The Man Without a Gun

by Lauran Paine

  Buck interrupted with a mild oath. “Hell! That’s takin’ the long way around, for me,” he said.

  Before he could continue, Jack touched his shoulder lightly. “Get me a horse, Buck. I got to go to Logan’s camp...and fast.”

  “Why?” the old man demanded.

  “Because, if Sundance got Connelly and Ewart here, that’s where I think the trouble is going to bust out.”

  “No,” Amy said quickly. “Not unless Josh Logan is there.”

  “But he is there,” Jack said. Then, without explaining, he gave Buck a slight push toward the door.

  After the liveryman was gone, Amy looked into Jack’s face briefly, and, when he made no move toward her, she went over by the door and stood there, looking out toward the alleyway. Jack stirred finally, roused from his thoughts by her obvious intention of departing.

  “Amy?”

  She turned as he came forward. “Yes?”

  He was close to her, looking down. The full redness of her mouth was softly shadowed, as were her wide-open eyes. “Amy...I don’t know exactly how to say it.”

  She did not help him. They stood motionlessly, gazing into each other’s eyes, then he reached for her, drew her hard against him, and felt the full length of her body pressing into him. Her mouth was warm and yielding; she met pressure with pressure. When they broke away, at the sound of Buck leading a horse toward the alleyway entrance, she murmured: “You don’t have to say it. I think I know....”

  XI

  He rode northeasterly out of Herd with the cold making his breath white against the night. Near the scrub-oak knoll the sound of riders coming drove him to cover. He watched them pass, a bunched-up clutch of dark shapes, then resumed his way to the granite ledge overlooking Logan’s railroad camp. He thought it likely, if Sundance had met Ewart, Connelly, and the Calabasas Kid, they would be in the neighborhood of the ledge. But when he arrived on the wind-swept plateau, there was no one there.

  Below, much of the rubble had been cleared away and beyond the little work engine, where the gaping hole had been, was only a shallow depression. Logan had driven his men hard to repair the damage of the dynamiting.

  There were more lanterns throughout the camp than there had been prior to the dynamiting, and, by looking closely, Jack could see armed men patrolling the roadbed, and beyond the camp where the dynamite cache was.

  It was comforting to know that Logan had been hurt. It also consoled him to see that the railroad superintendent had put his camp on a military footing; the necessity for armed guards meant Logan would have fewer men available for posses.

  But of Josh Logan or the men Sundance had summoned, there was no sign.

  Jack rode down off the ledge, circled the camp, and rode toward the corrals. He found dozens of animals, mostly mules, and mounds of harness, but he found nothing to indicate that his old friends or Josh Logan were at rail’s end. As he rode away, bound for Herd, he thought it possible that the men he had passed near the oak knoll might have been his friends and Josh Logan. In fact, he could think of no alternative for the disappearance of the men he sought.

  The ride back toward town was slow. He had plenty of time for thought. The prospect of a showdown with Logan occupied his mind only briefly. Then he thought of Logan’s bitter secret.

  What kind of a woman had Rob’s mother been? What kind of a man had Jason Logan been? What powerful motives had driven him to marry Rob’s mother and raise his brother’s illegitimate son? What corroding bitterness had Jason Logan known when he had seen the wild plunge of storm-churned water bringing inescapable death to him? Had he known his own brother had deliberately sent him into that cañon to die?

  From his reflections emerged a vision of Logan’s ruthless features. He recalled most of what the superintendent had told him the only time they had talked. From those words and what he had subsequently discovered about Logan, he considered the matter of killing him something very close to a duty.

  It was this consuming determination that temporarily robbed him of his wariness. He did not underestimate his enemy; he simply did not consider Logan’s wiliness until, within sight of the lights of Herd, two separate bands of riders suddenly charged toward him from either side of the road. As fate would have it, he heard the rocketing thunder of their approach before they were close enough to fire. It required only a moment for him to understand that Logan had stationed these men in ambush for him. And in that moment he drove home the spurs and leaped ahead in a belly-down run.

