The Lawbringers 4

by Brian Garfield

  Then, slowly, the rattle of failing earth subsided. He found himself stranded on the face of the cliff, hanging by his arms, the gun dangling by its trigger guard from one finger. The hammer was down—in the confusion the gun must have gone off, but he had not heard it.

  He scrambled and clawed his way up to the remaining few inches of ledge, and looked around to find Lutz standing calf-deep in rubble, not two yards away. Dust and powder snow settled slowly.

  He said quietly, “You all right?”

  “I hurt like hell,” Lutz said. “But I guess it’s just bruises. You can’t knock down a mountain like me.”

  Brand looked forward along the cliff. There was a jutting overhang that stood between him and Elias’ position; he could not see that fortification, and Elias could not see him. It might be that Elias thought he and Lutz had gone down with the slide. He looked at his hands—knuckles skinned raw, one finger bleeding. He cocked the gun again and began a careful climb of the loose rock.

  The ledge widened ahead, where the tumble had not split away from it. At his shoulder the cliff lifted a further sixty feet; below him yawned the depth of the canyon. The ledge jutted out, then went around a slight turn beyond which he could not see. And when he put his head around that corner, a shot came.

  Rock dust puffed close to his head; he threw himself back. Now Elias’ high, taunting laugh rang across the air, echoing against the flat faces of rock.

  Brand put himself down on his belly and felt Lutz’s weight behind him. He wormed forward, slowly rounding the bend, and found a litter of loose rock on the ledge that covered his progress, protecting him from Elias’ gun unless he should stand up. In this manner he was able to crawl through the belly-cutting rocks, slowly closing on Elias’ position until he knew he was well within pistol range. He poked his gun out ahead of him, aimed at the cliff overhanging above the rock fortification where Elias hid, and began to fire methodically into the abutment.

  Behind him, Lutz was talking curiously: “What’s that for?”

  “Enough shooting may cut that overhand down. We can’t get a clean shot at him, but this may drive him out.”

  His gun empty, he reloaded methodically and again raked the rock, raining chips on Elias. And presently there was an audible crack, a groan from the rock—rotten and loose, it was shaken by his gunfire.

  That was when Elias’ voice shot forward: “All right, amigo. Enough.”

  Brand trained his gun on the spot. “Toss your guns out.”

  Soon thereafter he saw his rifle come over the rocks and tumble clattering into the canyon.

  “The pistol, too.”

  The revolver came out, and Brand called, “Come on out now. No quick moves.”

  Elias appeared from behind the rocks, moving slowly, his right arm held stiffly straight as if it had been injured. He stood with his feet braced a little distance apart, a tall lean figure, and the old insolent smile drew itself across his face. “What now, amigo?”

  Brand stood up; Lutz came around behind him and Brand said, “Go on ahead of us. We’ll have to climb down.”

  Elias walked forward along the ribbon of ledge, grinning steadily, appearing unconcerned; when he drew near he shrugged and said, “A man cannot win all the time, eh, amigo?”

  “Where’s the gold?”

  “On the horse,” Elias said, and nodded casually down toward the canyon.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  Elias was passing in front of them when he made his move. Brand had been half-expecting it; only now did he realize he had forgotten about the man’s ever-present knife. He saw the flash and glimmer of it as it came up, but that was too late; Elias had his arm locked around Lutz’s throat and the knife quivered at Lutz’s Adam’s apple. “Don’t anybody move,” Elias breathed. “Drop the guns, both of you.”

  Thus the tables turned. Brand uncocked the revolver and let it slip from his fist; it dropped near his foot. The rifle clattered out of Lutz’s fist and Elias reached down to lift the man’s revolver from holster.

  In that vague moment of opportunity, Lutz whipped his thick arm up, snatching Elias’ knife wrist, holding the knife away from his throat with a supreme effort of energy, and wheeled.

  But Elias had Lutz’s pistol in hand now, and Brand saw the Mexican’s thumb earing back the hammer. Brand dove forward, making a grab for that rising gun. His rush set them all off balance and they fell in a heap of confused limbs against the cliff wall. Lutz was underneath.

  Brand felt himself tossed aside by the wildly scrambling Mexican. He saw the gun come up and he kicked out savagely, and had the satisfaction of feeling his boot connect solidly with Elias’ wrist. The arm flew back and the gun bounced away out of reach; and Lutz still had his grip on the man’s knife hand. But Elias was wiry and fast; he plunged his fist against the big man’s groin and, crying out with pain, Lutz loosed his hold. Elias swung back, poising the knife, and Brand hit him.

