Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  Something in Phillip’s jaw twitched. “How do I know anything you say is true?” he asked.

  “Men lie to get what they want,” Tom told him frankly. “The only things I want are Mary and some peace and quiet.” He squared himself and met Phillip’s eyes. “That straight enough for you?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be,” the other man replied grudgingly. “I can’t stop you. Can’t we just wait for the law?”

  “If I knew when they were coming, that’s what I’d do.” Tom rubbed his hands together tiredly. “But it could be a while. And I can think of too many ways that John Porter could do us harm in the meantime.”

  Phillip fidgeted with his suspenders, and Asher got up to toss more wood into the fireplace.

  “What do you think he would do?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but, having met him, I think he’d try to make a deal with you for whatever it is he and his gang might want from you. And you might agree, having no other recourse. But then he and his men would start to push and take liberties, and things would get bad. That’s how things are with men like that.” Tom put his hand out, palm up. “Their word isn’t worth much.”

  “What about yours?” Phillip asked.

  “I’ve been known to bluff, not lie.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I suppose there isn’t one. What do you want, Phillip? Do you have some better idea of what should be done?”

  The other man shook his head. “Of course not.”

  Tom already knew that. Jeremiah and Phillip and particularly Thaddeus wanted to wait quietly and hope for the best. And Jeremiah and Phillip at least knew that wasn’t wise. They needed someone to push them, and Tom was happy to oblige. He knew what he would have done in John Porter’s shoes, and he wasn’t about to let it happen.

  “Mr.—,” Asher began, but caught himself before saying “Calvert.” “You—you want to approach these men?”

  “Worry about your own job, kid.”

  The boy looked down at the derringer in his hand and swallowed. “It seems imprudent,” he said.

  “When have I ever been prudent?”

  The kid wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Well, Tom didn’t like this, either, so he could hardly blame Asher.

  “Get some rest, Phillip. Tomorrow you start learning everything you can about Saul. Start with Jeremiah and Thaddeus. They knew him the longest. Mrs. White as well. And Mrs. Washburn. Could be an old grudge. And if I’m wrong, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Tom, we welcome everyone to Friendly Field, but you can’t come here and—”

  “What? Raise hell and then bully you? I know, Phillip. If I could think of a better way, I’d take it. If I’m not welcome here when I come back, that’s another day’s problem. That’s my piece. If you think of something better, I’ll listen. Until then, let’s call it a night.” He looked meaningfully at the door.

  Phillip took a deep breath, then walked out. He didn’t slam the door.

  Tom listened to the steps creak as the big man left the porch.

  Asher ran his hands through his hair. “Do you mean it, Mr. Calvert?”

  “Of course. It makes sense this way. The cripple sews and the able-bodied man works the fields. You two can ask questions, and I can tell stories. We do what we’re good at.”

  “Are you much experienced at dealing with outlaws?”

  “Hardly at all. Should make it interesting.”

  “I do not think this is wise.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion, kid.”

  “Let me accompany you.”

  “No. I won’t slight you. Your poker face is good. You’ve come a long way.” Tom smiled at him. “But you aren’t ready to play at this table.”

  “Well, how can you say that you are if you have never done it before?”

  Tom opened his mouth, then laughed. “Trust me.”

  “Why should I?” Asher grumbled. “No one else does.”

  “I think Mary does.”

  “You really do like her.”

  “I certainly do.”

  The boy gave up. “When will you leave?”

  “Oh, in about ten minutes.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  He really was getting around better.

  Using the walking stick had become a habit; he reached for it automatically each day and never gave any thought to if he really needed it. Tom had a limp, and it was a noticeable one. He’d have it for the rest of his life, however long that might be, but it no longer bothered him, maybe because it didn’t seem to bother Mary.

  And it didn’t bother her because she didn’t think her prospects were very good. She just couldn’t see herself clearly, though that wasn’t entirely her fault. As in most things, there was an element of luck in play. She hadn’t remarried because there was no one precisely eligible. The only unmarried men were the older ones like Saul and Thaddeus who had outlived their wives, and Mary likely wasn’t inclined toward them—or the young men coming to marrying age, who were not inclined toward a woman both thin and plain who was almost twice their age.

  It wasn’t true, of course. In the right clothes, she would be slender and elegant, not bony. Tom liked her face, and even if he hadn’t, her bearing would’ve drawn him in regardless. She stood out from the other women just by the way she carried herself. On the trail, Tom and the kid had read a book about wealthy English women trying to marry in the countryside, and there was a great deal in it about manners and what made a lady. Well, Mary might have spent her time working on handkerchiefs for potato farmers, but she was a lady. It would take more than a too-strong nose to change that.

  Tom knew this probably wasn’t the best time to be thinking about her, but it was getting harder to think about anything else. At any rate, he was moving faster on his bad leg even without his stick—and more quietly too. So quietly that John Porter’s man didn’t hear him coming.

  Tom knelt beside him, and the man startled, then froze in the act of grabbing for his pistol.

  “Don’t do that,” Tom muttered, squinting past him through the shrubbery. “I’m unarmed. Good morning, neighbor. Peace be with thee.”

