by Jonas Ward
The mind can be taught to believe anything, and liberal amounts of hundred-proof bourbon help the self-delusion along. So now Bart had the Hamp Jones affair straight, including spoken words of praise from Larson and some of the other gunmen. They admired him for bracing Jones as he did, for avenging his honor, and they would look up to him from here on in not as the man who paid their wages but as the strongest will, the coolest nerve at the Big M.
There was one large chunk of the self-deception, though, that wouldn’t slide past his throat, that even the whisky couldn’t make palatable—and that was the cuckolded feeling that he was the subject of some very ribald bunkhouse humor. If the men were laughing at him because Hamp had taken Dolly behind his back then his revenge had a hollow ring to it.
How long, for instance, had Hamp been sampling his private property? Did he tryst with her right under this roof in his absence, or where did they rendezvous? Was the affair common knowledge among the crew? As these annoying questions followed one after the other, Malvaise had all sorts of discomforting visions, saw their writhing bodies, Dolly’s wanton face, Jones’ slanted, mocking smile—and heard voices laughing at him.
Malvaise pushed himself up out of the chair, his mind determined to make the girl pay in kind for what had been done to his pride, his standing as the boss of Big M. He started out of the room lurchingly, reached the bottom of the staircase.
He was interrupted by a rapping on the door, and with a muttered curse he went to see who it was. The visitor was Sam Judd’s deputy from town.
“What the hell do you want, Farnum?” Malvaise greeted him.
“Mr. Judd sent me up to tell you that the fella didn’t get kilt, Mr. Malvaise. He says you might like to know that Spread Eagle sent a wagon down to move him to their place.”
“He can’t ride by himself?” Malvaise asked hopefully.
“Don’t seem like it,” Farnum said. “And Mr. Judd figures they just might use the old trail outta town.”
“How many are with him?”
“Well, there’s Pecos Riley and Billy Rowe. And Herb Henry is drivin’ the wagon.”
Malvaise laughed. “Trot over to the bunkhouse,” he said, “and tell Stix Larson I want him here fast.”
Farnum went to deliver the message and in a few minutes Larson was present and listening to the news.
“So all you got to do,” Malvaise concluded, “is to wait off-trail and take ’em as they come by. And when they’re finished we’ll ride against Patton and finish the job once and for all.”
Larson turned the project around in his head, looked at it from all angles. His own preference was still to send down to Douglas and pick up some reinforcements from that bordertown. But if this Buchanan jasper had to be moved by wagon, if he was that bad off, then maybe Malvaise’s idea had merit.
“All right, boss,” he said. “I’ll get the boys to saddle up. You comin’ along?”
“Nothing I’d like better,” Malvaise said. “But there’s something here at home that needs my attention first.”
Larson, guessing that Dolly’s turn had come, swung away without another word. Malvaise closed the door after him, started up the stairs.
But when he entered Dolly’s room he found it empty. And though he roamed the big house from top to bottom, lighting every lamp in the place, there was still no trace of the girl. She had slipped away on him, in her chemise and barefoot, and if Malvaise had been listening hard enough he might have heard her ride out and away from Big M moments after the guncrew left the ranch.
• • •
HERB HENRY WAS a mild-mannered, uncommunicative cowhand who understood more about horses than he did men. His orders from Frank Riker had been to take the team into Indian Rocks and tote a certain Buchanan back up to Spread Eagle—an ordinary enough assignment that should have presented no complications. But when he entered Doc Lord’s office to pick up his passenger he found himself at the scene of a happy, free-drinking carousal. Before Herb knew quite what to make of it, a glass was stuck in his hand, filled to overflowing with whisky and he was being cajoled into drinking and singing along with the other revelers.
The next hour passed as though it were five minutes, and when the refreshment gave out the second time, and it was decided to start out, the driver had reached a fine, reckless glow of his own. Buchanan was boosted into the back of the wagon and advised to lie down and make himself comfortable for the journey. Pecos and Billy mounted their horses, unsteadily and noisily, and the supposedly secret exodus from Indian Rocks commenced with all the quiet and decorum of an advance troupe from a traveling circus.
