by Wick Evans
"What else?" Whitey yelled.
"We each take ten steps out in the open and draw. You scared?"
Whitey's laugh, slightly hysterical now, floated across the stillness of the yard. "You make me laugh, old man. You gotta deal. But no tricks. Bring a bronc and tie him to the corner of the shed."
"I'll do it," cried Kirby and several others at the same time. But Ringo beat them to it. Seizing the reins of a saddled pony, he stepped out in the open and walked slowly to the shed, the bronc at his heels. To the tense men watching, it seemed to take hours to make the slow march. Ringo never once took his eyes from the shed window. In plain view, he tied the horse to a loose board at the corner of the ancient little building. Then he turned his back to the killer and sauntered unconcernedly toward the house. When he came closer to the watching posse, they could see that beads of perspiration stood out on his face and that his eyes held the hunted look of a man facing sudden death. He stepped around the corner of the house and let go a vast sigh of relief, in which he was joined by his waiting friends. There was quiet at the shed; then Whitey yelled:
"Now what, old man?"
"We'll each take ten steps out in the open, one at a time. I'll come first, then you. After you take your last step, we draw. That suit you, sonny, or are you scared?"
Whitey's laugh was almost a scream. "I'm scared plumb green. Let's see the color of your eyes, old man."
As Kirby watched the sheriff take his first step out in the open, he turned and ran into the house, carrying a rifle he had snatched from the floor. He reached a window from which the entire scene was in view and, after making sure the .30-30 was loaded, dropped to his knees. Just then the sheriff completed his tenth step and stood quietly facing the shed, bony hands dangling from too short shirt sleeves, his leathery old face expressionless.
"All right, badman, it's your move," he called so softly that his watchers could barely hear his words.
The shed door slowly opened inward. Then the pale-eyed gunman stood in full view, his eyes flicking from the sheriff to the house. He took his first step in the open, and those watching took deep breaths almost in unison. Whitey's boots made a second, third and fourth step. Again he paused, had a quick look at the house. Seemingly satisfied, he fixed his colorless eyes on his prey and moved again… five, six, seven, eight. At his eighth step, Lon called too low for the watchers to be sure they heard his words. "I'll wait until you stop on the tenth step. Then make your move."
Whitey nodded. They could see his lips move. "Nine," he was counting aloud. "Ten!" He stopped, his elbows slightly crooked a few inches from his guns. An eternity passed as he stood there, swaying slightly, balanced on the balls of his feet. Then his pale eyes began to glitter with the cold brilliance of diamonds. The sheriff didn't move. Whitey's lips drew back in a snarl. "Damn you," he screamed, and his hands moved with such swiftness that they were a blur. The gun in his right hand crashed first, but the bullet wailed away through the tree tops. At Whitey's scream the old man seemed to shrug his shoulders, and then his scrawny fist was holding a bucking Colt. No one saw him draw, but his gun fired four times, so fast that the sound was like a drum roll. Whitey's frame seemed to come apart, his knees gave way, and he moved so slowly that it seemed to take minutes before his face hit the ground.
The sheriff stood silently looking at the notorious gunman. Those nearest him heard him sigh. "Never did like a danged hired gunslick. Looks like I done plugged me one. Wonder what the old lady will say now."
Kirby's rifle fell from shaking fingers. He heard a ranch owner, a member of the posse, say as they crowded around the fallen man, "I saw Wyatt Earp in a shoot-out once. He wasn't a bit faster than Lon. And look! Four bullet holes between the eyes you could cover with a playing card."
The sheriff ambled to the window where Kirby was standing. "Danged if I don't need a cup of coffee to wash down a bucketful of your best liquor. The boys will see to buryin' these snakes. Let's me and you see how Bill is doin'."
Kirby thrust a boot through the open window, then pulled the rest of his body across the sill. "Lon, that was the bravest thing I ever saw a man do. Wish Muddy was here. Would you mind shaking hands with both of us?"
