“Tough.” Curly touched his tongue to the paper. “We can go out together, if you get me back to Texas.”
“I’ll get you back, settin’ a saddle or across one, but that kid’s pretty young to die. If you know anything that would help, tell me.”
“Help?” Starr chuckled. He was a big, brawny young man with a hard, square brown face and tight dark curls. “You’re the law, Bowdrie. You’d hang a man, but I doubt if you’d help one.”
“He’s a kid. I’d give any man a break.”
“He was old enough to pack a gun. In this life a man straddles his own horses and buries his dead. Nobody is lookin’ for any outs for me. Besides, how do I know you ain’t diggin’ for evidence against the kid? Or all of us?”
Despite himself Bowdrie was disturbed as he walked back to the IXL. He was positive the man Luck had spoken to was Tobe Storey. He had had only a glimpse, but the man’s jawline was familiar, and the Pecos gunman could have ridden this way. What if they had all ridden this way? What if they planned a jailbreak? Curly Starr was the leader of the outfit and they had ridden together for a long time.
Later, in the dining room of the IXL, he loitered over his coffee. Deadwood was wide open and booming. Named for the dead trees along a hillside above the town, it was really a succession of towns in scattered valleys in the vicinity. The Big Horn Store, the Gem Theater, the Bella Union Variety Theater, run by Jack Langrishe, and the Number Ten Saloon all were busy, crowded most of the time.
After leaving the jail, Bowdrie had drifted in and out of most of the places, alert for any of the Starr outfit. Now he sat over coffee for the same purpose, waiting, watching. The door opened and Seth Bullock appeared. With him was Clare Marsden. As her eyes met Bowdrie’s, she flushed. Bowdrie arose as they came to the table.
“Bowdrie, this young lady wants to talk to Curly Starr. I told her Starr was your prisoner and she would have to ask you.”
“She can talk to him,” Bowdrie replied. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a man standing just inside the saloon, looking into the dining room. It was the man he believed was Tobe Storey.
“Tonight?” Clare asked. Bowdrie hesitated. It was foolhardy to open the jail now unless necessary, but…
“All right. I’ll go along.” As she turned toward the door, he hesitated long enough to whisper to Seth Bullock, “Tobe Storey’s in town, and maybe the rest of that Starr outfit.”
She walked along beside him without speaking, until suddenly she looked up at him. “I suppose you think I am a fool to come all this distance to help a man who is as good as convicted, even if he is my brother.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t. If you think there’s a chance for him, you’d be a fool not to try, but if you’ve any reason for believing your brother wasn’t involved, why not tell me?”
“But you’re a Ranger!” The way she said it, the term sounded like an epithet.
“All the more reason. You’ve got us wrong, ma’am. Rangers don’t like to jail folks unless they’ve been askin’ for it. Out on the edge of things like this, if there weren’t any Rangers there’d be no place for people like you.
“If your brother took money with a pistol, he’s a thief and a dangerous man, and if he killed or had a part in killing an innocent man, he should hang for it.
“If he didn’t, then he should go free, and if Starr has evidence that he’s innocent, I’ll do my best to clear him.”
They turned a corner but a sudden movement in the shadows and the rattle of a stone caused Chick Bowdrie to swing aside, brushing Clare Marsden back with a sweep of his arm. A gun flamed from the shadows and a bullet tugged at his shoulder. Only his sudden move had saved them, but his gun bellowed a reply. He ran to the mouth of the alley, then stopped. It led into a maze of shacks, barns, and corrals, and there was nobody in sight. The ambusher was gone. He walked back to Clare.
She stared at him, pale and shocked. “That man tried to kill you!” she protested.
“Yes, ma’am. I am a Ranger and they know why I am in town.”
“But why here? Deadwood is a long way from Texas!”
“I am here to take Starr back. They don’t want him to go. If your brother was involved in that holdup, the man who tried to kill me is his friend. Or an associate, at least.”
“My brother wouldn’t do any such thing!” she protested, but her voice was weak. He had expected something of the kind. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they neared the jail, remembering something he had noticed earlier.
The deputy on guard opened the door cautiously, gun in hand, then opened it wider when he saw who was there. Starr was sprawled on his bunk. A big man in a checked shirt, jeans stuffed into cowhide boots. He swung his feet to the floor. “You again? Was that you they shot at?”
