Way of the Gun

by Ralph Hayes

‘Boy, you ought to sell that sidearm before it gets you killed,’ Sumner growled. He re-holstered the Peacemaker, descended the steps and mounted his stallion.

  ‘Good luck to you!’ the drifter called out as Sumner rode off without looking back.

  Sumner stayed in town that night, and early the next morning he went looking for the camp site reported to him by the cowboy at the Long Branch. He followed the directions given him closely and soon found himself alongside the stream described to him. Three hundred yards downstream he found it, but almost rode on past it. Then he was dismounted and standing over the burnt place in the ground where the fire had been.

  He could still discern the hoofmarks in the hard ground where the riders had been, and he noted that one set of hoofprints was lighter than the others, and might mean a lighter horse and rider, which could be Dulcie.

  But that was scant evidence. He scoured the surroundings for clues, but without success. He went and sat on a tree stump nearby, and thought the situation over. He still wasn’t convinced this was their encampment.

  But then his eye caught the edge of something that looked out of place in the area. He got up and walked over to a spot beside a young tree, and saw a tiny piece of cloth showing at the edge of some leaves. He picked it up and held it in his hand. It was a torn bit of gingham, a fragment of blue cloth, and Sumner now recalled Provost’s description of Dulcie’s attire when she was taken. She had been wearing a blue blouse and tan riding pants. Under foot he noticed a lot of the light hoofprints, and guessed that Dulcie had got her blouse pinched and torn by her saddlery, leaving a small hole in the blouse.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said softly. ‘I’m on your trail, Miss Provost.’

  His earlier conjecture had been right. Latham was purposely avoiding any towns he passed, so he couldn’t be traced. That made him clever. And therefore dangerous.

  He stuffed the little piece of cloth into a pocket, mounted the black stallion, and rode on down the bank of the stream. His whole feeling about the hunt was different now. His chances of eventually finding Latham had jumped to a fairly high level. But that still didn’t guarantee success. He had to get past Latham and his men. And of course at some point Latham could have just decided he didn’t want to bother with Dulcie any more, and disposed of her.

  Sumner followed the stream all morning until it turned off to the east, at which point he kept on south, heading for the Indian Territory border. He realized that that territory was very large, and that keeping on Latham’s trail would depend on finding another camp site, or other evidence.

  In mid-afternoon he came upon a lone man encamped under a mesquite tree. He reined in several hundred yards away, studying the scene, satisfying himself that he wasn’t riding into an ambush. Then he rode on into the other man’s camp.

  The fellow had been squatting on a fallen limb from the tree when Sumner approached. Now he rose warily as Sumner entered his camp area. His mount was picketed to the tree. Its saddlebags looked full, and there was a dark case affixed to the blanket roll behind the saddle. He appeared to be a commercial traveller of some kind.

  He studied Sumner closely. He wasn’t carrying a sidearm. ‘Afternoon, stranger. I was just having myself a cup of coffee. The real stuff. Can I offer you a cup?’

  Sumner looked the camp over, and then dismounted. When the other man saw his general appearance, and the Peacemaker, he felt his mouth go a little dry.

  Sumner nodded. ‘I’ll have a cup. It’s been a long, dry ride.’

  The other man relaxed some. He went to his low fire, retrieved a small coffee pot and poured Sumner a cup.

  ‘I’m pleasured to meet up with you, stranger,’ he grinned. He was heavy-set and pot-bellied, wearing dark clothing and a lariat tie. He took a swig of his own coffee. ‘I’m R. C. Funk. I spread the word of the Lord all through the Territory and Kansas. Glory be to Jesus our Lord and Saviour, and blessed be those who follow and accept Him.’

  Sumner took a long swig of the coffee. ‘That’s good coffee. So you’re a Bible drummer?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I do a little preaching, too, when the opportunity arises, in one of these Godless communities I pass through. May I ask your name, sir?’

  He had just violated a hard rule of the trail, but Sumner excused him. ‘The name is Sumner.’

  It meant nothing to Funk. ‘I’m glad to know you, Mr Sumner. I hope you won’t judge me too forward, but have you been saved for resurrection, sir? Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Saviour?’

