“So Jerrico really was an honest lawman?”
“For a while,” MacDonald answered with a shrug. “But a fella can’t escape his breedin’ forever. Garrity and his bunch drifted over here when things got too hot for ’em in the Dakotas. He sized things up and saw there were two big spreads hereabouts just ripe for lootin’. He thought Cousin Charlie and me would throw in with him, but Charlie said he’d only do it if he was the boss of the operation and we did things his way. Said he’d built up some trust among the folks around here and didn’t want to ruin it in case things went bad. So that’s what we did. Nobody ever figured a couple star packers were tied up with all the rustlin’ and trouble-makin’.”
“I did,” Stovepipe said. “I’ve known it for quite a while now.”
“The hell you say! Ain’t no way you could’ve.”
“Sure there is. The shoe on your horse’s left hind hoof has got a peculiar nick on it. I spotted it on some of the tracks you left behind when you and Garrity’s bunch tried to rustle those cattle from the Three Rivers a week or so ago. You were one of the varmints who got away. When I saw the same hoofprint later on in the corral behind the sheriff’s office in Wagontongue, I knew there had to be a connection. Then Jerrico found an excuse to turn Coolidge loose. I reckon it happened the way he said it did, but if it hadn’t, he would’ve found some other way. I’ve been suspectin’ Jerrico was the ringleader for a while now, and thanks to you, I know for sure.”
MacDonald scowled and reached for the gun he had shoved behind his belt. “That knowledge ain’t gonna do you a damn bit of good, Stewart, because I’m fixin’ to blow a hole through you with your own six-shooter!”
He jerked the gun out and swung the barrel toward Stovepipe.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Even as flame spouted from the gun muzzle, Stovepipe was on the move. He wasn’t quite as weak and addled as he’d been making out while he talked to MacDonald. He had been in pretty bad shape when the outlaw deputy dragged him, but as soon as he realized what was poking his hip, he had kept the conversation going as he tried to get his hand on the knife without MacDonald noticing.
Stovepipe wasn’t as good with a knife as he was with a gun, but he was better than most men. As he rolled swiftly to the side and the shot MacDonald fired kicked up dirt and stone mere inches from him, his arm flashed up and back and then forward. The knife spun through the air in a perfect throw that ended with MacDonald’s own blade buried in his throat.
MacDonald pulled the trigger again as he staggered back a step, but his gun hand had already sagged and the slug went into the ground between him and Stovepipe. With his left hand, he pawed at the knife’s handle, got hold of it, and pulled it free.
That was a mistake. Blood fountained from the wound, spraying out several feet in front of him. The odds were he wouldn’t have survived anyway, but that action cinched it. MacDonald made a gagging, choking noise as dark crimson continued to well from his throat. He dropped the gun and it thudded to the ground.
His knees buckled, and he pitched forward onto his face. A pool of blood began to form under his head as it continued to leak from his body.
Stovepipe pushed himself to his feet and stood there without moving for a few moments until his legs steadied underneath him. A lot of blood had been spilled—his own, Dax Coolidge’s, and now MacDonald’s. Somehow Stovepipe was still alive, and the other two weren’t. He felt pretty good about that.
He didn’t have time to congratulate himself on surviving. Cort Garrity was on his way to ambush the Three Rivers crew as they rode toward the Rafter M. If that didn’t prove possible, Garrity would wait until the cowboys from the two ranches had shot it out and then kill anyone who lived through the battle.
Stovepipe knew he was the only one who could head off that massacre.
He left MacDonald’s body where it had fallen and picked up his gun. He pouched the iron and then returned to the spot where he had left the paint.
“More work for both of us, old hoss,” he told the animal as he settled into the saddle. “Reckon we’ll get to rest for a spell one of these days. Right now, though, we got to light a shuck. We’ll get back to Eagle Flats and head south. Maybe if we move fast enough we can run across Vance and Malone and the other fellas before they get to the Rafter M.”
