Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  The Kid laughed. “That’s me. Oh, you have to excuse our appearance. Me and Leo have been celebrating. See, I had a real problem with my eyes, but now I can see pretty good again.”

  Obviously, the man had no idea what he was talking about, but he did not press the issue. “Come on with me while I put the horse up. No one will hear us down at the corral.”

  Almost an hour later the Kid and Leo set out to end the man’s problems. Cy Edgar told them several head were missing, but he was unable to capture the rustlers. He added sourly that even if he caught the people red-handed, it was doubtful he could get them tried and convicted.

  The rancher sounded certain who the rustlers were. He named a half-breed, Jacko; the other was the breed’s brother-in-law Nat Milner. A squaw rode with them, too. Edgar wanted them stopped. He paid the Kid two hundred and fifty dollars in advance with a promise of a hundred more upon completion of the deal. As much as the Kid’s conscience urged him to go on to Mexico, he kept thinking how they needed Edgar’s money to stay south of the border.

  “Kid, you sure you’re seeing good enough for this job?” Leo asked worriedly as they rode east.

  “Don’t worry about me. We’ll get these rustlers and then be in Mexico in two or three days.”

  Leo shook his head. “It ain’t like you to just ride over and do a job without some planning first. What if they’re a tough bunch?”

  “Ah, Leo, take a drink and quit your whining. I can see good enough to do the job.” More confidence returned. With each passing hour, he felt more like his old self. Although his vision had not been completely restored, he felt certain that he would be able to see the scum and get rid of them.

  The rustlers’ place was in a canyon on the side of a pine-covered mountain. Leo led the way up the trail and stopped abruptly at the sound of barking dogs.

  “Yeah, I heard them, too, Leo. Just keep moving.”

  A squaw looked up from a washtub at their approach. She was a full-blood Indian with long black braids hanging down her back. From behind her, a copper-faced buck stepped out of the small house with a rifle in his hands. Following him came a hatless, shorter white man.

  “Howdy,” the Kid greeted them with a warm smile. “We’re lost. How far is it to Poker Town?”

  The white man smiled back. “Boy, you’re lost. This road ends here unless you’re a billy goat.” He indicated the sheer bluffs behind the house.

  “See, Leo, I told you we took the wrong fork,” the Kid said over his shoulder, and turned back to the man with a shrug as if in apology. “Say, do you drink whiskey?”

  “Sure.”

  “This here’s Leo. I’m Bobby.” The Kid made the introduction casually as he dismounted. A quick glance around showed him that the woman had continued her scrubbing and the Indian buck was standing in a relaxed pose. He drew a bottle out of his saddlebags.

  “Well, howdy. Nat Milner’s the name. This is Jacko. Come on inside.” Milner invited them in with a gesture of his arm. “We’ll drink some of that whiskey.”

  The Kid’s gaze was drawn to the Indian girl. In her late teens, he guessed. The turn of her hips and shape of her breasts under the buckskin dress aroused him. So the others didn’t suspect his designs on her, he clapped Leo on the shoulder. “Found us some drinking buddies.”

  Leo agreed with a nod.

  Inside the small homestead, they took seats around a rough homemade table. The Indian and Milner drank cautiously at first, but the alcohol soon melted their wariness.

  “Where you guys going?” Milner asked.

  “Poker Town.”

  “Aw hell, there ain’t nothing there worth seeing,” Milner said, dismissing the idea contemptuously. As the girl entered the room he bellowed at her. “Silver Belle, fix us some food.” The girl nodded, but she ignored the bottles of whiskey on the table.

  “You hungry, Bobby?” Milner asked.

  “Sure, but not for beans. You got any venison?”

  “Ha! Venison!” Jacko’s crack of laughter was unsteady. Milner’s sharp look of disapproval silenced the Indian.

  “No venison, huh?” the Kid lamented.

  “We got real meat,” Milner said guardedly.

  The Kid splashed more whiskey in the mens’ cups, noting that Leo seemed very tense and quiet. Leo tossed down the glass of whiskey and frowned at the Kid. Bobby ignored him.

  “Does your woman want a drink?” the Kid asked generously.

  “Silver Belle, want some whiskey?” Milner asked her.

