Flipping one of those shiny rifle cartridges, Price worked abreast of him and called over softly:
“Keep your nerve stiff, Curtis. The last card ain’t been played yet.”
CHAPTER IV
Journey to Death
It was the middle of the afternoon when they reached Booneville. It was a fair-sized town, the junction point of two stage lines, where cowmen at the upper end of the range bought their supplies.
They followed the creek down from the hills, walking their poines in the water between the red willows, careful to keep from sight. At the back edge of the town, a short distance from the creek, stood a tumble-down bam with half the roof missing. It was almost lost in a tangle of weeds and un-derbrush. Dismounting, they slipped up to it, leading their ponies.
“All right, Curtis,” said the boss. “Cut down to the main trail and go in.”
Little seedy Ed stepped over to the sheriff’s stirrup as the latter mounted.
“Don’t try to git slick, Curtis,” Ed said. “Don’t try to bring back a posse with you. We can see.” He pointed down at the road and that side of the town, in plain view from the thicket. “Try bringing a posse back—and yuh’ll find two dead deputies! ’Member!”
It was the worst moment of Smoke Curtis’ life as he headed for the main trail. He felt he could never do anything baser. Yet he had practically no alternative. At the road, he turned down the grade toward a blacksmith’s paint-peeling barn at the western edge of the town. Lowering clouds had formed a leaden mask over the face of the sun.
A rising wind whipped through the pass in gusts, lifting curtains of blinding dust before it.
Head bowed against it, Smoke Curtis felt his face twist and impotent rage put a red mist before his eyes. One of his hands slapped a gun butt. They had given him his guns so the Booneville law officers would suspect nothing. But the smokepoles were useless. They were empty, and the outlaws had taken every last shell from his belt.
The screen of shifting dust broke, and Curtis looked up and then half choked.
A bunch of riders were coming out from the town. The lead man rode with his sombrero hanging back on his shoulders, fiery red hair plain to view. Smoke Curtis saw it and that black patch over the man’s right eye and started to draw, prepared to fight for his life. It was Sam Holiday, the man whom Curtis had once run out of that piece of country and whose brother he had killed. Then the Sheriff remembered his Colts were shell-less.
Wind kicked up a dust screen again. Curtis wheeled his cayuse around sharply, praying he hadn’t been spotted by Holiday, and went back up the road. He turned into the brush to the abandoned barn where the outlaw bunch was hiding.
It was little Ed who jumped out of cover to throw a gun on him, furious as he demanded to know where Redding was. Curtis started to explain as the others came out and gathered around him.
Sam Holiday? That big-mouthed tinhorn!” the boss cursed. “I got a score to settle with that rat! I’ll—how many rannies did he have with him?”
Curtis couldn’t be sure. He thought there were quite a few. He recalled now hearing stories about the bad blood between these two outlaws, that Holiday claimed Slip Brunnermann had cheated him out of some dinero on a deal.
“I don’t think he saw me,” Curtis said.
Then he stopped, puzzled. For seedy little Ed was cursing Holiday along with the boss, only cursing more viciously.
Smoke Curtis was wrong. Sam Holiday had glimpsed him. Recognized him too. Had seen him cut off into the brush toward the barn. Expecting to find the sheriff with a posse, some deputies at least, Holiday had fanned his men out in a semi-circle, then worked in.
One of his men poked his face now through the willow foliage over on the creek bank.
“Holy cow, Sam!” he cried out in surprise. “Slip Brunnermann’s there!”
He triggered twice. Shots spattered from the brush between the road and the old barn.
One of Brunnermann’s men, a lank one with a knife scar across his nose, staggered back drunkenly and then dropped with a slug in his chest. Black Tom spun half around, hit in the right shoulder. Like magic, a hole appeared in the crown of the boss’ black Stetson, Then the Brunnermann outlaws were screaming on the verge of panic, as they jumped for cover.
“Into the barn! Into the barn!” barked Ed as he rammed one of his guns in Curtis’ back and shoved him before him.