As he rode away from the camp, however, he was well aware that he was in a race . . . and he was probably starting out behind. Somewhere in the night, Garrity and the other outlaws who worked for Sheriff Charlie Jerrico had already set out on their deadly errand.
* * *
Vance, Wilbur, and Keenan Malone rode at the front of the cowboys from the Three Rivers as they headed for the Rafter M. Rosaleen, Aunt Sinead, and Asa had been left behind, but everybody else was going off to war.
Vance worried a little about leaving the ranch practically defenseless, but Malone had assured him that wasn’t actually the case.
“Rosaleen’s a fine shot, and so’s Asa. And Sinead . . . well, I never saw a woman who could handle a double-barreled shotgun like she can. If there’s trouble, they can fort up in the bunkhouse. It’s sturdy and has just the one door and only a few windows. They’ll hold out. But I don’t think it’ll come to that. Cabot won’t be expectin’ us.”
Vance wasn’t sure about that, either. Cabot had to know that one of his men had killed Stovepipe. He would be figuring the Three Rivers would try to avenge their fallen comrade. The code of honor rough frontiersmen followed demanded such a response.
That thought made something tickle at the back of Vance’s mind as he rode through the night with nearly two dozen heavily armed fighting men at his back. Something wasn’t right . . .
He was riding in the middle, with Malone to his right and Wilbur to his left. Wilbur was a veteran range detective. He had to have encountered all sorts of plots and schemes over the years he and Stovepipe had worked together. Stovepipe might have been the brains of the duo, but that didn’t mean Wilbur wasn’t experienced and canny.
“Wilbur,” Vance said, “I’ve been thinking. It seems like some of the things that have happened have been mighty convenient.”
“You mean like somebody’s maneuvered Malone and Cabot into fighting with each other?” the redhead asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean!”
“Stovepipe did some pondering along the same lines,” Wilbur said. “He didn’t have any real proof yet, or at least none he was ready to share with me, but I got the feeling he was leaning in that direction. And you know how Stovepipe’s hunches always turned out to be right!”
“If that’s true, riding in on the Rafter M with all guns blazing might not be the best idea—”
“What are you two jabberin’ about?” Malone broke in.
Earlier, Vance had been just as hot-tempered as the old cattleman, but he’d had a chance to cool off a little and do some thinking. He wasn’t sure they were on the right path. “Mr. Malone, attacking Cabot and his men might not be the wisest idea. We could have been tricked—”
“Tricked! Is Stovepipe dead or ain’t he?”
“He’s dead,” Wilbur said grimly, “and I’m gonna settle the score for him. But it could be we’re playing right into somebody else’s hands, Mr. Malone.”
“Who the hell else is there to blame except Cabot?”
“I don’t know,” Wilbur admitted, “but what if somebody’s been playing the two of you against each other?”
“Pshaw! Nobody’s that tricky. It’d take a plumb sidewinder to come up with an idea like that.”
That simple, straightforward attitude was one good reason such a scheme might work, Vance thought. Men like Malone and Cabot were used to being honest and blunt, even in their hostility toward each other. They couldn’t conceive of just how warped some intellects could be. Vance had seen it, though, in big business dealings back east, where no one’s word could be trusted about anything.
He might be able to explain that to Malone, given enough time, but at the mome
nt, the most important thing was to throw the brakes on the assault on the Rafter M. They needed to talk things over, investigate further—
Gunfire ripped through the night.
Muzzle flames bloomed in the darkness on both sides of the broad, shallow cut they were riding along. Bullets whined through the air and thudded into flesh and bone. Men grunted and cursed. Horses screamed.
They had ridden into an ambush. That played into the discussion Vance and Wilbur and Malone had been having, but there was no time to think about that with the air filled with lead.
“Head for those trees!” Wilbur yelled as his horse leaped forward. The clump of trees was up ahead on their left, about fifty yards away.
Fifty yards was a long way to go with bullets whining around your head. Vance leaned forward in the saddle and urged his horse into a gallop. Malone thundered along beside him, and behind them came the rest of the crew . . . except for the handful who had already toppled from their saddles, mortally wounded.
