Watts whistled again. “Man, you’ve got your posse!”
“One thing,” Cato said as the sheriff stood and squirted a long stream of tobacco juice into the spittoon. “Treece has got to be taken alive.”
Watts frowned. “Alive? Hell, you go in against Roy Treece, Cato, and he ain’t gonna give anyone—not anyone—a chance to take him back and slip a noose round his neck. He’s always swore he’ll never hang, that he’ll die by a bullet.”
“I want him alive,” Cato said flatly. “You make sure the others know that, too, Sheriff. Roy Treece has got to be taken alive.”
“You’re callin’ ’em,” Watts said with a sigh, but it was clear that he didn’t hold out much hope of bringing in the outlaw still breathing.
Two – Bent’s Junction
Yancey’s head was still bothering him. The headaches were almost constant now and had jarred through him with every step that the horse had taken to Bent’s Junction. It was a deeper crease than he had ever had before and, though the main bleeding had stopped, the wound still oozed a little blood mixed with a yellowish body fluid. He occasionally had double-vision and dizziness but, once in sight of Bent’s Junction, Yancey concentrated on the job in hand and forced himself to forget all about his head wound.
It was a large town on a main railroad and he knew he was going to have some trouble finding Onslow. All his information had said was that Carlsen was to meet the mysterious Onslow in Bent’s Junction and pick up some papers. Looked to him like there were maybe a dozen saloons and as many hotels where the man might be staying, so he figured the best thing he could do would be to simply spread the word that he wanted to see Onslow, that his name was Carlsen, and see what developed.
So Yancey stopped at a likely looking saloon and, over two cold beers, dropped his message. The deadpan barkeep said he had never heard of anyone called Onslow but he would be glad to help spread the word that ‘Carlsen’ wanted to see him. Yancey flipped him a silver dollar and then went in search of a doctor. He found one in a side street off Main with a weathered shingle dangling from rusted chains outside the house. The medic examined his head wound and cleaned it up some and then looked into Yancey’s eyes, holding the lamp so close that the Enforcer flinched from its heat on his skin.
The doctor stood back with a sigh. “I’d say you been seein’ things double, young feller.”
“Now and again,” Yancey admitted. “Usually when my head’s aching fit to bust, doc.”
“That slug sure whammed you one. Little deeper and you’d be food for the buzzards by now. Well, not a lot more I can do for you. Give you some painkiller for the headaches, but, if I was you, I’d take to my bed for a few days at least.”
“Can’t do it, doc,” Yancey told him.
The sawbones shrugged. Long ago he had quit arguing with frontiersmen who wouldn’t heed his advice. It was their funeral, he reckoned, and he had, in fact, attended many funerals because people wouldn’t listen to him. But he wasn’t a man to waste words so left it up to his patients.
“Rest is what you need. I reckon you’ve got a concussion at least. Skull’s slightly depressed. Might give you a heap of trouble if you keep ridin’ round the countryside. But it’s up to you.”
“Thanks, doc. I’m obliged.” Yancey took his bottle of painkiller and paid the medic’s fee. He put his hat on gingerly over the taped pad of cotton covering the wound and went out.
The doctor frowned, stood up and started around his desk, then stopped short. He made a helpless gesture. What was the use? That feller had looked the stubborn kind and maybe just tough enough to get away with it. He could save himself the effort of going after him ...
~*~
The man called Onslow moved to the window of his hotel room and pulled the drapes back. Behind him, the man who had brought him the message waited patiently.
“Know what he looks like?” Onslow asked.
“Sure. I was in the bar when he asked about you. The barkeep told me as soon as he’d left. I followed him to Doc Mason’s.”
“Come here and see if you can spot him,” Onslow ordered, rubbing a hand irritably over his long hair.
The second man, Nathan, stepped up to the window and looked out into the heat-pulsing street, watching the folk down there moving about. He shook his head. “Don’t see him right now.”
“Carlsen, eh?” Onslow said, cupping his chin in his hand. “Tell me what he looks like.”