  The man was probably ten years Tom’s junior. He was decently dressed for an outlaw on the run, and didn’t even smell particularly bad. He was sitting here, hidden in the bushes as the gray light of morning started to filter through the gloom. The road to Des Crozet was about twenty feet away.

  “What the hell do you want?” the lookout asked, resting his hand on the grip of his gun.

  “I want to talk to you.” Tom put his hand out. “My name’s Tom. What’s yours?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  “Fine.” Tom cleared his throat, then groaned and sat down, patting his bad leg. “I need a rest. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

  It was partly true—Tom had been out in the woods all night, but he hadn’t been searching for this fellow. He’d had a pretty good idea where he’d be. John Porter was smart enough to be cautious, so he had to have left someone behind to watch the road. What Tom didn’t know was if this man was meant to report on anyone leaving Friendly Field or to stop them from leaving.

  “Where’s Ben Garner?” Tom asked.

  He didn’t even need the lookout to give voice to his answer; his face made it clear. The gang didn’t know where Ben Garner was, and that meant Scarf had never made it home alive, and neither body had been found.

  “How do you know Ben Garner?” the lookout asked suspiciously.

  “He came here drunk. And lit out again before anyone knew what to do. The trouble’s that he was recognized. John Porter has you here to make sure that if he was recognized, no one went running to Des Crozet to fetch the law, right? Well, we already did that.” The lookout’s face went hard, but Tom kept on, making sure his voice came out easy. “But we didn’t
say anything about John Porter because we didn’t know. We just knew Ben Garner— It’s my fault. I saw his poster. Course, when word reaches the law that Ben Garner’s been sighted here, like as not they’ll figure John and the gang are close. You see? We need to warn John that they’re coming.”

  “Why the hell you want to warn anyone?”

  “Because I owe him one, that’s why. Now, will you take me to him or tell me where he is?”

  Tom had never done so much bossing people around in his life. First Quakers, now outlaws. He didn’t care for it; it was just as well that he’d spent his adulthood shunning honest work.

  This fellow didn’t like it, either, but he liked the idea of a noose around his neck even less.

  “Just take me to him,” Tom told him tiredly. “And don’t be so jumpy. I got a bad leg and no pistol. I’m a Quaker, for Chrissakes.”

  “You don’t talk like no Quaker,” the lookout said, squinting at him.

  “What the hell do you know about Quakers?”

  The lookout kept his hand on his gun, but he was thinking. His eyes strayed to the road. He was reluctant to leave his post, but if someone had already gotten word out, his post had no meaning. That was what anyone with any sense would have concluded, and he did after a minute. Muttering curses, the lookout nodded, then rolled a smoke. He’d been abstaining so the glow wouldn’t give him away, but now he didn’t care. He put it in his mouth, lit it, then pushed to his feet and picked up his scattergun from where it had been lying in the leaves.

  “What you got in there?” he asked around the cigarette, eying Tom’s satchel.

  “My lunch.”

  Without a word, the lookout reached out and gave the bag a shake. Finding it much too light to contain a weapon, he let go and turned to stomp off through the woods.

  Tom cast a glance back toward Friendly Field, then followed. His nerves stirred, but that was all. This wasn’t his first time going all in. And what was the alternative? To trust his fate, and Mary’s, and everyone else’s to luck. In all his days as a gambler, he’d never trusted anything to luck. Why would he start now? You might have one thinking man in a gang. Or two. Even three.

  But they wouldn’t all be too smart, or else they’d start a real business. Tom had given a fair amount of thought to how it might be done, trying to keep a band like Porter’s under control. The wilderness was a good place for hiding, but not for keeping busy. Staying quiet and out of sight was the best plan, but how would someone like John Porter convince his boys to go along with it? Tom was a patient man, and he liked to think an intelligent one—but he knew he’d be driven out of his mind by the idleness of hiding.

  He had pictured a few tents in the woods. He hadn’t given the Porter gang enough credit.

  Each of the two massive stills stood taller than he did, towering over the leaf-strewn floor of the ravine. They had tents, but they were big ones on wood frames. They’d built chairs and hung hammocks. They must’ve been here for months, and all the while working these rickety stills.

  Tom was impressed.

  There was another thing he’d wondered about: how many of them there were. He’d figured it had to be at least seven. With Ben Garner and Scarf sent down below, that would have left five or so.

  But there were fifteen men, including the lookout, and within a minute of entering the camp, he’d heard mention of at least one more fellow out there somewhere. If the authorities knew how big Porter’s gang was, it might take a while to gather up a big enough band of men willing to chase him.

  Tom had once faced down four armed men alone. Those hadn’t been hardened gunmen; they’d just been fools.

  This would be a little different.

  He had to shield his eyes. The sun was up now, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was half a day’s hike from Friendly Field to the camp.

  John Porter was perched up on the left-hand still, a copper cup in his hand. He gulped the contents, tossed the cup to one of the others, and climbed down. “My friend from Friendly Field! And Andy. Andy, Andy.”

  “I had good reason,” the lookout muttered, the hard look on his face never flickering.