* * * *
They got inside through a gap in one of the rotting walls. It was only slightly dimmer than outside in the brokendown, nearly roofless structure. Lead smashed in, knocking loose chunks of rotten wood. Sam Holiday’s men were closing in on all sides.
“Must be about twenty of ’em, boss!” called Ed as he fired through a gap. “Better give the John Laws guns. They better fight—or Holiday’ll cash their chips too. Git the handcuffs off ’em!”
Colts were handed out to the three law officers and Vin Price. Curtis and his men had no choice. If Sam Holiday captured them, it would be out of the skillet into the fire.
They were ordered to the side of the barn facing the willows on the creek. At one end, opposite the big gap where a door once had been, stood the hot-eyed Ed, firing through the gap and able to cover them from the back.
Curtis thought he saw red-headed Holiday himself worming through the undergrowth, and switched his fire to throw down on him. Hit, the man rocked up to his knees, then dived back into the high grass. It wasn’t Holiday though.
Curtis swore grimly through the gun-smoke. If he could get Sam Holiday himself and help drive his men back, then, with a gun in his dewclaw, he might have a chance to make a play against Brunnermann. Even though it might cost him his life, he’d be satisfied if he could simply burn down that duded-up, cold-blooded murderer.
Thunder rolled suddenly above the rattle of gunfire.
Just down from the sheriff at another hole in the bam wall, Price called over. “Slip a shell or two in yore pocket when-ever you can. Might have a chance to use ’em later. I need bullets,” he called out, lifting his voice.
Ed ran over and gave him a handful, thumbed some more out of his own belt for the sheriff. Both men ducked as a slug drilled through the side of the bam, passing low over their heads.
Price’s weapon spoke promptly and a man out in the brush screeched to high heaven as he was wounded. The first drops of rain slapped against the side of the barn.
Somebody outside bawled orders. Across the barn, the boss swore as he saw what was coming. It was a concerted rush. On all sides, gun-slicks jumped from cover and flung themselves toward the place, zigzagging as they ran in.
A bullet nicked Price’s cheek. But after recoiling a step, the little gent was back at the opening and firing with deadly calm. For a man who had seemed just a lowdown, broken-spirited horse-thief he was showing a heap of cold, hard nerve.
The rain streamed down in thick, heavy ribbons, blurring vision, screening the attackers from view. The hot earth began to steam. Light dimmed from a dirty, wet gray to a murky half black. Knifing in, holding their fire till they were almost on top of the barn, Holiday’s men almost made it. Smoke Curtis had to leave his gap in the side of the crumbling bam and shift to another gap as a gent behind a boulder just a few yards away outside punched lead through the opening. A Holiday gun-tough reared in the big hole by the corner where the door had been.
Ed sent him stumbling backward with a slug in the leg. Another man burst from the rank weeds for the opening. The stocky Ed sprang forward recklessly and clubbed him over the head and shoulders before the gent could throw down on those inside. He went reeling away, in retreat for his life.
The charge was broken. The gun reports fell off, though there was some scattered sniping from the brush. But the ring of Holiday men was falling back as crashing thunder reverberated from the hills in the north. Rain lash
ed the wind-shaken barn. Outside, it was like a thick, shiny-wet twilight. Inside, they were but dim figures, vaguely outlined to each other. And Smoke Curtis turned, thumbing a few fresh shells he had saved into his weapon, prepared to make his play.
“No,” said Price softly, yet with a note of authority. He thumbed over toward George Flowers.
Flowers stood apathetically, smoking gun dangling against his leg, a whipped look on his face. For little Ed had a gun in his side. Ed’s bright, fanatic eyes slid over Curtis and Yucca Lamb.
“All right. Drop the hardware,” he ordered.
Again they had no choice but to obey. Curtis swore under his breath, nodded to Yucca, and let his weapon thud to the floor. It seemed as if every chance, every thin hope, died a-borning. The outlaws always had the jump at the crucial moment. And the sheriff found himself hating this little, insignificant-looking Ed as much as he did Slip Brunnermann himself.