Within five minutes, Pecos grew envious of Buchanan’s life of leisure and he hung his reins on the tailgate and joined the tall man in the wagon. Billy followed suit, and when the three Texans were together again they promptly broke the peace and quiet of the early evening with some raucous mountain songs. Up front, Herb Henry began to feel drowsy, found it hard to concentrate on his driving, and the team more or less set its own pace and direction.
It was the horses then, a pair of gentle old souls, who were startled by the apparition that appeared in the middle of the narrow trail and waved its arms frantically. Herb roused himself when the dray suddenly halted, blinked his eyes at the white-clad female figure and was sure that he was having a hundred-proof vision. But it must have affected his ears, too, for the female was talking to him.
“Please,” Dolly Dupré beseeched him. “I need help. Would you give me a ride to wherever you’re going?”
Herb stared and was speechless. He was no authority on ladies’ wear but he was sure that what this girl had on was considered among the unmentionables.
“Please,” she repeated. “Please help me get away!”
“Ain’t goin’ but a little ways,” he managed to say. “Just a mile or two to home.”
“Will you take me with you?”
“Well, now, I don’t know about that. Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but you ain’t fitten dressed for no hitch ride this time of night.”
“Hey, Herb,” Pecos called from the rear. “What’s wrong?”
“The drawbridge up?” Billy inquired.
“Who’re they?” Dolly asked.
“Oh, just some drunken gunfighters I’m haulin’ home,” Herb told her.
“Gunfighters? You’re not from Big M?”
“Me—from Big M? I should tell you not! I’m Spread Eagle, ma’am!”
“Is one of them a big man?” Dolly asked.
“He sure is. Why?”
“Then you’re going to be attacked,” Dolly said. “I heard him tell Stix Larson to kill you all!”
“C’mon, Herbie—let’s roll!” Pecos called up. Instead, Herb climbed down from his seat, walked to the rear of the wagon and stuck his head inside.
“We’re goin’ to be bushwhacked, boys,” he said.
“Who says?”
“This little lady here, that’s who,” Herb said and Pecos and Billy leaned forward and peered out with interest.
“Well, howdy do!” Billy Rowe said happily. “Is there somethin’ I can do for you?”
“I was going to ask for a lift,” Dolly said. “But I don’t think I want one now.”
“On accounta Pecos?” Billy asked.
“What do you mean, ‘on accounta Pecos’?” Pecos demanded, his voice blurring.
“No,” Dolly broke in, “because there’s a gang going to attack you. From Big M. They’re probably just up the road a bit, waiting in the dark.” “Hear that, Buchanan?” Billy asked. “Hey, Buchanan, wake up!”
“I’m awake, boy,” Buchanan answered peacefully. “Awake and thinkin’.”
“Thinkin’ about what?”
“Thinkin’ we owe the lady our thanks for coming all the way out here to warn us,” Buchanan said.
“We sure are grateful, ma’am,” Billy said dutifully.
“Sure are,” Pecos echoed. “Didn’t even stop to dress, did you?” he added thoughtlessly.
“Wasn’t time,” Dolly said. “He was going to kill me.”
“Who was?”
“Bart Malvaise.”
“Malvaise? You friends with that snake?”
“Not any more I’m not,” she said. “He’s horrible!”
“Why’d he want to kill you?” Billy asked. His eyes could make out her dimensions now and the question was founded in deep curiosity.
“We had a quarrel. I want to go home to San Francisco.”
“I’m goin’ over to California myself pretty soon now,” Billy said. “Be glad to see you home safe and sound.”
“I’d sure appreciate it, mister.”
“Billy,” he told her. “Billy Rowe.”
“I’m Dolly Dupré.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dolly. And this here’s Pecos Riley. The fella stretched out there is Buchanan.”
“Hi, Dolly.”
