Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “Wanted to have this palaver out here where there weren’t so many ears around,” Bob said now, by way of explanation. “First, I want to say thanks to you men for being willing to sign on for this. The pay is next to nothing and what lies ahead ain’t gonna be no picnic—you can tell that already by the weather conditions. And the hombres we’re going after, just in case you had your eyes and ears closed back there earlier this morning, are some seriously dangerous characters. I just wanted to talk to you one more time to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

  The men returned his look. Nobody said anything.

  “Earl and Heck,” the marshal said to the Bar-K riders, “you boys have ridden with us before and I’m happy to have you. But you’re not risking your jobs at the ranch for this, are you?”

  “Mr. Kramer will likely be pissed at first, when we ain’t there in the mornin’,” replied Heck. “But when he finds out it was for a good cause, especially with those kidnapped women and all, he’ll understand.”

  “Same for me,” spoke up Big George O’Farrow. “My bosses will see this as something more important than the mule work I do. And, if they don’t, then nuts to ’em. I was lookin’ for a job when I hired on to them. I can always find another.”

  “With your reputation for working hard, George, there ain’t a doubt in my mind,” Bob told him.

  The marshal swung his gaze to Pecos Ryan. “Can’t say I know you very well, mister, but I know you can shoot powerful good. For what’s at hand, that’ll be a welcome thing.”

  Ryan grinned crookedly. “I may shoot well—but not good enough to win the contest. Therefore, I am out twenty-five dollars with no immediate job prospects.” He shrugged. “So your posse wages are small, but at least they’ll buy me some more bullets and maybe a plate of beans when we get back.”

  “I’ll see to it they do. For sure,” Bob promised.

  “And that leaves me,” said the remaining man. “My name’s Eugene Boyd, Marshal. I’ve been a lot of places—some you’d know, some you wouldn’t. None of ’em looked as good for stayin’ as they did for leavin’ behind. But in some of those places I packed a star, and the habit of wanting to see no-good skunks get their deserves sort of stuck with me. So, even though I arrived in your fair city only yesterday, I consider it a duty and an honor to ride on this undertaking with you to bring in those who did what they done earlier today.”

  “Well,” said Bob, cocking one eyebrow, “if you can ride and shoot as good as you can talk, then it sounds like you’ll be a good fella to have along.”

  “I’ll hold up my end. You won’t have to worry about that,” Boyd said.

  Before anybody could say anything more, the group’s attention was drawn by the approach of a new rider galloping out from town. As he drew closer, Bob recognized him as Simon Quirt.

  Reaching the posse, Quirt drew up alongside Bob and wasted no time announcing his intentions. “Afternoon, gents. Nobody invited me to the party, so I decided to invite myself.” His eyes cut directly to Bob. “You know my reputation, you’ve seen me work. Any objections?”

  Bob considered a minute before giving a nod toward Vern and saying, “I left the selection of the other men up to my deputy. It’s only right to let him have his say on you.”

  Under Quirt’s shifted gaze, Vern said, “My only question is why didn’t you step forward earlier when I was asking for volunteers?”

  “Hadn’t made up my mind yet,” Quirt answered. “Seemed to be some question at first whether or not the marshal here was up to being a part of it. No offense, Deputy, but I don’t ride behind just anybody. With Hatfield in, though, I’m willing to saddle up.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a pretty healthy independent streak,” Vern said.

  “You could say so. But that don’t change the worth of my gun any. Plus, just a few minutes ago, I got word that an old friend of mine, a man named Cecil Yates—you remember him, Marshal, the fella I brought in to help guard the Crystal Diamond after the arson attempt?—well, he died from wounds he got when these fellas you’re going after went on their tear. I figure I owe it to Cecil to hunt down the wolves who shot him, one way or other. I can either do it as part of your posse . . . or on my own.”

  “He’s right about the worth of his gun,” Bob said.

  “He proved that when he threw in with me against those two ambushers the other night. He’d be good to have on our side when we catch up with the Shaws. And I’d say he’s given a pretty good reason for wanting in.”

