Six turned toward the brush. He said off-handedly, “I’d hate to have to carry your conscience.”
“Left that back in the same saloon where I left my ambition,” Cleve told him cheerfully.
Eleven
The second series of three shots had been loud and clear in the ears of the advancing Matador crew. Bill Parker, leading the crowd, said in a satisfied way, “Cleve must have got his hands on a gun. Sure enough Six wouldn’t be makin’ all that racket.”
“Maybe it’s somebody else. Wild-goose chase,” said a Matador rider.
“Only one way to find out,” Parker answered. “Hey, you—where you going?”
He was talking to Wes Marriner, who had pulled out of the bunch and was standing his horse alongside the trail. Marriner said, in a voice mild with unconcern, “Must have dropped my canteen back along the trail. I’ll catch up as soon as I find it.”
The first gray streaks of dawn were breaking over the peaks. Bill Parker’s eyes were hooded; he said, “You don’t find it quick, better forget it. We ain’t too far from them now.”
“I’ll give it five minutes,” Wes Marriner said. “Be right along.”
Parker revolved his arm overhead in a rallying signal, and drummed ahead, leading the pack. Wes Marriner turned back the way they had come and put his horse to a canter, watching the riders’ faces as they swirled past in the steamy dawn. Ma and Wanda had ridden with the rest of the crowd, around the end of the range; all Parker had with him were a few Matador cowboys and about a dozen border-jumpers. Their faces were as gray as the sky.
When he was out of sight over the ridge, Marriner put his horse to a gallop through the timber. He kept at it for several minutes, until a voice reached out from the trees and turned him as if it had gripped his elbow. He reined in and swung his horse into the pines.
Tracy Chavis appeared out of the gloom, with fat Bones Riley at his stirrup. Four or five other horsemen filtered through the uncertain shadows. Chavis said, “We heard the shots.”
Wes Marriner said, “Were figuring it must have been Cleve.”
“Only way to figure it,” Chavis agreed. “I hope he hasn’t put a bullet in Jeremy. But if he has, we’ll—”
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Wes Marriner. “Just stick close behind us and keep your eyes open. If this gang gets its hands on Jeremy, Ma gave orders to keep him alive and deliver him to her down on the west slope. We’ll just have to wait for a chance to break him loose.”
Chavis touched his gun butt. “Just give the signal.”
They spotted the flicker of the campfire through the trees and Bill Parker held his hand up in a warning signal. Guns whispered out of holsters and the crowd fanned out through the trees, advancing at a slow gait. Bill Parker sent his voice through the timber:
“Cleve? That you?”
“Come on in,” Cleve answered. “Got a nice warm fire going for you, boys.”
Forming a ring around the camp, Matador closed in. Bill Parker rode into the clearing. “You all right, Cleve?”
“Sure. I’m fine.” Cleve was grinning, though his appearance belied the statement: covered with mud and bandages, he looked like a ragtag straggler among the walking wounded. Sitting quietly by the fire with his hat tipped back was Jeremy Six. He was chewing on a strip of jerked beef.
Cleve said, “I thought you boys would never get here.” He kept grinning. “But I guess you figured there wasn’t any hurry. You knew I could take care of myself, didn’t you?”
Bill Parker ignored the jibe. He poked his index finger toward Six. “Ma wants him.”
Cleve stood up, the six-gun dangling casually from his fist. “Afraid we’re going to have to disappoint her, then.”
Six’s head swiveled; his glance fell against Cleve. Just then a bantam-sized rider entered the clearing and said in a quiet way, “Howdy, Cleve—Jeremy.”
Cleve’s sudden laugh startled Bill Parker. Cleve said, “Wes—if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes. Where’d you crawl out from under?”
But Wes wasn’t looking at him; Wes’ eyes were on Jeremy Six. If Six was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it; he only dipped his head in cool greeting. Wes’ eyes, giving away nothing, shifted to Cleve. Bill Parker said, “I’m damn glad to see you’re all right, Cleve. What was that you meant about disappointin’ Ma?”
“I mean she can’t have the marshal,” Cleve said. “Were lettin’ him go.”
Bill Parker’s head rocked back. “What?”