“Wouldn’t you know?” Bowdrie saw Starr’s eyes go to the tear in the shoulder of Bowdrie’s shirt.
“Close, that one. I reckon the boys aren’t holdin’ as steady as they should.” His eyes shifted to Clare, and he came quickly to his feet, surprise mingled with respect. He could see at a glance that she was a decent girl, and he had that quick Western courtesy toward women. “How d’you do, ma’am?”
“Curly, this is Clare Marsden, sister of Billy Marsden. The law thinks he is Bill Cross. She hopes you can tell her somethin’ that will get her brother off the hook.”
Starr shrugged contemptuously. “Is this another trick, Bowdrie? I won’t give evidence, not any kind of evidence. I don’t know anybody named Marsden, or Cross either. I’ve nothing to say.”
“You can help me.” she pleaded. “If only Billy wasn’t with you! Or if he was only holding the horses or something!”
Curly avoided her eyes. He looked a little pale but he was stubborn. “I don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“You were seen an’ identified by four men, Curly.” Bowdrie’s tone was gentle. “So was Tobe. Everybody in town knew Bentley. That leaves Joslin and the kid. We have no description of Joslin, but the kid was identified by one man and he was caught under suspicious circumstances. If you can save his neck, why not do it?”
She stared helplessly for a moment, then dropped her hands from the bars and turned away with a gesture of hopelessness that caught at Chick’s heart.
“Starr, I knew you were a thief but I didn’t think you were a damned louse! This won’t do you any good.”
“I’ll do myself some good before we get to Texas. I’ll have your hide, Bowdrie. It’s a long road home and I’ll get my break.”
At the door of the IXL Bowdrie paused. “You’d best go home, ma’am. Most outlaws aren’t like him. They are rough men but many of them are pretty decent at heart. I am sorry.”
“Thank you, and I am sorry for what I said. You really tried to help me.” Tears welled into her eyes and she turned away. He stared after her, and swore under his breath.
The wind had a way of rippling the grass into long waves of gray or green, and it stirred now, rolling away over the sunlit prairie. Bowdrie, astride the appaloosa gelding he had bought in Deadwood, rode beside his prisoner. Curly Starr, his chin a stubble of beard, stared bleakly ahead. “You won’t get me much further! Ogalalla’s ahead, an’ I’ve friends riding the cattle trails.”
“You talk too much. I’ve prob’ly just as many friends as you’ve enemies among those herds, too. You stole too many horses, Curly. I’ll be lucky if I get you back to Texas unhung.” He paused. “What happened to Tobe an’ Doc?”
“How would they guess you’d ride fifty miles west out of Deadwood? That you’d ride fifty miles out of your way to keep me away from them? But you’re back on the cattle trails now, an’ they’ll find us.”
It had been a hard ride. On impulse Bowdrie had taken his prisoner out of Deadwood on the same night he left Clare Marsden at the door of the IXL. He headed due west, only later turning south and heading for the tall-grass country. Ogalalla, which lay ahead, was a tough trail town and a dozen Texas herds were gathered nearby. Bowdrie had friends there, a
s did Starr. When things went well for him, the big outlaw was a friendly, easygoing man who had punched cows with many of the trail hands. Those friends would not forget.
Bowdrie kept his plans to himself. He had no intention of going into Ogalalla at all. He would camp at Ash Hollow, then head south again, keeping west of Dodge on a course roughly parallel to the proposed Nation Trail, until inside the Texas boundaries. At that time he would veer west toward Doan’s Store and Fort Griffin.
“They’ll be good hunters if they find us,” Bowdrie commented.
Starr looked at him, but said nothing. He had been watching the stars, and was puzzled. At dusk they camped in a canyon where a few ash trees grew and which had been named Ash Hollow by Fremont. They made camp close to the spring, and then taking Starr with him, Bowdrie went down to a moist place in the brush where gooseberries and currants were growing. When they had picked a few to supplement their supper, they walked back.
“You takin’ these irons off me? I’ll sleep better if you do.”
