The Man From Lordsburg

by Peter McCurtin

  Murphy leaned out of the cab and roared at them to get a move on. There was blood on the back of the big Irishman’s denim coat. Old Cal Moseley was already in the boxcar with the horses. Winters heaved the sack of money into the car and climbed in after it. Lassiter pitched Juno Flowers in after it. Then he was on board too.

  “Did you get it, boss? Did you get it?” the Irishman roared from up front. He ducked in his head as a rifle bullet whanged off the side of the cab. Other shots sounded as men poured into the yards. The town of Abilene was good and mad. Old Cal Moseley fingered his twisted neck.

  “Move it! Oh, Christ, move it!” Winters howled.

  Chapter Eight

  There was a blast of white-hot steam as Kingsley eased up the throttle. Metal screamed. Dragging no weight, the powerful Mogul locomotive spun its wheels, throwing sparks. The big driving wheels began to turn, slowly at first, then Kingsley released more power. The train started to roll.

  A minute later it was rolling fast. The big headlight up front sliced through the darkness. Murphy had a hole under the right shoulder. He yanked a quart bottle of whisky out of his coat pocket and broke the neck on the side of the cab. This time he wasn’t showing off. There wasn’t time to do anything.

  The Irishman didn’t know how bad he was hurt. The pain was bad enough. Frothy blood appeared at the corners of his mouth when he gagged on the whisky. He let out a yell that Lassiter could hear back in the boxcar. The Irishman was crazy all right. Kicking open the firebox, he started to sing some wild tune, bending and heaving, pitching wood.

  Bullets thudded into the back of the boxcar. Lassiter stuck his head out the side door and looked back. One side of Texas Street was burning. He could hear the bell on the steam fire engine clanging. A stray bullet zipped past his face like an angry bee.

  Cal Moseley was trying to quiet the horses. Up front Kingsley was putting the big engine through its paces. The noise and the shooting faded behind them. Lassiter braced himself against the roll of the car. He lit the swinging oil lamp. The thin yellow light showed Juno Flowers lying on his back on a pile of hay, just where they’d thrown him.

  Winters was more worried about his guns. When he saw how bad Flowers was, he had an idea. “Is he dead?” he asked Lassiter.

  Lassiter felt the side of Flowers’ neck. There was a fast, weak pulse. Lassiter ripped open the dying man’s shirt and felt his heart. It fluttered and skipped under his fingers. “Not yet,” he said. “He won’t last long.”

  Winters was thinking about the dying man’s share of the money. But even he didn’t want to come right out and talk about it. “Poor bastard,” the little killer said. He was a rotten actor. “Better put him out of his misery. Nothing else we can do.”

  Lassiter looked at him. “He’s got an hour to die, Howey. Let him do it his own way.”

  A shower of sparks blazed past the open door of the boxcar. Winters was hanging on to the stretch rope that kept the horses in line. “I’ll do it, Lassiter,” he said, taking the long-barreled .32 from under his coat.

  Lassiter had his feet wide apart to steady himself. His hands hung loose and relaxed. “Put away that gun,” he warned Winters. “Or I’ll put you away.”

  The sack of money lay on the floor between them. Winters looked at it and laughed. “Sure, Lassiter,” he said. “No call for us to quarrel.”

  There was a band of tension around Lassiter’s head. It grew tighter, like drying rawhide. Now that the job was done he wanted to get his share of the money. He just wanted to get away from there, from Winters, from all of them. People, any kind of people, got on his nerves after a while. The same with towns and saloons and too much talk and noise.

  “Sure, Howey,” he said. There was still about thirty minutes to go, he figured. He sat down beside the dying man on the heaped-up hay and drank from a bottle. Whisky, even tobacco, always tasted bitter when the tension was in his head. He drank some more whisky. He didn’t offer any to Moseley or Winters.

  Winters unwrapped his two rifles from the blanket and rubbed them with an oily rag. The big rifles gleamed dully in the yellow light. A trailing spark flew in the door and landed on Lassiter’s boot. He poured some whisky on it. Unlike most men, he didn’t get strung-out and talky when the danger was past. Men like that gave him a pain the sit-spot. The tension in his head never showed, not unless you knew him well. And nobody did.

