Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Just the smell of the spirits from the stills was enough to make Tom light-headed, and the outlaws drank it like water. There was one named Otis who never drank a drop but appeared to spend every waking moment tending to the stills. He was a skinny fellow, and young, but the others helped him when he needed it.

  Tom watched him work, perched on the worst excuse for a bench he’d ever seen. When they’d come here, the outlaws must have had a wagon with them. Very nearly every piece of furniture they had constructed was built from wagon parts, and Tom couldn’t help but wonder how they’d done it. It was foolish enough to have horses in these hills; it was inconceivable that they’d driven a wagon this deep. Had they broken it apart and carried the pieces in?

  It was easier to think about something like that, something that didn’t matter, than what would be going on in Friendly Field right now. Was the kid being smart? Was Phillip letting people wonder where Tom had gone, or had he done Tom a favor and told them a story? What did Mary think? Tom’s greatest worry was what he’d told her. Would she be alarmed at his departure? Enough to let something slip? He wished he’d had the courage to say something to her before he left.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to tell her the truth. If so, he couldn’t change it now.

  “You look like you need it,” a man said, appearing at his side with a flask.

  “I can’t,” Tom told him apologetically. “It’ll put me to sleep and make my head hurt.”

  “Your loss.” The outlaw sat beside him, following his gaze to the tent where John and Peckner were presumably conferring. “You really kill them Fulton boys?”

  Tom sighed. “Afraid I did.”

  “You’ll swing for it if they get irons on you.”

  Tom nodded. “I know.”

  “Then why’d you run to the law? Tom, right?”

  Tom leaned over and put out his hand. “You?”

  “Creel. You seen my poster out here?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  The man looked relieved. “Well, answer me, then.”

  “Because I didn’t want trouble. I figured I’d lie low when the law came around, and they’d keep the Quakers safe. There’s a lady there I’m sweet on. Those poor folks have enough problems without anyone’s help.”

  Creel nodded and rubbed his face, which was full of freckles.

  “I did those things,” Tom added. “But I don’t want to do them anymore. If I can help it.”

  “You think you can just hang it up?” the outlaw asked curiously.

  “If it was that easy, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Creel snorted. He reached into his shirt and took out a folded piece of paper.

  “I hear you,” he said, opening it up. On it was a startlingly skilled portrait in charcoal. The girl was pretty. “I want to hang it up too, and I would have if we didn’t have to wait here so long. I’d’ve been back to Sacramento to get her and go back East months ago. But we got to wait.”

  “Why not just get over the border?”

  “Because we all got people on this side.”

  “You could just come back.”

  “That’s what John said.” Creel sniffed and scratched his nose. “Harry don’t like it, though. A few of the boys are sore at what you done, but I’m more inclined to thank you. If the law’s coming, we might as well know. I think John feels the same.”

  They were interrupted by a man doubling over behind them and being violently sick. Tom flinched and glanced back, then politely looked away—except his view was blocked. A mountain of a man stood in front of him, glowering fiercely.

  Creel stiffened a bit. “Easy, Quincy,” he said. The words came out casual, but his flask was halfway to his mouth and just frozen there.

  “Easy,” the giant echoed, his gaze fixed on Tom. His beard was as impressive as the rest of him; there was more muscle in one of his arms than in Tom’s whole body. A hatchet was tucked into his belt with a blade the size of a wood ax. “The hell I will be.” He didn’t speak loudly, but Tom had heard that tone of voice before. He’d heard it from his own mouth, and it told him clear as day what was coming.

  “All right,” Tom said quickly, rising and putting his hands up. “Please. I’m unarmed.”

  The giant looked genuinely baffled, as though he didn’t comprehend why that should matter. He took Tom by the throat so quickly that there was nothing anyone could’ve done about it. His hands were so big that he only needed one.

  Tom struggled futilely, and Creel got to his feet. He didn’t look happy, but neither did he look especially bothered.

  “Leave him go, Quincy. He don’t know what he done.”

  “I know what he done. Throw half a year of my life down a well’s what he done.”

  With that, he squeezed tighter. Everyone was watching now, and Tom would’ve liked to say something, but he couldn’t breathe. He gripped Quincy’s wrist, but he might as well have tried to fight a steel bar.

  “You hear me, you stupid son of a bitch?” Quincy shook Tom like a rag doll. “They’re supposed to think we’re dead or gone. Now you told them! You reminded them! Now how long we got to wait afore we can go home? Now how long?” he roared.

  That was enough to bring John and Peckner out of their tent, and Quincy loosened his grip, hesitating.

  “Quincy,” John said, more surprised than bothered.

  “Help me out, John.” Tom’s voice was a croak at best.

  “Looks like a fair fight to me,” Peckner said, taking a drink from his cup. “Old Quincy ain’t even brought his gun.”

  John frowned. “He’s got a point, Tom. And I don’t think I could stop Quincy if I wanted to, short of shooting him. I’d hate to shoot my friend.”

  “I thought we were friends,” Tom pointed out in a rasp.

  John shifted awkwardly. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Well . . . ,” he said uncertainly.