Bowdrie smiled. “And I’ll sleep better with them on, so why don’t you just settle down an’ rest? Nobody is going to turn you loose unless you get a smart Texas lawyer.”
Despite their continual bickering, the two men had come to respect and even like each other during the ride. Curly Starr was typical of a certain reckless, devil-may-care sort of puncher who often took to the bad trails when the country was wild. He was not an evil man, and under other circumstances in another kind of country he might never have become an outlaw. Bowdrie was not fooled by his liking for the man. He knew that at the first chance Starr would grab for a gun or make a run for it. By now the outlaw knew something had gone awry with their planning. He kept staring around at the spring, then the ash trees.
“Hey?” he exclaimed. “This place looks like Ash Hollow, west of Ogalalla!”
“Go to the head of the class,” Bowdrie replied. “You’re not goin’ into Ogalalla?”
Disappointment was written in his expression. “Ain’t you goin’ to give me any chance at all?”
“Go to sleep,” Bowdrie said. “You’ve got a long ride tomorrow.”
When he picketed the horses he took a long look around. Earlier he had glimpsed some distant riders who rode like Indians. He slept lightly and just before daybreak rolled out of his blankets and got a small fire going. Then he went for the horses. He was just in time to see an Indian reaching for the picket pin. The warrior saw him at the same instant and lifted his rifle. Bowdrie drew and fired in one swift, easy movement. Grabbing the picket ropes, Bowdrie raced back for the shelter of the trees.
Curly was on his feet. “Give me a gun, Bowdrie! I’ll stand ‘em off.”
“Lie down, Starr! If it gets rough I’ll let you have a gun. In the meantime, just sit tight.”
A bullet clipped a leaf over his head, another thudded into a tree trunk. Chick rolled into a shallow place in the grass and lifted his Winchester. An instant he waited; then he glimpsed a brown leg slithering through the grass and aimed a bit ahead of it and squeezed off his shot. The Indian cried out, half arose, then fell back into the grass. A chorus of angry yells responded to the wounding of the warrior.
Bowdrie waited. This was, he believed, just a small party on a horse-stealing foray, and two of their number were down. His position was relatively good unless the Indians decided to rush them. Which they promptly did. Dropping his rifle as they broke from the brush and arose from the grass, Bowdrie drew both six-shooters. He opened fire, dropping the nearest Indian; then with his left-hand gun he got the man farthest on the right. Then they vanished, dropping into the grass and the brush. One warrior was slow in getting under cover and a rifle boomed behind Bowdrie and the Indian fell.
Bowdrie turned swiftly, covering Starr. The outlaw grinned at him. “Had to get in one shot!” he protested. Yet Bowdrie saw the man had started to swing the rifle to cover him. Only his quick turn with the pistol had stopped it. He grinned again. “Hell, Bowdrie, you can’t blame a man for tryin’!” He nodded toward the area beyond their brush screen. “No real war party, just huntin’ horses an’ a few scalps.”
An hour later they were on their way. It was short-grass country now and would be all the way back to Texas. There might be occasional belts of tall grass, but it was going to be scarce. Bowdrie kept them moving at a stiff pace, knowing Starr’s followers would almost certainly figure out what had happened. He could not avoid them much longer. Undoubtedly even now they were working their way west to cut his trail, and when they came, it would be fast.
When they did come it was a surprise. Bowdrie had holed up in a deserted cabin in the upper Panhandle of Texas. Theirs had been a long, hard ride under blazing suns, cold nights, and sometimes showers of pounding rain. As they reached the cabin, Starr said, “You’re goin’ to a heap of trouble just to hang a man. Why don’t you let me go?”
“Hangin’ you isn’t important,” Bowdrie replied, “but I’ve got a job to do and you’re part of it. The day has come when a man can no longer live by the gun. Two men were killed in that robbery of yours. Both of them had wives, one of them had two youngsters.
“Hangin’ you won’t bring back their father or that other woman her husband, but it might keep some other father or husband alive.
“Society is not taking revenge. It is simply eliminating someone who refuses to live by the rules.
Starr swore and spat into the dust. “Get me back to wherever you’re takin’ me, Bowdrie, or by the Eternal you’ll have me converted! But keep them guns handy, boy. If I get a hand on one of ‘em, I’ll have a chance to be glad you aren’t leavin’ a widow!”
