The Lawmen

by Broomall, Robert

  There was another shot. The bullet nicked Wes’s ear and hit one of the men behind him, who dropped from his horse in what seemed like slow motion.

  “Get back!” Wes yelled furiously. “Get undercover! That son of a bitch!” Another shot. The bullet whined off rock. Yet another shot plunked into the crowd of men, one of whom slumped in his saddle.

  “Get back!” Wes yelled again.

  * * *

  Up in the rocks, Clay squeezed off one more round before the gang got around the rocks and under cover. He wished he had hit Wes—he couldn’t have missed the bastard by much.

  Clay had chosen his spot well. He had the Hopkins gang bottled up at one of the narrowest points in the pass, yet he was well-hidden by the rocks. It would take a lucky shot to get him up here. Handcuffed and gagged, Vance Hopkins was tied to some brush farther along the pass, waiting.

  Clay knew that eventually Wes would push enough men past that narrow opening to flank him, but that would take time, and they would take casualties doing it. As usual, Clay didn’t plan on things getting to that point.

  * * *

  Paco was still lying in the pass. Wes and Lee dashed out, dodging Chandler’s bullets, and pulled him back under cover next to the other two men who had just been wounded. They propped the breed against a rock. His sombrero was gone; blood pumped from the ragged wound in his throat. “Take it easy,” Wes told him.

  Paco tried to say something, but with all the blood in his throat, he could only manage a gurgle. He had trouble keeping his eyes from rolling up in his head. Wes and Lee exchanged looks; there was nothing they could do. They left Paco to die and went back to the fight.

  The remaining gang members were firing at Chandler’s position. They had seen his powder smoke, but no one was sure exactly where he was in the jumble of rocks above them. The two men who’d been sent down the canyon came back, drawn by the sound of gunfire, and took their places with the others.

  “Only one of ’em firing,” Lee observed.

  “Maybe the other one’s hurt,” Wes said. “Or maybe they’ve only got the one rifle.”

  “What do you think their plan is?” Lee asked.

  “They must have found out we discovered their bolt hole. Now I guess they’re waiting for night. They’re hoping to keep us pinned here, then make a break for it, try and lose us in the dark. I don’t intend on waiting till dark, though. I want to get this over with.” He raised his voice. “Keep firing, boys. Move forward.”

  The outlaws kept a brisk fire on the rocks. Some of them began edging forward. Now and then came an answering shot, driving back any man who exposed himself too much.

  * * *

  Clay swore softly as bullets spattered the rocks around him. The outlaws hadn’t done what he wanted. He’d have to force them to do it, much as he didn’t want to. From his vantage point he could just make out the horses and remounts to the gang’s rear.

  He crept to a higher point on the rock wall. It meant exposing himself, and he flinched as a hail of bullets peppered the rock around him, showering him with chips. One of the chips gouged his hand, and he shook the hand in pain.

  Then he was safe again, settled in. From here he had a better view of the horses. He rested his rifle on a rock, drew aim, and fired.

  One of the outlaws’ horses buckled at the forelegs, then went down. Clay hated doing this. He aimed and fired again. Another horse reared, screaming, then broke free of its tether and ran up the pass, scattering Hopkins’s men as it went by. Clay fired again. Another horse shuddered and fell.

  * * *

  “He’s killing the horses!” Wes shouted. “We’ll be left on foot. Get them out of here, all of them. Quick!”

  Wes’s men grabbed their horses’ reins and the remounts’ lead ropes, and they hurried the animals back down the pass and out of Chandler’s rifle range. “String lariats as picket ropes,” Wes ordered. “Then put a guard on the herd.”

  As their horses were picketed, the men trickled back to the fight. Lee lay beside Wes, who wiped his brow in the heat. His tattered ear and shoulder were covered with blood, but he ignored it. “Chandler’s clever, I’ll give him that,” Wes said. “But we’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time. And the longer it takes, the worse it’s going to be for him.”