“Big hombre, over six feet, maybe hundred and eighty pounds. Brown hair, kind of long, down over his collar, I’d say he needs a haircut more than he wears it like that all the time. About twenty-seven, I’d figure; cowpoke’s clothes, one gun, Colt Peacemaker, but the holster’s been molded to the shape of the gun’s cylinder and trigger guard. Big brass belt-buckle. Kind of beat-up face, some marks of old fights, but mainly weathered. I reckon he spends a lot of time on the trail.”
“It’s not Carlsen,” Onslow announced. “He’s older, heavier, carries a Remington New Army. And he’s black-haired. Sounds to me like our man’s met up with the real Carlsen and put him out of action and has taken his place. Which means he could be the law.”
Nathan spun away from the window, started to speak, then swung back and suddenly pointed as Yancey appeared in the street, heading for the saloon across the way. “That’s him!”
Onslow leaned forward and his mouth tightened as he swore.
“Law?” asked Nathan.
“The worst kind! That’s Yancey Bannerman. Dukes’ top Enforcer!” He let the drape fall back across the window. “Knew he was on the case, but had no idea he was this close …” He cupped his chin in his hand again and pulled his lips back from his teeth as he looked at the hatchet-faced Nathan again. “He can’t see me, Nate ... And I don’t want him to ride out of here. You get Gully and go after him. I’ll quit town and set things up in Concho. When you take care of Bannerman, you head there, okay?”
Nathan nodded, easing the gun in his holster. “Right, boss. We make it look accidental?”
“Hell, no! Just nail him ... Give me fifteen minutes to get clear of town, then go down after him. The barkeep in that saloon know what to say?”
Nate smiled crookedly. “Sure. He’ll tell Carlsen—or whatever his name is—to wait. That you’ll be in at sundown.”
“I’ll be out of town by that time.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a chamois money pouch. He glanced in and handed it to Nathan. “Share that with Gully. I’ll have more for you in Concho.”
Nathan smiled as he clinked the coins in the pouch together. “Rest easy, boss. That hombre’s as good at dead.”
Onslow looked at him sharply. “Don’t underestimate Bannerman. Cover all the angles or he’ll walk away from it and leave you in the dust.”
Nathan’s face darkened. “Like hell he will! Only way he’ll go away is when they carry him across to the undertaker’s.”
“Make damn sure of that,” Onslow said tightly. “Damn sure!”
~*~
Yancey was no fool; he didn’t like waiting for any stranger in a place he hadn’t covered and the saloon had too many exits and entrances for his liking. But he had to take a chance if he was to meet Onslow at all. He didn’t know the man but he reckoned he wouldn’t simply take Yancey’s word that he was Carlsen. He might even know Carlsen in person, though Yancey’s information hadn’t indicated that. But, if he were Onslow, he would get someplace where he could take a good look at the man who wanted to see him before showing up.
He tried to pick out men in the crowded barroom who might be paying him more than the normal curiosity due a stranger in town, but there didn’t seem to be anyone unduly interested in him. His head was throbbing, despite the swig of painkiller he had taken ten minutes earlier. He would have liked nothing better than to follow the sawbones’ advice of taking to his bed for a day or so the way he felt, but that was out of the question right now. If he could nail down this Onslow with the papers, it might end here and he would be ab
le to take a train back to Austin, turn Onslow over to the governor, and then rest up. With some added luck, he could even have Kate Dukes to care for him.
But, so far, this had been a kind of bad-luck assignment and he didn’t count on it getting any luckier. Sure, he was fortunate to be alive after that drygulching, but apart from that, things hadn’t gone any too smoothly at all. So, he figured, if he expected it rough from here on in, then any piece of good luck would be a bonus …
He saw the tall, hatchet-faced man come in through the batwings, stop just inside, and rake hard, bleak eyes around the room, settling them on Yancey for a moment, before moving his gaze on and then starting down the room towards the bar. Yancey tensed. This was the man, he figured. Maybe not Onslow himself, but a messenger from him. That pause with his eyes on Yancey, brief though it was, had given it away. Also, the man was watching him in the fly-specked mirror as he came down the long room. Yancey stared at him in open curiosity, noting the set of the man’s gunrig, the way the right hand brushed the holster and didn’t move far from the gun butt, the way those long fingers flexed to ease stiffened tendons. Here was a gunfighter, likely Onslow’s bodyguard, the man sent to take him to where Onslow was waiting ... or, to gun him down right here.