  She shook her head, scowling in disapproval.

  The Kid grinned at her. For a damn Indian, she was a real looker. In fact, her beauty improved with each swallow of whiskey. He made up his mind that later he would possess her.

  After a couple hours of drinking, the notion to have the woman became a growing obsession with him. He had two more bottles in his saddlebags. Eventually he got around to asking the men about the beef—Edgar’s beef.

  “You got many cattle?” The Kid slurred the question.

  “Oh. We got a few.” Milner shrugged. “It’s tough to get started. Big guys like Edgar don’t like us small ranchers.”

  “Yeah, big ranchers get pushy,” the Kid agreed, thinking silently to himself, especially with the rustling kind.

  The meat in the stew that the woman served was not venison. The Kid knew beef when he tasted it.

  “What do you guys do?” Milner asked, looking from Leo to Bobby.

  “Oh, we hire on sometimes. Actually, we’ve been looking for a ranch of our own. You wouldn’t sell this one, would you?”

  Milner did not answer right away. The Kid interpreted his hesitation as indecision. Finally Milner said with what seemed like forced reluctance, “No, guess not.”

  “It’s a rough way to start, Milner, with no money and all,” the Kid said sympathetically.

  “That’s right,” Milner slurred. “Why hell, I ain’t seen any money in six months. Ranchers won’t hire us on even for roundups.”

  “Oh well,” the Kid said, “you got a good-looking woman. Look at me; all I got is ugly old Leo.”

  “Yeah, what ’bout me?” Leo joked. “All I’ve got is you.” The men guffawed loudly, banging the table with their fists.

  The girl hurriedly came to the table and began stacking the dishes as if she feared for their safety. Milner caught her by the waist, the action nearly unseating him. She stood in a resigned pose, but seemed to shrink away from the newcomers as though afraid she would contract some disease.

  “She’s a good-looking woman, ain’t she?” Milner boasted proudly.

  The Kid nodded. At the moment he would pay a twenty-dollar gold piece to lay her. Leo obviously knew what was going on in his mind, because after giving him an uneasy look, he jerked up his glass, spilling the contents.

  The Kid raised his brows and grinned at Leo. Then he turned his attention back to her. She twisted away from Milner and moved toward the dry sink, her hands filled with dirty dishes. The Kid knew she would not loosen up, not unless Milner could get her to drink.

  Jacko rose clumsily to his feet. His foolish actions betrayed his purpose. He obviously needed to relieve himself of a bladder full of whiskey. The Kid noted that he did not wear a gun. His only weapon was a knife in a sheath on his belt. Milner had a Colt in his holster. But Bobby doubted that he was very proficient with it.

  The afternoon crawled by, slipping into evening. There was only one full bottle left on the table. Jacko hummed some tune off-key. Milner’s attention span was almost nil. Leo was becoming restless.

  The Kid looked at them through a whiskey haze. “Hey, Milner.” He had to hit the man on his forearm to get his attention.

  “Hmm? What’s that?”

  “Do you eat that big rancher’s beef?” the Kid asked.

  “Hell yes, all the time.” Milner waved his arms around. “He’s got plenty … ain’t gonna miss a few head.”

  “Yeah, reckon so,” the Kid agreed as he rose. “I need some air.” He lo
oked around the room. The woman was already outside. Bobby nodded at Leo, indicating that he should stay with the two men.

  Outside in the starlit yard, Bobby tried to steady his wobbly legs. He checked his saddlebags, searching for his last bottle of whiskey. It was gone. He frowned, trying to remember. Yes, he knew there had been one more bottle in there. Where the hell was it?

  He looked around in the dim light, but could see no one. Then he heard her voice.

  “You were looking for this?” she asked from beside the corral, holding up the last bottle.

  Bobby could see by the glint of light on the glass that she had his whiskey. “Yes,” he said, laughing as he swayed toward her, “but I want both of you.” Briefly he wondered if he had frightened her off by saying the words out loud. The idea sobered him somewhat. He glanced toward the house then shrugged. Leo could handle the two drunken rustlers. He had other plans.

  The woman backed away as he drew nearer. But he saw the flash of her white teeth as she smiled broadly. “Who are you, mister?” she asked, holding out a hand as if to keep him at bay.

