by J. T. Edson
It was a worrying time for Rambeau. He had the contract for the sale of the herd arranged; they would be driven to a small place near Tombstone and butchered by skilled men, then the meat sold in town. The end was prepared, there only remained the most vital detail, getting hold of the herd.
It was two days before the herd was due to arrive and Rambeau still had not managed to hire the men he so urgently needed. He was worried as there had been a cold warning from the Syndicate. They were having trouble, people were sitting back and waiting for the first failure of a Syndicate man’s project. It could break them if he failed to get the herd. Yet for all that they still could not supply him with gunmen, they needed every man they could lay hands on to hold down the restless spirits on whom they preyed.
At noon Rambeau entered his saloon after a fruitless morning looking for men. He was crossing towards the stairs when he saw a tallish, round-shouldered and prematurely bald man sitting with back to the wall. The man looked up, a cold grin on his Indian dark face as the saloon-keeper approached.
“Howdy, Burt,” Rambeau greeted. “Are you working?”
“Depends on what,” replied Burt Alvord.
“Something that will pay well.”
“Sorry, King, that’s not my line,” growled the dark man. “I don’t know if the herd got through the Apaches, but knowing the men who’re driving it I’d bet they did. In that case I’m not stacking up against them.”
Rambeau felt cold disappointment. Burt Alvord was a man well fancied by some for the two shooting matches. He’d been a fast-gun deputy with a reputation for bringing in dead prisoners. He was known to have contacts on both sides of the border and of either steering a wanted man across, or killing him for the reward on his dead body.
Taking out his wallet, Rambeau said, “No hard feelings, Burt.”
“Could put you in the way of somebody who might take on.”
“Who?”
“How much?—Then who.”
Rambeau looked at the Indian dark face and felt anger. There was only one of two ways to deal with a man like Burt Alvord. Pay him or kill him. Rambeau had the sleeve-hidden derringer loaded now but he did not intend using it. “That depends on what you have to offer.”
Alvord grinned. “Say a dozen bad-hat Mormons who need money to skip the border. I stood to gain on them one way or the other. Figured to win a hundred at your poker table tonight. I’ll lose that if I go for them.”
“Fifty down and fifty when the men show.”
“Don’t be a piker, King,” Alvord purred. “Make it an even hundred now and the same when I bring Pilbourne in. There, I’ve given you that much.”
Rambeau frowned. He’d heard of Pilbourne. The man was wanted, badly wanted, by the Elders of the Mormon Church. He was a bad Mormon who’d robbed and killed Gentile men and stolen their livestock. This was not regarded as too serious a crime in the Mormon book, but he’d killed an Elder of their church and looted the church funds.
“You couldn’t find him, King,” Alvord warned, seeing the expression which crossed the other man’s face. “And I’d surely take it unkind on any man who tried.”
“I want them tonight at the latest.”
“That could cost you more money, but I’ll be generous,” Alvord answered. “I’ll have him here by ten o’clock.” Rambeau watched the other man slouch away, then went up to his room. He took a map from the desk and spread it out. It was an Army survey map of the area around Tombstone and he ran his finger along a penciled line from the Carne River to the town. He tapped the X Parsons made on the map when they first planned this business. The original plan had been to allow Brownlow to run his herd alone, then hit it and wipe out the trail crew at the draw near Tombstone, well beyond the area where a large band of Apaches might be expected. They planned that first, then to force the rancher to take them in as partners. This was their second plan, allow the herd to reach the draw and ambush it, wiping out Brownlow and his crew.
The rest of the day dragged by and Rambeau had little interest in anything which happened in his place. A miner hit a lucky streak on the roulette wheel, a streak so lucky that it licked even the crooked wheel which ran a large percentage for the house. Normally Rambeau would have either steered the man out, or arranged for him to wake up in some dark alley with his pockets emptied. Tonight Rambeau did not even give the man a second glance.
Sharp at ten o’clock Alvord arrived. He was alone and Rambeau felt a momentary annoyance, then realized that a man like Pilbourne would never show himself in a saloon, especially a well-known one in Tombstone.