  Up front, Murphy was slinging more wood. Every time he did, there was a roar and a glare. It stopped when he lacked the door shut. The bottle was half gone. Lassiter could tell time by inches of whiskey in a bottle. About fifteen minutes now.

  Juno Flowers began to mumble. Lassiter had seen a lot of men die. The ones who talked too much in life usually died without saying anything. The quiet ones, like Flowers, seemed to want to make up for lost time. Flowers thought he was back in the Civil War. Flowers had fought for the South. “A pleasure and an honor,” he mumbled.

  Lassiter didn’t know what he’d do about Cassie. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference, one way or the other. Maybe he’d take his forty-five thousand and ride down to El Paso. The girls in Betsy Shannock’s fancy whorehouse didn’t talk unless you wanted them to.

  The locomotive bell clanged and the train started to lose speed. The bottle was finished and Lassiter stood up. Air brakes hissed and the train dragged to a halt. It looked like everything was working out just fine. Winters was no good with horses. Lassiter told him to stay the hell out of the way. Murphy stumbled along the side of the train with a lantern and told Moseley to start sending down the horses.

  Then the horses were down and they were ready to go. The money was tied across the front of Lassiter’s saddle. They all kept looking at it. Lassiter was the last to leave the boxcar. The dying man was still talking. Holding the oil lamp in one hand, Lassiter drew his gun with the other. Juno Flowers opened his eyes. Lassiter couldn’t tell if he knew him. He shot Flowers twice through the head.

  Still holding the lamp, he jumped down. Kingsley’s face was stuck out the side of the engine cab. “Okay?” he asked. Lassiter nodded and threw the lamp into the boxcar. It smashed and the hay caught. Kingsley pulled down the throttle and tied it. The train was moving when he jumped down.

  The blazing train rocketed into the darkness. Long streamers of flame stretched out behind it. After the glare it was hard to see for a while. By the time their eyes got used to darkness again the train was a mile away. They all stayed close to Lassiter. The Irishman was swaying in his saddle, but he kept going. They had just picked up the narrow trail called Dillon Road when there was a bright flash and a bombing sound in the distance.

  “That was a right nice locomotive,” Oren Kingsley commented, riding heavily like a man out of his element. Juno Flowers wasn’t mentioned.

  After they’d been riding for a while, Moseley asked, “How much longer?”

  Lassiter said about an hour. The farmhouse where they were to meet Cassie had been abandoned for years. They couldn’t miss it, she said. It was the first house they’d come to after the railroad. There wasn’t another house for miles. They would stay there long enough to count the money and divvy it up. It was all in large bills and wouldn’t take long. It was mighty considerate of Mr. Woodruff to arrange it like that. One thing Lassiter hated about robbing small town banks—it took so long to count the small stuff. Mostly, when he worked alone and there was no divvy, he didn’t bother. It didn’t last any longer if you knew how much it was. How long would the forty-five thousand last?

  Murphy had trouble staying aboard his animal. Lassiter wondered if he’d have to kill him. They couldn’t leave him to be caught by bounty hunters and company detectives. He had once seen a man after company detectives got through with him. Every part of his body was black with cigar burns, even the soles of his feet. Lassiter grinned. That was the humane side of it. Everybody who’d seen them pulling the robbery was dead and, with luck or something, they might never be identified. Not for sure anyway. The Irishman could spoi
l that.

  A weak light winked up ahead. With the divvy just minutes away, Winters got excited and spurred his horse. “St. Louie here I come,” he said. Lassiter told him to shut up and ride easy.

  They could see the shape of the house now, low and squat, set back from the trail in a grove of trees. Part of the roof looked to have fallen in. When they got closer, Lassiter could see the light was a short candle guttering inside a broken window.

  “Space out,” he told them. He drew his Colt and spun the chamber. There wasn’t a sound except the horses thudding in the thick dust. The shape of the house got bigger and they rode on through, past a rotting farm wagon. Nothing happened.

  “Aw come on,” Winters complained. “What’s all this pussyfooting for? Let’s split up the money and take off.” He got down off his horse before he was told. The Irishman fell off his, cursing and laughing. Moseley and Oren Kingsley waited for Lassiter to make his move.