“Hello,” Dolly said, leaning forward to get a look at his face. The sound of his deep voice sent tremors through her. That, combined with everything she’d heard about him at the ranch, piqued her enormously. “Bart is awful mad at you,” she said. “But I suppose you know that.”
“Tell you the truth, Dolly,” Buchanan said, “I ain’t too pleased with him, either.” He pushed himself to one elbow. “Now about this reception committee up ahead,” he said. “Boys, there’s only one sensible thing to do about that.”
• • •
IT WAS THE FIRST time that Stix Larson had led men anywhere—and in plain truth, if Big M’s hired guns hadn’t been sure that the odds were five to one in their favor they never would have trusted him with their leadership. As it was, they followed Larson away from the ranch and up the old trail to the wooded area chosen for the ambush. They took up positions on either side of the roadway then and waited for the Spread Eagle wagon with its unsuspecting passengers to come rolling into their crossfire.
Larson himself was enjoying his first taste of command, liked the sound of his voice as it cracked out orders, made important decisions. And though his crew was content to sit their horses impassively, Larson kept moving from one side of the trail to the other, asking foolish questions about gun-loads, giving unnecessary instructions about keeping low and keeping quiet until he gave the signal to attack.
“I sure hope this ends things,” Buck Speer growled. “I couldn’t abide more than this dose of Stix as boss.”
“Sure gone to his head,” Lou Nash agreed. “Think we was gettin’ ready for Buena Vista instead of just some little old wagon.”
“Gonna be a bad jolt for Pecos and Billy Rowe when we hit ’em like this,” Speer said.
“Their own tough luck, I say,” Nash said. “Malvaise offered both them boys three chances to get on the right side of this argument.”
“I always figured them for a couple of peculiars,” Speer said. “Mavericks.”
“Keep your voices down, damnit!” Larson broke in. “That wagon ought to be comin’ ‘round the bend any minute now.”
“Want me to mosey downtrail a ways?” Nash suggested to the new segundo.
“If I’d wanted you to,” Larson replied, “I’d’ve sent you before this. Now just hold your position there and keep still.”
“The big shot,” Speer said when Larson had moved on. “Should have had a lookout down there at least half an hour ago.”
“I hear it!” someone called out hoarsely from the other side. “The wagon!” In the next moment they all heard it—and from the sound of the pounding hooves and creaking wheels the dray was rounding the bend at a much faster clip than expected on this narrow road and in this darkness. Larson, startled into action, drew his gun quickly, raised it overhead. The wagon came pounding abreast.
“Hit ’em!” Larson yelled and fired. Twelve more guns poured lead, lit up the night with their jagged flashes. And kept shooting—three, four, five rounds—transforming that little stretch of trail into a deafening, deadly battleground. As they fired, Big M broke cover, crowded in close around the wagon.
“Hit ’em!” another voice yelled in the night, Buchanan’s and from their rear Big M got a nasty shock as a withering fusillade tore into their bunched ranks. Three riders were hit immediately and went pitching from their saddles. The others, stunned, scared, bewildered, milled around in hopeless confusion.
“Fish in a goddamn barrel!” Pecos Riley shouted wickedly.
“Pour it to ’em, boy!” Billy Rowe cried.
Buchanan just kept emptying his Colt and reloading.
“Light out!” they heard Stix Larson shout wildly. “Head for home!” He shouldered his horse out of the jam, sent it scurrying away from there. Six men made it with him, and two of those carried painful mementos of the double-ambush on the old trail.
“Let’s run the bastards to their front door!” Pecos said excitedly. “Finish ’em off!”
“Can’t,” Billy told him. “Buchanan can’t ride.”
“My delicate condition,” Buchanan said with a wry chuckle.
“And if Big Bend don’t, I don’t,” Billy continued. “Not that I’m superstitious, or nothin’ like that.”
“Me, too,” Pecos said, turning. “Come on up, Herb,” he called back to the driver. “It’s all over.” Herb Henry led Dolly from their concealment, joined the three fighters.
“Nobody got hurt in all that shootin’?” the mild-mannered cowboy asked incredulously.