  “Bobby Joe,” he said as he stepped forward.

  “No, no. You are not Bobby Joe. I am not stupid. You’re a trader, huh? You give them whiskey so you can steal something?”

  “Yeah, but I want you!”

  “No, you think of me when you are full of whiskey.”

  “No,” he protested, “I thought of you when I first rode in here.”

  She lowered her outstretched arm. “Did you give him some money?”

  “Who?”

  “My man.”

  The Kid shook his head in slight confusion. “You mean for you?”

  “It already cost you plenty whiskey,” she said mockingly. Then with slow deliberation she raised the bottle and took a long swallow. The Kid waited silently, controlling his basic urge to rush her. She wagged a finger at him to stay back. “Not yet, Bobby Joe. Silver Belle needs more whiskey. I see you look at me, then you get my man drunk. You’re a big trader?”

  “No,” the Kid said softly as he closed the gap between them. He stumbled over a pole, then righted himself with a vivid curse.

  “Wait, Bobby Joe. I take one more drink.” She raised the bottle again.

  While her head was tilted back to drink, Bobby stepped to her and took the opportunity to raise her skirts, then he drew her against him.

  Wait,” she protested.”Put the whiskey down first so it not spill.”

  Confident that she was ready for him, Bobby shrugged and placed the whiskey against a corral post. Then he went willingly into her outstretched arms.

  At sunup, the Kid awoke in shivering stiffness. He was lying on the cold ground, wearing only a shirt. His bare legs were dirt smudged; pine needles clung to his skin. The squaw was sprawled beside him on her side, her skirts bunched around her waist. Her shapely copper legs were dirt-caked and coated with pine needles. He grinned and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

  Vaguely he recalled the previous night. A smile lifted his mouth as he remembered the pleasure he had derived from her. Sighing aloud, he rose and began to dress. He shook his dusty wadded-up pants then hurriedly pulled them on. Buckling on his holster, he looked at her but she still slept. With care, he spun the cylinders and checked the .38’s loads.

  A grim line edged his mouth as he walked purposefully toward the house. Inside loud snores filled the room. The Indian was asleep at the table. Leo on a bed to the right. Milner lay on a cot in the far corner, his face turned to the wall.

  The Kid took a deep breath and pointed the gun at the Indian’s head. The blast was deafening. The buck fell off the chair and slumped onto the floor.

  “What!” Milner shouted as he jerked up in the bed.

  His eyes were focused on the barrel of the Kid’s smoking gun.

  “Milner, you rustlers never learn,” he said softly.

  “Rustlers!” Milner shouted.

  The .38’s hammer fell on a dud cartridge. Milner reacted instinctively, grabbing his own revolver from his holster overhead. The Kid backed toward Leo, facing the menacing barrel of Milner’s sidearm.

  “Shoot him, Leo!” the Kid shouted. He knew he was between Milner and Leo’s gun. Milner’s shot missed the Kid, whose second shot hit Milner high in the shoulder. The Kid tried to see through the thick cloud of gunsmoke. His sore eyes watered and his vision blurred.

  Leo screamed in pain. The Kid jerked around, shocked at the sound. Leo was hit. Milner was making noises like a crazed animal. He lunged at him, clawing at his face.

  In the chaos, the Kid raised his pistol and forced it into the rustler’s midsection. The .38 exploded this time. Milner drew back and grabbed for his side. The Kid’s next bullet punctured the center of Milner’s chest. His hands flew to the new wound, then he coughed and fell over some chairs onto his back.

  Bobby stepped over him and rushed to Leo’s side. Blood poured out between Leo’s fingers as he tried to stem the flow. Seated on the edge of the bed, he stared up at the Kid and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’m a goner, Kid. You tell them señoritas that I love them when you get to Mexico.” He collapsed back on the bed. Leo was dying.

  “Leo, Leo, I’ll get a doctor.” The Kid was trembling.

  “No use, Bobby.”

  “How in God’s earth did you get shot?” the Kid growled as he clenched his fists in frustration.

  Leo smiled tiredly. “It wasn’t your fault. Go on. Kid, you better clear out.”