* * * *
A bullet sliced through one wall of the barn as if it were soft wood, whistled past the wounded Black Tom’s chest, and bored out through the other wall. Right atop it came the prolonged spang-g of a Winchester.
“Holy smoke!” yelled Black Tom. “They’re working on us with rifles. They’ll cut this place down over our heads!”
“Boss, it’s right dark outside,” Ed put in calmly. “Mebbe we better try to slip through ’em and head for the hideout.” It was agreed upon without any argument. The captives were at once herded in front of them over by the big gap in the barn side.
Brunnermann himself put his gun nose against Curtis’ back. “See this?” he told them. “All right. Don’t get foolish, or Curtis gets his lights put out. Now move out soft.” As they started, Smoke Curtis caught the faint gleam of another of those rifle shells Price was once again flipping up. There was a little ping when it rattled on the barn floor as he missed catching it.
Then they were outside, catching the full onslaught of the rain.
They pushed through the wet underbrush and rank weeds to where they had their ponies ground anchored, Nothing happened. In the gloom, the Holiday men couldn’t see them. There was a clap of thunder as if the sky were collapsing. They hit the saddle leather, Black Tom guarding Curtis till the boss swung up, then permitting the sheriff to mount. There were a couple of gun cracks and the spat of slugs smacking through the barn walls.
Holiday didn’t yet know they had quitted the place.
Moving southward, they walked their ponies toward the main trail outside of Booneville. Everything might have been all right if it hadn’t been for that revealing flash of lightning. Little Ed was up front. A darker shape detached itself from a tree ahead and a voice challenged lid, asking who he was.
Ed jerked up straight in the stirrups and shot the Holiday man right through the forehead.
Luck was with them for thunder rolled sonorously above at the same instant Ed shot, washing out the sound of the gun report. They came out onto the open road and everybody breathed easier. And then the livid, flaming lightning gashed open the blackness, exposing them as clearly as if a great beam of light had been turned on them.
There were shouts. A couple of bullets zipped overhead. Ed yelled, and they all threw spurs to their ponies, swinging westward down the trail and splashing through the creek. A few hundred yards beyond it, as the rain fell off to a thin drizzle with the light increasing, they swung into a gully, pushing southward. Lightning sheared away the grayness again as they did. It seemed as if they had slipped away safely. Yet inside of half an hour, when they swung into the narrow rough trail winding among the foothills, they knew better.
They pulled up. The rain had ceased entirely. Above, the clouds were dissipating and an early lemon-hued moon was peeking over a ridge to the southwest. And from behind them came the faint but unmistakable drum of hoofs.
The boss threw away the quirly he had started to roll. “It’s Holiday, all right! They saw us head into the gully and knew we’d make for the hills.”
After that, they rode hard and steadily. Ed led the way. And behind the captives, now gunless again, pressed the other three outlaws.
The moon climbed higher and waxed, shedding a clear golden glow over the country. And soon the lobos were cursing it. For, as they turned into a canyon and looked back, they saw a bunch of Holiday riders topping the spine of a ridge behind them. In that clear light it was easy for Holiday to follow their trail sign.
The boss yelled for them to push their ponies harder.
A little after midnight they paused for a brief rest by a fast-running creek. The Holiday men were nowhere in sight now. But little Ed was still worried. He said Holiday knew those hills like the palm of his hand.
“Well, we’ll be in the hideout afore morning,” Black Tom said. “And Holiday’ll never find us there.”
Smoke Curtis stiffened as complete realization sank into his mind. Over on his right, hunkered down, Price was juggling one of those rifle shells again. Price smiled quietly and gave Curtis a wink when their eyes met.
Smoke Curtis saw nothing to smile about. They were going to the bunch’s hideout. And Curtis knew that for him it meant death.
After all, Brunnermann couldn’t ever release him once he’d seen the outfit’s hiding place.
