped right off.” He nudged his pal, and they both guffawed and winked at each other.
“Extremely amusing,” Witherspoon said. He was a short, dapper man, his expensive suit covered with dust. “You can be assured I shall write your employers about your conduct. You’ve both been rude and uncaring throughout the entirety of this horrid trip.”
“If you think they’ll fire us, you’re loco, mister,” the driver said. “They ain’t gonna find nobody else dumb enough like me and Gus to drive out over the Diablos. So long.”
“So long!” the guard echoed.
The reins cracked and the horses lurched back into action, going into a wide turn and heading back for the main trail. Witherspoon watched them disappear, then walked up to his suitcase. He wrestled the heavy piece of luggage up on the porch. After catching his breath from the unaccustomed labor, he went to the closed door of the saloon and banged on it.
“Ma
cWilliams!” he yelled out. “Ho, Ed!”
There was no answering sound from inside. Witherspoon pounded again, frustration and anger making him ignore the pain of hitting the hard door frame. “Ed MacWilliams! Get out here! It’s me, Witherspoon!”
A feminine voice, husky with sleep and the previous night’s whiskey, called from above. “Who’s the noisy sonofabitch down there?”
Witherspoon walked out onto the street so he could look over the roof covering the porch. He could see the unpleasant face of a wasted, faded woman peering down at him. “I’m looking for Ed MacWilliams,” he said.
Hannah O’Dell, disheveled and hung over, frowned at him. “Well, he ain’t here.”
“Then would you mind telling me exactly where in hell he is?” Witherspoon asked in an exasperated tone.
“He’s in his room over to the boardinghouse,” Hannah said.
Witherspoon clenched his fists in anger at the insolent reaction to his inquiries. “And where might that boardinghouse be, please?”
“It might be in Kansas City, but it ain’t,” Hannah said with a sneer. “It’s over yonder on the other side o’ the general store. The only two-story house. Now vamoose so’s a lady can get some sleep.”
“If there is any lady in there,” Witherspoon said coolly, “I hope she was not disturbed.”
Hannah laughed. “That’s perty good.” She slammed the window shut.
Witherspoon started to pick up his suitcase, then changed his mind. He trudged across the street and walked along the side of the general store, picking his way through the horse droppings and mud puddles. “Oh, God!” he said aloud to himself. “Why did I get myself into a situation where I had to come back to this part of the country?”
The boardinghouse was another twenty yards beyond. He could see a woman sweeping off the front steps of the place. Witherspoon walked up to her and tipped his hat. “Good morning, madam. I’m looking for Ed MacWilliams,” he said, expecting the worst.
“Big Ed is in the kitchen having his breakfast,” the woman said. “You’ll find it in the back of the house.”
“Thank you, madam. You are an oasis of kindness and intelligence in this desert of idiocy and impertinence.” He went inside, and walked through a parlor until he reached a short hallway. From there he went a short distance until he reached the kitchen. He paused in the door and looked at the large man sitting at the table. “So they call you Big Ed now, do they?”
Big Ed looked up from his plate of eggs, his mouth wide open. “Damn, Cal. I never expected to see you.”
“Oh, you really didn’t? How strange! You see, that sort of surprises me, Ed. Oh, pardon me! I mean, of course, Big Ed. It’s just that I figured you’d be expecting to see me or somebody from the way things are going out here.”
Big Ed set his fork down. “Let’s not start out on the wrong foot again, Cal.” He stood up and offered his hand. “I reckon the last time I laid eyes on you, you was a-heading back East right after I bought out your share of our San Angelo bar. You swore you’d never come west o’ the Mississippi again.”
Witherspoon shook hands with him. “I’m not overly thrilled about being here.”
“You don’t see me dancing the fandango, do you?” Big Ed said. “Living on the Diablos ain’t like being in the lap o’ luxury.”
“Yeah,” Witherspoon said. “In your letters you mentioned a string of ill fortune. And that, as you must already have figured out, is exactly what has brought me here.”
“A long, long string of bad luck,” Big Ed said. “I been run out of a coupla towns and was damn near lynched once.”
“You sometimes make very poor judgments and decisions, my old friend,” Witherspoon said.
“You don’t have to remind me,” Big Ed said.
“I need a cup of coffee,” Witherspoon said. “I’ve been on a stage for three days. We either stayed in flea-infested hovels or camped out all night, and traveled as long as there was light enough to see.”
Big Ed went to the stove and fetched him some of the hot brew. “It’s been a long, longtime, Cal. It’s just like old times seeing you again. A thousand mem’ries keep jumping into my mind.”
“Yeah. We went through our share of adventures— and misadventures—together, didn’t we?”
“We sure did,” Big Ed answered.
Witherspoon was grateful for the strong coffee. “We got some talking to do.”
“This ain’t the place to do it,” Big Ed said. “Let me finish my grub and we’ll go over to the saloon.”
“First let me get a room here,” Witherspoon said. “I may be forced to stay in town for a bit.”