Malone suddenly grunted and swayed. Vance reached over to grab his arm and steady him. “Mr. Malone!” he called over the gun-thunder and the hammering hoofbeats. “Are you hit?”
“Keep goin’, boy!” Malone said. “Don’t worry about me!”
Vance wasn’t about to do that. He tightened his grip on Malone’s arm and kept riding.
Wilbur had pulled ahead slightly. The redhead had his revolver out and fired back at the gunmen hidden on the ridges of the cut, twisting back and forth in his saddle as he triggered the weapon. It probably wouldn’t do any good, but the wild shots might make one or two of the bushwhackers duck for cover and slow down the assault.
Some of the Three Rivers punchers managed to put up a fight, too, as they raced for cover. Wilbur reached the trees and darted among them, followed closely by Vance and Malone. Vance had to let go of Malone’s arm to rein his horse to a stop, and as he did the old cattleman toppled from his mount.
Vance was kneeling beside him an instant later, lifting him and asking, “How bad is it, Mr. Malone?”
“Don’t know,” Malone replied in a strained voice. “I’m hit in the body, but I ain’t dead so it didn’t get my heart, and I can still breathe so it ain’t my lungs. Prop me up against a tree, son, and put a gun in my hand. I’ll fight to the end.”
Vance didn’t doubt that for a second. He got hold of Malone under the arms and positioned him against a tree as the rancher had asked. Even in the thick shadows under the trees, Vance could see the dark stain on Malone’s shirt and knew he was bleeding heavily. Such a wound might well be fatal.
But the way things were going, it was entirely possible none of them would live through that night, so with grim resolve Vance pulled Malone’s Colt from its holster and pressed the gun into the old man’s hand.
“We rode into a trap . . . didn’t we?” Malone said. “Looks like you were . . . right after all, Vance. Sorry I was . . . too stubborn to listen to you.”
“Don’t worry about that. I was just as furious with Cabot as you were, just as ready to attack the Rafter M. And that was just what somebody wanted us to do.”
“Too late now . . . all we can do is . . . make ’em pay in blood . . . for their damn trickery . . .”
Malone’s head slumped forward and the hand holding the gun fell into his lap. For a terrible moment Vance thought he was dead, but when he pressed a hand against Malone’s chest he felt the old heart still beating steadily. The cattleman had just passed out.
Vance stood up and drew his own revolver. Bullets whipped through the branches and thudded into the tree trunks around him. The other survivors from the crew had reached the shelter, such as it was, and were firing back at the ridges on both sides of them.
Vance darted from one tree to another until he found Wilbur crouched behind one of the trunks, cranking off rounds from a Winchester. “Looks like Stovepipe was right,” he called to the redhead.
“He usually is,” Wilbur said. “I mean, was.” His voice caught a little. “Doesn’t do us any good now. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. These trees will protect us for a while, but if those bushwhackers have enough ammunition, they’ll shoot this grove to pieces, sooner or later.”
“Do you think it’s Cabot and the men from the Rafter M or somebody else?”
Wilbur took another shot, lowered the rifle, and started thumbing fresh rounds from his pocket into the loading gate. “I don’t know what to think anymore. All I know is there’s a bunch of varmints out there who want us dead—and I’m going to do my damnedest to disappoint them!”
* * *
Stovepipe heard the gunfire quite a while before he spotted muzzle flashes in the distance. That gave him something to steer by as he tried to find Wilbur, Vance, and the men from the Three Rivers.
There was no doubt in Stovepipe’s mind that his friend and the others were right in the middle of that battle royal he was hearing.
From the sound of it, several dozen guns were in action. That was encouraging, in a way. It meant the Three Rivers crew was putting up a fight against Garrity’s outlaw band and hadn’t been wiped out in the first volley. Wilbur would battle until his last breath, and from what Stovepipe had seen of them, so would Keenan Malone and the rest of the Three Rivers punchers. Stovepipe was confident Vance wouldn’t back down, either.
