The Range Detectives

by William W. Johnstone

  Stovepipe knew he might not get a better chance than this. He couldn’t get to his feet and rush the length of the table without Deuce having time to draw a gun. He had to get closer . . .

  “What’s the story on the front page o’ that paper say?” asked Stovepipe.

  “What story?” Deuce asked as he lowered the paper, rattling it as he had before.

  “Somethin’ about some political scandal back in Washington, I think.”

  “Oh hell, there’s always some scandal in Washington. Those politicians are such crooks they put fellas like us to shame.”

  Stovepipe got to his feet, grinning, and said, “Yeah, why waste your time stealin’ a few cows when you can get elected to office and steal hundreds o’ thousands of dollars?”

  He moved around the end of the table toward Deuce, leaning forward and pretending to read the newspaper as he did so. He went on, “From what I hear, all them senators and congressmen have got lady friends what they ain’t married to stashed away, too. I reckon you’ve got to steal plenty of money to afford that.”

  Deuce laughed and said, “Yeah, I—” Then he stopped short as he realized that Stovepipe had come halfway along the table toward him. He let go of the newspaper with his right hand and started to move that hand toward the butt of his gun as he said, “You’d better get back down where you—”

  At that moment, a volley of gunfire erupted somewhere outside, shattering the peacefulness of the morning without any warning.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Stovepipe didn’t hesitate. He reacted instantly, lowering his head and diving at Deuce, who threw the newspaper aside and started to bolt up out of his chair as he clawed at the gun on his hip.

  Stovepipe rammed into the rustler before Deuce’s iron could clear leather. The impact drove Deuce backward. He lost his footing and fell, and the back of his head banged into the floorboards so hard that his head bounced up several inches. He went limp all over.

  The gunfire continued outside, punctuated by shouted curses. Stovepipe twisted around as he sprawled half on and half off Deuce’s senseless form. He was all too aware that he might not have much time. He had no way of knowing how long Deuce would remain unconscious, although the outlaw certainly seemed to be out cold at the moment.

  Stovepipe turned his back toward Deuce and fumbled around behind him until his fingers brushed the bone handle of the bowie knife. He pulled the knife from its sheath and turned it so he could rest the blade against the rawhide thongs around his wrists. Carefully, so he wouldn’t slice any veins or arteries open, he started sawing on the bonds.

  The rawhide was stubbornly tough, but evidently Deuce kept his knife honed to a razor-edge. It began parting the thongs. Stovepipe nicked himself a couple of times, but although the cuts stung, they weren’t deep enough to worry about—he hoped. As he felt the warm trickle of blood, he began to wonder.

  Then, abruptly, he was loose. He pulled his arms around in front of him, his muscles twinging painfully as he did so. They worked, however, and he was glad to see that he wasn’t bleeding to death. The cuts were minor, as he had hoped.

  Deuce’s partially drawn revolver had fallen out of its holster and lay on the floor. Stovepipe scooped it up and then scrambled to his feet. He looked around and spotted something he hadn’t noticed before, his ivory-handled Colt lying on one of the shelves, partially hidden by bags of flour and sugar. He quickly reclaimed it and tucked Deuce’s gun behind his belt, along with the bowie knife.

  Being well armed again made him feel better, as did the sounds of battle coming from outside the cabin. Only one explanation made any sense: the hideout was under attack by a posse from Hat Creek, possibly augmented by cowboys from the HS Bar, the Box D, or some of the other spreads in the basin.

  One logical and very welcome conclusion followed from that. Wilbur was alive and had brought the men here to bust up the gang of rustlers and outlaws.

  Stovepipe went to the door and eased it open. He saw puffs of gun smoke coming from the top of the cliffs around the canyon. Sharpshooters were up there, picking off any of the owlhoots foolish enough to expose themselves to the deadly fire. More shots blasted down there inside the canyon, so Stovepipe knew some of the attackers had come through the tunnel as well.

  No bullets seemed to be directed at the cabin where he was, so he stepped outside. At that moment he heard a man yell, “Stewart!” followed by a torrent of obscenities. Turning toward the sound of the voice, Stovepipe saw Granville rushing toward him. The man’s bulldog-like face was flushed with rage, and flame spouted from the muzzle of the gun gripped in his fist.

