The Wild Gun

by Jory Sherman

  Yes, he had defended the women here, but that did not add much to his experience or capability. He had blood on his gun, but not much else.

  “Ernesto,” Cord finally replied, “I appreciate your offer. But I think you can do more good staying here on the JB. No telling if, or when, Horace will try again to murder or kidnap the women. You can be here to defend them while my brother and I go after the snakes on the 2Bar2.”

  “Okay. I will protect the women with my life.”

  Cord sensed that Ernesto was relieved to stay on the ranch.

  After a hearty breakfast, Cord walked outside to be by himself. He had left Earl to dry the dishes that Lelia washed, while Abigail changed into riding togs to inspect the stock.

  Cord walked over to the trees where Danny had gotten his messages from Horace, which Ernesto had told him about.

  He knew how hard it would be to get at Horace. Should he find a way to lure him into the open and try a long rifle shot to end his life? Or should he just kill all his men, one by one, until only Horace and Abner were left to defend themselves?

  He puzzled over different scenarios for a long time.

  Until he thought of a plan that suited him. Yes, it was a difficult plan, but it should work. It would require perfect timing, stealth, and careful attention to detail. It was risky, but so were the other methods he had considered.

  One thing was certain, Cord thought. Horace and his cohorts must be sent to their deaths. They had proven that they did not respect the lives of others. They were all born killers, to Cord’s way of thinking.

  None of them deserved to live.

  But could he live with what he had to do? Human life was precious to him. Not only his life, but the lives of others.

  He had had his fill of killing after shooting the two horse thieves. Yes, they had tried to kill him, but was that reason enough to kill them? Cord wrestled with his conscience and he wrestled with his own morality.

  There was an unwritten law in the West. Horse thieves could be killed when caught red-handed. Hanged or shot, it made no difference.

  But was there a morality to the law? For a law without morality was not worth the paper it was written on. He knew that much.

  The horse was the mainstay of the ranching business. It was a most valuable commodity in the West. Lives depended on the horse. So did livelihoods. When a horse was stolen, a family could starve to death or go bankrupt. A lone man could die from heat or thirst if left afoot in a dangerous place.

  So a horse thief was among the most hated of criminals.

  And horse thieves deserved to die.

  That was how serious it was, Cord decided.

  And Horace and his bunch were proven horse thieves. They were a scourge of the Great Plains.

  Out here, on this great expanse of land, there was no law.

  So when a man encountered a horse thief, he became the law.

  Cord’s conscience was clear. He had, in his mind, become the law. He had become justice itself against a band of men who had no sense of either the law or morality.

  Therefore, they all must die.

  And, Cord resolved, they all must die in the worst way possible.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Nestor Jones grumbled as he stepped down into the hole he and Pete Gander had dug. He shoveled a pile of dirt from the two-foot-deep grave.

  “This here ranch is gettin’ to be a graveyard,” he said.

  Pete was making one side of the grave smooth by shoveling straight down. He flung the dirt into a pile alongside the cavity.

  “We never really got to know that feller who lies yonder,” he said.

  Both men stopped for a minute, the blades of their shovels coming to a halt. They both looked over at the body of Eddie Lomax a few feet away.

  “He was supposed to be a top gun,” Nestor said.

  “Haw. Got hisself shot dead, he did. Some kind of top gun, you ask me.”

  Nestor leaned on his shovel handle and looked over at Pete. “I’m thinkin’ this card game is over, Pete. Look at how many graves is dug here. How many men six feet under.”

  “Gets worse ever’ day,” Pete said. “Horace is havin’ fits over losin’ so many men in such a short time. Either run off or killed.”

  “It’s that damned Wild, the one they call the Wild Gun. He ain’t natural, you ask me. Ain’t nobody come close to puttin’ his lamp out. No matter who Horace sends out to kill him, he sends ’em back dead or as good as.”

  “No, it don’t seem natural to me, either. Man can’t live a charmed life forever.”

  “But Wild don’t go down. No matter who gives it a try.”

  “That’s true. I think Horace is runnin’ out of ideas about how to stop Wild.”

  “What if he sends you to track Wild down? Would you go, Pete?”

  Pete shook his head. “I ain’t no tracker, and it would be like a death sentence.”

  “Same here,” Nestor said. “Horace tells me to chase down Wild, I’d light a shuck twixt me and him.”

  “But you’ll stand guard, Nestor.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, ‘maybe’? Horace would shoot you down if you refused.”

  “I guess I’ll stand guard. Up to a point.”

  “What point?”

  “Until I got shot at, I reckon.”

  Pete lifted his shovel and began to scrape the dirt wall of the grave again.

  Nestor raised his own shovel but looked off in the distance. “Rider comin’ this way,” he said.

  Pete looked over his shoulder. “That’s Jessup. He’s on the lookout for Wild like all of us are.” He looked over at their rifles, which were leaning against a tree a few yards away where the horses were ground-tied to brush.

  “Checkin’ on us, likely,” Nestor said.

  “I’ll be glad when this damned grave is done and Eddie is planted. Gives me the willies.”