He just hoped he could get there in time to lend them a hand. He kept the tired paint moving at as fast a clip as he dared.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rosaleen’s nerves were stretched taut. The men she loved—her father, Vance, and yes, Wilbur, Andy Callahan, and the rest of the Three Rivers crew—were out there somewhere in the night, headed toward a showdown. Would they live through it and come back to the ranch? She could only pray that would be the case.
In the meantime, there was no guarantee she and her aunt and the old wrangler weren’t in danger, too. She sensed there might be some deep currents under the surface of this affair. Someone else might have been able to sort them out, but she couldn’t. All she could do was wait and be watchful.
For that reason, she was on the front porch of the ranch house with the carbine in her hands when she heard hoofbeats approaching in the darkness. All the lamps were out in the house behind her. Aunt Sinead was sitting in a rocking chair beside an open window with a Greener in her lap, and Asa was in the bunkhouse with a Winchester. If any enemies rode up, they would be caught in a crossfire.
Rosaleen stiffened at the sound of the horse coming closer. Her hands tightened on the carbine. She listened intently and could tell it was only one rider. Her keen eyes probed the shadows and spotted him as he neared the ranch house.
She lifted the carbine to her shoulder, drew a bead, and called out in a clear, strong voice, “Hold it right there, mister! Don’t come any closer.”
The rider reined in. “Miss Rosaleen? Is that you?”
Relief washed through Rosaleen as she recognized the voice. It belonged to Sheriff Charlie Jerrico from Wagontongue.
Lowering the carbine, Rosaleen breathed easier “It’s all right, Sheriff. You can come ahead. I didn’t know who you were, and things are pretty tense tonight.”
She heard Jerrico chuckle. “I can imagine.” He rode up to the front porch and reined to a halt again. Solemn now, he said, “I heard what happened to Stewart. Where is everybody, Miss Malone?” The lawman’s voice hardened. “They haven’t ridden over to the Rafter M to raise hell, I hope.”
“You know my father, Sheriff. Somebody hits him, he’s going to hit back.”
“Take the law in his own hands, you mean.” Jerrico shook his head. “I was hoping I could get out here in time to talk some sense into his head. The days of open warfare between ranches are over. We have law and order in these parts now.”
“I wish that was true. I’m not sure my father will ever feel that way, though. He believes a man has to fight his own battles and not rely on someone else to do it for him.”
“How long ago did he and the rest of the cr
ew leave?”
“More than an hour ago.”
“Then it’s too late to stop things now. They’ve got too big a lead on me. It’s not likely they’d listen to me, anyway.”
“No, it’s not,” Rosaleen agreed.
Jerrico took off his hat and ran a hand over his close-cropped dark hair. He sighed as he put the hat back on. “Why don’t you come back to Wagontongue with me, Miss Malone?” he suggested. “I’d feel better if I knew you were safe tonight.”
“There’s no need for that,” Rosaleen said. “I’m perfectly safe right here, Sheriff. The Three Rivers is my home.”
“I know that, but what if things go bad for your father and the rest of his bunch? Some of the men from the Rafter M might ride over here looking to finish the job.”
“You really think they’d attack the ranch and hurt me?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore, miss. The way things are blowing up tonight, I’d say almost anything could happen.”
Maybe he was right, Rosaleen thought. If the raid on the Rafter M backfired, she might be in danger. But she wasn’t going to abandon Aunt Sinead and Asa. And if they all went into town with the sheriff, that really would leave the ranch undefended . . .
That thought made up her mind. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I appreciate you looking out for my safety, but I can’t leave.”
“Blast it, Miss Malone.” Jerrico swung down from the saddle and stepped up onto the porch. “I just want to make sure nothing happens to you—”
“I can protect myself.” She patted the carbine’s smooth stock.
“Who else is here? You’re not alone, are you?”
“My aunt is in the house, and our wrangler is over in the bunkhouse.”
“They can all come into town with us. You’ll all be safe.”
“And if we did that, Mort Cabot could come in here and burn everything to the ground.” Rosaleen shook her head. “I can’t allow that to happen.”
Hang Them Slowly Page 23
