All of it took place in splintered fractions of seconds. Six was already three bounds off the road when Rafferty’s collapsing body hit the road; by the time Story dismounted and took cover, Six on his fast cutting-horse had rammed twenty yards up the hillside. Judging that enough time had elapsed, Six dived out of the saddle and hit the ground rolling. He came up against the base of a squat boulder, snaking his six-gun out of holster. The big-bore gun roared again, fifty or sixty feet up the hill, and in answer he heard a pepper of gunshots from down below. He looked back and saw Nick Story popping away with a small revolver. The bullets were winging high over Six’s head; he suspected that Story, knowing what Six’s game was, intended simply to keep the rifleman’s head down. Six nodded his head, hoping Story would take it as a sign of encouragement.
Down in the road, Rafferty’s riderless horse had bolted, but now came to a restless halt a little way down the canyon. Rafferty was beginning to stir. His green shirt made a bright target, and that worried Six.
The buffalo gun spoke again. Six was looking downhill, and saw the spot where the bullet struck off a white splash of rock near Nick Story’s post.
On the heels of the buffalo gun’s echo, Six was up and running, dashing straight up the hill. He gave himself a ten-yard run, then threw himself flat behind a low shelf of rock. The buffalo gun tore a chunk off the top of the rock.
Story’s little gun kept pegging away. Six waited, cocked gun in hand, until the buffalo gun roared its answer to Story’s fire. On that signal, Six scrambled around the rock and launched himself uphill again. He wheeled around a stubby pillar of rock and came in sight of a crouching man, thirty feet away, fumbling a big cartridge into a long-barreled rifle. Six threw up his gun, leveled the aim and spoke in a dead-flat voice:
“Freeze.”
But the man had already seen him. The rifle was swinging toward Six. Six locked his hand down tight and fired. The revolver bucked violently in his fist.
The buffalo gun dipped. It erupted into the ground a few feet in front of its owner. The man lost his grip on the gun and flopped forward loosely; the gun clattered across a rock and then nothing was moving any more.
Six recocked his revolver and walked across the hillside with care. The ambusher coughed weakly. Six crouched and pulled the man’s shoulder back; the man went over on his back limply and lay staring at Six out of half-glazed eyes. The front of his shirt crawled with a growing stream of blood. He looked like a fish taken out of water and dumped on a dry place.
Boots clattered in the rocks. Six’s head spun. He saw Nick Story stop briefly by Rafferty, then come trotting up the hill.
The ambusher licked his dry lips. “You got any water?”
Six said, “Who are you, bucko?”
“Please—I want water.” The voice was a feeble croak.
“Why’d you lay for us?”
“Wanted—the green shirt. Monday. Always wears loud—shirts like that. Get him before he—gets—me, you know? Hey, listen—gimme some—water, huh?”
Nick Story reached them. “This the only one?”
“I think so. Go down and bring up a canteen.”
Story glanced at the ambusher. “Not for him. He doesn’t need it.”
Six looked down. The ambusher was dead.
Steve Rafferty had a bullet in his left shoulder. A heavy .52 caliber slug, it had hit him with enough force to knock him bodily off his horse and stun him. Rafferty was sitting up, stunned, when Six and Story reached the road.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Rafferty murmured. “Jesus H. Christ!”
Nick Story bent over him and studied the wound, tearing the green shirt aside. “You need a doctor, Batterly.”
“What do I do,” Rafferty said, “make hand-signals?”
“We’ll get you there,” Six told him. He addressed Story: “Stop the bleeding if you can. I’ll bring down that other one and catch up Rafferty’s horse.”
By the time he came back with Rafferty’s horse, the newspaperman was on his feet, rocky but willing. He spoke bitterly to Six: “And you told me to pack my gun away.”
“Leave it where it is,” Six advised.
Story said to him, “I believe all those stories now. I never saw a man go charging right into the muzzle of a gun before.”
“It was a Sharps,” Six said. “You could tell that by the noise it made. Takes time to reload a Sharps after you’ve fired a shot.”