  His fist came up from the ground, swinging crosswise against the shelf of Elias’ jaw, knocking him back and taking the knife precious inches away from Lutz. Having caught the man off-balance, Brand followed up his advantage by swatting the side of Elias’ face and driving a full-powered fist into his belly.

  Elias coughed and bent at the waist; his knife hand was flailing wildly and Brand caught it, snapping it across his knee between both hands, breaking the man’s hold and making him drop the knife. Elias jerked away and was scrambling to his feet when Lutz, rolling over, shot his boot between the Mexican’s legs and tripped him.

  Elias lost all equilibrium. His arms windmilled and, too late to do anything, Brand saw his tall form tip backward and spill over the end of the ledge. Then Elias simply disappeared from sight. There was no cry; there was only, a moment later, the flat-sounding crush of flesh against earth, forty feet below.

  Lutz went to the edge and looked down; his big shoulders shuddered and he averted his face. “He hit face down,” was all he said; he knelt to pick up his gun.

  CHAPTER XX

  LEADING ELIAS’ HORSE with the dead Mexican slung across the saddle, they swung back out of the pass. Dusk was weaving its slow gray thickening over the pale land when they came in sight of Rifle Gap.

  In the wake of the storm the air was turning colder, crisping the snow lie. They left the dead man outside, too weary to bury him now, and after off-saddling in the barn they trooped into the big room.

  The fireplace roared warmly and Michaela, quick to see the door open, came forward to within a pace of him and stood with her eyes wide, saying nothing.

  “He’s dead,” Brand said.

  The girl turned her face away and walked to the stove, clasping her hands together. George Zane came forward, making the gesture of helping him out of his mackinaw.

  Lutz tramped forward, settling with a great sigh into a chair and talking immediately: “I could use a plate of grub.”

  “I’ll fix you something,” Michaela said, and turned toward the kitchen with the saddening knowledge of death on her features.

  “Thanks,” Lutz said to her, and as he sat down Brand noticed the courtesy in the big man’s tone. Lutz had mellowed a good deal in the last twenty-four hours.

  Brand left his coat near the stove, got up again and tramped upstairs to the girl’s room. Billy McCasford sat propped up in bed; Brand said, “Elias didn’t make it.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry then,” McCasford said. “He was a skunk, but I don’t wish death to anybody.”

  Remembering that Elias had kidnaped Michaela, Brand was not inclined to be so charitable to Elias’ memory. But he said nothing of it; what he said was, “We’ll send you up something to eat,” and went back downstairs.

  The old man sat wrapped in a buffalo robe, brooding into the fire. Lutz and Zane were talking idly at the table, awaiting their suppers, and at the bar Andrews stood with his hands wrapped around a bottle. Brand looked at them and his mind recalled the hours they had all
come through; there was this last thing yet to be done, and so he walked as far as the near end of the bar and stood there facing Andrews, and said, “They haven’t brewed enough whiskey to drown it out of your mind.”

  “What’s that?” Andrews looked up bleakly.

  “You killed the deputy,” Brand said. “That’s what’s eating at you.”

  Andrews looked down at the bottle, slowly lifted it to his lips and drank. When he put it down, his hands were unsteady. “What gives you that idea?”

  “It narrowed down to you or Lutz. But Lutz had his chance at me this afternoon, and never took it. You shot Kirby and then, when you saw me packing him up the trail, it made you panic. You tried to bushwack me because you were sure I knew you’d killed him. When, that didn’t work, you tried it again last night, but it wasn’t me coming through the door, it was the kid. You hit him by mistake.”

  “Got it all figured out, have you?” Andrews watched him emotionlessly through red-filmed eyes.

  Around the room, Lutz and Zane were watching with wary interest. Lutz, Brand noticed, had not taken up the cue and begun to bluster; the big man remained silent. Brand said, “What did you do with the rifle, Andrews?”

  “What rifle?”

  “It’s too late for that,” Brand said, bluffing but sure enough of the truth of his guess to sustain the bluff. “You ditched the rifle somewhere. You might as well tell us where.”

  “You can’t prove a thing.”

  “There’s a pair of Californio spurs in the stable that will prove different,” Brand told him. “A little asking around, and we’ll find somebody who’ll identify them as yours. Those spurs left tracks by the body.”

  Andrews again looked down at the bottle. Its liquid turned amber and brown under the shifting light. He touched the rim of the bottle tentatively and said, “This stuff tastes rotten.”