  The pursuit closed in for a hundred yards, then, as his mount strained ahead, the railroaders dropped back slightly. What piqued Jack was the fact that, although he could see the wicked black reflection of naked guns, the ambushers did not fire at him. The reason for this came to him while he was less than a hundred yards from Herd’s north entrance. Up ahead, standing ready on the outskirts of town, were four armed men. He wasn’t certain but he thought one of them resembled Logan.

  He reined hard around. The livery horse bent to the right in a dirt-spewing curve and headed straight for the alley behind Buck’s barn. Someone, among the men standing in the roadway, shot at him. The bullet was wide and high. A man’s roaring shout shivered the night air and other men, calling sharply, reined frantically toward the alley into which Jack had disappeared.

  Jack passed the rear entrance to the livery barn with only an inward glance. Up near the center of the stable Buck’s night hawk was standing, wide-legged, in a listening stance, then he began to turn. But the big man was past by then, bound for the south end of Herd. He popped out of the alley like the seed from a grape, shot down through the shanty section of town, scattering dogs right and left, then burst out upon the flat plain that ran out to Herd Creek. He did not slacken speed until the town lay well behind, then he cut westerly toward the bend of the creek, slowed his mount, and rode the last two hundred yards in a walk.

  At the creek he dismounted, drank, permitted his horse only a few swallows, moved deeper into the willows, and waited. It was not a long wait; the sharp ring of a shod hoof striking stone urged him to remount and work his way carefully through the willows along the creekbank.

  A lowering moon came from behind big-bellied clouds and shone with silver brilliance. Jack moved through the filigreed shadows like a wraith. The ground was soft, spongy, and resilient. It took impressions well but it also muffled the sound of his passing. Once, a mile upstream, he halted in a cottonwood clump to watch the back trail. Three easy-moving riders loomed out of the darkness. One was smoking a cigarette; with each inhalation its red end glowed cherry-like.

  The strangers came on slowly, riding somewhat apart, and obviously tracking him through the mud. He thought at first they might be Sundance and his friends, but, when they got closer, he saw that their mounts were large, unwieldy combination animals, the kind no horseman would ride except as a last resort.

  Jack left the creek and rode steadily down the night, far enough out in the curling dead grass to eliminate tracks. He rode for an hour, thinking he had lost the pursuit, when suddenly he heard a man hoot loud and call out: “Here! Here in the grass! Them’s his tracks sure as’ shootin’.”

  Jack swung directly away from the creek after that, and rode due north in a choppy lope. He sought for a hiding place and found none big enough for a man and a horse. The countryside ahead was pure desert, flat and rockless. Once, swinging slightly to the west, he was sure he heard other horsemen somewhere between Herd and the men who were trailing him. This prompted caution again. He booted the livery horse into a steady long lope and headed for the oak knoll, several miles distant, the only place he could think of where a solitary unarmed man might successfully elude Logan’s bloodhounds.

  Behind him the pursuit fanned out. Up ahead, in the quiet of the night, Jack could hear them coming. He attempted a ruse, swung west and rode steadily in that direction until it seemed he must be beyond the foremost pursuer,
then reversed himself, rode south as far as a land swell topped by spidery paloverdes, dark against the waning night, and stopped to listen and look.

  He did not see the rider appear through the darkness behind him, stop suddenly, study the big man’s back, then fade out into the night, still behind him.

  For a time his horse could rest; there was no immediate peril. Then, some minutes later, he heard the jangle of rein chains followed by a man’s cough. He turned abruptly and eased down off the land swell, riding away from the gray-dawning saw-toothed mountains. He considered returning to Herd but gave up the notion at once. Logan knew about Buck’s barn; he had men watching for him elsewhere, he was sure, and the only other refuge would be Amy’s house. That was clearly out of the question. Thus far Amy was free of more than passing suspicion. So long as Rob was hidden there, he must do nothing to direct Logan’s suspicion toward the Southards.

