by Ralph Cotton
He heard Bryson’s rifle explode. He heard Mackenzie’s horse let out a fearful whinny as Bryson’s bullet struck its bulging saddlebags.
“I got one!” Bryson shouted. He jumped up and down, his rifle smoking as the bullet’s impact caused Mackenzie’s horse to lose balance and go tumbling headlong in a cloud of dust. “See it? I got one!”
The bullet had struck the saddlebags solidly enough to stagger the animal. As it tumbled, a bundle of money jumped from the saddlebags, high in the air, and broke open in a shower of green U.S. dollar bills. “I got one! I got one!” Bryson repeated over and over.
“You got one . . . ?” Frazier stared at him fiercely from behind while the gunman continued to jump up and down.
Having heard Mackenzie’s horse whinnying behind him, Brewer circled sharply and saw Mackenzie staggering to his feet, scrambling to his horse as it stood and spun wildly in place. “Mac’s down!” Brewer shouted, nailing his boots to his horse’s sides and racing back into the fray.
“You got one?” Frazier repeated to Bryson, his voice swelling with rage, the smell of his burning saloon heavy in the air.
“Yeah!” Bryson spun, facing him wide-eyed, wearing a broad openmouthed grin. “Did you see—”
Holding the big Colt at arm’s length, Frazier shot him in his forehead.
On the other side of the street, the riflemen had renewed firing now that Bryson’s shots were no longer pinning them down. By the time Brewer had slid his horse down beside Mackenzie, the young trail boss was back up in his saddle, his horse rearing, dust flying from its mane and tail. “I told you all not to stop!” Mackenzie scolded him.
“Let’s go, boss,” said Brewer, “you can fire me later!” As he spoke he fired at the men positioned at the corner of the alleyway.
Mackenzie caught sight of Frazier standing over Bryson’s body. But before he could even think about what might have happened, he heard Thorpe and Harper firing as the two raced back along the dusty street. “You can fire them too,” Brewer shouted.
Mackenzie shook his head and wiped dirt from his eyes. The firing from the corner of the alley continued but only halfheartedly, as the drovers turned their horses as one and raced away toward a hill line. No sooner had the four ridden out of range than the riflemen ran from the alleyway and began snatching up the money lying in the dirt and drifting along on a breeze.
When Red Hill become barely visible behind them, the four drovers stopped at a triple fork in the trail for a moment and looked back at the black rising smoke. “I never want to leave a town that way again,” said Tad Harper.
“It was all your fault, Tadpole, drinking the man’s whiskey, smoking his cigars,” Brewer joked, his nerves settling some. He reached over and pulled Harper’s hat down over his eyes. “In case you didn’t hear back there, Mac is firing us.”
“What for? We don’t even have a job,” Thorpe said, his hand pressed to his side.
“He said we did wrong coming back to get him,” Brewer replied.
“We wouldn’t have had to come get him if he had known how to sit his horse,” Harper tossed in.
“All right,” said Mackenzie, taking his ribbing good-naturedly, knowing it was their way of winding down. “I expect I’ll give the three of you another chance.”
“Fellows, I’m not feeling so good here,” Thorpe said all of a sudden, drawing their attention to his hand pressed to his side. A circle of blood showed behind his palm.
“Dang, Mac, Holly’s shot,” said Brewer. He sidled up to Thorpe and pulled his hand away from his bleeding side long enough to take a look.
“I’m all right,” Thorpe said, even though his face had turned pale and he sat a bit slumped in his saddle.
“You sure don’t look it,” said Brewer. “Get down from that saddle, let’s take a look at your side.”
“My side ain’t none of your business, Jock,” Thorpe said, his voice sounding weak. He jerked his horse away from Brewer.
Nudging his horse over closer to Thorpe, Mackenzie said to him, “Do like he said, Holly, we’ve got to take a look at it.”
Thorpe’s jaw tightened, but he did as he was told. He slid stiffly down from his saddle, walked over to a rock and sat down on it, pulling his bloody shirt-tails from his trousers. “I never seen such a nosy bunch in my life,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his shirt. As he took off his shirt, a fresh rush of blood spilled from the round hole in his flesh and poured down onto the rock beneath him. “See, it ain’t nothing,” he said, spreading his shirt open.