  ‘I don’t take much to preaching, Mr Funk.’

  Funk grinned at him. ‘That sounds like a negative reply, Mr Sumner. I’d like to make you the proud owner of one of our gilt-edged, completely illustrated Bibles, sir. May I show you one from my case over there?’

  Sumner sat down on the fallen log to finish the coffee, and Funk sat down beside him, awaiting an answer.

  ‘I limit my reading to the Kansas City paper,’ Sumner said. ‘You’ve been riding up from the south?’

  ‘Yes, sir. All the way through the Territory. Just crossed the border early today. Glad to be away from that land of iniquity. But listen. If I can’t persuade you to be the proud owner of the Good Book, maybe you’d like to get down on your knees with me and pray to Holy God for salvation. We’ll do it together, Mr Sumner. It will make you feel redemption inside you.’

  Sumner was impatient, but smiled at that invitation. ‘I think I’ll leave the praying to those that hate seeing my face for the first time,’ he responded quietly.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Sumner told him. ‘Have you done much camping along the trail on your way north?’

  ‘Almost exclusively,’ Funk replied. ‘I’m a poor man, Mr Sumner, who can’t afford the recent costs of taking a bed at a decent hotel where you don’t wake up with welts on you from critters of all sorts.’

  ‘Did you notice any freshly abandoned camp sites on the trail?’

  Funk thought about that for a moment. ‘No, I can’t say that I did. But my route takes me off the main trail to one direction or the other. To hit the small towns in my general path, you see. That’s where the Bibles are sold. And I might get involved in a tent revival.’

  Sumner was disappointed. He threw some coffee dregs on to the ground, set his cup on the log, and stood up. Funk found himself staring again at the Peacemaker. He rose, too. ‘Well. I wish we could have done business. Of one kind or another,’ he grinned at Sumner, studying his face and wondering what kind of a man he had run into.

  ‘May I ask your profession, Mr Sumner?’

  He had violated a second rule of the trail. ‘You’re a very curious man, Funk,’ Sumner remarked. ‘Be careful it doesn’t get you into trouble.’

  Funk looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. It almost did a couple days ago. I asked the same question and a man pulled a gun on me. His companions enjoyed the moment very much.’

  ‘There was more than one man?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Three, to be exact.’

  ‘Was that meeting out on the trail, like this?’

  ‘Why, yes. Directly south of here, in the Territory.’

  Sumner tensed slightly. ‘I don’t suppose there was a girl with them?’

  ‘Why, now that you mention it, there was. She kept in the background and didn’t speak a word.’

  ‘Was she just a kid? Wearing a blue blouse and riding pants?’

  Funk’s face lit up. ‘Why, you must know the girl?’ The brightness faded. ‘And the men.’

  ‘No. I just know about them.’

  ‘One of them had only one ear. A frightful-looking fellow. He asked if I knew how far it was to Pawnee Junction. Then the one who had drawn the gun gave him a very mean look. And they rode on.’

  Sumner couldn’t believe this good luck. He narrowed his blue eyes down on Funk. ‘Are you quite certain he said Pawnee Junction?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I remember because I had stopped in there on my way north. It’s barely a town, i
t’s so small. Nobody could afford a Good Book. Yes, it was Pawnee Junction, all right.’

  Something relaxed slightly inside Sumner. ‘And how far is Pawnee Junction?’

  ‘Oh, once you get into the Territory, it will be most of a two-days’ ride. Might you be going there too?’

  Sumner gave him an acid look, and withdrew a coin from a belt poke. ‘Here. What you just told me is worth more than a Bible to me.’

  Funk was surprised. ‘Why, bless you, young man!’

  Sumner went and mounted the stallion, which was waiting patiently for him. Then he turned back to the drummer. ‘You asked my occupation. I kill other men for money.’

  Funk stood there assimilating that, then a heavy frown worked itself on to his pudgy face. ‘Why – good heavens!’

  ‘Oh. And if there is such a place as heaven. ...’

  ‘Yes?’ Thickly.