“Nobody shot at us,” Pecos told him. “But, man, I bet your wagon is some ventilated.”
“Which would’ve been our hides,” Buchanan said, “if it hadn’t been for Dolly here.”
“That’s sure a fact,” Billy said. “Little lady, I’m real grateful to you.” “We all are,” Pecos said.
“I’m glad I was able to help you,” Dolly said, addressing herself to the towering form of Buchanan. “Maybe you can help me.”
“Name it.”
“See me back safe to San Francisco,” she said.
“No hardship there,” Buchanan said.
“I recollect puttin’ in for that detail already,” Billy said a little belligerently. “First come, first serve—ain’t that the rule?”
“Well, now,” Pecos objected. “I guess we’re all first, come right down to it.”
“No,” Buchanan said, “Herb’s first. Herb, you going to ‘Frisco by any chance?”
“Not me, no sir,” the driver said, eying the half-clad Dolly shyly. “You boys are welcome to the trip.”
“Don’t I have a choice who takes me?” the girl asked.
“It might turn out to be quite a little party,” Buchanan told her. “Providing, of course, any of us gets out of this Pasco County whole.” He had started to move toward the wagon as he spoke, then bent down over the first fallen Big M rider he came to. The man groaned and Buchanan picked him up, carried him to the dray and laid him inside.
“This scudder’s done for,” Billy announced over the next one. “Clean through the middle.”
“Likewise,” Pecos said after examining the third. But the other two casualties were still alive and they were piled alongside their comrade in the wagon. Buchanan helped Dolly to a seat next to Herb Henry, and with Pecos and Billy mounted the trip was resumed to Spread Eagle.
Frank Riker, accompanied by several cowboys, met them in the yard.
“What took you so blamed long?” the foreman demanded. “I was just going back down to look for you.”
“One damn thing after another,” Pecos told him. “Big M sent a committee out to meet us.”
“What happened?”
“We outslicked ’em,” Pecos said. “Beat ’em at their own bushwhackin’ tricks.”
“We,” Billy said derisively. “Frank, shake hands with Tom Buchanan. Buchanan, this is Frank Riker.”
“I been waitin’ for this,” Riker said, giving Buchanan a warm shake. “The place is yours, Buchanan.”
“How’s young Patton holding up?” Buchanan asked him.
“Terry’s all right,”
Riker said. “He’s kind of anxious to see you again, matter of fact.” While he spoke his glance kept drifting to the girl perched next to the driver. “Who—ah—” he finally said, “is this?”
“Miss Dolly Dupré,” Buchanan announced. “Of San Francisco.”
“You’re—ah—long way from home, ma’am,” Riker said.
“She was visitin’ over to Big M,” Billy explained. “Ran from that skunk Malvaise to save her pretty little life.”
“Oh,” Riker said, eying her suspiciously. He had heard of the fancy companion that Bart Malvaise had installed at his place, and now, as befit a ramrod, he began to worry about the effect of her presence here. His concern however, didn’t preclude the offer of hospitality.
“Come on into the house,” Riker invited them both. Then, to Buchanan, “You could probably use a soft bed about now.”
Buchanan laughed. “You don’t look in such great shape yourself, mister,” he told the battered foreman.
“Something to help me remember Big M,” Riker answered, starting to turn toward the house.
“We got some baggage in the wagon here,” Pecos mentioned to him. “Little weighted down with lead.” Riker, puzzled, looked inside.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said. “You boys are sure doin’ your best to bring the odds down.”
“Just earnin’ our wages,” Pecos said modestly. “What do you want to do with ’em?”
“Send ’em down to Doc Lord, I reckon,” Riker said. “Herb, you up to another trip into town?”
“Not if it’s like the last one, I ain’t,” the driver said fervently.
“Shouldn’t have any trouble,” Pecos assured him. “Imagine Big M has had a bellyful of dry-gulchin’ for one night.”
“I hope so,” the taciturn Herb Henry said, and he began to wheel the wagon around in a circle. “Take ’em to the Doc’s, you said?”