  23

  Shaughnessy and Driscoll were just outside the entrance to the pass, guarding the picketed horses. They sat together, rifles across their legs, backs to the animals. In the pass behind them the rifles kept up their staccato barking.

  “Going at it hammer and tong, ain’t they?” Driscoll said. He was a skinny, shifty-looking redhead with freckled cheeks.

  “Yeah,” the beefy-faced Shaughnessy said without regret. “While we sit here safe and comfy.”

  “We best keep on the lookout for Indians,” Driscoll cautioned.

  “Ah, there’s no Indians around. I know enough about Apaches to know they won’t come near a big white man’s fight like this.” He looked over his shoulder at the pass entrance, then he reached into his shirt and pulled out a pint flask. “Here, have a snort.”

  Driscoll hesitated. “Wes’ll kill us if he finds out.”

  “He ain’t gonna find out. Go on.”

  Driscoll drank, then passed the flask back to Shaughnessy, who drank as well. Neither of them noticed a form move out of the brush and boulders to their rear—a black man wearing old clothes and a beehive-shaped woolen hat. Slowly, the black man worked closer to the horse lines.

  Shaughnessy drank again and looked around him—at the blue sky, the fluffy clouds, the rocky canyon baking under the hot sun. “Not much like Balty-more, is it?”

  “That it’s not,” Driscoll said. “I miss the old town, you know. I miss my friends and my sister, Katherine Katy.”

  “You know what I miss? The tavern sing-alongs on Friday and Saturday nights. Those were good times, with the piano pounding and everyone in the neighborhood roaring along. We really felt close then, like a community.” He sighed. “It’s all gone now.”

  “It sure is,” Driscoll agreed. “And all because you said, ‘Let’s rob the excursion train from the city out to Lake Roland.’ ‘It’ll be easy,’ you said. ‘Nothing will happen to us.’”

  “Nothing would have happened if you hadn’t shot that fellow in the eye.”

  “How did I know he was the deputy police commissioner? All I knew was I’d seen him with the Rip Raps, and they was our enemies.”

  Shaughnessy tossed down another gulp from the flask. “Not even our friends at City Hall could get us out of that one. Then the Pinkertons got on our trail and chased us clean across the country.”

  “Don’t know why they got so upset,” Driscoll protested. “The old boy lived, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but after you shot him he couldn’t use his brain no more.”

  “Hell, he wasn’t that smart to begin with.”

  Shaughnessy shook his head. “At least we’ve finally lost those damned Pinkertons out here.”

  “Wherever that is,” Driscoll said. “There’s nothing but rocks and snakes and scorpions.”

  “You have to admit—the weather’s better than we’re used to. It’s hot, but it ain’t that steamy heat we had at home. Plus, there’s no winter.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I miss the cold—”

  “Don’t move, boys,” said a voice from behind them. Shaughnessy and Driscoll stiffened, hands tightening on their rifles.

  “You all heard me,” Essex said, and he cocked the hammer of Vance’s pistol—the loud clicking let them know he was armed. He stepped closer. “Now throw them rifles away.”

  The two guards hesitated, then tossed their rifles down the slope.

  “Stand up,” Essex told them. “Slow.”

  Shaughnessy and Driscoll did as they were told. “This is your fault,” Driscoll told his partner. “Wes’ll make our asses into wallets for this.”

  “Stop running your trap,” Essex ordered. “Take out them pistols—with yo
ur left hands—and throw them away, too.”

  Reluctantly, the two men obliged.

  “All right, now you can turn.”

  They did. “Christ, it’s the nigger,” Shaughnessy said.

  Essex aimed the pistol at Shaughnessy, then lowered it “Damn,” he said aloud. He had always dreamed of killing a white man in cold blood, to get back for what had been done to him, but now that he had the chance, he couldn’t do it. He was as soft as Chandler. He couldn’t tie them up—it would be too awkward while holding the gun, and he might get jumped. “You all stay where you are, and you won’t get hurt,” he told them.