  It looked all right and he was starting to get down when the short hairs prickled on the back of his neck. There was a smell. The smell did it. It was the smell of coal oil. He swing back into the saddle as guns blazed and cracked from three sides. A match flared and Lassiter killed the man holding it. The man dropped and the match went out. Then there was another match and a cut-down barrel of coal oil flamed high in the darkness. A bullet burned a shallow crease along Lassiter’s ribs. Another took the hat off his head. He emptied his six-shooter at the gun flashes nearest him. A man screamed. Lassiter holstered his gun and yanked the Winchester free of the scabbard. Another bullet took splinters out of the stock, almost knocked the rifle out of his hand. Trying to turn the horse, he levered and fired.

  Murphy was up on his feet, shooting with both hands. A rain of bullets slammed into his thick body, but he didn’t go down. Cornered, Winters was screaming like the rat he was. His horse bucked and plunged as he tried to climb into the saddle. Winters knew he was going to die. That gave him rat courage. Dodging and twisting, he stayed on his feet for more than ten seconds. A shotgun boomed and Howey Winters lost his head.

  Murphy lurched and stumbled with empty guns in his hands. Then a rifle bullet tore away the side of his skull and he fell like a tree. Lassiter wheeled his horse around as Oren Kingsley dropped from his saddle. They got Kingsley’s horse too. Cal Moseley was already dead. Lassiter felt his horse jerk as a bullet sliced through its neck. The dying animal started to run. Lead nicked the tip of Lassiter’s left ear. The blood felt hot and greasy on his neck. One-handing the rifle, he pegged a quick shot at the blazing barrel of coal oil. It blew up and the house started to burn. The dying horse took Lassiter out of there. A man dressed in black ran into the circle of light and fired at him. Lassiter couldn’t make him out. He missed though. Lassiter’s horse died and dropped, throwing him. There wasn’t time to think about the money sack lashed to the front of the saddle. They were coming after him now. Bullets whacked into the dead horse and scattered the dust. Lassiter grabbed up the rifle and ran.

  Out in the darkness the ambushers weren’t so brave. Lassiter vaulted a split-rail fence and crouched down behind it. He thumbed a load of shells into the Winchester and waited, breathing hard. A shower of burning brands exploded into the night sky as the gutted farmhouse collapsed.

  That was the last light there was. Outlined against it he saw the shapes of men and horses. About ten of both, he figured. He still couldn’t make them out. Two of the eager ones started to ride after him. He dropped both of them and started running again.

  He knew he didn’t have a chance, but he kept on going. Dark or not, they could run him down on the open prairie. Or they could wait till sunup and run him down the easy way. A man on foot couldn’t get very far. Without a horse, without water, he was a soft target.

  Flat in the waving prairie grass, he waited and listened. He cursed softly when he heard them riding away. He waited some more, thinking it was a trick. They might be riding out wide, hoping to take him from all sides. While he waited the sound of the horses died away. The wind came up and it was cold on the prairie.

  Lassiter rubbed his hands together, trying to stay warm while he figured a few things out. Those few things had got kind of complicated. It looked that way from where he was now. It smelled like a double-cross, but since he didn’t know for sure, he didn’t decide about Cassie. The others were all dead. It wasn’t any of them. Only a fool would set up an ambush and then ride into it himself. He thought of Winters, Murphy, Kingsley, and Moseley, now being packed back to Abilene.

  There were several explanations that came to mind. Cassie might have set it up. If she hadn’t, then who in the hell were the ambushers? Lassiter stopped thinking about it. Nothing wore out a man faster than having his mind go ’round in circles, like a pup chasing its tail. One thing was damn sure—he was going to have a little talk with Cassie.

  Two coyotes began a duet. Lassiter waited and listened. After the best part of two hours he got up and stretched his cramped legs. Abilene was more than forty miles that way. He started back for the burned-out farmhouse. Some of them might still be there, waiting. They might have ridden off a ways, then come back on foot. He started back anyway, rifle at the ready.