CHAPTER V
Accidents Can Happen
Black Tom was getting delirious from his shoulder wound. He started to rave about a red-headed honkytonk girl in Booneville. Little Ed walked over to him and slapped him back and forth across the face several times.
“The dang fool! He never knew a redhead in Booneville!”
Curtis was just deciding this little Ed was a heap more important than he looked. And then it happened. George Flowers had, unnoticed, edged his pony down the creek. Working the pony around so the animal was between him and the bunch, he leaped into the saddle and threw home spurs to ride for it.
He might have made it as he bolted around a clump of brush. A couple of wild shots whipped high over his head. Then the slim wiry Price had snaked a hogleg from one of the holsters of the wounded Black Tom. Price leaped up on a boulder, sighted carefully, shooting arm extended. It was all done in a matter of a few seconds.
Price’s weapon cracked twice. And, downstream, the fleeing deputy went up stiff-legged in the stirrups and then pitched from the saddle. The .45 slug had passed through the flesh of his left shoulder.
The galloping pony pulled up in a score of yards. And Ed ran down the bank to recapture the wounded man easily. Ed hit him a couple of times and brought him back.
Smoke Curtis felt his last thin hope shatter then. Without realizing it, though it made no sense, in a vague way he had begun to count on the horsethief, Price. Since they had been out on the trail with the outlaws, Price had radiated a calm yet convincing confidence. The slight hombre seemed to exude strength, a kind of authority. It was as if he knew something. Or perhaps had an ace up his sleeve. Until the moment when Flowers made his break, Vin Price had not seemed to be on the side of the Brunnermann bunch.
Now, though, there was no doubt about where he stood.
The boss pumped his hand, telling him it was a pretty piece of shooting. Ed came up and ran his intense eyes over him.
“Didn’t know you were so eager to string along with us,” he said.
Price shrugged, thumbing at Curtis and the two deputies. “Why in tarnation should I side the John Laws?” he came back. “You gents snaked me outa that jailhouse with you. I don’t owe the badge packers nothing but hate. And I reckon I can see which side my bread is buttered on.”
They were in a hurry to slope on because the sound of the gun reports might have carried to Sam Holiday and his band back through the hills. But before they remounted, Price was given a couple of Colts plus a gunbelt. They trusted him now practically as a member of the outfit.
The
boss tied Flowers’ neckerchief over the bullet gash at the top of his arm. That was all the attention they gave him. After a mile or so when he complained the pain made it impossible for him to ride that fast, they simply threatened to put him on foot and leave him behind.
“And you won’t have to do much guessing to figure what Sam Holiday’ll do to any officer of the sheriff’s!” the boss gibed.
Flowers sniveled and whined curses. Smoke Curtis said nothing. But inside he was praying for just one boon from Heaven. That was that before he had his chips cashed he be granted the chance of getting his hands on Slip Brunnermann. And he knew he wanted to get his fingers at the throat of the vicious hot-eyed Ed just as much. Ed, Curtis now knew, liked to kill as much as they said Brunnermann himself did.
Their ponies became jaded and slowed considerably as the night wore away. Coming out of a winding valley, the outlaws bore directly east toward the range country that stretched down to Wagon Wheel. The moon went and they dropped down from the higher broken country, passing a squatter’s place.
On the faint wagon track going down the ridge, Curtis swung abreast of Vin Price. The latter was flipping up another of those bright rifle shells with a crooked, pleased smile on his face. The smile sent fury surging through the sheriff though he realized he had no right to expect any loyalty from a horsethief.
In the first dirty grayness of dawn, Curtis realized they were heading for a little strip of desert near the edge of the cow country. Twice before he had tracked the Brunnermann riders to that barren stretch of sand some ten miles across. And always he had lost all trail sign there. The shifting sand didn’t retain hoofprints long.
On each occasion he had scoured the country to the north and south and west of the stretch. On the east was nothing but rangeland. But he never had come across the lobo hideout.
The Third Western Megapack Page 44