  Covering Shaughnessy and Driscoll with the pistol, Essex moved back to the horse lines. Half the horses were saddled, the other half barebacked, with lead ropes. The barebacked horses were fresher, he would take three of them plus a saddled animal. When he got a chance, he would switch the saddle to one of die barebacks. He picked out the three freshest-looking barebacks—tough little cow ponies that could take a lot of punishment—along with a saddled bay. Drawing his knife, he turned to cut their picket ropes.

  Shaughnessy and Driscoll looked at each other. Shaughnessy nodded slightly, and the two men dove for their rifles, sliding down the hillside to where the weapons lay.

  With an oath, Essex left the horses and ran forward, shortening the range. Shaughnessy and Driscoll came up firing, but the pint of whiskey and the surprise of what had happened threw off their aim. Essex fired the pistol and hit Driscoll, who staggered and fell to his knees.

  As Shaughnessy fired and missed again, Essex dropped to his side. He shot twice at the big man, hitting him the second time. The bullet knocked Shaughnessy backward. He fell, slid partway down the hillside, and lay still.

  As the shots echoed down the canyon, Essex stood, breathing hard. Shaughnessy seemed dead, or close to it. Driscoll was bent over, moaning, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Essex looked at his smoking pistol. “I’ll be damned, I hit something. Wait till I tell Chandler.” Then he thought better of the idea. “Peckerwood probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”

  Behind him, in the pass, the rifle fire slackened and died. Essex knew that Wes and his men would be coming back here soon to try and save their horses. Quickly he cut the picket lines of all save the four horses he intended to take. Then he fired off his three remaining pistol bullets, stampeding the untethered animals down the slope. It would take Wes and his boys a while to get them back. Essex heard shouts as he cut the lines of the last four horses. He swung into the bay’s saddle, took the lead lines of the other horses and rode off, just as the first men emerged from the pass entrance and began shooting at him.

  * * *

  Up in the rocks, Clay heard shooting from the pass entrance. He wondered if Essex was all right; he had hoped his plan wouldn’t end in gunplay.

  Below Clay, Wes Hopkins and his men heard the firing, too. Wes’s voice drifted up to where Clay was hidden. “They’re running off our horses! Forget Chandler, we’ve got to get them back!” If they lost their horses in this country, they were as good as dead.

  From outside the pass came three more pistol shots in rapid succession, and the outlaws began retreating more rapidly. Clay saw Wes and fired at him for the second time that day, again just missing him.

  * * *

  Below, Wes and Lee stopped for a last look back. Wes was shaking from the near miss, but he tried not to show it.

  “That son of a bitch,” Lee swore.

  “Don’t worry,” Wes told him. “We ain’t done with him yet.”

  * * *

  Wes left a couple men to watch Clay, but Clay paid them no mind. Ignoring the bullets they fired at him, Clay left his hiding place and bounded along the rock ledges, then down to where Vance was tied, still gagged and handcuffed, with the horses.

  Clay pulled down Vance’s gag to let him breathe, and pushed him onto his horse. “Party’s over, sunshine. Time to leave.”

  He took the reins of Vance’s horse and the two of them started up the pass.

  The pass ended in another canyon. Clay knew roughly where he was, and he was able to work his way to the back trail through the mountains. He and Vance started toward Topaz. Clay had no plan for when he got back to town. His only hope was that, this time, Mayor Price and the others would come to their senses and help him.

  Late in the afternoon they reached the spot where Essex had caught Vance. Up the wash they found water at a tinaja, a shaded rock pool that caught rainwater. While Vance drank, Clay unsaddled the horses. He let them drink and roll in the dirt, then rubbed them down. Afterward he resaddled them, in case he and Vance had to make a run for it, then he set them to graze. When that was done, he drank himself and filled the canteens. He wished he hadn’t left the horses’ grain back at the campsite, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

  While the horses grazed, Clay and Vance sat just below the top of the ridge that bordered one side of the winding trail. From here they had a good view. The sun was still hot and there was no escape from it. “Why can’t I sit in the shade?” Vance complained.