“While it’s nothing is a good time to get it taken care of,” said Mackenzie, “before it does turn into something.”
Harper stepped down from his horse and walked over carrying a clean bandanna he’d taken from his saddlebags. Brewer took it, laid it against Thorpe’s wound and placed Thorpe’s hand over it. “You two are turning into old parlormaids,” Thorpe said to Brewer.
Mackenzie stepped back and looked off in three directions. “There used to be a doctor in Creasy,” he said. “I expect that’s our best bet.”
“We ought to split up,” said Harper, “just in case Frazier and his bunch comes looking for us.”
“No, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie, “we’re sticking together. Four guns are better than one if Frazier, or anybody else, comes hunting us.”
“That ain’t what I mean,” Harper said. “I mean right now we ought to split up. One of us takes Holly into Creasy, the other two each take a different trail. Frazier has seen the money—he knows we’ve got it with us. If we split up he won’t know which one of us has it. He’ll have to split his men to follow each one of us.”
“That means fewer men riding into Creasy on us while Holly gets patched up,” Brewer speculated. “It makes sense.”
“Once we get a few miles up the trails, we can cut away, cover our tracks and meet up in Creasy.”
Mackenzie considered it for a moment, then looked at Brewer. “Tadpole has turned out to be smarter than he looks, boss.”
Brewer shrugged.
“Okay. I’ll take Holly into Creasy,” said Mackenzie. “Don’t neither one of you go any farther than ten miles along the other two trails. When you cut off, make danged sure they won’t see your tracks right away. That ought to keep them all busy until we’ve gotten Holly patched up and get going.” He looked back and forth between them. “Has everybody got that?”
“I’ve got it, boss,” said Harper, taking a step back toward his horse. “Ten miles, cover our tracks, meet in Creasy,” he reiterated.
“Got it, boss,” said Brewer, stepping forward to help Mackenzie get Thorpe back up into his saddle.
“You don’t have to do all this for me,” Thorpe protested as the two drovers shoved him upward onto his horse. “I’m telling you I’ll be all right, just as soon as this thing stops bleeding.”
“Shut up and take it easy, Holly,” said Mackenzie. “I ain’t planning on losing a man here.” He laid Thorpe’s reins into his bloody, gloved hands.
“But I can ride my own danged self into town,” Thorpe insisted, gripping the reins. Sunlight glinted off his spectacle lenses. Even as he spoke, the three noted that his voice had begun to slur a little. His eyes swam aimlessly.
“Sure you can,” said Mackenzie, waving the other two away, getting them off onto the two different trails. “I’m just tagging along with you to make sure I don’t get myself lost.”
When the drovers had slipped up onto their respective trails and ridden out of sight, no sooner had the dust settled than Stanton Parks and Fred Mandrin rode up off the rocky hillside at a hard run and had to slide their horses to a dust-raising halt. “Damn it all to hell!” said Parks, looking back and forth along the three separate trails, each trail full of crisscrossing hoofprints, some older, some newer.
“I told you so,” said Mandrin, shaking his head as he took out a bottle of whiskey from inside his ragged riding duster. “Once they got here, it would be hard to tell which trail they took.” He turned up a drink and
let out a whiskey hiss. “Whew! That was a hard ride, drunk or sober.”
Parks gave him a hard-eyed stare, seeing how the former deputy seemed to slump into his saddle as if the day’s work was done. “It ain’t over, Mandrin,” he said. He stepped his horse back and forth where he’d been examining the start of each trail.
“Hell, I know that,” said Mandrin, straightening in his saddle and taking on a more committed countenance. “I just took myself a breather, is all.”
“You better know it,” Parks warned. “You better draw your nuts up in that saddle and act like you think all this money is worth going after. You do not want me thinking you’ve lost interest.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He looked back at the ground and searched back and forth, trying to determine what he could from the fresh tracks on all three trails.
Mandrin nudged his horse over, looked back and forth and said confidently, “They split up here.”
Parks glared at him with a snarl. “How the hell can you just ride over after me looking my ass off, and tell that they split up?” He gestured toward the ground. “Tell me just how the living hell you can read all that in these prints!”