  Quincy flung Tom to the ground, and it was the worst tumble he’d ever taken. The leaves weren’t deep, and there were plenty of rocks. He rolled through the dirt with a cry of pain, coming to rest and not even trying to get up.

  “That ain’t language for a Quaker,” Peckner noted as Tom swore.

  “Get up,” Quincy snarled.

  Rubbing at his throat, Tom sat up just enough to catch John’s eye.

  “You won’t stop him?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and thick with disbelief.

  “Think about it, Tom. I don’t know you. And if I hafta have one fella for an enemy, would I want you—or him?” He gestured meaningfully at Quincy.

  John’s friendly airs made it easy to forget what he did for a living. If he wouldn’t help, no one else would, either. Chances were good that Tom was already dead, and he just didn’t know it yet. He’d known that was a possibility; he just hadn’t pictured it coming about like this.

  “Well, suppose I don’t want to die today?” Tom snapped.

  “Why are you asking me?” John touched his chest, looking hurt. “I ain’t the one aiming to kill you.”

  Stars fluttered and bloomed against the leaves and the trees, and the men gathered around. Tom shook his head and looked up at Quincy. His face was so dark that it was nearly purple, and his hands opened and closed, itching to grasp Tom’s neck.

  If that happened again, it would be the end. Tom still couldn’t breathe right, and his throat would be black with bruises. Bruises. What were bruises going to matter if he was dead in five minutes?

  Quincy started toward him, and Tom threw out a hand.

  “All right,” he gasped. “All right. Fair fight.” He shook his head again and got to his feet, but staggered. He brought himself around, blinking rapidly and wavering. He still couldn’t breathe without pain, and there were black spots in his eyes. He raised his hands, but they shook as he took another step to his
right. “I’ll fight you. I don’t want to, but I will.”

  That was good enough for the giant.

  Quincy barely took a step before a shot crashed through the forest, startling everyone. There were sixteen men present, and nearly all of them froze for an instant. Several of the outlaws went for their guns, but no one cleared leather—it had been Peckner who fired.

  He still had his Schofield in his hand, pointed at the sky.

  Quincy stared at him. “Harry?”

  “Quiet, Quincy.”

  “Why do you want to stop me?”

  “I expect I just saved your life.” Peckner lowered the gun and gently opened it, tossing away the empty shell and replacing it with a fresh cartridge.

  “How’d you figure that?” John asked, trying not to laugh.

  Tom wobbled but stayed on his feet. He kept his fists up as though to fight, but Quincy didn’t move.

  “Look where he’s standing,” Peckner said quietly, pointing at Tom. “In front of that beam. Quincy’d have brought the whole still down. And this one”—he jerked his chin at Tom—“woulda had that ax and used it. I seen him look at it and make his odds. He ain’t standing there by chance. He’s a wily Quaker.” With that, Peckner went back into the tent.

  John looked impressed. “You wouldn’t do that, would you? Tom? You wouldn’t hurt old Quincy.”

  “I only kill ranchers,” Tom croaked.

  “You see, Quincy”—John yawned and followed Peckner—“Tom’s all right.”

  The murder had already gone out of the giant’s face. He was still angry, but his hands were steady. His teeth ground.

  He stalked off, disgusted. Tom sagged against the beam holding up the still, then sank to the ground, rubbing at his throat.

  As much as they ground on his nerves, he was beginning to miss the company of Quakers.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Asher had brains, but just about every other part of him had seemed to be wrong for poker. He was a fair liar out of necessity—Tom had found him attempting a grift on that riverboat, after all. But he was softhearted and, oddly enough, too attentive to other people. In poker you had to keep your eyes open, but the kid took it a step further. He was always worried about folks, and sometimes it wasn’t even their well-being; it was their feelings. Card games were won by knowing how the other players felt, not by caring. The boy cared. He cared about people he didn’t even know.

  Tom couldn’t even imagine what that was like. He knew that not everyone was as cold as he was, but he was also sure that not everyone was as warm as the boy. Even so, with enough hours spent and a reasonably good teacher, Asher had become competent enough to hold his own at the table. Skill wasn’t everything in poker, but it went a long way. It went a long way with cooking too, and the Porter gang had been honing its skills for quite a while.

  John put a bowl of soup in Tom’s hands and grabbed him under his arm to help him to his feet. It was late, and Tom had been wondering when this was coming. His hope had been to light a fire under the gang to get them running scared, but that hadn’t happened. John and Peckner clearly had too much sense—and confidence—to be spooked into reckless flight.

  The sun was down, and it was getting chilly, but the outlaws were used to it. They had a few fires built, but John and Peckner had nothing in their tent but a pair of lamps and a map.

  “Join us, Tom.” John wasn’t asking; he pressed Tom to sit.

  “It was thoughtful of you to tell them all not to put a bullet in me,” he said, tasting the soup. It lived up to his expectations; he hadn’t eaten all day, and he’d spent the past hour smelling it simmering.

  “I didn’t say anything like that. Did you, Harry?”