“There ain’t a vacancy,” Big Ed said. “Some townfolks is here, and a coupla my boys is bunking in one o’ the rooms.”
“Kick your boys out,” Witherspoon said. “I’ll take their place.”
“Sure, Cal,” Big Ed said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“My suitcase is on the porch of your saloon,” Witherspoon continued. “Have someone fetch it to my digs.”
“I’ll see that it’s brung over here,” Big Ed promised. “I’ll run upstairs and get the fellers up and outta there. Then one of ’em’ll fetch your bag for you.”
“I’ll wait,” Witherspoon said.
He could hear Big Ed MacWilliams stomping up the stairs. Within moments there was an angry muttering of masculine voices that quickly quieted down as soon as Big Ed’s own voice roared out in instant rage at what he considered insubordination.
Five minutes later, two men carrying saddlebags came down the stairs and went out the front door. Big Ed came back into the kitchen. “It’s all set. I’ll have Mrs Malone change the sheets on the bed and clean the room up.”
“Good,” Witherspoon said.
“You want some breakfast, Cal?” Big Ed asked. “I’ll see to that too.”
“No, thank you,” Witherspoon said. “I am most certainly not hungry after that stage ride. Anyway, I’m anxious for us to have a talk about business.”
Big Ed sat back down to finish his eggs. “I sent you a report not more’n a month ago.”
“We weren’t pleased,” Witherspoon said. “In fact, I was under the gun because I’d arranged this whole thing and recommended you personally for the job.”
Big Ed pushed his plate away, his face flushed with anger. “Let’s get over to my office.”
The two walked through the house and went outside, where the boardinghouse’s owner, Mrs Malone, had just finished her sweeping chores. Big Ed nodded to her. “Curly and Joe has moved outta their room, Miz Malone. My friend Witherspoon is moving in. How about changing the bed and cleaning the place up for him?”
“Are you still paying the rent, Mr MacWilliams?” the lady asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Big Ed said.
“You explain my rules to your friend,” Mrs. Malone reminded him.
“Don’t worry about Mr Witherspoon,” Big Ed assured her. “He’s a perfect gentleman.”
“He looks it,” Mrs. Malone said approvingly.
As the two men walked back to the Deep River Saloon, they passed Curly and Joe lugging Witherspoon’s heavy suitcase back to the boardinghouse. Curly frowned, saying, “Just where the hell are we supposed to sleep?”
“Yeah,” Joe Black said. “There ain’t no more rooms in Duncan.”
“Move into the saloon, boys,” Big Ed told them.
“I take those are the two fellows whose room I’m taking,” Witherspoon said.
“That’s right,” Big Ed said. “But don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t,” Witherspoon said flatly.
They paused at the big portal behind the batwing doors as Big Ed opened up the saloon. They went inside, where the stuffy whiskey smell of the previous night’s activities hung strong in the air.
“My office is this way,” Big Ed said. He grabbed a bottle from the bar as they walked past. “I need an eye-opener.”
Witherspoon knew that Big Ed was already wide-a
wake. The liquor was to calm his nerves for what he was about to hear. The office was small and sparsely ‘ furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a safe. “This is your headquarters, hey?” Witherspoon remarked.
“What do you expect out here on the Diablos, goddamn it!” Big Ed snapped. “I ain’t sitting on my ass in a fancy office back East.” He sat down and opened the bottle, immediately treating himself to a couple of deep swallows. “I shoulda gone back with you when you left, I reckon. Want a snort?”
“No, thank you,” Witherspoon said. He preferred fine brandy.
“So let’s not waste no time. Just haul off and let me know what you and your rich pards in New York is so unhappy about,” Big Ed said sullenly. “Maybe it’s time for a little old-fashioned Western back talk to bring the facts to you.”
“The first thing you do is calm down,” Witherspoon said. “I will stand for no browbeating one way or the other.”
Big Ed grabbed control of himself. After another drink and a deep breath, he spoke much more calmly. “Have your say.”
Witherspoon sat down on the other side of the desk. He pulled a couple of expensive cigars from his jacket pocket. After sliding one over to Big Ed, he lit one for himself. “We want to know what’s taking so long.”
“It’s a tough fight,” Big Ed said.
“It’s an expensive fight,” Witherspoon said. “And frankly, we’re getting worried about our money. This has turned out to be one hell of an investment. That money might have been better off put into something else. I really need an accounting.”
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t keeping any books!’ Big Ed said. “You want us all to go to jail or the gallows?”
“Let’s keep our voices down,” Witherspoon warned him. “Now. What’s taking so long?”
“These ranchers is tough,” Big Ed said. “I told you that when you and your syndicate decided you wanted the Diablos.”
“And we gave you enough money to finance a large gang,” Witherspoon said. “As I recall, one of your messages indicated you had as many as twenty-five hired guns.”
“I did,” Big Ed said. “But now there’s a hell of a lot less. A bunch has been shot up, and a lot has quit saying the pay ain’t worth the risk.”
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