“Go in the back room, King,” Alvord said. “Hand me the hundred now, open the back door and he’s waiting out there.” Rambeau handed over the hundred dollars, turned and went into the back room. He opened the door and for an instant thought Alvord had robbed him. Then a man stepped into the light, a big, gaunt, whiskered man in a dirty black suit and with a low tied Colt at his side. He came into the room with a wolf-cautious step, but shook his head when Rambeau went to close the door.
“I’ve two men out there,” warned the gaunt man. “They are stood so they can cover all the room.”
“I’m not armed,” Rambeau answered, showing his gunless sides. “Take a seat and I’ll pour you a drink. You’re Pilbourne, are you?”
“I am.”
“Can your men all handle guns—and cattle?”
“We have often handled both.”
“Then I want you to dress as Apaches. I’ve got clothing stashed away that’ll fit your men, and I want you to hit a trail herd of about five hundred head. You’ll have to kill all the men and a woman who are riding with it. Make it look like real Apache work.”
“Just that?” asked Pilbourne. “Why can’t you get men from town to handle it?”
“Because the herd’s being handled by the Wedge. You’ve maybe heard of them. And riding with it are Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid.”
“They are men I’ve heard of. All can handle their weapons well and it will not be easy to take them.”
“The way I plan it they will be easy,” Rambeau answered. “It’s near enough to Tombstone for you to hit them when they’re relaxed and thinking they’re safe and far enough out for the shooting not to be heard and attract attention.”
“In that case what’s to stop me and my men just hitting this herd for ourselves?” asked Pilbourne.
“You don’ know where to hit, for one thing. For another, not even the Clantons could pay you as well as I can. You don’t know anyone in town who would take it off your hands and it is here in Tombstone the money’s to be made. I’ll give you a thousand dollars and the same to be split among your men if you pull it off.”
“Do you know when the herd is coming?”
“Neither when nor if,” Rambeau admitted. “The Apaches may have got it, although I’d bet that crew could get through. But at latest it should be coming through the draw I’ll point out on the map in two days’ time. I’ll make an agreement with you. If the herd comes through and you get it before the Fair I’ll pay you what I said. If it hasn’t got through I’ll pay Alvord to get you and your men out of the country. If it comes through after the County Fair is over, which isn’t likely, then you can have it and sell it for what you can get.”
“I want that in writing,” Pilbourne replied.
It was some moments before Rambeau would agree to put his name to anything so incriminating, but he gave in at last. This was his only chance, his last hope of getting the herd. He took out a sheet of paper, a pen and ink, from a desk in the table. The back room was used for big stake poker games and writing materials were often needed when some player ran out of ready cash and wished to give a note on a bet. The letter Rambeau wrote would be enough to hang him and might leave him open to blackmail later, but he doubted it. Pilbourne and his men were fleeing from something more deadly than United States law, they were fleeing from the Danites, the dreaded Avenging Angels, the police, regulators and avengers of t
he Mormon people. Once this business was over Pilbourne and his men would make the most of their time heading for the comparative safety of the Mexican border.
“Where are the clothes?” Pilbourne asked, folding the sheet of paper and sliding it into a special slot between the leather and lining of his riding boot.
“I’ve got them in a trunk up in my room. We can get them without going through the saloon. I’ll tell you where to deliver the cattle. I’ll leave the money waiting for you there and I’ll want that letter back then.”
It was midnight before Pilbourne left, but he had a clear plan laid out for him, one he could follow. Rambeau was contented as he went to bed that night.
The following day there was excitement for a soldier, riding dispatch between two of the Forts, came into Tombstone with word that he’d seen a trail herd. From what the soldier said Rambeau guessed the herd would be arriving at the draw the following day. His main plans were all made, a fast horse ready to take him with all the money he could get down below the border before the Syndicate could know he was planning a double-cross. There was only one thing left to do. He called in all the hired men of the saloon and told them he expected trouble that night and they would, on pain of offending the Syndicate, back him in it. Lastly he called aside Dutchy Schwartz and the other man and offered them a sizeable chunk of money to do something for him.