Grinning, the sheriff stuck out his skinny fist, and his fingers closed around Kirby's like steel wires. Then he complained, "Dang it, boy, you tryin' to bust my gun hand?" Kirby rubbed his lifeless fingers and grinned.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kirby told the sheriff about the hero-worshipping young outlaw they had met on the meadow trail and about the dying boy's slip of the tongue in mentioning the Galeyville "Syndicate."
"If he had lived just a little longer I might have been able to get more information," he said ruefully.
The sheriff showed no surprise. "Wish he had named names. I've had a suspicion for a while that there was something going on. Rustlin' has gotten so big it has to be by a pretty well organized bunch. Got a few ideas about who heads the wild bunch, too. Mebbe Bill can help out there. That is, if he keeps on headin' up the right trail."
There was real concern on Kirby's tired countenance. "And if he hasn't headed up the last trail," he reminded Lon. "That was a pretty big hole Dawes put in his back." He shook out his reins, and his pony stretched out in a fast lope.
Doc Williams' buckboard standing in the Wagon yard and a wisp of smoke at the cookhouse chimney were the only signs of life about the place when they rode in. Maria met them at the door, anxiety showing in the deep wrinkles around her eyes.
"He's alive," she answered their unspoken question. She nodded toward Bill's bedroom. "Jen and Doc are in there."
"I'll wait in the kitchen," the sheriff said and followed Maria. Kirby stopped in the hall as Doc and Jen came out to meet him. The doctor's face wore a worried frown. "We came out to see if you were back yet."
"How is he, Doc? Is he going…"
"He's alive, but he took a bad wound in his back. The bullet didn't hit his lungs. It went in under the shoulderblade, hit a rib, and came out without doing more than breaking the rib and tearing up a lot of tissue. Naturally it missed his heart… but it was real close. This is just an opinion right now, but I'd say with luck I can pull him through. He's lost a lot of blood and is so weak that we have to think about pneumonia…" He broke off and studied Kirby's intent expression. The doc went on, "What worries me is that he insists on talking to you and the sheriff. I try to tell him the time to talk is when he has rested, but he says that might be too late. Won't even let me give him a shot of morphine until he talks to you."
Jen had slipped her hand into Kirby's, and he held her close, an arm about her shoulders. "He's so different." She looked up into Kirby's face. "He's more like the Bill we used to know. You and Doc go on in; I'll get Lon."
Bill's long length under the bedclothes was still as they entered. Only his eyes showed any sign of life. They were the haunted eyes of a man beset by worry and something like disgust. He was pale under the black stubble of beard, but his eyes sparkled when he tried a grin.
"Howdy, brother mine. How're things at Lazy B?"
"It's all over, Bill. The job's done. How are you making out?"
"I'll do. Dawes? His gunnies?"
"Josh took care of Dawes. The sheriff and his boys handled the others. It was a clean sweep. Looks like there'll be no more trouble on the range."
Bill shook his head, showing a flash of his old wild impatience.
"That's what you think," he said. "Trouble is just beginning. That's what I want to talk about."
Kirby studied him anxiously. "Won't it keep? You're not in very good shape to palaver."
"What I've got to say won't keep. Doc says I'm going to get well, but bullet holes are tricky. And time is mighty important in acting on what I've got to say." Jen followed Josh and the sheriff into the room. Bill grinned at them.
"Thanks, Josh," he said, knowing that the embarrassed foreman understood. "And don't worry, Sheriff. Me and Kirby have quit shootin' at each other."
The sheriff's eyes held a deep sympathy. "Maybe after today all the shootin' will be over."
Again an expression of impatience crossed the wounded man's face. Then he flinched as pain had its way. "You'll know better when you hear me out. Want to get this over with."
Doc Williams interrupted him. "Let me give you something to ease that pain, boy," he begged.
Bill waved him away. "Later, Doc. Got to keep my mind clear right now." His eyes sought Kirby's.
"First of all, brother mine, and you, Jen… I'm sorry for all the grief I've caused. Guess there isn't much excuse. Maybe you can put it down to jealousy… because Kirby is like Muddy and I… well, deep down inside I've always known there was something missing. I've hated myself for bringing nothing but trouble to people, but I guess I was too weak to stop." He closed his eyes and was quiet so long that they thought he might have dropped off to sleep. With his eyes still closed, he went on:
"The whole thing started right after Muddy split up Wagon. Once I was alone and my own boss, something started to eat on me. I wanted more… I wanted your share, too, Kirby. I thought I hated you, partly because I was sure, though I didn't admit it to myself, that you loved him, Jen." When he looked from face to face his eyes were bright with fever. His words came stumblingly, as if he were in a hurry to rid himself of his confession.