  “I’m staying. I aim to bury you.”

  Leo shook his head weakly and choked on his own blood. “No. You better go on. That marshal … he’s coming.”

  The woman’s screams forced him to look toward the door. The noises coming from her throat were an Indian death chant. She looked wide-eyed beyond the Kid and renewed her screaming.

  When he looked back around, Leo was dead.

  He rushed past the woman. She was not crying, but her pain-filled eyes looked heavenward, as if seeking relief. He hurried outside to escape her curse. Her haunting moans followed him.

  His head pounded violently as he mounted Buster. He lashed the horse with the reins, keeping rhythm with the throbbing in his head.

  He did not know how long he had been riding before he realized he was lost. Then he turned west and raced the weary animal across the open grassland, until the lathered horse began to stumble with exhaustion. How long would Buster last at this pace? He regretted the fact that he had not fed or watered the beast while he had been at Milner’s place.

  In a small draw, he let the horse drink and graze while he crouched in a ball. The memory of Leo dying was vividly implanted on his mind. Trembling from head to toe, Bobby drew out his gun. At every little sound he whipped around, searching the landscape for his unseen pursuer. There was no one. He was alone. Leo was gone.

  Whiskey would help him, he decided hopefully. He needed some good, strong whiskey. He recalled the insolent saloonkeeper in Poker Town. The man had good whiskey.

  His decision made, Bobby jerked the horse’s head up and mounted. The water and short rest had restored some of the horse’s energy.

  It was still twilight when he dismounted at the log saloon. A few hip-shot horses stood tied at the rail. He noticed a tall buckskin horse under a pack across the street with several more ponies tied over there. Busy place. As he started for the batwing doors, he fell into a deep coughing fit and he used the porch support to hold himself up until the breath-depleting spell passed. Lightheaded and still determined to find enough liquor inside to drown his loss of Leo, he pushed through the double doors.

  At the bar, he motioned to the bartender and slapped some money down for a bottle. He was oblivious to everything around him but the brown bottle that the man set before him. His one thought was to drink enough brain-numbing whiskey to forget—

  He ripped out the cork, turned his head back, and tilted the bottle to his lips. The fire of the liquor burned as it slid down his throat. At last, he set the bottle down a
nd gasped for breath. Good … he had found a sanctuary.

  “Bobby Joe Budd?” a quiet voice of authority said from behind him. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Josh Arnold, by the power invested in me by the courts of the Territory of Arizona.”

  When the Kid turned, the man placed the muzzle of his Colt in Bobby’s stomach and deftly removed the .38.

  The Kid sagged wearily. “One more drink and you can kill me or do whatever you want. But I’m having one more drink.” One more to forget Leo’s dying face.

  14

  Dolly glanced out the dry-goods store window. Her eyes widened in surprise as she watched John Wesley follow a thin cowboy inside the saloon across the street. John walked purposefully with a determined gait that she knew well. She swallowed hard as she realized what was happening. The Coyote Kid. That thin hatless man just had to be the one they were seeking.

  The dress fabric that she held bunched in her hand slipped from her grasp as her mouth tightened in pain. Jerking her head up, she strode quickly through the store. Outside on the boardwalk, she drew her gun and quickened her pace toward the saloon. The memory of her son’s lifeless face urged her onward, oblivious of the stares she was generating. A vein throbbed in her temple as she raised the gun and cocked it.

  Her shoulder brushed the batwing doors aside as she entered the saloon. A red-hot need for vengeance was kindled in her mind. She raised the pistol and took aim at the man leaning against the bar next to John Wesley.

  The first shot from her pistol crashed into the bottles behind the bar. Everyone in the room shouted and ducked for cover. Everyone but John Wesley.

  “Mrs. Arnold!” he shouted. “You can’t shoot him; he’s my prisoner!” He walked toward her, blocking her view of the cowering, handcuffed Kid at the bar.

  Dolly stared at him with burning hatred in her heart. “Get out of my way! I’m going to kill him!” She tried to move sideways to get a clear view of the Kid. The pistol was clutched tightly in both of her hands. “Get out of my way, John Wesley Michaels. I want that son of a bitch dead. I don’t want to hurt you, but he is going to pay for killing Josh.”