  He thought of going to the glass-rock flat. But it was too far. If he was going to meet Logan, he would have to stay closer to Herd. Then he heard a shot. In its echoing stillness came two more, then a crashing volley of shots. He reined up sharply, probing the night behind him. The firing ended as abruptly as it had erupted. He was still trying to place the sounds when a single explosion came. It was east of him and the hum of the bullet drove him low over the saddle horn cap. He spun away and spurred toward an eroded sandstorm spire nearby, on his left. Behind him, a man’s yell, raised in triumph, quivered in the nocturnal hush, then he heard a running horse sweeping down on him.

  He got to the spire with moments to spare, left his horse in a leap, and flattened against the ground behind the crumbling upthrust. The strange rider came up fast, cut out around the spire, and went careening away into the night. Jack watched him go, carbine held high and ready. Unexpectedly a shot broke into the running horse’s echo. Jack heard the animal snort, break his lead, then go trotting off. He could barely make out the riderless animal. Someone was behind him. Whoever it was, he had shot the man who had been after him. He assumed both the men were railroaders and that the mounted man had been shot in error. He had no reason to believe otherwise until a crouched figure moved into sight from the direction the mounted man had taken. Then he recognized the scarcely discernible limp of the Sundance Kid. For a moment, held silent by doubt and puzzlement, he watched the Kid approach, then he called out.

  “Sundance!”

  The Kid halted in mid-stride, quirked a hard look toward the sandstone spire, then came on, gun cocked and riding low in his hand. When he saw Jack, he stared briefly, nodded, then knelt at his side.

  “One down, nine to go,” the Kid said.

  “Nine?”

  The Kid nodded and lowered his gun. “Yeah, that’s how many Logan took to town from rail’s end with him. That one I got...that was the one called Cavin. He rode into me. The others are all around us.”

  “Where are Red and Tex and Calabasas?”

  Sundance looked around. “You know, huh?”

  “I know. The sheriff was talking about a couple of strangers he met on the stage up from Yuma. It wasn’t hard to figure it out, Kid...only you shouldn’t have brought them in.”

  Sundance looked reprovingly at Jack. No?” he said. “Any time I go up against a whole god-damned army, you can bet your boots I’m not going alone.”

  “But Red’s a lawman now. You put him in a hell of a spot.”

  “Naw,” Sundance dissented. “Red’s Red. He likes a good fight...badge or no badge. Anyway, he’s got some influence around the territory, and with a plug hat like Logan we’ll need a little of that.”

  The Kid peeked around the sandstone spire and mused aloud. “Wonder where the other ones are. We met ’em comin’ up behind you and scattered ’em with a dose of lead...but I’m bettin’ they didn’t run far.”

  “They probably left the country,” Jack said. “They thought they were chasing an unarmed man and suddenly you came up shooting.”

  Sundance made a crooked grin. “It sure scattered ’em.” He chuckled. “They broke up like a covey of quail.” He looked over his shoulder. “Red an’ Tex an’ Calabasas ought to be comin’ up about now. They were spread out on both sides of me when that idiot Cavin liked to rode over the top of me.”

  Jack touched his arm. “What happened between you and Logan?”

  Sundance snorted. “I never got close, boy. Somethin’ you didn’t know...that telegrapher in Herd works for Logan. As soon as I wired for the others, he sent Logan word of it. I was lucky to get out of Logan’s camp with a whole hide.” Sundance shrugged. “But that’s all right,” he growled. “I like it better this way. Everybody knows who their enemies are. It makes a lot cleaner fight this way.” He cursed, shot another look over his shoulder, and concluded with: “Now what’n hell’s holding up Red and Tex an’ that strung-out beanpole of a Calabasas?”

  But Jack’s thoughts were on Logan. He said: “When I was darn’ near ambushed in town, where were you?”

  “Comin’ into town from the east. The boys an’ I’d just made a sashay up near rail’s end. We figured we might catch Logan alone. But evidently he’d already lit out for town.”

  “He was standing in the roadway when his boys jumped me,” Jack explained. “I doubt if he came out here with ’em, though.”

  “Naw, not him. He ain’t the kind,” Sundance replied. “He does the plannin’, not the fightin’.”

  “In that case I think I’ll head for town.”

  Sundance looked surprised. “You runnin’ out?” he demanded.