  He vaulted over the split-rail fence. Red coals glowed in the darkness. That was all that was left of the house. The dead horse was the first thing he came to. They had taken the saddle but left the rest of his gear. Poking about, he found the canteen, still full. After he drank he wet his bandana and wiped the dried blood off his neck. The nicked earlobe was swollen, and ached with dull pain. The crease along his ribs was nothing more than that. The bullet hadn’t even touched the bones. It was more like a burn than a wound.

  He cocked the rifle when he heard a sound out behind the ruins of the house. The smell of coal oil was still strong. He relaxed and set down the hammer of the Winchester when he saw it was a horse still saddled, Cal Moseley’s animal. The horse was skittish and Lassiter thought of that forty-mile walk between him and Abilene. “Easy boy,” he said.

  Lassiter stayed still and spoke horse-talk. When he tried to edge forward the animal backed away, shaking its head and pawing the ground. He shook the canteen and talked soft to the animal. It whinnied at the sound of water. Lassiter unstoppered the canteen and poured a trickle of water into his hat. He did it slowly, coaxing the scary animal. He poured a little more water, splashing it thin and high. This time he didn’t move. He let the animal come to him.

  Well now, Lassiter thought, that wasn’t so bad. Things were beginning to look up. He didn’t know if he would get another crack at that bale of money. Money or no money, there were questions had to be asked—and answered —before he decided what to do next. Losing the money was one of those things a man had to expect in the sort of business he was in. There would be other cattle drives, other payrolls, other gold shipments, other banks. Losing the money, by itself, didn’t cause him any grief. If it was a plain case of bad luck—say those ambushers were stray local law or bounty hunters that happened along-well, then, he’d just have to take it that way. Getting shot up by the law was nothing to take personally. But if Cassie—or someone—had brought him all the way to Kansas to use as a goat, that was altogether different. That made it personal. Lassiter was a professional—he admired a smart double-cross—but a man had to do something about it, if that’s what it was. A man couldn’t let them sit back and figure him for a fool.

  Mounting up, he started back for Abilene.

  Chapter Nine

  He crossed the railroad after following the Dillon Road back from the farmhouse. The telegraph wires hummed in the darkness. There was no other sound. He walked the horse across the right of way to where the old trail picked up on the other side. A mile from there he got back on the main trail going north to Abilene.

  Once, he ducked his horse behind a scatter of rocks and held its nose when a group of horsemen rode by. They were traveling fast, even in the dark, and Lassiter would have bet money they were looking for him and the others. The
y didn’t look to be the same bunch that had done the ambushing. This bunch were riding too close and making too much noise to be professional manhunters. Most likely they were farmers or small ranchers with pictures of big reward money in their heads.

  Traveling cautious, Lassiter made twenty miles before first light. This was settled farming country, most of it, not a bit like the vast sun-blasted deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, where a man could go for days without seeing another human being, hostile or friendly. Kansas didn’t suit him much and he’d be glad when he could turn his mount and head back south.

  He made cold camp just as the sun was coming up. Tired and hungry, he would have settled for a long hard drink of whisky. There was nothing to eat in Moseley’s saddlebags, and nothing to drink. A search turned up nothing but a hunk of black chewing tobacco. It was better than nothing and he worked on that for a bit, huddled in the dead man’s blanket roll in the shade of a cottonwood cluster beside a muddy creek.

  The black flies gave him some trouble at first. They went away when the sun came up full. He wondered if Abilene knew him by name and description. If Cassie—or someone—had staged that ambush, knowing they were coming, it was dead certain they knew who he was. That made the whole thing kind of chancy. Everything sure as hell pointed to Cassie, but Lassiter never jumped the gun about anything, just as he never took anything for granted.

  He had known Cassie a lot of years. They’d been through good and bad times together. They went back a long way, and that should count for something, but Lassiter knew better than that. People got older and sometimes that changed them. It wasn’t anything to fret about. It was a fact, something that happened, like the sun coming up every morning.

  Cassie had always been a greedy little bitch. So was he, in a different sort of way. Money—well, no, the getting of money and the spending of it was what he lived for. But that hadn’t turned him into a double-crosser and back-shooter. People were all the same, he guessed, and they were all different. If Cassie had set up this double-cross, she would have to be reminded that he hadn’t changed. Having yourself killed was a drastic way to be reminded of something.