by Wick Evans
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Long before daylight the next morning, Wagon was abuzz with activity. Every member of the crew was saddled and waiting long before Kirby and Josh were ready to lead their men to join the sheriff's posse. Two of the grimmest punchers on the spread were the two men Josh had chosen to stay at Wagon. Even when he promised them extra time off, they still threatened to draw their time because they had to stay behind and would miss the forthcoming battle. Kirby placated them with the warning that the battle could easily fall back to Wagon, and their position as guards was an important one.
The foreman had seen to it that each man carried a Winchester in addition to his sidearms, and that each carried extra ammunition in his saddlebag. Once again he stopped them as they were about to hit leather.
"Don't want to hurt anyone's feelings," he told them, "but I've got to tell you that I'm asking no man to make this ride. Anyone feels this is not his chore is welcome to stay here at Wagon." He tried a wry grin that didn't come off. "Didn't think I'd have any takers. Just didn't want your death or injury on my conscience. Let's ride."
Maria and Manuel watched from the kitchen door, fear on their faces, as the grimly silent group of horsemen left the yard.
Josh held up his hand to catch Kirby's attention, his words lost in the thunder of hoofbeats. He pointed up the trail ahead, and Kirby, following his pointing hand, discovered the dust that told of a rider coming toward them as if a pack of prairie wolves were nipping his horse's heels. They could see a mass of glowing red-brown hair fallen loose and blowing in the wind. The rider pelting toward them in mad flight was Jen.
Kirby halted his party with an upflung arm and watched with anxiety as she slid the sorrel back on his haunches in a shower of dust and rocks.
"Thank heaven I found you," she cried, sliding from her heaving horse. Kirby swung to the ground, and she flew into his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was trembling in every muscle.
"It's Bill," she sobbed. "I've done an awful thing, I've killed your brother."
Kirby tried to stop the flow of incoherent words, but hysteria was having its way. He pulled off his gloves and slapped her face in a stinging blow with his bare hand.
"Oh," she cried, stepping back and staring at him. As she held her hand to her stinging cheek, sanity returned. "I'll have to talk fast; there isn't much time. Sheriff Peters' wife told me yesterday about what you and Josh found on Lazy B, and how Lon had ridden out there to check up. She said your face looked like that of a man condemned. I couldn't sleep all night, thinking about it, and I was up before daylight. About an hour ago I heard a rider out on the street and wondered who could be out so early. It was Bill, riding home from Galeyville. He had been drinking all night."
"Before I knew what I was doing, I called him and warned him that he'd better get out of the country. I told him about your cows being rustled, about other brands losing stock, and how you and Josh found them on his Lazy B meadow. I don't really know why I did it… I guess I thought if I told him you wouldn't have to punish your own brother."
"He went all to pieces. I got him into the house, and after I got some coffee down him he pulled himself together."
"He said then, and I knew he was telling the truth, that he had nothing to do with the rustling, had never even had a hint that people were holding him responsible. He said that somehow he'd gotten himself into a mess and that Hub Dawes was holding something over him. He felt he'd talked too much, I guess, for he asked me to tell you that he was sorry. Then he rode away."
"Where did he go, Jen?" Kirby asked and, knowing his brother, dreaded her answer. "Did he intend to head out of the country?"
Sobs again began to shake her slender shoulders. "Oh, no! He was going to find Hub Dawes. He said it wasn't too late to clear the name of Street from the rustling stigma, and that he was going to kill Dawes, then clean out the rest of the den of rattlesnakes he'd brought to Lazy B."
Once again she was nearly caught in the grip of hysteria, and he thought that he would have to slap her to bring her to her senses. But she controlled her sobs and begged, "Do something. Those gunmen will shoot him down like a dog if he tries to take them on alone. He must be nearly out to Lazy B by now."
"Josh, you, Curly and Ringo, side me. The rest of you take Jen to town; then put yourself under the sheriff's orders. Did you tell anyone else about this, Jen?"
She shook her head. "There wasn't time."
"Then tell Lon he'd better get out to Lazy B quick. Are you all right now?" he asked her as he started to his horse.