  “If I have to be up here, so do you,” Clay told him.

  “What’re we waiting for, anyway?”

  “Christmas,” Clay said.

  “You’re waiting for that nigger, ain’t you?”

  “You’re a genius, Vance.”

  Clay was nervous. He was all too aware of the Indian danger, as well as the chance that what he saw coming down the trail would be Wes and his men, not Essex. The sun bore steadily westward until it sank behind the Verdugos, bringing welcome relief. Soon the sky became streaked with gold and mauve and red. The brilliant colors faded to a pale yellow, which in turn dulled into the gray of dusk. Then, abruptly, it was dark.

  Clay hadn’t planned to wait this long. The horses were rested; he could start back for Topaz. He didn’t know if he could outrun Wes’s men, who would be changing mounts once an hour. Still, the sooner he left, the better his chances. But what about Essex? What if Essex was hurt and coming on slower than expected? What if he was dead, and not coming on at all? He had put Essex in this position; he felt obliged to wait for him, though waiting might have unpleasant consequences for himself.

  Vance sat next to Clay, sullen and bored. Clay said, “Tell me, Vance. You enjoy killing people?”

  “I like it enough, I guess.”

  “Does it make you feel good?”

  Clay could tell that Vance had never given the subject any thought. “It makes me feel important, I guess. Yeah, that’s it—important. Gives me a what do you call it, an identity, of my own. Wes, he’s the brains of the outfit, and Lee’s the mean one. Me, I’m the gun hand. Glamorous, ain’t it? I ain’t just their little brother anymore.”

  “You resent your brothers?” Clay asked.

  There was no answer.

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Just trying to pass the time.”

  After a minute Vance said, “All right, maybe I do resent them a little. You can’t blame me. They still treat me like a kid, like I can’t do things for myself. Well, I ain’t a kid no more.”

  “That why you’re so quick to use your gun? To show them how growed up you are?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ever think of leaving the gang—becoming a regular citizen?”

  “You mean get a job?” Vance laughed. “I go where the money’s easy, and there’s plenty of it. How ’bout you—ever think of crossing the line and going ‘bad’?”

  “Oh, I think about it from time to time. Don’t expect I’d ever do it, though.”

  “What Vance calls a real straight arrow, huh? Real stupid, I call it.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not the one who’s going to hang.”

  “What’s going to happen to you is a lot worse than hanging. Besides, they ain’t sprung the gallows on me yet.”

  Clay was about to reply, when he tensed. Had he heard something? Yes. Comin
g down the road. Horses, three or four. Moving at a steady canter, despite the rough terrain.

  Clay tried not to get excited. It could be Essex, but it could just as easily be someone else. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Apaches. Apaches might ride shod horses—they stole enough of them—but they would never come at a regular gait like that.

  The horses stopped just below him. He heard the animals blowing and pawing the ground. He hesitated, then called out, “Essex—that you?”

  “Yeah,” came the reply, and Clay let out his breath. He pulled Vance to his feet and started him down the incline. “Come on.”

  Essex dismounted as they came up. “Got a drink?” he asked.

  Clay handed him his canteen. “How far behind are they?”

  Essex drank. “No idea. I run off their horses, but it probably didn’t take long to get some of ’em back. Likely some of the gang come after me while the others was catching the rest of the horses. Could be they’re pretty close.”

  “I heard shooting when you took the horses. What happened?”

  Essex drank again. “Got jumped by a couple of Hopkins’s men. I took care of them, though.”

  “You shot them?” Clay said in disbelief.

  “Yeah, I shot them.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I did. I swear.” He paused. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t believe you. You couldn’t hit Pikes Peak if you were standing on it.”

  “Damn,” Essex said. “I knew it. You tell me what happened, then.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Clay said. “Maybe they missed you and shot each other. Right now, I really don’t care.”

  Essex handed back the canteen. Then he said, “Thought you wasn’t going to wait here past sunset.”