"And I resented the fact that Kirby had always beaten me at everything; that he was the kind of man I wanted to be, and knew I wasn't. I guess I wanted all of the old Wagon under my brand to show you both that I was a pretty big man."
"Anyway, after I shot that poor devil of a nester, I started to drink. And about that time Hub Dawes moved in."
His listeners were so intent on the story he was unfolding that no one moved. His voice filled the room, laying bare his shame and self-disgust. He told them how Dawes had been his drinking partner at first and then had insinuated himself into his business affairs. Not caring, Bill had allowed the man to take a hand in running the Lazy B affairs. He turned over his herd to the wily outlaw, let him tend to the rebranding and sale of his cattle. There was no doubt in his mind that Dawes had packed the gather with stolen beef and altered the papers so that Bill wouldn't suspect a thing. He didn't care, particularly, for Hub had introduced him to several Galeyville "businessmen" and he had started to gamble. Eventually he realized that the "businessmen" were gamblers by profession… gamblers and something more that he hadn't been able to figure out until too late.
"I was getting in pretty deep," he said. His voice was beginning to tire. "The stakes got higher and higher. And they let me make a killing… as a come-on. I took those winnings and the cattle money and banked it in Galeyville and Streeter. I swore I'd never touch another card. It was at that time I tried to buy Wagon, Kirby."
His story went on and on, and those in the room knew that the pain of telling it was even greater than the pain of the bullet wound.
He had kept his promise not to gamble until one night when he had been on a drinking bout with his friend. Before long Hub had led him back into the trap from which he had escaped but briefly. Occasionally he won, but only small amounts. The stakes grew higher, until he lost his cattle money and the money Muddy had left him and even borrowed five thousand dollars from Burch at the Streeter bank. That, too, disappeared.
"I guess they figured I was about ready for the last round," he said, and told them how Hub had volunteered a ten-thousand-dollar loan. "To keep it businesslike, you can give me a mortgage with Lazy B for security," he had told Bill.
Liquor and a wild desire to get even made him throw caution to the winds, and he had signed the papers, realizing in a sober moment that Hub Dawes had never owned a hundred dollars in his life, much less ten thousand.
"I got sober enough to realize that everything that had happened had been part of a pattern. I knew that somebody wanted Lazy B real bad. I thought, until this morning, that it was just a way for somebody to get a valuable property for only a fraction of what it was worth. Now I know why I was wrong."
Again they waited quietly while he gathered strength to go on. Again he waved Doc Williams away. "I don't have very far to go now, Doc. When I talked to Jen at her house this morning, I knew that the money Hub loaned me was put up by the men in Galeyville who wanted Lazy B. Hub had been pushing me, saying that he needed his ten thousand, and threatening to take over Lazy B if I didn't pay up. His gang wanted Lazy B as an ideal location for their big-scale rustling. They were ready to move in when we busted up their play today."
They were all studying him, and anxiety was heavy in the room as he went on.
"You busted up their playhouse for a while, but only a part of it. That Galeyville bunch is probably behind the rustling and robbery that's been hitting this whole countryside. That's why I say that the trouble is not over. If you don't stop them, they'll be back stronger than ever in six months. Gunmen are a dime a dozen. And remember, they have a paper for the Lazy B. I've been playing against a marked deck and stacked cards, but that mortgage will stand up in court. I didn't even look at it when I signed it." He beat a clenched fist against the covers.
The doctor begged, "Let me give you something, boy! You're hurting your chances of getting well."