“So you ran after him when he was reloading. Still took a lot of guts. What was it he said before he died?”
“Something about that green shirt. I guess he was talking about Tom Monday—mentioned Monday, anyhow. He seemed to think Monday was in this area.”
“Sure,” said Nick Story. “Monday always wears bright-colored shirts, doesn’t he?”
Six brought Rafferty’s horse forward. “Can you ride all right? Well give you a boost up.”
“My aching backside,” Rafferty moaned, but he accepted their help into the saddle. Story threw the ambusher’s body across the ambusher’s horse, picked up the reins to lead the horse, and took up the rear of the little column. Six led the way down the road toward the town of Rifle Gap.
They came to a road-fork, with a signpost and a mailbox. The signpost, pointing down the left fork, read “Rifle Gap—2 miles.” The mailbox, on the right fork, carried the name D. Latourette. Six halted and said, “How you makin’ it, Rafferty?”
“I think I may live, after all.”
“You two can get to town without my help,” Six said. “I’ve got business to take care of here.” He reached for the lead-reins of the ambusher’s horse. “I’ll take care of this for you.”
Rafferty said, “Wait a minute. You said you were just passing through.”
“I am,” Six drawled. Leading the ambusher’s horse with its grisly burden, he turned up the right fork.
Nick Story called after him: “Good luck, Six. Thanks for our skins.”
Six waved vaguely in acknowledgment, without looking back at them.
He topped a grass-covered hill and had a last sight of the two riders heading down the road a mile away. Then Six went on along the private road until he came to a small collection of buildings surrounded by a corral fence. He stepped down and tethered the two horses, and walked up to the small ranch house.
A middle-aged woman with a straight spine and a friendly brown face opened the door. Six had his hat in his hand. “Hello, Mario.”
She took his arms in both hands. Six was a tall man: she had to throw her head back to look at him. Her smile was pleased and surprised; she was happy to see him. “Jeremy—of all people.”
A guttural voice roared: “Mario? Somebody there?”
She made a mock-grimace. “He’s liable to shotgun me if I don’t take you right in there.”
Six dropped his hat on a wall-peg and followed her back through the house.
In a small bedroom, propped up in bed, a long-legged redheaded man lay with both legs splinted and bandaged. His face was homely and angular; it cracked into a smile that flashed a white curve across his sunburned cheeks. “I don’t believe this.” The redheaded man pumped Six’s hand vigorously. “I just don’t believe this,” he said again.
“Up the trail,” Six said, “I heard you’d been laid up. Thought I’d see for myself. You’re quite a sight. First time I’ve ever seen Dan Latourette knocked off his feet.” He chuckled.
“I got both legs shot up in a fracas,” Latourette said. On his bed frame hung a cowhide vest with a sheriff’s badge pinned to it. Latourette was regarding it with resignation. “What a time for it. Whole damned Basin’s crawling with bravos, itching for war. Fine time for the sheriff to be splinted up in bed.”
His wife said tartly, “At least it keeps you out of the line of fire.”
Six said, “Who shot you up this way?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Latourette told him. “I finished them.”
“Them?”
Mario said, “There were two of them. O
ne in front of him and one on top of a roof. Jeremy, you know I’ve always hated women who tried to keep their men away from fights. Fighting’s a man’s business. But sometimes even I can get protective. It doesn’t take a brave man to wear a badge in this county today—it takes a fool.”
“Offhand,” Six answered, “I’d be inclined to agree.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I brought in a package. A dead gunny. What do you want done with him?”
Latourette said, “What happened?”
“I came into the Basin with two fellows. One of them had a green shirt on, and the gunny mistook him for Tom Monday. Started shooting us up from ambush and I had to kill him.”
“Must have been one of Matthew Dane’s bravos,” said Latourette. “The word’s gone around that Lockyear hired Tom Monday, and the whole Dane crew is primed to shoot Monday on sight.” With a grimace, Latourette propped himself upright and reached for a pair of crutches by the bed. His wife, a wise woman, made no motions; she let Latourette lever himself upright without help and balance himself precariously on the crutches. With his house robe flapping, Latourette hobbled painfully through the door and into the front of the house. When Six met Mario’s eyes, he saw pain and compassion in them, but she shook her head, and said nothing, and Six nodded to her before he followed Latourette into the parlor.