  The slug sizzled through the air next to Stovepipe’s ear. The ivory-handled Colt roared and bucked in the range detective’s paw, and Granville stopped short like he had run into a stone wall as Stovepipe’s bullet drove into his chest. Granville’s eyes opened wide in shock and pain as he came up on his toes and balanced there for a second with blood welling from the wound, before he pitched forward on his face and didn’t move again.

  “You damn—” another voice rasped behind Stovepipe. He whirled around to see Deuce lunging at him with the stool that Stovepipe had been sitting on earlier upraised to strike with as a weapon. Deuce looked a little groggy from being knocked out, but he was still a threat.

  Stovepipe ducked, making Deuce miss with the stool. As Deuce stumbled against him, Stovepipe brought a knee up sharply into the rustler’s groin. Deuce yelled and then doubled over, gagging. Stovepipe shut him up with a rap on the head from the Colt. As Deuce collapsed, Stovepipe hoped his skull wasn’t getting too mushy from the repeated blows. The fellow hadn’t seemed like a bad sort, for a rustler and killer. On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t waste any worry on the varmint, Stovepipe decided.

  He turned back to survey the scene of battle in the canyon. He saw men running back and forth, stopping to trade shots with other men on horseback. Stovepipe spotted both of Sheriff Frank Olsen’s deputies he knew by name, Warren Purdue and Brock Matthews. They were among the mounted men, so Stovepipe assumed the posse members were on horseback, with the outlaws who had been taken by surprise in their supposedly impregnable hideout on foot.

  He looked for Wilbur but didn’t see the redhead. That was a mite worrisome, but he figured Wilbur had to be alive, otherwise the sheriff and his men wouldn’t have known where the hideout was located so they could raid it.

  Unless Wilbur, mortally wounded, had lived long enough to reach Hat Creek with the news, then died—

  No. Stovepipe wasn’t going to let himself think that. Instead he ran toward the larger cabin where Jack Rawson had interrogated him earlier.

  He wanted to get his hands on Rawson and take the boss rustler alive. He needed Rawson to expose the last bit of villainy in this scheme and wrap everything up so that Dan Hartford would be cleared of that murder charge.

  A bullet kicked up dust at Stovepipe’s feet. He realized that one of the men on the rim was shooting at him, probably having mistaken him for a member of the gang because he was on foot. He waved an arm and yelled, “Hold your fire, you blasted idiot! I ain’t one o’ them!”

  That wasn’t going to do any good, he knew. The air was too full of gun-thunder for anyone on top of the cliffs to hear him.

  Then hoofbeats pounded behind Stovepipe and he whirled around, instinctively thinking he was under attack again. This time, however, he saw a burly, white-mustached figure on horseback bearing down on him. Sheriff Frank Olsen thrust a hand toward him and shouted, “Come on, Stewart!”

  Stovepipe shoved his Colt in its holster, then reached up to grab Olsen’s wrist. The sheriff clasped his wrist at the same time, and Stovepipe was able to swing up onto the horse behind the lawman. Olsen turned his head and asked, “Where can I find the boss of this bunch?”

  Stovepipe pointed to Rawson’s cabin and said, “Over there!”

  Olsen called to his deputies, “Warren! Brock! Follow me!” and charged toward the cabin. Purdue and Matthews fell in with the
m, flanking the sheriff’s horse.

  Muzzle flame bloomed from inside the windows and beyond the open door as the men in the cabin opened fire on the star packers. Olsen and his men returned the shots, which made Stovepipe grimace. He didn’t want Rawson to catch a slug, at least fatally, but he couldn’t expect the lawmen not to fight back.

  “Ride up next to the porch, Sheriff!” Stovepipe told Olsen. “I’m goin’ in there!”

  “Don’t be a damned fool!” replied Olsen.

  “I want the boss alive!” Stovepipe told him. Olsen grunted and sent his horse lunging forward, turning the animal at the last moment so that Stovepipe was able to throw himself off the horse’s back and land running on the porch.