  Peckner rested his chin on his fist and gazed across the table. “You’re a wily one, Tom. It’s taken me all day to get it into John’s head that we can’t believe a single word you say.” He paused for another drink. “I reckon he’s got it now.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Tom?” John’s cup was empty. He poured more.

  Tom blew on his soup. “Course I would,” he replied, taking a sip.

  “Have you lied?”

  “Not about my distaste for the law. Not about what I’ve done. Not about sending a man to Des Crozet to take the word that there were outlaws nearby. That’s all true.”

  They were both looking straight at him, but there was nothing to see through. It was the truth.

  “I want to be a Quaker. I want you all to leave us in peace.”

  “Now, see,” John said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Peckner. “I reckon that’s true, ’cept it can’t be. Because it all fits together nice, Tom—but how in the hell did you think you were going to leave here alive?”

  Tom shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. I figured there was a chance you wouldn’t see any money in killing me.”

  “If we leave, then you can tell folks where we went.”

  “Then kill me and go.” Tom took a drink of soup. “How difficult is that?”

  Peckner nodded sagely, glancing at John. For a moment none of them spoke. Someone near the tent was being noisily ill again.

  “You wouldn’t mind that?” John asked.

  “Course I’d mind.”

  “I just can’t understand you, Tom.”

  Tom rubbed his sore throat. “By my count I’ve died twice already, John. If you want to try your luck, there isn’t a thing I can do to stop you.”

  “He just don’t care, Harry.”

  Peckner raised an eyebrow. “Is he drunk?”

  “He ain’t. The smart thing’s to kill him and go, just like he says,” John pointed out.

  “I’m starting to like him, though.”

  “Well, I liked him from the beginning.”

  “Was I right?” Peckner asked, and when Tom didn’t answer quickly enough, he reached across the table and took him by the hair, pulling Tom’s head up to meet his own eyes.

  Tom jerked free and swatted Peckner’s hand away. “About what?”

  “About Quincy. What you had in mind?”

  “More or less.”

  Tom had put himself in front of the still, but he hadn’t had any intention at all of going for Quincy’s ax. His hope had been that the still would crush the other man when he crashed into that beam. Had there been a fair chance it would have crushed him as well? Tom had been playing the hand he’d been dealt; it wasn’t always a good hand. It was fine if these two wanted to think that he’d somehow had the upper hand.

  “Do you give a damn or don’t you?” John snapped, taking out his revolver and laying it on the table.

  “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t. But I’ve shown my cards now,” Tom shot back, annoyed. “If it goes well for me, good. If not, then that’s how it is. I got to die of something.”

  Peckner chewed his lip. His eyes darted to the left as someone outside the tent shouted, but with that many drunken outlaws, there was bound to be trouble now and then. Shouting and brawling weren’t a problem; that was likely an ordinary night. It would take gunshots to get Peckner’s attention.

  John picked up the revolver and snapped it open. He tipped the bullets into his palm, selected one, and slipped it into a chamber. Tom drank the last of his broth as John closed the gun and placed it back on the table.

  “You got a one-in-six chance, Tom.” John looked curious. Peckner looked skeptical.

  Tom set the bowl aside and picked up the pistol. “You mean for me to point this at myself?” he asked.

  John nodded encouragingly.

  “First you won’t help me with that big fellow. Now this.” Tom shook his head in disgust and turned the gun on himself. He pulled the trigger, and the hammer dropped with a click. He rolled his eyes and tossed the revolver back on the table. “You’re awful rude, John.”

  “Well, I do ro
b banks.”

  “Boy, you didn’t think twice,” Peckner remarked. He looked surprised.

  Both men had expected Tom to try to talk his way out of it. The only advantage Tom had was that he could keep them guessing. He was used to watching for cheats, and he knew every trick that could be done by sleight of hand, so of course he’d seen John palm the bullet before closing the revolver. He didn’t mind pointing an empty gun at himself. And even if he hadn’t known, feigning boldness was the winning move. A one-in-six chance to die meant a five-to-one chance he’d live; those were good enough odds to gamble on, and provided he came out on the other side still alive, he’d want his fiction intact to keep him that way.

  Tom rubbed his eyes and let them see all of his exhaustion. It was authentic, and there was plenty of it.

  “If you don’t kill me, I figure Quincy likely will. I wouldn’t dare go to sleep.”

  Peckner snorted, and John leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

  “He won’t.” The smile on John’s face was all amusement. “Quincy’s never killed anybody.”

  “Like as not he’ll apologize to you in the morning.” Peckner just pinched the bridge of his nose. “He don’t belong here.”

  “No, he does not,” John agreed sagely. “Well, Tom, you’re a poor excuse for a Quaker. That’s all I can say to you. Killing ranchers, trying to kill old Quincy—who wouldn’t hurt a fly—and then trying to kill yourself. I don’t know Quakers, but that don’t sound much like one.”

  “A good Quaker would graciously accept your insult,” Tom replied. “A bad one would want to get up and fight.”

  “You want to fight me, Tom?”

  “You want to fight a cripple, John?”

  “You seem to get on.”

  “Well, I do. Just not very quickly.” Tom started to massage his throat again. It was just as sore as it had been an hour after Quincy let go.