  “I’ll reckon you did.” John strolled over and put his hand out. Tom shook it, but John wasn’t looking at him. “It’s making me itchy, though. You know what I mean? Nobody watching that road.”

  “It don’t matter,” Andy told him, gesturing meaningfully at Tom.

  John looked taken aback. Everyone else was staring, and Tom sensed there weren’t strangers in this camp often, if ever. He was probably the first. He stopped trying to count the pistols, rifles, and knives. These men were better armed than the Army. There were horses tied to trees up the hill a little, and the cooking pot over the fire was the size of a barrel. Speaking of barrels, there weren’t any.

  Tom realized with a start that the gang wasn’t storing whatever was coming out of the stills; they were drinking it. You might convince some rough men to go without diversion or company, but you’d never keep them out here without something to drink.

  “I think Harry had better hear this. Harry! Harry, come out and meet my good friend Tom from Friendly Field! Something’s up!”

  The flap of a tent lifted, and a sour-faced man emerged. He was older than John, but only by ten years or so. He too had a cup in his hand, which was shaking. Wearing a fierce scowl, he ambled over. He had to be Harry Peckner, but Tom was sure he’d never seen that face on a poster.

  “Now, Tom—just you being here makes me puzzled. What’d you bring with you?” John looked curiously at Tom’s bag.

  “Provisions. Even Quakers eat.” Tom shrugged it off and held it out. John peered inside, then handed it back, shaking his head.

  “Make it clear for me, Tom, if you would.”

  “I ratted you out. Well, not you. Ben.” Tom hung the bag on his shoulder and shrugged. “I didn’t know he ran with you. He came to us like I said, drunk. After he’d gone, my friend rode to Des Crozet and let them now. I recognized him from his poster.” The camp had gotten very quiet, and Tom just kept talking. “I figure a lawman out there might know Ben Garner rides with you. There’s a good chance they’ll put two and two together and come for you.”

  As he listened, Harry Peckner’s grip on his cup had loosened. It had tipped somewhat, and the firewater ran down his fingers and dribbled to the ground. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “I wanted to tell you. So you weren’t taken by surprise.”

  It wasn’t even evening, but John had clearly had a cup or two already. It took him a moment to find words.

  “You ratted us out,” he said finally, gesturing slowly with a finger. “And then you came here to tell me that you did it.”

  “As a favor,” Tom supplied helpfully.

  “As a favor,” John echoed.

  Most of the men looked more confused than alarmed, but not Peckner. His face was getting darker by the second.

  “And I didn’t rat you out,” Tom corrected. “I wouldn’t do that. It was an honest mistake. I ratted out Ben Garner, but I think it might come to the same thing. You understand?”

  “Have we met before?”

  “Just yesterday, but you did me a favor once,” Tom told him.

  “Did I?”

  “You killed Mike Dern.”

  “Mike Dern,” John echoed, frowning.

  “He was in the bank you did in El Paso. My brother had debts—you don’t want to hear me talk.” Tom waved a hand. “You helped us out when you killed him, that’s all. Quite a bit.”

  “Huh,” John said, chewing his lip and glancing at Peckner. “You hear that, Harry? We did a public service in El Paso.”

  The other man didn’t react at all; he just gazed at Tom.

  “How long?” John grunted.

  “How long ago did we give word in Des Crozet? About two days.”

&n
bsp; John looked thoughtful and glanced at the cup in his hand, then at Peckner. “Word’s probably found old Russell by now.”

  “If he’s telling the truth,” Peckner grunted.

  “I reckon he is. And if he ain’t,” John added, pointing southwest, “there ain’t nobody watching the road, so they might as well be going to Des Crozet now.”

  “You’re mighty easy for a Quaker in a camp of thieves,” Harry Peckner growled.

  John wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he wanted to appear, but Peckner wasn’t even trying. He was downright hostile, and he couldn’t be blamed for that. Tom hadn’t brought good news.

  “I got no desire to get friendly with the law,” Tom told him truthfully. “My neck’s on the line too.”

  “Why would anyone want to put a rope around your neck, Tom?” John put up a hand to halt one of the outlaws.

  They wanted to be a part of the conversation. A couple of them were shifting nervously, and there was some whispering.

  Tom realized he hadn’t brought entirely bad news; some of these men had to be itching for a reason to leave. “The name Fulton mean anything to you?”

  “Fulton Ranch?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s the one. A couple of them were along on a wagon train I was part of, and I shot them down. I had cause, but you can’t kill men like that, even justified.” Tom plucked at his suspenders. “You could say I’m in hiding myself.”

  “Well,” John said, eyes wide. He glanced at Peckner again, who looked even more suspicious of Tom.

  “Which ones’d you kill?”

  Tom sighed. “Eli, Rodney, Norman, and . . .” He trailed off and groaned. “And Jake. I shot Jake too. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “You killed four men? I think you’re spinning lies,” John said. “You ain’t the type.”

  “No, it’s too damn crazy not to be the truth,” Peckner countered, lifting his hat to scratch his head. “You hear that, boys?” he asked, raising his voice. The outlaws were all around: in front and behind, up on a slope looking down, and under the makeshift pavilions. “We got trouble coming.”