Latourette was standing in the open front door.
He said without apology, “I can’t make the steps, Jeremy. Lead that horse over here and let me have a look at the man’s face.”
Six brought the dead ambusher’s horse up to the porch and twisted the dead man’s head around. Latourette nodded. “Simpson’s his name. One of Matthew Dane’s men. Jeremy, I’d appreciate it if you’d drop him by the undertaker’s in town. That’d be the hardware store—old Crittendon doubles as undertaker. He’s had a lot of business lately. Tell him to send the bill to Matthew Dane at Singletree Ranch. Matthew Dane can take care of notifying the relatives, if Simpson had any.”
Latourette’s face was sour. “It’s just going through the motions, but in the interests of book-law you might write out a deposition when you get time. Drop it off at Judge Scully’s, or tell the barkeep at the saloon to give it to the judge. There’ll probably have to be an inquest. Not that anybody will pay any attention to that. Things are pretty well beyond the state where trials and courts have any meaning, around here.”
Mario filled two tumblers with whisky and served the two men while Latourette lowered himself, with difficulty, into a parlor chair. Six honored the sheriff’s pride by making no effort to help. Latourette’s wife gave him a grateful nod.
Dan Latourette said, “All right, then—what brings you down this way, Jeremy?”
“Nothing special.”
“On the drift again?”
“Yes,” Six said, without elaborating.
Without preamble, Latourette said suddenly, “Jeremy, I can use some help until I get my legs healed up.”
Six met his glance and held it gravely; but finally he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dan. I gave up wearing a badge.”
“This isn’t an ordinary situation.”
“I know that.”
“I’m asking it as a personal favor, Jeremy.”
Mario stood behind Latourette’s chair, massaging his shoulders. She was watching Six’s face; she said, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard Dan ask for help”
“I can’t,” Six said. “I’m sorry.”
Latourette said earnestly, “It’s not just for me. It’s for the innocent people who’ll get cut up if this thing goes much farther. This Basin’s got no law at all right now—and if it ever needed law, it needs it more now than it ever has before.”
Six said woodenly, “If they’re so anxious to kill each other, let them.”
He saw the shock register in Mario’s eyes; and Latourette said, “I never heard you talk that way before.”
“Everybody learns a little as time goes by.”
Mario said, “I can’t believe it’s you saying those things, Jeremy.”
Latourette said, “You quit the job in Spanish Flat. Why?”
“Because the town didn’t deserve law. Didn’t even want it.” Six moved toward the door and collected his hat. “I’d better be on my way. Take care of yourself.” He nodded bleakly to Mario. “Obliged for the drink.”
Latourette’s voice was low. “Good luck to you, Jeremy.”
Six went outside and climbed into the saddle. He felt old and weary; there was a nameless anger boiling up inside him, and he could not place its target. Irritably, he yanked on the reins of the dead man’s horse and trotted out of the yard leading it.
He was in a dark fugue, a dirge, when he reached Rifle Gap. The town was full of trees, settled into a mountain canyon with a creek running down behind the back of one row of buildings. Most of the structures were built of logs; a few were made of hewn planks, with square false-fronts trying to imitate second stories. There were only eighteen or twenty buildings in town; a few corrals and sheds; and at the head of the street a big log structure with a deep, shadowed veranda. It was obviously a gathering-place, probably a saloon; weather had obliterated the painted sign. Beside it squatted a mercantile store.