  Stovepipe dived through the open door as a gun went off practically in his face. The explosion hammered his eardrums, and he felt the sting of burning powder on his face. But the bullet missed him, and as he somersaulted and came up on his feet, he lashed out with the gun in his hand and crashed it against the head of the man who had shot at him.

  At the same time, he grabbed the second revolver from behind his belt and fired left-handed at a man on the other side of the cabin as soon as he realized the varmint wasn’t Jack Rawson. The bullet thudded into the outlaw’s chest and knocked him back into the fireplace behind him, scattering ashes and sparks.

  Stovepipe dropped to a knee as a bullet from the other direction burned his cheek. A big, bearded man in a steeple-crowned sombrero was drawing a bead on him for another shot when Stovepipe punched two rounds into the man’s ample belly. The man grunted, dropped his gun, doubled over, and collapsed.

  That made two outlaws dead and the man Stovepipe hoped was Jack Rawson out cold. Stovepipe hooked a boot toe under the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  An ugly face he had never seen before stared up at him.

  Stovepipe bit back a curse. These three men were the only ones in the cabin, and none of them was the leader of the gang.

  The shooting had stopped right outside, although it continued elsewhere in the canyon. Olsen, Purdue, and Matthews were holding their fire because Stovepipe was in here. He called, “Don’t shoot,” and stepped out onto the porch.

  “What in blazes happened in there?” Olsen demanded.

  “I cleaned house a mite,” said Stovepipe. “I didn’t come up with the varmint I wanted, though. Jack Rawson, the fella I had you send that telegram about, is the leader of this bunch, and this is his cabin, but he ain’t in here. Must be somewhere else in the canyon.”

  “Then he’s probably dead,” said Olsen. The shooting had started to die away. “Sounds like the posse’s mopping up now.”

  “Where’s Wilbur?” asked Stovepipe, trying but not succeeding in keeping the worry out of his voice.

  “Back in Hat Creek,” the sheriff replied. “He’ll be all right. He’s got a bullet hole in his arm and the doc said he didn’t need to ride all the way up here, but he was able to tell us just where to look and how to get in here.” Olsen glanced around. “Looks like those skunks found themselves a pretty good hideout. They should’ve guarded the entrance to it better, though.”

  A wave of relief had gone through Stovepipe at the news that Wilbur was all right. He said, “I knew if anybody could hang on and get the word back to you, it was Wilbur.”

  “Yeah, he’s a tough little galoot. He was worried sick that he’d gone off and left you, but he said it looked like you’d been shot in the head and were done for. He was determined to make this bunch pay for killing you.” Olsen chuckled. “He’ll be happy to see that you’re still alive.”

  “I was mighty happy to hear that he’d made it, too.” Stovepipe holstered his gun. The shooting was over now. “Reckon we’d better look for Rawson.”

  “That reminds me,” said Olsen. He reached under his vest to his shirt pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “You got an answer to your telegram.”

  He leaned down from the saddle to hand the telegraph flimsy to Stovepipe, who took it and unfolded it. A feeling of satisfaction went through the lanky cowboy as he read the words printed on the paper. The information in the telegram confirmed all the hunches he’d had.

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” he said as he put the paper in his own pocket. “Let’s find Rawson, and then maybe we can finish cleanin’ up this mess.”

  A search of the basin produced a surprising result, however. The rustlers numbered eighteen men. Eleven of them were dead, the other seven wounded and taken prisoner.

  None of them was Jack Rawson.

  “What are you saying?” Sheriff Olsen demanded when Stovepipe informed him of that fact. “The ringleader of the whole damned bunch got away somehow?”

  “Yeah,” said Stovepipe as he patted his breast pocket where the folded telegram lay. “But I’ve got a pretty good hunch right where he’s goin’.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The citizens of Hat Creek were startled that evening when shots broke out around the sheriff’s office and jail. Two figures rushed out of the building and dashed toward saddled horses tied at the hitch rack in front. As Laura Dempsey swung up onto one of the mounts, Dan Hartford turned around and fired the gun he held at the jail, shattering one of the front windows and sending bullets screaming through the door he and Laura had left open behind them.