  ‘I’ll probably be headed in the other direction.’

  Then he rode off to the south, with Funk staring after him, slack-jawed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dulcie was making her bed up when Latham walked in. She turned quickly towards him, gasping slightly. Her left eye was badly bruised, and her green eyes revealed her new fear of him, and her hatred.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Finish it up. I’ll wait.’

  Dulcie made no reply. She turned and pulled a corner of the bed cover up, and then straightened it. She then turned back to him as he walked over to the bed and examined it without speaking while Dulcie held her breath. He supervised and inspected every task given to her in the house, and if it wasn’t to his liking, he usually punished her. The black eye had been her most recent punishment.

  ‘Good job.’ He turned to her and touched the bruise under her left eye. She flinched, but made no complaint or objection. She had learned not to. ‘Yes. That’s looking better. If you took more care and did things the way I tell you, you wouldn’t have this to deal with.’

  Dulcie had found out already that Latham was as obsessive about his surroundings being just as he wanted them as he was with his personal attire, which was always military neat and orderly. And he was treating Dulcie like a slave girl who displeased him at her personal risk. However, he had given her her own bedroom, forbidding anyone to enter it but her and himself – and strange as it seemed to both Sloan and Weeks, Latham had not touched her sexually in all the time he had had her. But Dulcie expected it at any moment, which added to the tension that was inside her, day and night.

  Latham smiled at her. ‘What would you like to fix us for supper? You have any ideas?’

  ‘We have some ham left over. Or I could go outside and get us a chicken.’

  ‘Why don’t you surprise us?’ he suggested.

  ‘You might not like my choice. I’d rather you decided,’ she said.

  He frowned slightly. ‘You refuse to surprise me? When I just told you it would please me?’

  Renewed fear took hold of her pretty face. ‘No. Of course not. I’ll pick one of them. After you’re gone.’

  He had already told her that he and Sloan would be gone for part of the day, and would leave her again with Weeks. For her, it would be a kind of vacation from fear while he was gone, so she looked forward to it, however unpleasant it was to have the ugly Weeks watching over her. Actually, Dulcie had fairly well given up on her father ever finding her down there, and had acknowledged to herself that her life as she had known it was over. She had even contemplated suicide, but even that would be difficult to accomplish as a prisoner in this house.

  ‘I’m not locking you in up here today,’ Latham was telling her. ‘I’m trusting you to have full roam of the house. If Weeks leaves again, I want you to tell me about it. Understand?’

  She nodded. ‘All right.’ She was still upset about the cold-blooded way they had killed the man Weeks had brought to the house.

  ‘In fact, if Weeks causes any trouble of any kind, I want it reported to me. I’m making it your responsibility. And that’s even if he threatens you not to.’

  She nodded, realizing that this put her temporarily higher in the pecking order, ironically, than Weeks. ‘He’ll be all right. He’s afraid of you.’

  ‘The little bastard better be. Ira and me will probably be back by five or six. I want supper ready and waiting for us.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem.’

  ‘If it’s not, the problem will be yours,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘I know.’

  When he left a moment later and she heard the outside door slam after him, she felt a clammy hand release its hold on her insides.

  Latham and Sloan were heading for Lone Butte, a town almost sixty miles south-west of Pawnee Junction, where a very small bank had been established under six months ago. They had ridden there when they had first arrived in Pawnee Junction, taken a cursory look at the primitive facility, and decided that two of them could take it with relative ease.

  They arrived in Lone Butte at midday; the weather was warm and dry, and they had damp sweat bands and slightly flushed faces. They rode on to the town’s wide, dusty street and reined in at the Trail of Tears saloon just down the street from the Territorial Bank. They looked around, noting that the street was almost empty of traffic.

  ‘Backwater,’ Latham commented.

  ‘But that’s just what we want,’ Sloan commented.

  They spurred their mounts on down the street, and dismounted right in front of the small bank. There was an OPEN sign on a front window. They climbed three steps to the entrance, looked around them to see if they were being observed, then pulled their neckerchiefs up to cover their faces.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Latham said.