“You heard me, Bill.” Cleve stepped forward. “Now somebody lend me a horse. I’ve been walking all night and my feet are damn tired.”
Bill Parker said, “We found your horse at the bottom of a cliff back aways. Threw a scare into me for a while.”
Cleve said, “I’d have been down in the rocks with that horse if it hadn’t been for the marshal here. He saved my hide. That’s why we’re turning him loose.”
A growl ran through the crowd. Bill Parker shook his head. “I can’t do that, Cleve. Ma gave us orders to bring him to her, said she’d string out the hide of any man who let Six slip through his fingers.”
Six gave no sign that he was affected by any of this talk; he said nothing. Obviously aware of the position he was in, he made no remarks, for they would have been meaningless.
Wes Marriner said, “If he saved Cleve’s life, then he’s got his freedom coming to him, and Ma ought to understand that.”
“Understand?” Bill Parker laughed without humor. “You don’t know Ma too well, do you?” He nodded toward Six. “Couple of you boys saddle up the marshal’s horse.”
Cleve said, “What about it, Bill?”
Parker said, “We’ll do what Ma told us to do. Take him down to her. She can hear your story and it’ll be up to her to decide what to do with him.”
For the first time, Jeremy Six spoke.
“Maybe you boys ought to think about this. Kidnapping a peace officer is a damned serious charge. The only crime you’ve committed so far is abetting the escape of a prisoner. Nobody’s going to tear down walls to get at you for that. But kidnap a man wearing a badge, and it’s something different. You’ll have every lawman in the Territory after you.”
Bill Parker said stubbornly, “I can’t help that, Marshal. I got my orders.”
Cleve said, “You’ve got my orders too, Bill.”
“Sorry, Cleve. I work for Matador, and Ma owns Matador. I ain’t workin’ for you.”
Cleve grinned abruptly. He turned toward Six and made an elaborate gesture of resignation, turning his good palm up and lifting his shoulders. “Anyhow, I tried, Jeremy.” His grin was crooked and forced.
“Sure you did,” Jeremy Six murmured in answer. He gave no sign of sarcasm. Looking up, he met and briefly held Wes Marriner’s eyes. Wes nodded very slightly; his face was carefully guarded.
A man brought Six’s horse forward from the trees. Bill Parker said, “Somebody put out that fire. Let’s get going. Ma tends to be a mite impatient.”
Manacled with his own handcuffs, Six endured the ride down out of the mountains in silence. There wasn’t much talk. They camped overnight in a canyon, up on the side-slope where flash floods wouldn’t catch them. It started to rain again, around midnight, and the rain held steady late into the following afternoon, when it finally quit. It left the ground soggy and slick, making hard going for the horses.
Clouds kept rolling across the sky and it drizzled periodically, keeping the earth muddy, well into the evening. Shortly after sundown they rode down into the foothills and raised the lights of several campfires out on the flats. At about that time, a voice laid a hard challenge against them, out of the night, and Bill Parker identified himself. Thereupon Clem Sandee, the owner of the voice, showed himself and accompanied them down into camp.
All during the ride, Six had noticed Wes Marriner’s eyes combing the back trail and the timber alongside the roads they followed. Evidently Wes was looking for someone. During their bivouac the night befo
re, Six had been sure he had seen Wes slip out of camp an hour before dawn; but Wes had returned half an hour later, saying nothing. If anyone else had marked his absence, no one had spoken about it. Probably anyone who’d seen him go had assumed he was just slipping into the woods to relieve himself. But Wes had been gone a good half-hour, and there was an air of determination about him that made Six thoughtful. He had had no chance to talk to Wes; Parker kept Six surrounded by armed guards all the while, even at night. They rode in a thick bunch, with Six in the center. Parker was taking no chances on escape. Cleve had kept away from Six, never meeting his eyes and never speaking to him. And as they had drawn near the rendezvous in the foothills, Wes had showed subtle signs of irritation and anger. Putting it all together, Six had the feeling Wes was on his side; but Wes had had no opportunity to do anything about it. Six thought, Don’t blame yourself, amigo. Parker was an excellent sergeant major; he knew his job and he did it well, without loopholes.
And so, without having had a single thin chance at escape, Six was brought into Ma Marriner’s camp, with his hands handcuffed behind his back.