Six was alert for signs of trouble, but encountered none; the town seemed not just asleep, but positively unconscious. He left Simpson’s body at the hardware store, deposited Simpson’s horse at the livery stable to be picked up by Matthew Dane, stopped in at the deserted saloon bar long enough to write out a terse record of Simpson’s death, and left it with the bartender for delivery to the judge. Then Six hired a room along the back hallway of the big saloon. It was only early afternoon, but an unaccountable weariness had overtaken him. He kicked off his boots and lay back, fully clothed, on the ragged blanket. He had it in mind to seek out a barber shop and take a bath, shave, and haircut; but presently he fell into a fitful doze.
Seven
Nick Story had parted from Rafferty at the doctor’s house in Rifle Gap. That had been three hours ago. Now in the late afternoon, after seeking directions from several riders all of whom had watched him suspiciously, Story rode into the yard of Lance Head ranch.
Story halted his horse at the main gate and waited while a big, bowlegged man waddled down toward him, festooned with weapons. The man had three days’ growth of beard on a jowly face, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked like the kind of man who pulled the wings off flies. “State your business.”
Story said mildly, “The name’s Nick Story, I want to see Tave Lockyear, and it’s private and personal.”
“Mr. Lockyear’s busy.”
“You just tell him my name,” Story murmured.
The big, beard-stubbled tough planted his feet. “Maybe I’ll just take your gun first.”
Story smiled without mirth. “With the sun in your eyes?” He halved his smile. “Dearly beloved, you are gathered here together, but not for long because I’m going to take you apart and scatter the pieces if you don’t get moving in just five seconds. Do you understand me good and clear?”
The tough’s bloodshot eyes flashed; but, uncertain of Story’s identity, he finally turned and walked to the house.
Story swept the place with a casual glance. Cottonwoods shaded the house; it was a big galleried house at the head of the yard, flanked by a succession of bunkhouses, work shacks, cookhouse, barns, corrals, and other outbuildings. A water-pumping windmill stood high, towering over a big water trough at its base. The blades of the windmill turned slowly against a listless breeze. The ranch buildings stood on a slight elevation, and in every direction the grass-covered hills stretched away, rich and flowing. Dark spots here and there were Lance Head cattle grazing. The breeze, flowing down across the hills, made long golden ripples in the grass.
The tough waddled down from the house, looking grouchy. “All right.”
Story dismounted, smiling with his teeth. “Take care of my horse like a good fellow.”
“God damn it, I ain
’t your servant.”
“You will be,” Story murmured. He locked glances with the man until the tough, muttering under his breath, picked up the reins and led Story’s horse away into the shade.
Story lighted a fresh cigarette and walked up to the house. He pulled the bell chain by the front door. A Mexican water olla hung under the veranda roof in a net of rope. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and waited by the door.
A woman opened it. “Yes?” She stood half in shadow, but Nick Story went taut with recognition. Still, if he was overly surprised he made no great show of it. He spoke calmly enough:
“Hello, Julianne.”
The woman s eyes went dark. She took a step toward him to see him better. “Nick,” she said.
“So. You married him.”
“Yes.”
“How about letting me come in?”
She hesitated, then stepped aside; and Story went inside. When he turned around, a little girl had entered the parlor. The woman called Julianne went across to the little girl, speaking quickly. “This is my daughter, Nick. Carolyn, this is Mr. Story.”
The little girl’s eyes grew wide; she curtsied politely. Nick Story moved into the parlor, vaguely aware of the tastefully rich furniture in the room. Little Carolyn lifted her hand; Story bowed gently over her fingers. “You’re a very beautiful young lady.”
“Thank you.”
“How old are you now?”
“I’m six,” she said happily. “I’m going to be—”
Her mother spoke rapidly: “See if your father is busy, dear.”
The little girl danced out of the room along a corridor. Julianne crossed the room and closed the corridor door. “I wish you hadn’t come here, Nick.”
His silver eyes were bright for a moment; then they turned bitter. “Is that all you’ve got to say to me, Julianne?”
She was a slender woman with high, strong cheekbones and ash-colored hair, set off by her green dress. Her chiseled face was proud and alert. He said slowly, “You are still beautiful.”
She was not looking at him. “I’m not clever, Nick. I don’t know how to act in a situation like this.”
Marshal Jeremy Six #3 Page 4