She nodded her bright head. "I'm fine. But I'm not going back to Streeter. I'll ride on out to Maria at Wagon if you'll let me."
Kirby felt astonishment, then the lifting of a cold hand from his heart. "You mean until this is over?" he asked gently.
Again she shook her head. "For as long as you want me, Kirby. I know now it's better to have just a part of you than nothing at all. I've been a coward, the kind of girl Ma wouldn't have been proud of. I know now that the fight you're in is not of your making, and I'm ashamed I asked you to let someone else do the things that have to be done. Oh, Kirby, can't you see I'm asking you to let me wait where I should have waited all along… at Wagon?" She raised her face, and as her lips parted beneath his kiss he felt again a fierce exultation that sent the blood drumming in his ears.
"We'll talk when I get home," he said finally, when he could summon the will power to take his lips from hers. He helped her mount the sorrel, then ran to his black and flung himself into leather. In a few moments he was leading the way into the Lazy B cut-off. The big gelding appeared to catch the impelling spirit of his rider, for his great body flattened out and he seemed to flow along the trail in a symphony of fluid movement. If only we're not too late, he prayed, but exultation underlay his fear. He felt a vast lift of spirit at the knowledge that he would be siding his brother, not helping to hang him… and that the one girl would be waiting for him when he rode back to Wagon.
As the four riders roared into the yard of the Lazy B headquarters, they came upon a scene that none of them ever forgot.
Bill, a smoking Colt in his hand, was backing slowly out the front door. Across the doorsill stretched the body of a man, a widening red stain turning purple the bright blue of his shirt. Another sprawled figure lay on the porch.
Everything happened so quickly then that they had no time to cry a warning. As they slid from their horses in frantic haste, a man stuck his head around the corner of the house and aimed at Bill's back. He lifted his gun as he stepped out in full view and fired. They could see a puff of dust spurt from between Bill's shoulders, and the slug turned him around before his knees crumpled. Josh had his gun out and roaring before anyone else had time to make a move. Once, twice, it blasted, and Hub Dawes looked at Josh in stunned amazement. He died even as he stared. Kirby caught the sound of a running horse and sprinted across the yard. Curly had jerked his saddle gun from its boot and beaten Kirby to the open. He dropped to one knee, levering the Winchester as he squatted. It came to his shoulder, and the .30-30 sang a wicked song. An outlaw lurched from his saddle and his foot caught in the stirrup as he went down, his face slapping in the mud before the bronc stopped. Kirby yelled, "Curly, you and Ringo search the place. Be careful; there might be a hideout. Josh, let's get to Bill." They rushed to him, lying face down. Josh turned him over and slipped his hand into his shirt, feeling for a heartbeat. His fingers were crimson when he removed the hand, but there was hope in his voice as he said quietly, "He's alive, but he's got an awful hole in him. We'll have to get a doctor pronto!"
They looked up as Curly and Ringo returned from their search. Curly said, "No one else on the place. Just two dead gunnies and that dirty sidewinder." He nudged Dawes' body with a contemptuous boot toe. "There's a buckboard in the shed. Come on, Ringo; let's find some broncs and hitch up quick."
They had Bill's body in a nest of blankets in the buckboard when Sheriff Peters and his posse crashed into the yard
. Kirby quickly told them all that had happened. "Reckon he cleared his name some before that skunk shot him in the back. If he ever comes to, he'll tell us the rest of his story."
The sheriff's leathery old countenance broke into a smile. "Danged if I ever could hook up the name Street with rustlin'. Looks like he plumb cleaned out this place. We'll finish the job at H Bar D."
"I'll take Bill home," Kirby said quickly. "Then me and the boys will come in through the meadow and maybe catch any hombres that try to make their getaway toward the river. We ought to make it about the time you start the fireworks on the other end. Could you spare someone to ride back to town and bring Doc Williams out to Wagon?"
And so they brought Bill Street back to Wagon, a long, quiet figure in the bottom of a buckboard. They carried him gently into the house and into his old room. "There isn't time to talk, Maria. Just take good care of him." He hurried to rejoin his waiting crew, but not before Jen had come into his arms. "Come home to me," she whispered against his lips.