  Nestor laughed and lifted a shovelful of dirt from the grave. He upended the shovel and dirt fell on the pile he was building.

  Jessup rode up. “How you comin’?” he asked.

  “We’re diggin’,” Nestor said.

  “Horace wants you to hurry it up. He wants as many men on guard as he can get, just in case Wild makes a move on his promise.”

  “We’ve got a ways to go,” Pete said.

  “Horace said the grave don’t have to be deep. Just so’s Eddie’s underground.”

  “How deep, then?” Pete asked.

  “No more’n two feet, Horace says.”

  “Coyotes or wolves will dig him up,” Nestor said.

  “Horace don’t care.” Jessup looked around at the bleak and empty landscape. There wasn’t an antelope in sight, or anything else that he could see. This gave him a creepy feeling, as if someone was watching him from afar.

  The hairs on the back of his neck seemed to crawl up into his scalp. The hairs stiffened, and he lifted his rifle an inch or two off the pommel. He slid a hand onto his shirt and felt the contours of the binoculars that dangled from his neck on a strap. He lifted the binoculars to his face and adjusted them over his eyes. He scanned the distant reaches of the prairie and turned the center knob to bring everything into focus at around three hundred yards.

  He moved the binoculars slowly from left to right while his right finger poked inside the trigger guard of his rifle.

  Just in case, he thought.

  In case he saw a rider heading his way. Wild, maybe. Or that kid brother of his. Then he saw something move, and halted the scan with the binoculars.

  There it was again.

  Movement. An animal, or a man on his knees, moved a few feet, then stopped.

  Jessup strained his eyes to make out just what it was that he saw through the lenses of the binoculars.

  Pete and Nestor sto
pped shoveling. They looked up at Jessup on his horse. They sensed that he saw something with those glasses.

  Pete’s lips dried out and he slid a wet tongue over them. Nestor swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed against the taut skin of his neck.

  Neither man spoke.

  Jessup’s head did not move as he stayed fixed on what he saw in the distance. Whatever or whoever it was had stopped, and he saw just the barest outline of something that was not grass or dirt.

  A moment or two later, Jessup relaxed and his hackles softened. His breath was a long sigh of relief as a coyote trotted into view, a jackrabbit dangling from its jaws.

  “Only a coyote,” Jessup said to the two gravediggers.

  “Boy, you’re sure jumpy,” Pete cracked.

  “You try guardin’, Pete. It ain’t easy. Wild could come from anywhere, and I don’t fancy gettin’ shot out of the saddle by someone I can’t see.”

  “Aw, I was just joshin’, Jessup. I know it ain’t easy.”

  “When you finish plantin’ Lomax, you two are wanted back at the ranch house. Horace has something in his craw again.”

  “Well, we ain’t goin’ into them mountains after Wild. I’ll tell you that,” Nestor said.

  “He doesn’t want you to go after Wild,” Jessup said. “I think he wants you to dig some holes with them shovels.”

  “Dig some holes?” Pete exclaimed. “What for?”

  “Like in the war,” Jessup said. “Holes what can hide a rifleman.”

  Both Pete and Nestor snorted. Then they began to shovel dirt again.

  Jessup rode off and made a half circle before riding back on his rounds.

  By then, the grave was dug and he saw only a mound of dirt where the grave had been. And the other mounds that told the story of men no longer among the living.

  The day wore on and the silence of the prairie was deafening.

  Jessup scanned the empty landscape as if Wild would magically appear and ride within range of his rifle.

  Fat chance, Jessup thought.

  THIRTY

  Harley Davis stood guard near the front door of Horace’s house. He walked back and forth, rifle held across his chest. He looked nervously toward the open prairie. He stopped his pacing when he saw two riders emerge on the horizon. He shaded his eyes to bring them into focus under the harsh light of the morning sun. His right hand index finger stroked the trigger guard of his Winchester .30-30.

  As they drew closer, he saw shovels sticking out on both sides of their cantles and recognized Pete Gander and Nestor Jones. He knew they were returning from the place where they had buried Lomax. They both looked tired, and both slumped in their saddles as they rode straight toward the house.

  He watched as they both reined up at the hitch rail and dismounted.

  “Horace in there?” Pete asked Davis.

  “Him and his brother are both inside,” Davis replied. “So what?”

  “Jessup said Horace wanted to see us,” Nestor said.

  “He didn’t say nothin’ to me about wantin’ to see you,” Davis said.

  “Somethin’ about digging holes,” Pete added.

  Davis snorted. “Somebody’s pullin’ your leg, Pete,” Davis said.

  “At least tell him we’re out here,” Pete said, annoyed at Davis.

  “Horace don’t like to be disturbed. Him and his brother are talkin’ in there. I’m standin’ guard.”

  “What do you expect, Davis? That Wild is going to just ride up here and start shootin’?”

  “I got my orders,” Davis said. “I’m standin’ guard.”

  “Unless you want that rifle shoved up your sorry ass, Davis, you’ll knock on that there door and tell Horace we’re here.”

  “Why you . . . I ought to . . .”

  “Shut up and do what he says, Davis,” Nestor said. He took a step toward Davis and dropped his right hand to the butt of his pistol.