There was a hard and evil grin on Rambeau’s face as he sat waiting for the night which should bring him word that the herd was in Pilbourne’s hands and his money was on its way. It would bring something more. He took a sheet of paper from the desk in his room and wrote a letter which would bring Miles Hamish forth to a murderous beating and leave him disfigured for life and would also bring the girl Cindy Alban into his clutches. He would leave Tombstone with something to remember the name King Rambeau.
Twelve – At the Draw
“Damn the heat, the flies, this stinking stain, everything!”
Pilbourne looked at the speaker with a cold, grim expression on his face. He and all his men wore the trade shirts, buckskin trousers and headbands of Apaches, with long lank black wigs and dark stain adding to the picture they made. They were lying in whatever shade they could find, all eyes on the rolling dust cloud which was coming closer all the time. It didn’t look a whole lot of dust for five hundred head, Pilbourne thought, but he did not know for sure what the country was like out there.
The draw through which the herd must pass lay below Pilbourne and his men. There was a flat and open trail running down the center of the draw, but on either side of it rocks and scrubby bushes offered good cover. The slopes rose up on either side, in some places gently, in others sheer and steep. Pilbourne’s men were halfway down one of the more gentle parts, an area which offered good cover to them and places where they could lay concealed, their rifles lining on the trail. He’d split his gang into two parts, one at either side of the trail, the men taking up fighting positions ready, each picking his own in a way which showed they knew what they were doing. The herd would be well within the killing area, the cowhands holding the cattle bunched and so would be under the guns. Pilbourne’s men were fair shots and could be expected to cut down the cowhands in one roaring volley. The herd would break, stampede, but Pilbourne had told half of his men to run for horses as soon as the cattle broke. The horses, up over the rims, tethered and waiting, would be grabbed by three men from either side and sent after the herd. The remaining men would deal with any of the trail crew who might have been missed by the first volley.
There was a cold, cruel and efficient way about Pilbourne’s plan, he took no chances and was callous as to the fact that he might cause the death of a dozen men and a woman. They meant nothing to him, nothing more than a thousand dollars with which to get well clear of the vengeance of the Danites.
“Stop whining,” he snarled at the man. “I feel those things as you do. This is far better than facing the wrath of the Danites, isn’t it?”
“It is,” the man agreed. “With the money for those cattle I will go south and make sure they do not find me.”
“Then stop whining,” snarled Pilbourne.
“What of the horse I thought I heard in the night?” asked the man worriedly.
Pilbourne looked across at the other man with cold eyes. They made camp in a bosque near the draw and the previous night this man, while on sentry, had wakened the others, saying he thought he’d heard a horse moving in the darkness. There had been no sound to greet the ears of the others and they tended to scoff at the idea.
“You were either hearing things, or it was a stray,” Pilbourne replied. He looked to where the dust was getting very close, although there was still no sign of the men who handled the herd. “Get to your place and I will find mine.”
Over the bank the other men were moving into their places ready. Pilbourne darted to a place where the cliff rose steep for a way and underneath the shelter offered by the slope were two rocks behind which he might hide and fire his rifle in some safety.
Nearer the dust rolled, vague shapes showing in it where men rode the herd and kept them coming. Pilbourne was not a man who had done much work with cattle, no matter what his boast to Rambeau had been. He’d worked on a Mormon farm and his knowledge of legitimate cattle herding had been gained with slow and docile milk-cows. His other knowledge of cattle herding had been on the wrong side of the law, when speed was of an urgent necessity if a man did not want to feel the hairy touch of a hangman’s noose around his neck. So Pilbourne saw nothing unusual in the speed the dust cloud was approaching and did not think it strange a herd of cattle being taken to a legitimate market was getting pushed too fast.