Yancey moved his chair casually. He was against a wall, but had two side doors to watch and it was the part of the set-up he didn’t like. Hatchet-face could hold his attention while an accomplice slipped in through either of the side doors and drew a bead on his back. Of course, it might not come to a shootout, but the way that man flexed his fingers Yancey figured things weren’t shaping up any too well.
Nathan ordered two whiskies and carried them over to Yancey’s table, nodding slightly as he set them down and pushed one glass towards the big Enforcer. He used a boot to pull out a chair and dropped into it with a weary-sounding sigh, thumbing back his hat. Yancey rubbed a hand across his eyes. Of all times, his vision was blurring again!
“You’re Carlsen, huh?”
Yancey nodded, pointed to the shot glass of whisky. “That for me?”
“Sure.” Nathan pushed it within reach, lifted his own glass—left-handed, keeping his right hand on the edge of the table, his bleak eyes boring into Yancey’s face.
Yancey lifted his glass left-handed, too. “Your health.”
“Yours too.”
They tossed down the drinks and, at the precise moment that Yancey’s head was tilted back to catch the redeye in the back of his throat, Nathan lunged upright, kneeing the table into the Enforcer while his right hand streaked for his gun butt.
Yancey’s legs were longer than Nathan’s and he lifted them both together, stiffened. They took the table at the far edge, lifted all four legs off the ground and Yancey’s upright lunge to his feet carried it forward into Nathan’s midriff just as the man’s gun cleared leather. Nathan grunted and his gun roared, blasting a fist-sized chunk out of the tabletop. Yancey’s Peacemaker thundered a split-second later and Nathan was hurled back six feet, smashing into other tables and scattering drinkers. Yancey spun to the left but, even as he looked that way, he heard the side door on his right crash open. He didn’t waste time trying to spin back and face the new danger; he dropped to the floor as a gun blasted and the lead tore a long line of splinters from the wall. He hit on his belly, twisted and rolled onto his side, snapping a shot at the squat man he saw crouching in the doorway, the gun muzzle hunting him amongst the overturned chairs. Yancey triggered, heard glass smash, and the squat man dived into the saloon, rolled and sprang agilely to his feet, gun braced into his hip, left hand starting to chop at the hammer-spur. Yancey knew fanning a gun was about the least accurate way of firing one but the killer was close enough for some of his spraying bullets to find target. So Yancey heaved himself behind the table as the lead started to fly, chewing up the floorboards, punching into the table, rocking it. He grabbed the table by its legs and lunged upright with a roar, heaving it bodily at the squat gunman. The man stopped firing and lifted his arms to ward off the hurtling piece of furniture. That was when Yancey shot him twice through the armpit from the side, the bullets tearing up his lungs and heart as they smashed downwards through his thick body. He fell to his knees, coughing, vomiting blood, but he was already dead and the final spasm that made him appear as if he was lifting his gun for one last shot was only nervous reaction. The man crashed onto his face and lay still.
Yancey kicked the chairs aside and knelt beside Nathan, whose harsh, rattling breathing was loud in the sudden silence. Men began getting to their feet from where they had run for shelter and slowly came down the room as Yancey grabbed Nathan’s jaw and rocked the man’s head from side to side.
“You!” he snapped. “Where is he? Where’s Onslow?”
The man’s glazing eyes half-opened, heavy-lidded, and he tried to focus on Yancey. The hard-faced Enforcer shook him again and Nathan moaned.
“Hey, ease up there, mister!” someone in the crowd protested. “Let him die in peace!”
Yancey looked at the speaker coldly. “You want to join him?” he asked bleakly and the man paled and moved back into the crowd. Yancey turned back to Nathan. “C’mon, mister, you’re dying ... No point in keeping it to yourself. Where’s Onslow!”