  “It won’t do you any good.”

  “No,” Andrews agreed. “I guess it won’t. All right. I killed Kirby.”

  Zane stepped forward then, assuming his role as a peace officer. “Why did you kill him?”

  Andrews lifted his bloodshot eyes toward Lutz. “Ask him.”

  Lutz frowned at him. “You’re loco. I put no gun in your hand, Andrews.”

  Brand said to Andrews, “What do you mean?”

  Andrews shrugged; he pushed the bottle away and turned to face the room. Zane came forward and lifted the gun out of the homesteader’s holster, and Andrews made no objection. He said, “Somebody shot down half a dozen of Lutz’s cattle a few days ago. Lutz blamed it on my brother Clint. But Lutz found one of the hides at Clint’s place—I suspect one of the back-country rawhiders planted it there, to throw suspicion off.

  “Anyway, Lutz said he was going to the law about it. Clint swore to me he’d had nothin’ to do with it, but that didn’t help any. Hell, we all knew if Clint went to jail, his wife and kids would have nothing to five on, nobody to support them. I’d do what I could, but I got my own family to feed and times have been tough. So when the deputy came and took Clint away, I saddled up and cut across country to head them off. I told the deputy to turn Clint loose, and he got mad. He turned his gun on me, and I let mine off first.”

  “All right,” Brand said. “What happened to the rifle?”

  “Clint took it home with him.”

  “I guess,” George Zane said, “I’ll have to arrest your brother, too.”

  Lutz was glowering at the table. “Andrews, how sure are you that it wasn’t your brother stole that beef of mine?”

  “I just told you,” Andrews said.

  Lutz worked his lips around. There was a struggle mirrored in his thick-joweled face. He looked up when Michaela entered the room; his glance locked with hers and the girl matched his look proudly. Lutz said, “Maybe he’s telling the truth, Zane.”

  “Even if he is, he’ll have to stand trial for killing the deputy.”

  “Well,” Lutz said slowly, it’ looks a little like I may have started the wheel turning. Listen, Andrews. If I can get an agreement from you and the other nesters to form a protective combine against those hill-country rawhiders, I might go you the price of a good lawyer.”

  Andrews studied his knuckles. Brand said quietly, “You’ll need one, fella.”

  Andrews nodded resignedly. “All right,” he said.

  Brand turned to George Zane. “What about the kid upstairs?”

  “I talked to him this afternoon. He’s surrendered the loot to me. I think they’ll probably let him off—there’s no real harm done, except to himself. The judge will probably figure that gunshot wound’s enough punishment.”

  “That’s fine,” Brand said. “I’ll want a good wrangler.”

  “Wrangler?” Lutz said. “What use have you got with a wrangler?”

  “Why,” Brand said drowsily, “I’m thinking of starting up a little horse ranch back in the mountains where there’s plenty of good graze and mountain water. You get tired of drifting.”

  He saw the girl’s startled glance; covering her confusion, she turned and retreated into the kitchen. Brand got up and followed her, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  He cupped her face between his hands. Her eyes softened and an unsteady smile touched her lips, and she whispered, “Be gentle, Jim, please. I know you can be gentle.”

  The world was warm, warm with fire-heat and her close-pressed body and lips and the sweet taste in his tongue and the scent of her hair, all of it tempered by the gentleness she had seen in him.

  About the Author

  The author of more than seventy books, Brian Garfield is one of USA’s most prolific writes of thrillers, westerns and other genre fiction. Raised in Arizona, Garfield found success at an early age, publishing his first novel when he was only eighteen – which, at the time, made him one of the youngest writers of Western novels in print.

  A former ranch-hand, he was a student of Western and Southwestern history, an expert on guns, and a sports car enthusiast. After time in the Army, a few years touring with a jazz band, and a Master’s Degree from the University of Arizona, he settled into writing full time.

  Garfield is a past president of the Mystery Writers of America and the Western Writers of America, and the only author to have held both offices. Nineteen of his novels have been made into films, including Death Wish (1972), The Last Hard Men (1976) and Hopscotch (1975), for which he wrote the screenplay.

  To date, his novels have sold over twenty million copies worldwide. Brian Garfield died on December 29 2018. He and his wife lived in California.

  More on Brian Garfield

  By BRIAN GARFIELD

  Available from Piccadilly Publishing

  JEREMY SIX [series]

  FORT DRAGOON [series]

  THE LAWBRINGERS [series]

  THE CATTLEMEN [series]

  THE OUTLAWS [series]