“I didn’t read it in any hoofprints,” said Mandrin in the same confident tone. “I’m a former lawman and a former outlaw. Both my lawing and my outlawing tell me this is where I’d split up if I didn’t want to be followed. Don’t it you?”
Parks stared at him coldly, his fingers tapping on the butt of his Colt. “Yeah, it does,” he said. “What else does your lawing and outlawing tell you here?” He gestured toward the ground.
With a finger pointing to the two sets of fresh prints, Mandrin said quietly, “The one with all the money is headed for Creasy. He kept one man with him as a guard, and the other two split off to fool anybody following them. That’s what I would have done, and so would you.” He grinned, raised the bottle to his lips and took another swig. He took out a handkerchief to pat his sweaty forehead. When a shiny sheriff’s badge fell out of it, he caught it quickly and shoved it into his vest pocket, hoping Parks had not seen it.
But Parks had caught a glimpse. Without mentioning the badge, he gave Mandrin a glance, considered it and replied, “I believe you’re right, Fred. But you know what?” As he spoke he raised his Colt from his holster, cocked it and laid it on his lap. “I don’t think you and I are going to make it as pards after all.”
“What the hell?” said Mandrin. “I thought you said you needed some help with this deal?”
“I thought I did,” said Parks, “but now that I know where they’re going, I can handle it myself.” He shrugged.
Mandrin wiped the handkerchief across his lips quickly, letting the bottle fall from his hands. “It’s because I drink a little? If it is I’ll just stop it right here and now.”
“It’s not that, Fearless Fred,” Parks said with sarcasm, picking up the Colt and looking at it as he hefted it in his hand. “I just don’t think your heart’s been in this.” He turned the Colt and fired one shot through Mandrin’s chest. The former deputy, former thief, hit the ground in a puff of dust and lay staring stone-eyed dead at the wide blue sky.
“Call it poor hiring judgment on my part,” Parks said. He stepped down from his saddle long enough to take the sheriff’s badge from Mandrin’s vest pocket, look at it and put it away. Remounting, he turned his horse onto the trail toward Creasy and nudged the animal forward.
Chapter 12
The ranger, Maria and the big cur rode into Red Hill the following morning, having seen the slim spiral of smoke on the evening sky the night before. Arriving on the dirt street, they saw the ashy gray-black pile of rubble that had been the Blue Belle Saloon. In front of his vanished saloon, Bart Frazier sat rocking back and forth slowly in a high-backed rocker.
The ranger and Maria stopped their horses as they watched three armed townsmen walk toward them from the boardwalk out in front of the sheriff’s office. On the ground the big cur gave a low warning growl, but then sat down in the dirt when he saw the ranger’s gloved hand point to the ground and heard the ranger say, “At ease, Sergeant Tom Haines,” feeling a little foolish doing so.
Upon seeing the ranger’s badge and recognizing him by his horse, his pearl gray sombrero and the dark-haired woman riding at his side, the lead townsman said as he approached, “I can’t tell you how glad we are to see you ride in, Ranger. I take it you are Ranger Sam Burrack?” Without pausing to take a breath or hear a reply, he continued, saying, “I’m Al Sheer? I own Sheer’s Mercantile?” His every sentence ended as a question, as if he wasn’t quite sure of anything. “As you can see, we’ve had a terrible tragedy here?”
“Yes, so it appears,” said Sam. He gazed toward a body lying wrapped in a tarpaulin in the rear of a freight wagon sitting at a hitch rail, in front of the River Palace Saloon. “We’re tracking four riders from over near Albertson,” he said. “I wonder if they had anything to do with this.” He didn’t mention the stage robbery or the killings, or Stanton Parks just yet. He didn’t say any more than he had to, wanting to hear what the townsfolk had to tell him.
“These are the ones who robbed the stage near there, if that’s the ones you’re tracking,” said Sheer.
“How do you know?” Sam asked. He gazed up the street, spotting four more canvas-wrapped bodies lying on the boardwalk in front of the barbershop.