  Davis snorted again, then turned toward the door. He raised his hand and tapped lightly on the front door, then stepped aside.

  Abner opened the door a crack and peeked out.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Fellers here say Horace wanted to see ’em.”

  Abner opened the door wider and looked at Nestor and Pete.

  “Just a minute,” Abner said and closed the door. A moment later, he opened it wide.

  “You boys come on in,” he said.

  Pete and Nestor entered the house. Horace stood in front of a window with a yardstick. He held it up to the window, then wrote down some figures in a notebook.

  “You wanted us to dig some holes?” Nestor said to Horace.

  “Dig some holes? Whatever in hell for?”

  “I dunno. Jessup said . . .”

  “Jessup hasn’t brains enough to sneeze when his nose tickles,” Horace said. “To hell with Jessup. I want you boys to go out in back of the barn and start sawin’ up boards. Get the sawhorses out of the barn. I got some measurements here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Davis said. “What’s the boards for?”

  “Boardin’ up these winders,” Horace said. “So’s the Wild Gun can’t shoot in here.”

  “Good idea,” Nestor said.

  Abner looked on, a blank expression on his face.

  “Lot of boards,” Nestor said.

  “And you boys are going to help me nail them up.”

  “We’ll get on it right away,” Pete said.

  “One more winder to go,” Horace said. “Then I’ll give you the list of measurements. And there’s a keg of twenty-penny nails out in the barn. Bring those and a couple of hammers when you finish cuttin’.”

  Both Nestor and Pete nodded. They watched as Horace went to another window with his yardstick. They watched him measure the width of the window on both sides of its frame. They saw him scribble the figure in a small notebook.

  When he was finished measuring the last window, Horace tore off three sheets of notepaper and handed them to Nestor.

  He and Pete turned and walked to the door, and Abner followed them, then closed the door behind them and locked it.

  Horace sat down in his chair. Abner sat down on the divan.

  “You think them boards will be enough, Horace?” Abner asked.

  “At least Wild won’t be able to see us. We’ll barricade the front door tonight. I measured the back door, and we’ll board that up, too.”

  “Good idea,” Abner said. He pulled a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket and bit off a small piece. He slid the plug back in his pocket and worried the bitten piece around in his mouth until he found just the right spot between his teeth to bite into it.

  “I’m wondering about the men you’re going to put on guard tonight,” Abner said as he squirted juice to the other side of his mouth.

  “What about ’em?”

  “They’ll get sleepy. Drop their guard. They don’t look all that spry to me.”

  “The reward money will keep them spry enough,” Horace said.

  “Well, maybe. I just hope we can get some shut-eye tonight.”

  “With us boarded up, we ought to sleep without no worries, Ab. Just keep a pistol handy. First sound of gunfire, we go after that bastard Wild.”

  “I just wish we didn’t have to worry about Wild,” Abner said.

  “When he makes his move, it’ll be all over. We have enough guns for both him and that snot-nosed little brother of his.”

  Abner moved the brass spittoon over next to the couch, between his boots, and spat.

  Horace listened to the sound of a horse’s whinny and smiled.

  He’d show Wild. The man didn’t stand a chance against his guns. And he’d find no target in the Weatherall ranch house.

  Out by the barn, Pete and Nestor pulled the tarp off one stack of lumber. The
tarp covered the two-by-fours. After they picked up the boards they needed, they replaced the tarp and went to the next stack. Underneath, they saw one-by-sixes and left that tarp to lie alongside.

  Inside the barn, they found four sawhorses stacked against one wall. In the tack room, they took down two hammers and filled an empty can with nails.

  They set up the sawhorses and started lifting the eight-foot boards onto them.

  “We got no way to measure these boards,” Nestor said as he looked at the list of measurements Horace had given him.

  “We got to look in that tack room and find a yardstick,” Pete said.

  “You go on, Pete,” Nestor said. “I’ll use my hands to measure the first one.”

  While Pete was back in the barn, Nestor laid the flat of his hand at the end of one board. He figured the span of it, at its center, to be around four inches. He walked his hand across the board, then notched the spot with one of the saws. He began to saw the board to the length of one of the measurements.

  He finished just as Pete emerged from the barn carrying an old yardstick that was stained with tobacco juice, sweat, and oil from lumber.

  “Here, measure this one I just cut,” Nestor said and laid it across the sawhorse.

  “Four feet, two inches,” Pete said as he peered down at the numbers on the stick.

  Nestor looked at the notepaper.

  “Four feet one inch,” he said. “Close enough.”

  “You better hope,” Pete said. “This lumber was brung here to build a cookhouse.”

  “Or another bunkhouse. Horace, he has big dreams.”

  “I know,” Pete said. “He wants to be king of the whole prairie.”

  “And he’s got a whole lot of hate in him, too,” Nestor said.

  “For Wild, at least.”

  “For most people,” Nestor said. “You can almost feel the hate in him.”

  Nestor placed the already cut board atop the longer one to make the next measurement. He and Pete continued to do this with all the boards that were the same size for one of the windows. This made the work go faster. Soon, they had several piles of cut boards.