  Vern made an accepting gesture with one hand. “If he suits you, he plumb tickles me. Welcome aboard, Mr. . . . Quirt, is it?”

  “That’s right. Simon Quirt.” The gunman pinched his hat to the other posse members. “Pleased to be ridin’ with you, gents.” Turning back to Bob, he added, “Sorry if I missed hearing it on account of arriving a little late, but what’s our course of action?”

  “I was just getting to that,” Bob answered. Raising his voice slightly to address all of the men, he went on, “I expect most of you are probably wondering how we’re going to track the Shaws in this rain. Well, the short answer is: We’re not. Not at this point anyway. We’re gonna bank on me thinking I know where they’re headed and us riding hell-for-leather to catch up with ’em there, before they take off again and strike out in a more unpredictable direction.”

  “What do you know, Marshal? Where is it you think they’re headed?” asked Vern.

  “Their ranch,” Bob said.

  There was a muttering within the ranks. Then Heck Hembrow said, “Their own place? Lightin’ straight for there would be kinda dumb, wouldn’t it, Marshal?”

  “Maybe so dumb it’s smart,” countered Bob. “Stop and think . . . I don’t figure they came to town planning on raising hell and stealing those guns the way they ended up doing. It was strictly a spur-of-the-moment thing, a violent reaction born of Moses losing the match and feeling he’d gotten another raw deal, same as he’s been moaning and fretting about for years. So now they’re suddenly on the run with no thought given to what they’re caught up in. That means no plan for what to do next, no supplies, no nothing—except the hostages they grabbed, who they’re counting on to buy ’em some time and provide bargaining power if needed.”

  “I’d say having those women gives ’em a whole lot of bargaining power,” said George O’Farrow.

  “True. But dragging hostages along can also have some drawbacks,” Bob pointed out. “Especially here at the beginning, they’ll slow things down and they’re bound to cause a certain amount of distraction within an undisciplined pack like the Shaws. All the more reason for us to move fast and sure in this early stage.”

  “But they’ve already got a two-hour head start on us,” said Earl Wells.

  “I’m well aware of that. But in those couple of hours, like I just got done explaining, I figure they’ve been slowed considerable by indecision and by the women they grabbed. Plus, if they’re dropping somebody back now and then to check their back trail for pursuit, there’s a little more time lost. In other words, they’re not eating up ground near as fast as we can once we set spurs hard to our chase.”

  “Meaning you think we can catch up with them not too long after they make it to their ranch,” said Quirt.

  “That’s what I think, yeah,” said Bob.

  “How far to their ranch?”

  “About fifteen miles.”

  “Meaning it’ll be coming on dark by the time they get there.”

  “Even if they believe there’s nobody in close pursuit, you don’t figure they’re bold enough to hole up the night there, do you, Marshal?” said Vern.

  Bob shook his head. “No. Especially not if this storm passes and they’ve got even a partially clear sky to travel under. The Shaws know this territory plenty good enough to move out under moon- and starlight.”

  “So,” said Pecos Ryan, “even if you’re right about them being headed for their ranch, our chance to catch them there will last only as long
as it takes them to stock up on supplies and fresh horses.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Bob conceded.

  “Then hadn’t we better get a move on?”

  Bob scowled. “Of course. But we can’t just go charging after ’em like a herd of thirsty beeves aimed toward water. If we close the gap fast enough but reckless enough for them to spot us, we’re right back to putting the hostages at risk. That’s why we need to work out the final details of our approach.”

  “Something tells me you’ve already got an idea in mind,” said Vern.