“He told us. That’s Bart Frazier,” said Sheer, nodding toward the saloon owner who sat dejected, rocking in his chair and staring at the burnt stubs and ashes of the Blue Belle Saloon. “He owns the Blue Belle—that is, he did own it. Frazier and some of his gambling associates tried trapping the four drovers inside the Blue Belle. . . . You can see how well that turned out. The drovers killed three of them. The other body is our former deputy, Fred Mandrin. I tracked the robbers up to Three Forks and found Fred lying there dead. Once a lawman always a lawman, I suppose.”
Not in “Fearless” Fred Mandrin’s case, Sam felt like saying. But he kept himself from commenting on the matter, knowing that if Mandrin was there it was to get the money for himself, not as an act of upholding the law.
Sheer nodded toward the rubble. “The drovers confessed the killings and stage robbery to Frazier. So now there are four more murders and an arson charge you can arrest them for. I’ll formalize the complaint myself if you wish me to.”
Now, why would they confess to Bart Frazier . . . ? Sam only stared at Sheer, still offering no reply. “Hold up on the complaint,” Sam said, “until I get to the bottom of all this.”
“To the bottom of this?” said Sheer. “My goodness, Ranger Burrack, isn’t it obvious, giving what we saw, and what Frazier said—”
“Frazier was lying,” Art Mullens said abruptly before Sheer could finish his words. “He’s also a grinning rattlesnake,” Mullens added with a chuckle, he and Thesis Sweeney having eased in behind the armed townsmen. “That’s what the four cowhands called him—a grinning rattlesnake.”
“Art, stay out of this,” said Sheer. To the ranger he said, “Pay him no mind, Ranger Burrack, that’s old Art Mullens. He’s always got to put his two cents’ worth into anything that happens here.”
But the ranger ignored Sheer’s advice and stared at Mullens. “Lying about what, Mr. Mullens?”
The old man’s chest swelled a little at hearing himself called Mr. “Hell, about everything. Them drovers didn’t rob no stage—”
“Of course the drovers robbed it,” Sheer cut in impatiently. “Where else would cowhands get something like this?” He handed a broken money band up to the ranger. “A stack of bills flew out of one of their saddlebags. This was all that was left of it, of course, after Frazier’s gambling associates began plucking it out of the dirt and the air.”
“Having the stolen money doesn’t make the cowhands thieves, Sheer, any more than having a red rabbit jump out your ass makes you think you’re going—”
“Hey, that’s enough of that,” said the ranger, cutting Mullens off.
“B
egging the lady’s pardon,” said Mullens, snatching his flop hat from his head with a repentant expression.
Beside him, Sweeney said, “But what he’s saying is true, Ranger Burrack. I’m Thesis Sweeney. I tended bar at the Blue Belle. Them drovers was as polite and respectful as any bunch I’ve ever met. They didn’t rob no stage, and they didn’t burn down the Blue Belle.” He pointed at Frazier in his rocking chair. “That idiot had his pals from the River Palace throw torches through the window to smoke out the drovers.”
“See?” said Sheer. “That makes no sense at all to me, or to anybody with their wits about them. Why would Frazier do something like that?”
“Because it all got out of hand on him, Sheer,” said Sweeney, getting irritated. “Are you an idiot too, that you can’t see that?”
Sam handed Maria the broken money band. “Take a look at this,” he said to her while the men argued back and forth. Maria read the printing on the band and gave it back to the ranger. She looked at him with a raised brow. Then she cut into the conversation between Sweeney, Mullens and Sheer, saying, “Excuse me, Mr. Mullens. My horse is thirsty. Will you please accompany me somewhere so I can water it?” She stepped down from her saddle and stretched, a hand to the small of her back. Mullens and Sweeney watched, their mouths agape. “Perhaps we can talk some more?”
“Uhhh . . .” Mullen looked dumbfounded for a moment, as did Sweeney. Then, snapping out of it, Mullens said, “My God, yes, ma’am! I most certainly will.” He grabbed the reins from her with a trembling hand, almost spooking her horse. The dog sat watching her walk away, the two men flanking her. But sensing no danger, he made no sign of wanting to follow.
“Thank goodness,” said Sheer, seeing what he thought was Maria leading the two away so he and the ranger could talk. Looking back at the ranger, he gestured at the dog. “I recognize this dog, he belonged to Colonel Tanner.”