“Get busy an’ pick up sticks. We’ll need a fire for coffee.”
On the edge of the hollow where the cabin lay, Chick paused and took a careful look at the surrounding country. His nerves were on edge, and in part it was due to the long ride with a man who was ready to kill him at any slight chance, a man with everything to gain and nothing to lose. Around the next hill or down the next draw his friends might be waiting. Doc Bentley, Joslin, and the rest were all plainsmen and by now they would have figured out what he was doing and they would expect him to turn east, which he must do to deliver his prisoner.
Also, they were on the edge of Kiowa-Comanche country. Bowdrie studied the situation. The adobe cabin was built in a hollow in a rocky canyon with a spring close beside it. There were a few cottonwood trees, and a couple of huge tree trunks that lay near the cabin. The view from the door overlooked the trail and the approach to the spring. The cabin had often been a refuge for buffalo hunters and had figured in many a brush with Indians, judging by the bullet scars.
With an armful of wood on his left arm, Bowdrie walked back to the cabin. Working with the handcuffs on, Curly Starr had a fire going.
He looked up, smiling. “As long as they sent a Ranger after me, I’m glad they sent one who could cook. I believe I’ve gained weight on this trip.”
Bowdrie built his fire of dry wood to eliminate smoke. Earlier, crossing the plains, he had killed an antelope. Now he cut steaks and began to broil them. He knew better than to relax. “Always keepin’ an eye out, aren’t you?” Starr said. “I see you’re pretty handy with a gun, too. You’ll have to be if you ever tangle with Doc or Joslin.
“That Ernie’s a pretty hand himself, you know. I had an idea he might try to cut me down someday. He wanted to boss the outfit himself, but he’s too bloody.
“Between the two of us, it was Doc an’ Joslin who did the killin’. I led them to that bank and I wanted the money, but I never figured on no killin’.”
“Then why don’t you give the Marsden kid a clean bill, Curly? He’s young enough, an’ he might turn into a pretty decent man.”
“Or he might turn into a country lawyer.” Starr glanced at him. “That pretty sister of his must have sold you a bill of goods.”
A quail called out in the tall grass beyond the cottonwoods. There was a shade of difference in Starr’s tone when
he added, “She seemed like a mighty fine girl, at that.”
Bowdrie was squatted beside the fire. His ear caught the change in Starr’s tone. It had come right after that quail.called. He pushed the coffeepot against the glowing sticks, pushed others closer. He glanced around casually. Starr was sitting up more and he had drawn one foot back so the knee was bent and the foot was fiat on the ground. His hands, still in the cuffs, lay loosely on his right side. At an instant’s warning he could roll over and make a run for it.
Bowdrie’s mind raced. His rifle was twenty feet away, leaning against the wall of the adobe cabin. He was between it and Starr. Starr’s best bet if Bowdrie was attacked was to run for the shelter of the cottonwoods, climb a horse, and get out of there. As for himself, he would never make the cabin. He would have to fight it out right here, behind that log. There was no sound but the bubble of coffee in the pot.
He tossed Starr a cup. “Here!” he said. Curly grabbed it but his eyes sparked. Bowdrie knew where they would be, among the cottonwoods. The toss of the cup had put Curly off guard, but for the moment only. Curly had but one thing to do. To get away. Bowdrie had to both keep his prisoner and fight off three gunmen.
Bowdrie heard a rustle among the leaves and he turned, drawing as he wheeled. He fired into the brush from which the movement came, and as he fired Starr dropped his cup and lunged to his feet. Bowdrie had anticipated the move and he swung back and down with the barrel of his pistol, stretching Starr unconscious beside the fire. Bowdrie dropped behind the log and snapped a quick shot at a stab of flame from the brush. Rolling over, he crawled the length of the log, getting closer to the doorway and his rifle.
“Hold it, Bowdrie!” a voice called. “Turn Starr loose an’ you can ride off.” It was the moment he wanted, for they would be listening for his reply and not poised to shoot. With a lunge he was through the door and inside the adobe house. Two bullets struck the doorjamb as he went through.
“You boys come in with your hands up,” he called, “and I’ll see you get a fair trial!”
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