Now the cattle were near the opening of the draw, or those dust wrapped shapes were. The ground was hard and stony here and as Pilbourne opened his mouth to let out a wild Indian yell to alert his men the “cattle” came into view from the dust.
Pilbourne’s hands gripped his rifle, sighting it down ready to tumble the point rider nearest to him. His finger rested lightly on the Winchester’s trigger and was about to squeeze when he saw—and so did every one of his men—that no cattle were running from the dust cloud. Only horses, riderless horses, streaming along. Of the men who drove the herd there was no sight at the moment.
“It’s a trick!” screamed one of the men, rearing up into view and waving his rifle. “They’re—”
That was his last word alive. Johnny Raybold came out of the dust cloud, towing a heavy weighted sack from his saddle. Once more they’d proved that dust had its use and Pilbourne’s men fell for it as had the Apache braves. Johnny gave no time to gloating over the success of the trick. His Winchester rifle was in his shoulder even while his big horse ran at full speed. The rifle cracked and the exposed man went over backwards, a bullet in his head.
Even before the draw threw back echoes of the rifle shot Johnny had unshipped from the saddle of his racing horse and lit down running. He hit the ground behind a rock, his rifle coming out to make another man duck back before he could send a bullet at the other riders.
The horses, the herd’s remuda, went on, coming out of the dust cloud where it ended on the hard ground. Rusty Willis, Doc Leroy and two of the new hands were with the horses, each man dismounting as fast as he could. One of the new hands was not quite fast enough. Pilbourne and his men were over their surprise and the rifles bellowed out. The cowhand was leaping from his horse when lead caught him and he seemed to collapse in mid air, his body hitting the dirt of the trail rolling and then laying limp against a rock. Doc and the others made it to the rocks by the side of the trail, flattening down and waiting for their chance. They’d heard the wild war yell, seen the Indian-like shapes and thought Apaches were attacking them. This gave them little worry, for they could see this was only a small band and their escape through the encircling Apache net made them a little contemptuous of the much-vaunted Apaches.
It was at that moment they saw that there was an urgent need for them to shoot an
d shoot accurately.
In the rear of the herd, wild with excitement, rode young Rin, the wrangler. In the heat of the moment, carried away by the wild ride through the dust and out into danger, the boy forgot, or ignored, every order Dusty Fog had given him the previous day. Rin should have turned his horse, racing it up the slope and around,. clear of the shooting beyond the top of the rim, then come down and picked up the racing remuda when they tired from their run.
Now was long past the moment when he should have turned for, whooping like an Indian, flattened along the neck of his horse, fanning its ears with his hat and working his Kelly pet-maker spurs like wild, he sent his horse after the remuda. Rin was young, not yet having reached his sixteenth birthday. On the last drive north with Stone a bunch of Osage renegades tried to run off the remuda. Rin turned, drew his old Navy Colt and charged the men even before Johnny, Rusty and Doc came sweeping back to aid him. He’d fired three wild shots and before his three friends opened fire, saw one dirty, vermin crawling Indian go backwards from his horse. Rin knew in that moment he’d had his man for breakfast. He’d ridden away from the herd and been violently sick after that, but his courage was untouched by the incident. Courage or pure blind wildness it might have been, putting himself out like that. He did not know which it was, only that he did not intend to allow the remuda to scatter if he could help it.
Lead slapped the air and whistled around Rin as he rode. Johnny was on his feet, racing forward, his rifle crashing as he darted from cover to cover, trying to save the wild and reckless boy. The others all fired fast too. The men on the slopes were all shooting, throwing lead and it seemed that some of it must catch.
It did.
Johnny jerked under the impact of a bullet, staggered and crashed down into the hard ground. He fell in plain view but was still alive, as showed in the way he tried to crawl to some kind of safety and avoid the lead which kicked up dust and dirt spurts around him. Pilbourne and his men saw the cowhand was wounded, saw they had no chance of getting the fast riding boy who was now through their ambush and streaking after the remuda like the devil hunting down a yearling. So the rifles were turned to make an end of the wounded man and cut down any man who tried to help him.