  Then he jerked the reins of both horses loose from the rack, leaped into the saddle of the second animal, and hauled the horse around. Laura did likewise with her mount. Both of them leaned forward in the saddle as they kicked the horses into motion.

  Sheriff Frank Olsen charged out of the jail and cursed sulfurously as he lifted his revolver and fired after the escaping prisoners. The shots boomed through the rapidly fading light and made people who were on the street scurry for cover. That seemed to be the only effect they had, though, because the fugitives didn’t slow down at all.

  The pounding of Dan’s heart in his chest seemed almost as loud to him as those gunshots. He looked over at Laura’s strained face and tried to summon up a reassuring smile, but he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. Worry filled him. He wasn’t sure this jailbreak was a good idea, but it seemed to be their only real chance to escape the charges against them.

  The settlement fell behind them. When Dan glanced back, he could see the scattered lights twinkling. He wasn’t able to spot any pursuit. For now, it appeared that he and Laura had made a clean getaway. Dan kept his horse moving at a gallop, though, and Laura did likewise.

  They didn’t slow down until they had covered at least a mile.

  As they pulled their mounts back to a walk, Laura said, “Dan, I’m so scared.”

  “So am I,” Dan agreed. “I really think everything is going to work out, though.”

  “If it doesn’t . . .”

  “We’re just not going to think about that,” Dan said with a hard, bleak edge to his voice.

  They rode north from Hat Creek. The Box D lay to the northwest, but there was nothing waiting for them there. Salvation, if there was going to be any, would come from the HS Bar, which was their destination at the moment. Once again, they were going to appeal to Laura’s friend Jessica Stafford for help.

  The sky darkened steadily until millions of stars were visible in the ebony canopy overhead. A three-quarter moon had poked over the Mogollon Rim, so between its silvery glow and that of the stars, there was plenty of light for the two riders to see where they were going.

  Dan kept an eye on their back trail but didn’t see anybody following them. That was good.

  To keep the horses fresh, they alternated between a walk and a ground-eating lope. The miles fell behind them as the night wore on. The moon rose higher, marking the passage of time.

  It was a long ride from Hat Creek to the headquarters of the HS Bar. The hour was close to midnight by the time Dan and Laura came in sight of the ranch house with its surrounding buildings. The barns, the corrals, the bunkhouse and cook shack and blacksmith shop all bulked darkly, with no lights showing. Everybo
dy had turned in. The ranch was asleep for the night.

  Dan wanted to keep it that way for the time being. He reined in and lifted his hand in a signal for Laura to stop as well.

  “We’d better go the rest of the way on foot,” he said. “Other wise we’ll have every dog on the place barking its fool head off. We don’t want to rouse the crew, just Mrs. Stafford.”

  “All right,” said Laura. “I understand.”

  She dismounted, as did Dan. They left the horses tied to some small trees, with enough play in the reins that the animals would be able to graze until someone came to fetch them. The two fugitives stole toward the house on foot, moving as quietly as possible.

  Dan worried that the dogs still might scent them and raise a commotion, but luck was with them and he and Laura reached the side of the house without being discovered. They paused there, and Dan took advantage of this opportunity to draw Laura into his arms.

  He hoped this wouldn’t be the last chance he’d ever have to kiss her, he thought as he brought his lips down on hers, but just in case it was . . .

  She returned the kiss with the same sort of hungry urgency he felt. Both of them would have been content to have it go on forever.

  But it couldn’t. Dan drew back slightly and whispered, “Are you ready?”

  Laura swallowed and nodded.

  “Let’s go,” she whispered back.

  Holding hands, they slid along the edge of the house to the front porch and climbed to it. They stopped at the door. Dan lifted his free hand and rapped softly but insistently on the panel. He kept it up until a step sounded on the other side and the door swung open a couple of inches.

  “Who in the world is out there?” demanded Jessica Stafford. “I warn you, I have a gun—”

  “Don’t shoot, Jess!” Laura exclaimed. “It’s me!”