Bill interrupted without bothering to answer:
"Maybe it's not too late. Maybe there's something we can do to protect others on this range, even if I have lost Lazy B. Sheriff, the Galeyville bunch is headed by a man named King. That's all they ever call him. The others are Charlie Morris, Pete Benedict, a card sharp they call Frenchie…"
He tried to raise his body from the bed in his anxiety to make them understand his words. Hate and self-loathing fought with pain and sickness on his face. Suddenly the window near which the bed lay shattered into a thousand pieces with a sound like a thunderclap in the quiet room. Bill gasped, and his words were cut off. Stunned for an instant, they stared at the still occupant of the bed. There was no need now for Doc to administer an opiate. Just above Bill's temple a bluish hole showed where the ambusher's slug had entered. The other side of his face was mercifully covered by the sheet against which his cheek was pressed.
Action exploded as Kirby, drawing his gun, ran to the window and looked out. He kicked out the remaining shards of glass and climbed through. The sheriff and Josh pounded down the hall to the front door, and Doc Williams dropped to his knees by the bed.
Then, from the direction of the kitchen, echoed the deep bellow of a shotgun. Once, twice, came the hollow roar, and then all was quiet.
Peters raced into the kitchen. Maria was standing at the open door, in her hand a Parker 12-gauge still smoking from both barrels. She turned as the sheriff burst into the room and looked at the weapon in her hands as if stunned to find it there. Then she said dully: "A man tried to run after a rifle shot. I knocked him down. He's out there."
As Peters pushed by her, he heard Kirby say, "Lon, come here."
Kirby was kneeling beside a still figure on the ground. "Give me a hand," he said. "Let's get him in the house."
The stranger came to while Doc was working over. him. He struggled to sit up, but the effort caused beads of sweat to break out all over his face. He lay back, staring at them with frightened eyes. Doc raised his head and held a glass to his lips.
"Am I bad hit?" asked the stranger.
Doc Williams shrugged. "You're carrying too much lead for one man to handle."
The stranger closed his eyes with a tired sigh, and they thought he had slipped into unconsciousness. But the eyes opened again, and he looked searchingly about the room. His gaze came to rest on Kirby.
"You're Bill's brother, aren't you?" he said. Kirby nodded.
"I knew I shouldn't have tried it. I told 'em you led a charmed life. They said if I didn't do this job tonight, they'd gun me down. They were afraid Bill would talk. Didn't have no choice. Now I'm sorry."
"Who would gun you down if you didn't ambush Bill?" the sheriff wanted to know.
The injured man had
trouble locating his questioner. "Law dog, huh? Can't do no harm now. The men who had me in their pocket are a bunch of crooks known hereabouts as the Syndicate."
"Who are they? Give us names, man."
The stranger stared at Kirby. He said apologetically, "Twice I've tried to get you—once on the trail, and in the hotel. That wasn't so bad. I ain't too good to drygulch a man. But when they made me shoot the horse, that was too much."
"Why did they make you shoot the filly?" Kirby asked.
"The Syndicate thought you'd blame it on your brother and go gunnin' for him. Then they'd have Lazy B, and there'd be a good chance you'd hang for murder. They planned to move in here."
"Tell us who runs the gang," Kirby begged.
For a long time the dying man didn't answer. Death was dimming his eyes when he said, "You know something, men? I never squealed on a man in my life. And I wouldn't now, if they hadn't made me shoot the horse. That kind of dirty work is too low-down even for a skunk such as I am. I ask you, what good is a man without a horse? If it hadn't been for my bronc, I'd have stretched rope a long time ago. Sure, I'll tell you. The Syndicate men in Galeyville are the King, Pete Benedict, Frenchie, Curtis Palmer, and Charlie Morris. They hang out at the Last Chance Saloon. I hope you can pin something on 'em, like this shootin' today. And I hope they stretch rope. That's what they get for pushin' me too far and makin' me shoot a horse. The dirty dogs!" This time when he relaxed, it was forever.
Maria's voice broke the silence. "I've had my scattergun loaded for coyotes for a long time. I finally got one. If you get him out of here, I'll warm up the coffee."
Kirby suddenly felt that his legs would no longer bear his weight. He sank down at the kitchen table. Jen came to his side and slipped an arm around his shoulders.
"Things always have a way of working out for the best," she said. "I have a feeling that Bill would have wanted it this way. He would never have been happy again."