Ma had established her camp around an old abandoned miner’s shack. Its roof was half caved-in, but under the corner that remained, Ma and her foster-daughter had spread their blankets and managed to keep reasonably dry during the rain. This evening Wanda sat huddled dismally in her blankets, staring into the light of the small fire that glowed in the center of the shack’s sodden adobe floor. Ma was tramping restlessly back and forth across the narrow strip of dry ground under the sagging half-ceiling. At intervals, lusty oaths erupted from Ma’s stentorian throat.
Abruptly, voices began to call from the outer lines of the camp. Men called back and forth; a weltering racket started up. Ma lunged forward into the doorway and stood there with rain plastering the skirt across her wide backside. She roared, “What in the goddam hell is goin’ on?”
Someone shouted, “They got him, Ma! They got him!”
“It’s Cleve!” someone else yelled.
With a burst of laughter, a horseman galloped out of the rain and swirled flamboyantly to a halt in front of the shack, spewing mud up against Ma’s skirts. Cleve shouted, “Hey, Ma! I hope you wasn’t worried about me.” He dismounted laughing.
Ma stood with her enormous arms propped akimbo. “You good-for-nothin’ whelp,” she roared. She was grinning—an expression that did nothing to enhance the appearance of her face. “So you outsmarted the lawdog, did you?”
“Only the good die young, Ma,” said Cleve.
Wanda pushed past Ma’s bulk and wrapped her arms around her foster-brother; she smiled up at him through tears. “Oh, Cleve,” she murmured.
“Easy on that arm,” he said. He pushed her away gently and frowned at Ma. “What the hell is she doing here?”
The knot of horsemen was approaching, fifteen or sixteen men looming up in the drizzling rain. Ma said, “She’s here to see me hang that badge-toter. It’s something she’s got to know.”
“Ma,” Cleve said, “for pity’s sake—”
“Where’s he at?” Ma roared. “That God damned badge-toter that back shot your pa. You got him?”
“Ma,” said Cleve, “he didn’t back shoot Buel. And he saved my life. I—”
But, true to form, Ma wasn’t listening. The riders had milled up behind Cleve and Ma charged forward shaking her huge Dragoon Colt high in the air. “There he is! Six, you white-livered yellow-backed son-of-a-bitch!”
Twelve
“Tie him up in there,” Ma said. “I’m gonna spit in the bastard’s face for a while, and when I get tired of that then we’re gonna have us a trial. We’re gonna try this badge-toter for murder and then we’re gonna hang him by the neck until he’s dead—dead—Dead!”
Bill Parker shoved Six into the cabin and told him to sit down. Six sat with his back against the adobe wall, with rain runneling down on him from the ragged edges of the half caved-in roof. Raindrops sizzled when they struck the tiny fire.
Outside, he could hear the buzz and drone of men’s voices, excited and half-fearful, full of speculation and hesitation, anger and relief, and anxiety. Most of them, he knew, wanted no part of hanging a peace officer. It wasn’t Jeremy Six, the man, they were worried about; it was the faceless, nameless badge he carried. For once you killed any man who carried a tin badge, the badge would get up and come after you on another man’s shirt, and another’s, and yet another’s, until you were done for. All of them knew that much. It meant more to some than to others. But it hardly seemed to matter. Six didn’t see much daylight ahead. He knew this was likely his last hour on earth. He thought mildly, Well, then, I have no regrets. And he sat back, tipping his head back against the damp wall, to await his death. He was afraid for his life, as any man might be, but a man who wore a tin badge learned to live with fear. He could never get rid of it, but he could handle it. Every time a lawman stepped into a fight, he risked his life. He couldn’t let that knowledge paralyze him; and Jeremy Six was not paralyzed now. He had made his peace with himself; he was ready to die. But he was equally ready to seize any small chance that offered itself, and so he kept his eyes open and his senses tuned fine. And he learned it was true that at no time was a man more keenly alive than at the hour of his impending death.