  “Matter of fact, I do. You’ve never had call to visit the Shaw place, Vern. But Earl, Heck—you fellas know where it is, right?” Once he’d gotten affirmative nods from the two Bar-K riders, Bob went on. “Straight northeast from here. Way I remember, the house and main corrals sit in a kind of shallow bowl. To the north and south are heavily wooded slopes. Unless they’ve done a lot of timber clearing in the last year or so, which I don’t think they’ve got the ambition for, the trees to the south reach in especially close to the house. If we were to split into two groups and ride out wide on our approach to the ranch, each group closing in down one of those wooded slopes, then I’m thinking we’d have a pretty good chance of boxing in our quarry before they ever knew we were anywhere around.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Big George.

  “Vern, I’ll take Quirt, make the swing to the south, and come in down the slope on that side. You take the rest of the men and come in on the other side.”

  “I do good in the dark. I can get in close without ’em ever knowing I was there,” said Quirt.

  “That’s what I’m counting on. Like I said, the trees on that south slope reach in real close. I’m hoping just a couple men, moving slow and cautious, might be able to get far enough to grab the hostages—or at least be primed to do so—before the balloon goes up on the rest of it.”

  “And who cuts the balloon loose?”

  “It’ll be on my signal,” Bob said. “The only thing is, I’m not sure what it’s gonna be or how I’ll give it. Let’s just hope it will be clear enough when the moment is on us.”

  Quirt laced his fingers and stretched his arms forward, palms out, flexing until his knuckles popped. “Good. I like a plan that’s not too binding, loose enough for some breathing room. When do we ride?”

  CHAPTER 35

  Consuela Diaz sat on the ground with her wrists bound behind her. She was cold, wet, frightened, and angry. One end of a rope, much thicker and coarser than the leather thongs securing her wrists, was looped around her neck; the other end was tied to the trunk of a cottonwood tree. There was only a small amount of slack in the rope. If Consuela tried to relax or lean too far away from the tree, the loop around her neck would tighten, choking her.

  Beside Consuela, bound and tied in the same manner, sat Alora Dane. It was easy to see that the entertainer was equally cold, wet, and miserable. Her piled-up blond hair was partly fallen loose, her lipstick and mascara were smeared, and one strap of her brightly spangled dress was broken, leaving her ample bosom barely contained.

  Yet, somehow, she still managed to look aloof and beautiful. How frightened she might be was hard to say. But that she was angry there was no doubt. She was plainly demonstrating this via the stream of words pouring from her mouth. The curious thing was, these angry outbursts weren’t necessarily aimed at her captors but rather at one August Gafford.

  “That silk-tongued sonofabitch,” she was muttering, using an extensive vocabulary of words not too many people Consuela knew would consider ladylike. “If I live through this and ever get my hands on that no-good bag of phony promises, what I do to him will make what Indians used to do to their captives look like little more than a scolding from the pulpit!”

  Consuela was afraid to ask for specifics.

  “I can’t pretend to know very much about your relationship with Mr. Gafford,” she said. “But surely you can’t hold him responsible for the acts of these desperate men we’re now in the hands of?”

  “The hell I can’t!” Alora snapped. Then her tone dropped to a deep pitch meant to mock a male voice. “Come West with me, my dear. Your fame will expand nationwide, you will be afforded every luxury imaginable, and I personally will see to your total safety.” Pausing to revert back to her normal voice, she added, “Well, excuse me all to hell if it seems like I’m being picky, but I hardly consider our present conditions to be the lap of luxury and I damned sure don’t feel very safe in the company of our new escorts.”

  It was then that Consuela realized the woman was actually quite terrified and was using her anger toward Gafford as a means to try and counter that. “As long as we’re still alive, there is hope,” she said soothingly. “There are good people back in Rattlesnake Wells who will come after us and save us from these desperadoes.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Alora said. “You heard what the old man, the leader, told them as we rode away—if he spotted a posse on our trail, he’d kill us. Do you think for a second he would hesitate to do that?”

  “Perhaps,” Consuela replied. “Not out of compassion because, no, I don’t believe that he and his vile sons aren’t capable of such evil. But if they did kill us, that would eliminate us as a means to hold off a posse and would only spur the townspeople all the harder to catch up and seek justice.”