Nathan stared at him for a long time, a faint spark of life far back in his eyes. His mouth began to move and hushed, unintelligible sounds came from his lips until, finally, he gasped, “Concho ... Bannerman …”
His voice trailed off and his head slumped. Yancey closed the dead man’s eyelids and stood slowly, reloading his six-gun. The man had said ‘Bannerman’, so he either knew who he was or someone had told him his real name. Maybe Onslow. But how had he been recognized? He didn’t know anyone named Onslow ... Which didn’t mean much really, for it likely wasn’t the man’s real name, anyway.
Yancey raked his cold gaze around the room, forehead wrinkling at the pain from his head. The room went out of focus but he steadied himself and waited for things to settle down.
“Where’s Concho?” he asked the room and it was a little while before anyone answered. He had to ask twice more before the shaking barkeep told him:
“About halfway between here and the railhead at Timbertop.”
Yancey nodded his thanks. A railroad town. At least he would be able to travel in some comfort, he thought. He stepped over Nathan’s body and headed for the batwings, squinting as the pain slashed at his eyes again. Outside, he leaned on a porch awning post for a spell and, when the street had stopped rocking, he started down towards the railroad depot to book a ticket to Timbertop.
He hoped like hell that these headaches and disturbances of vision had stopped long before he reached his destination.
~*~
Arnie Watts sure knew his own territory, Cato allowed, as he rode along with the small posse into the rugged hills far out from Buffalo Horn. They had been travelling since yesterday noon and Watts hadn’t once dismounted to look for tracks. He had known secret ways used by outlaws and he had taken these.
Along the way, they had come to two cabins, miles apart. No one was home in the first and Watts put the torch to it after finding signs of recent habitation that could mean it was the Treece bunch who had stopped off there. At the second cabin, they found two men, drunk on homemade sourmash and Cato recognized them both as wanted outlaws.
Watts had taken them out into the woods, to sober them up at a creek, he said. He was gone a long time and, finally, there had been three gunshots that had sent Cato and the others riding hard for the creek. They found Watts watching two bodies float away downstream and reloading his revolver. He smiled crookedly at Cato.
“Tried to get away,” Watts told him casually. “Had to stop ’em. Bounty on ’em, too. Reckon I can claim that, huh?”
Cato looked at him coldly. “Reckon you can,” he said slowly. “Did they tell you anythin’ before they—uh—tried to escape?”
The sheriff swung up into his saddle. He turned his horse and pointed up to t
he rain-misted crest of the range.
“Yonder lies the railroad that climbs up out of the valley from Bent’s Junction to Timbertop. There’s a train due out this mornin’ and my informants …” He chuckled as he gestured at the slowly moving bodies out in the creek. “Tell me that it’s haulin’ an express car. And Treece don’t know that we’re anywheres near. He figures you ain’t got past Buffalo Horn. Don’t even know there’s a posse after him. So ... he aims to make his try for that express car.”
Cato frowned. “He must be mighty sure he’s thrown me off his trail.”
“Told you, he figures you’re still sniffin’ round Buffalo Horn.”
Cato glanced at the dead men, drifting out of sight around a bend in the creek. “Can you rely on what they told you?”
Sheriff Arnie Watts grinned, and spat a stream of tobacco juice before sucking at a reddened and swollen knuckle. “You can rely on it bein’ gospel, Cato.”
Cato gave him a hard look and nodded curtly, looking up at the misty range crest. “Okay. We go up and over, I guess. We better catch ’em before they get set to blow down the mountain on the train, which is usually how Treece works ... But they’ll be jumpy and they’ll want to fight it out. Just remember I want Treece alive ... and there’ll be dynamite about.”
The others nodded and Watts smiled coldly, crookedly. “We’ll remember, Enforcer, don’t you worry none about that ... We’ll remember!”
He put his mount up the mountain slope and gestured impatiently for the others to follow.
~*~
Roy Treece was a small man who thought big. All his life, because of his small stature, he had felt compelled to show his taller companions that he wasn’t only just as good a man as they were, but a damn sight better. It was one reason why he had chosen a life of outlawry; he had seen the James boys and the glory that had hung around them like a visible aura, the hero-worshipping of men, women and children, and he had decided then and there that that was what he wanted. And he had set out to get it.
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