  “No,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “But my fight’s with Logan, not his railroaders.”

  Sundance was going to speak when a bullet hit the spire above Jack and showered them both with dust. As Jack dropped down with an oath, the Kid smiled. “Guess you got a fight with the railroaders, after all. Leastways, anybody that shoots at me I don’t call a friend.” He drew his spare pistol and held it out. “Here, you can be a Holy Joe in town, but out here I’d recommend you do a little shootin’.”

  Jack hesitated, looking at the blue-black six-shooter in Sundance’s hand. When he made no move to take it, the Kid tossed it into his lap.

  “You go ahead be law-abidin’. Me, I’d rather be a pallbearer than a corpse.”

  A gun exploded east of the spire. Both the crouching men heard lead slap into sandstone. Sundance cursed, looked backward again, and swore at the others who had not yet made their appearance.

  A flurry of rifle shots off to Jack’s right made him flatten against the ground. “They’re flanking us,” he said. Sundance was shucking spent casings and reloading his handgun. He made no reply.

  A second shot struck the front of the spire, but this time the gunman was closer. Sundance went flat, shook off powder-fine dust, and growled: “I’m going to get that clodhopper.”

  Jack felt the steel of Sundance’s gun near his fingers. He looked at the gun, watched his fingers close around it, lift, and cock it. Breath rattled past his parted lips. He shot a glance at the Kid. Sundance was watching him. He made his crooked little grin and began inching over the ground, around the base of the spire. Jack started to follow him, then a tinkle of spurs made him whirl. A cadaverous, tall shape materialized out of the night. It was holding a cocked carbine with both hands. Jack touched Sundance, who turned slowly, gun swinging. Jack heard the long sweep of breath going into the Kid’s lungs.

  “Calabasas!”

  The lanky figure moved up and crouched. From a sunken pair of gray eyes a glimpse of hard humor looked toward Jack. The Calabasas Kid’s teeth shone.

  “Jack Swift! Who’d ever expect we’d meet here tonight? What a cussed coincidence.”

  Jack couldn’t repress a grin. With equal hard irony he replied: “Yes, sir, sure is a small world, isn’t it? You just happening by like this.”

  Sundance interrupted. “When you two are through makin’ eyes
at each other, there’s a peckerwood out front of this god-damned rock that’s got our range. Calabasas, you go around to the right. I’ll go around to the left. And, Jack, you stay here.”

  Calabasas was crawling away when a stentorian bellow froze him in his tracks. Jack, too, raised up in surprise. He alone of the men behind the spire recognized that voice. It belonged to Deputy Sheriff Will Spencer.

  “Hey! Put down those guns out there. This is the law!”

  From behind Jack, out in the night a nasal voice drawled: “You don’t say. Well, now, I’m sure obliged we got the law on our side, Mister Deputy. But I’d like it a heap better if I could see your badge. Somehow you sort of smell like railroad ties to me.”

  Jack was going to call out that he knew it was the law, when Spencer’s angry voice came again. Jack placed Will’s position that time. He was north of the spire somewhere, hidden in the darkness.

  “Listen, I’m Deputy Will Spencer from Herd. I order you railroaders to put down your guns and stop this fighting. That goes for you other fellers, too. I know who you are an’ I’m ordering you to stop shooting!”

  The same nasal voice replied: “Well, now, Mister Lawman, if you aren’t on our side, an’ if you won’t be on the side of the railroaders, why then, just you get up on one of those little hills yonder and find yourself a nice seat, and watch the god-damnedest fight you ever saw!”

  Sundance laughed. “That’s Tex,” he said.

  Before Deputy Spencer spoke again, Jack raised his voice.

  “Tex, that is the law. I know the voice.”

  From the darkness Connelly cried out: “That you, Jack? Sure good to hear you again, pardner.”

  “Tex, listen to me....”

  “Now Jack,” the nasal voice said reprovingly. “You know damned well we can’t lay our guns down. Why, that Logan feller’d have us crucified by dawn if we went back to Herd with your deputy friend. We can’t hold still for that, boy.”