As they rode toward the river trail, Kirby's heart was singing. Bill had cleared his name and had done it with honor. Even if he died of his wound, his death would be an honorable one. The trouble that had been so long in building was disappearing. And Jen was waiting for him… at home. He felt like yelling in sheer relief, and his expression must have mirrored his thoughts, for Josh, Curly and Ringo were all smiling, although somewhat grimly, as they thundered through the ford, water flying in sheets of muddy spray as they passed. Across the river on Lazy B again, they pulled in their horses for a brief blow. As they did so they exchanged questioning looks. They had all heard it… the distant crash of gunfire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rattle of distant gunfire brought worried frowns to their foreheads as the Wagon crew crossed the meadow. They were slowed down by the herd in the hideout pasture. They had to weave in and out of the peacefully grazing animals, and one or twice they had to drive a close-bunched jag of cows out of the way with the end of their ropes. When they were all but stopped, waiting for a belligerent steer to make way, Curly voiced the thought of all. "Holy smoke," he said in amazement, "look at the size of this gather. There must be seven or eight hundred head in here from brands as far away as the Galeyville range. Somebody has sure got a heap of explainin' to do."
"Ain't it so!" Ringo spoke up. "Sure glad I ain't one of the gents who'll have to do the answerin'. I've always said I wanted to die with my boots on, but not with a rope makin' 'em do a dance six feet in the air!"
Josh gave them a wry grin. "If the sound of those guns goin' off up ahead means anything, I don't guess there'll be many left to stretch a rope."
As they strained to catch the faint echoes of gunfire, Josh led them to the little creek bed which served the rustlers as an exit during their midnight drives. The guns had flared in intensity, then died out completely.
As Peters had told them, the dry creek bed made a rocky but effective trail. Once or twice it dwindled to a narrow gap as it passed between huge boulders. It was as they were passing in the shadow of two great rocks on either side of the trail that they caught the sound of shod hoof ringing against stone. The trail ahead was blocked from their view. Kirby signaled for them to stop, then motioned them to follow Josh as he pulled as far over to one side of the trail as possible. They waited quietly with drawn guns. A horse whose rider was swaying drunkenly in the saddle trotted into view between the boulders. As he caught sight of the ominously waiting Wagon crew, he shouted, "Don't shoot no more, men; I'm already carrying enough lead."
He released the saddlehorn, which he had been gripping with both hands, in an attempt to raise his hands in the ancient gesture of surrender. He never completed the move, however, for when he relaxed his grip he slid to the ground in a grotesque heap, clawing feebly at leather as he fell.
Josh hurriedly dismounted and went to him. The man was trying desperately to get to his knees but couldn't make it. He fell flat on his chest, managed to turn himself over and lay on his back, arms outflung.
Josh breathed, "Look at the hole in this kid."
The boy, who had propped himself up on one elbow, snarled at him, "Kid, nothin'! I'm past twenty!" He tried to say more, but gasped for breath, and a crimson thread trickled down his beardless chin. He lay watching them, his eyes suddenly pleading. "I ain't dyin', am I?"
No one answered. Josh and the others looked away in embarrassment as Kirby fumbled for words.
The boy spat out his words. "I ain't no cow thief. I been runnin' with Dawes' bunch all right, but I ain't hazed no stolen cows. I'm no cow nurse. I'm a darn good gunhand. Even Whitey says so." He closed his eyes.
"Who is Whitey?" Josh asked, with a glance at the others. Kirby spoke up before the boy could open his eyes.
"I think I know the answer. Remember that pale gent we ran into in the Nugget? The one Lon beaned when he tried to draw on me?"
The boy's eyes opened. In them there was a look of fanatic admiration. "I heard about that. It's a good thing for you he didn't get to make his draw, mister. He's the Lightning Kid, the fastest draw in the country."
"You mean was, don't you?" Josh asked, thinking of the furious gunfire they had heard. "What happened at Dawes? That's where you got this hole, isn't it?"
"Whitey was still alive when I got away," the boy answered. "That blasted posse took us by surprise. Dawes didn't even have a man staked out as lookout. Darn Dawes, anyway. He's the cause of all our trouble."