Bill Parker stood just inside the doorway. There was no door; weather had knocked it away long ago. In the dreary soft rain, Ma tramped into the shack, followed by Cleve. Ma stood with her legs braced two feet apart, staring down at Six the way she might stare at a rat she intended to club to death. For a moment she did not speak; she seemed overcome with rage. Wanda came inside, her face lowered, on the arm of Wes Marriner; Cleve’s eyes took that in, what it meant, and a small surprise showed itself on Cleve’s face before he grinned tautly.
Outside, the crew milled expectantly; their talk ran down like an unwound clock, and there was no sound except Ma’s hoarse breathing and the plop-plop of raindrops hitting puddles in the mud-thick floor. Ma lifted her enormous Dragoon revolver, grinned at it, and set it down on the packing crate bench that served as the shack’s only piece of furniture. Firelight sent flickering shadows around the cabin, throwing Ma’s shadow in huge proportion against the back wall and ceiling. For what was perhaps the first time in her life, Ma whispered.
“Well, now,” she breathed. “Look what we got here.” Her malevolent, small eyes were leveled at Six like the twin bores of a double shotgun.
Cleve stepped forward. “Ma—”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
Startled and amazed, Ma swung ponderously to stare at her son.
“No,” Cleve said. “You’re going to hear what I got to say.
“Then spit it out,” Ma roared.
“In the first place, Six killed Buel in a fair fight. In the second place, Six saved my life back in those mountains. I’d have slid off the cliff if he hadn’t grabbed me. Now, I figure we owe him something. Hear me out, damn it—let me finish. I know you got a grudge against this man for killing Buel, but you’ve lived with a lot of grudges in your lifetime, Ma. You can live with this one too. I told Bill Parker up in the Tuolumnes, and I’m telling you now. I want him set loose.”
Ma dragged a tremendous chestful of air into her lungs, held it for a long moment, and let it out in a blast, after which she spoke in a voice that was not particularly loud, for her.
She said, “All right. You’ve said your piece. Now stand back and butt out.”
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Cleve said.
“I heard you,” Ma yelled. “I heard you, and I keep remembering you used to be a friend of this lizard. You’re my flesh and blood, Cleve, but I never had no respect for your judgment. Just remember I run this outfit, not you. I make the decisions. And my mind’s made up.”
Wes, with his arm around Wanda’s slim shoulders, spoke up in a gentle voice: “Maybe you haven’t thought about what happens to you, Ma, if you kill a peace officer in cold blood.”<
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“Cold blood?” Ma thundered. “Hot blood’s more like it.” She took a step backward to include Wes in her field of vision; and in so doing, her massive hip struck the packing-case bench, overturning it. The big Dragoon revolver slid into the mud. Ma cursed, grunted, bent down, and picked up the Dragoon. Holding it in her fist, she shook it at Wes. “You rode with this sidewinder, just like Cleve. I ain’t about to listen no more to either one of you.”
She wheeled heavily toward Six. “All right, badge-toter. You’ve lived too long. I figured they might be some fun in havin’ us a little kangaroo court, but to hell and bejudas with that. I’ve wasted too much time on you. Bill Parker, let’s take him out and string him up.”
Bill Parker stirred. “But, ma’am, maybe—”
“Don’t but me, Bill Parker! Grab that rope over there and let’s us get this thing done!”
Bill Parker, evidently liking none of this, shuffled forward to the back corner to pick up the rope which lay coiled there, waiting like a snake.
That was when Wes Marriner pushed Wanda gently back against the wall and lifted his revolver. “I guess that’s far enough, Bill,” he said conversationally. “Suppose you walk over and unlock those handcuffs on the marshal.”
Ma began to roar and sputter. Bill Parker slowly straightened up, holding the rope. Six, who was closest to him, could see the dangerous gleam in Bill Parker’s eyes; and before anyone else moved, Six launched himself from his sitting position. He butted into Parker’s knees just as Parker’s gun cleared its holster. Upset, Parker rammed back against the wall; the gun fell from his uncertain grip, bounced off the back of Six’s shoulder, and hit the mud. Six backed away. Wes Marriner, lifting his gun in a gesture, spoke raspingly:
“The marshal just saved your life, Bill. Now stand still.” Wes watched Ma. She had the big Dragoon in her fist and it was swinging around to point right at him. She said harshly:
Marshal Jeremy Six #5 Page 11