  A moment later they were inside the bank, guns drawn. There was a very narrow reception area in front of a row of teller windows. There were three windows, but only two tellers. Behind them were several desks, where two women and one middle-aged man sat. The tellers were both men.

  When the two walked in masked with guns drawn, one of the tellers looked up and gasped.

  ‘All right, folks! This is a hold-up!’ Latham barked out. ‘Everybody do just what we tell you, and nobody will get hurt.’

  They both went around behind the tellers. Sloan stopped beside the nearest teller and Latham walked over to the middle-aged man at a long walnut desk. Off to the left was a free-standing safe that took up most of the wall.

  ‘Are you the manager?’ Latham said from behind the bandanna, his Starr .44 levelled at the man’s head.

  The fellow swallowed hard, and hesitated. ‘No, sir. He’s off for the day.’

  ‘Well, can you get into that safe?’

  ‘No, sir. Only the manager can open that safe.’ He was a heavy-set fellow wearing a neat vest and sleeve garters. ‘I’d like to help you, but I don’t know the combination.’

  Sloan shoved his Schofield up against the near teller’s cheek. ‘Is that the manager he’s talking to?’

  The teller’s eyes widened. ‘Uh . . . yes, sir.’

  Latham scowled under the cover. ‘You stupid ass. Get over there and open that damn safe!’

  Now the manager looked terrified. ‘Sorry. I had to try to save our deposits. I’ll co-operate.’

  Latham swung the barrel of the Starr against the manager’s head, and connected above his left ear. The manager was almost knocked off his chair. Blood began running down the side of his face, and he was gasping raggedly.

  ‘Maybe that will add some incentive,’ Latham growled. ‘Now get that safe opened.’

  ‘Yes.’ Thickly, staggering to the safe and twisting a combination knob there. In a moment the safe swung open.

  Latham leaned down and looked in. There were several piles of paper money, and a bag of silver coins. There were also some bonds and legal papers, which Latham ignored. He took a bag from his coat and began stuffing the money into it.

  But as that was happening the teller farthest from Sloan surreptitiously drew a Derringer over-and-under from h
is cash drawer, turned it on Sloan, and fired.

  Everybody was surprised, including his partner at the other window. ‘Josh!’ that fellow cried out.

  Sloan had been hit in the high chest, and his look of surprise was quickly turned into one of hot anger. The teller had now aimed the Derringer at Latham, and was ready to fire the other shot from the small gun. Sloan, though, raised his left hand with the Schofield in it and fired, beating the teller. The hot lead hit the fellow behind his left jaw and blew his right ear off, the roaring making one of the women at a desk scream. Sloan leaned heavily against the cash counter.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Latham called to him.

  Sloan nodded. ‘I’m OK.’

  Latham closed his bag up and came past the manager. ‘Your teller just shot my partner, you bastard.’

  The manager was breathless. ‘That’s against bank policy, sir! I’m sorry!’ Casting a glance at his dead teller.

  ‘Well, this is for that, and for lying to me,’ Latham growled. He drew the Starr again, aimed it at the manager’s face, and fired. A blue hole appeared in the other man’s forehead, and brain and blood sprayed out the back of his head.

  Now the second female clerk screamed, and then fainted, falling off her chair to the floor. Latham went over to Sloan, who had holstered his gun. There was crimson staining his shirt up high on his right chest, just under his shoulder.

  ‘I feel better already,’ he said. ‘I’m lucky it was my right side. It won’t hurt my shooting. Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  When they arrived outside, they pulled their face covers down, but then a man appeared from a store two doors down. He looked like a rancher. ‘Hey! What are you boys up to?’

  Latham swore under his breath, drew the Starr .44 again, and shot the fellow in mid-chest. He staggered backwards for a moment, looked down at the hole in his vest, then toppled to the ground.

  ‘Let’s ride,’ Latham grated out.

  Sloan had some difficulty mounting, but then they were riding out of town in a gallop, figuring to keep ahead of the local law.

  It was two hours later, when they passed through a small village with a veterinarian doctor, that Latham stopped to look at Ira Sloan’s wound. Sloan was looking very fatigued from the ride.