"Looks like you picked the wrong man to work for," Kirby told him.
Scorn crossed the young gunman's face. "Heck, I didn't work for that yellow-livered skunk. He was just boss of the crew; he took his orders from the same place all of us did, the Syndicate at Galeyville."
Realization of the effect his words had on his intent audience suddenly came to him. "Whitey always said I talked too much," he muttered.
"What about the Syndicate, boy? They seem to be the ones who are responsible for this hole in your chest. Better talk fast; you haven't much time."
The boy's glazed eyes were lit by a final spark of anger. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he gritted, and died.
In silence they stared at the dead youngster, Kirby still squatted at his side. He got to his feet stiffly, like an old man. "Blast men like Whitey anyhow. This kid might have been a useful citizen one day if he hadn't give a man like Whitey hero worship." Shaking his head sadly, he went on, "Let's get him off the trail and under the rocks. It'll have to do until someone can get around to giving him a decent burial."
Quietly they set about the unpleasant chore. Then, satisfied that the body was safe from buzzards and coyotes, they climbed into leather. Ringo said, "I hope we're not too late for the fireworks. I just heard some more shootin' up ahead."
"I caught that, too," said Josh. "We better shake a leg. Might be needed."
Things were under control when they crossed H Bar D range and rode cautiously into the yard of the spread's headquarters. They found the posse standing in a group near the front porch. Half a dozen figures lay sprawled in the yard, and they could see several others inside the house. Two possemen stood at either end of the porch, rifles at the ready as they watched a shed among the cluster of outbuildings. Lon Peters was standing near a man whose shoulder was being crudely bandaged. Kirby drew a breath of relief as he saw that his entire crew was safe. There were two still forms covered with a blanket lying on the porch. Peters saw Kirby.
"We just about cleaned out this place," he said. He shook his head, his voice grieved. "Two Acorn punchers cashed in their chips in the fracas. And one of their gang got away. Think he was packin' lead. See anything of him?"
"We ran into him on the trail, Lon. He's dead."
The sheriff showed his pleasure. "That leaves only the skunk in the shed back there, and the job is done."
"Anyone I know holed up back there?" Kirby asked.
"Yeah. An old friend. I think they call him Whitey. He's a hired gunman, and there's nothin' I hate worse." The
sheriff's sigh seemed to come from his boots. "I guess the time has come to see whether the old woman was right or not." He started to walk away, but Kirby stopped him, a vague dread beginning to crowd into his mind.
"Lon, wait. Where you going?"
The sheriff's breath came in a groan. "That danged gunhawk is holed up back there with a rifle and plenty of ammunition. If we try to rush him, someone's gonna get shot, mebbe killed. I think I know a better way to make him come out." He tried to move away from Kirby's restraining hand.
"Don't, Lon. I think I know what you have in mind. There must be some other way."
Lon's eyes were reproachful. "You sound like my old woman. There ain't no other way, unless we starve him out, and that might take weeks. That's a storeroom for the cook house." He shook off Kirby's hand and shuffled to the corner of the house where the puncher was watching the shed.
"Lemme get here, son." The puncher moved back, and the sheriff took off his battered hat and waved it around the corner.
"Hey, Whitey, hold your fire a minute. I wanta palaver."
There was silence for a moment, then a hoarse burst of dirisive laughter. "Palaver nothin'! My guns do my talking." A rifle slug tore into the corner of the house.
"That's what I mean," Lon yelled. "I'd like to see how good your guns are. I'll make a deal with you."
Again came laughter. Then, "What kind of a deal?"
"You think you're pretty fast with your iron, don't you? I think you're just a young punk not dry behind the ears yet. Meet me out here in the open, and we'll find out. If your guns are the best and you get me, the posse will give you an hour's start before they take after you. If I get you, it'll just be speedin' things up a little. What are you, a gunman, or a cowardly sidewinder?"
"How do I know for sure your men'll give me an hour? If I get you, they'd fill me full of holes in a minute."
"I'll give you my word as a man and as sheriff. Give me yours, and I'll have a horse brought to the door of your hideout. You agree not to drill the man who brings the bronc?"