  “To hell with justice. If these scurvy dogs kill me, I want bloody revenge!” said Alora. “They’re already owed that for the carnage they caused back there and who knows how many other things they’ve done to deserve it before now.”

  Consuela’s expression saddened deeply and her gaze drifted somewhere far away. “With the town marshal among those left dead back there, without him to lead and control the pursuit I’m confident is coming . . . yes, bloody vengeance may very well be what results. Were he still alive, it would not sink to simply that. And, too, if he were still alive, our chances of being safely rescued would also be much better.”

  “Are you trying to build up my hopes, or tear them down?” Alora wanted to know. “And what makes you such a big fan of this marshal?”

  “I knew him quite well,” Consuela said with a quiet intensity.

  Seeing the emotion on the girl’s face, Alora softened her own tone somewhat. “Look, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for a lot of what happened back there, including, selfishly, the fix we’re in . . . Maybe your marshal isn’t really dead, maybe he was only wounded.”

  Consuela gave a slow shake of her head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I saw him take a bullet to the head. I was only a short distance away.”

  In truth, she had been fighting her way through the panicked horde, headed toward Bob when she saw Moses Shaw fire at the marshal from near point-blank range. The scream she emitted at the sight was what drew Moses’s attention to her. A moment later, he wheeled his horse, reached down to grab her by her long glossy hair, and dragged her up onto the saddle next to him. The last Consuela saw of Bob, he was lying flat and still on the ground with the crowd racing obliviously by, sometimes stepping on him.

  She closed her eyes tightly now at the memory, as if doing so could also close the image from her mind. In those first minutes, as Moses galloped away with her, she remembered thinking that she didn’t care if she died, too—in fact, wishing she were dead. But those feelings hadn’t lasted long. She’d been through too much, had developed a core of inner toughness too strong, for her to give up that easily.

  If nothing else, there was still Bucky, Bob’s son. Consuela had lost sight of him in the chaos, but she knew he had to be back there somewhere now. She refused to believe the Fates would be cruel enough to have let any harm also come to him. Yet that meant he was a young boy who’d lost his mother in the past, now his father, and—temporarily—his surrogate mother. Despite her personal pain and heartbreak, Consuela swore she would not allow that to stand. Whatever it took, she meant to find a way to survive and make it back to Bucky . . .

 
* * *

  “What do you suppose they’re talkin’ about?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know what they’re talkin’ about?”

  “Be interesting to know, that’s all.” Cyrus Shaw smiled slyly. “I know what I’d like for ’em to be talkin’ about. Leastways one of ’em, don’t make no difference which. Meanin’ I’d like to be supplyin’ something they’d surely be payin’ attention to.”

  “Yeah, and then you know what would come next,” said his younger brother, Wiley. “Pop would catch you at it and then he’d be the one doin’ the talkin’ and he’d be gettin’ his points across with his fists and the toe of his boot. You ought to’ve learned that by now.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had lessons from him often enough,” Cyrus said, running a hand over his ribs in remembrance of a particularly thorough teaching session. “I heard the words and got the message, but that don’t mean it was enough to stop me from feelin’ the things I figure I got every right to feel.”

  “That makes you an awful stubborn learner, Cyrus.”

  “Maybe stubborn. Maybe just not so doggone willing to bow down to the old man, the way you and Harley are so blamed willin’ to do all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t make a habit of sayin’ stuff like that too often in front of Harley,” Wiley advised. “And lettin’ him hear you say it even once would probably be too often.”

  Cyrus scowled. “You leave me to worry about what I say or don’t say in front of Harley. Speakin’ of which, where in blazes is he anyway? He’s been gone long enough by now to check our back trail all the way back to Rattlesnake Wells.”

  The two brothers were squatted in medium-high grass about twenty feet from the hostages, a distance sternly ordered by their father. Nearby, three horses stood tied to some scrub brush, resting and grazing disinterestedly on the wet grass. Except for other splotches of brush and the tree the women were tied to, the terrain where this halt had been called was wide open and mostly flat.