Raw Land

by Short, Luke;

  Phipps greeted him cordially, and they talked for a while, mostly about Will Danning. Charlie listened and didn’t talk, and from what he gathered Phipps was ready to rush through Will’s arraignment and trial. In that stubborn way some courageous men have, Phipps had blinded himself to any doubts. Will Danning was guilty of Hale’s murder and would hang.

  Afterward Charlie asked if he might talk with the prisoner, and he was let into the cellblock. It consisted of four cells. Pinky and Ollie were in the far cell, Pablo next to them. There was an empty cell between him and Will, who was next to the office. An overhead kerosene lamp in the corridor supplied the light.

  Will rose on his elbow when Charlie Sommers came in, and he said, “Hello,” not very enthusiastically. Charlie was an expert at reading on an imprisoned man’s face just how much confinement galled him. What he saw on Will’s face pleased him; Will was not resigned. Charlie pulled a stool across the corridor, parked it by Will’s cell, and sat down.

  “Luck seems to be runnin’ against you, Will,” Charlie observed.

  Will sat up and stretched, his face drawn with boredom. “You don’t call a frame-up luck, do you?”

  “I call it a crime,” Charlie said briefly.

  Will glanced at him and grunted. “You can’t call it, though, Charlie. This here is Phipps’s party.”

  “What can I do for you?” Charlie asked.

  Will shrugged and didn’t look at him. “Nothin’. Hell, I could hire a crew of lawyers and it still wouldn’t change the jury I’ll draw.”

  “Break out,” Charlie said.

  Will looked at him and said, “Hah,” humorlessly and looked away.

  Charlie said, “Will.”

  Will’s glance shuttled to him. In Charlie’s hands, thrust halfway between the bars, was his gun. Will saw it and then raised his glance to Charlie, questioning. Then he said wryly, “Ain’t you rode me enough, Charlie? Now you want me to take a busted gun, so Phipps’ll have a chance to cut down on me.”

  “Look at the gun, then,” Charlie said.

  Will took it. He saw the hammer wasn’t filed. He looked at the cartridges, supposing the powder had been pulled. Charlie knew what he was thinking. He said, “Pull out a slug and look for yourself.”

  Will did. It was good black powder in the shells. He hefted the gun, glanced sharply at Charlie, and handed it back. “No, thanks, not from a lawman.”

  “You figure there’s a catch, don’t you?” Charlie asked softly. He knew the others were watching this scene, but if they were as loyal to Will as his crew at the Double Bar O had been, Phipps would never find out.

  “What do you think?” Will said derisively. His smoky eyes were angry, like a man’s who has been goaded beyond toleration.

  “I don’t think so,” Charlie said. “I’ll tell you why. I watched you for quite a spell when you were workin’ for Broome, Will. I saw you come up from a kid horse wrangler to roddin’ that outfit. I watched you grade up that Double Bar O beef, I talked to your neighbors, I kept my eyes open. I’ve never heard a man say anything against you yet—except that you’re stubborn.”

  Will listened in silence. Charlie nodded toward the outer office. “I just come from talkin’ with Phipps. He thinks you had Chap killed. And he aims to hang you.”

  “I know that,” Will growled.

  Charlie smiled faintly. “You and me was on opposite sides of the fence durin’ that Broome business, Will. We still are, I reckon. Only I don’t think you’d kill a man. I don’t think you’re a crook.”

  “Try tellin’ Phipps that.”

  “No, I’m goin’ to play it another way,” Charlie said slowly. “I’m goin’ to risk a job I like and a badge I got a lot of respect for.”

  “How?”

  Charlie held out the gun. “Take it. Shove it in Phipps’s face and walk out of here.”

  For a long moment Will stared at him, and then he said softly, “What’s the catch, Charlie? You want somethin’, and I know what it is, too.”

  Charlie nodded. “I want somethin’, and you think you know what it is, do you? You figure I’ll give you the gun if you’ll tell me where Murray Broome is?”

  “That’s it.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I ain’t even goin’ to ask you where he is, Will, I think you know, but I’m not goin’ to ask you, because you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Here’s all I ask,” Charlie said quietly, looking Will straight in the eye. “Take that gun and get out of here. You’ll be on the dodge with a reward on your head. I don’t know where you’ll go, and I don’t give a damn. You’ll meet Murray Broome. You and him are friends, and I know it, Will. I know how much he used to depend on you.” He paused now, driving his point home. “Here’s what I ask—when you find out that Murray Broome is the cheap, flashy crook I know him to be, I want you to come to me and help me bring him to justice.”

  Anger stirred in Will’s eyes, but before he could answer Charlie held up his hand. “There’s no promise you got to make, Will. Understand, I said if and when you find out Broome’s just plumb narrow-gauge, you come help me.”

  “And if I don’t find this out about him?”

  “You will,” Charlie said bluntly. “You ain’t a crook, Will. You’re decent and honest. Murray Broome ain’t. Some day he’ll prove it to you. If he don’t—” Charlie spread his hands and shrugged—“I just made a bum guess, that’s all. You’ll be free, and I’ll lose my job and likely go to jail. I’m riskin’ it.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Charlie?” Will drawled slowly, still puzzled. “You’re pretty sure of Murray, too.”

  Charlie nodded. Will was mute, impressed by Charlie’s quiet conviction. For a moment, he wondered if Charlie was right about Milt, and then he knew he wasn’t. Charlie Sommers thought that any man who kills another is automatically a killer, never seeing through to the motive or the justification. Will didn’t pretend to understand all the politics behind Murray Broome’s killing of Senator Mason, but he felt deep within him that it was justified. A queer thought fled through his mind then; he remembered Chap Hale saying this same thing about Murray Broome.

  But Milt was straight. You can’t know a man’s innermost thoughts for five years and not know that about him. He had to cling to that, remember it. As for Charlie’s proposition, it was fair, straightforward, and Will knew he must accept it. The reason had become plain to him during these hours in jail; he couldn’t let Becky help him break out. Phipps was a man who wouldn’t spare a woman, and if the break was successful and Becky was implicated, Phipps wouldn’t spare her. Last night, faced with hopeless odds and persuaded by Becky, he had thought it might work. Now he knew he couldn’t accept her help. And he could accept Charlie’s.

  Charlie’s voice roused him, saying, “Better take the gun, Will.”

  “What about you?” Will said softly. “Hell, they’ll get you, Charlie. And there’s nobody folks hate like a renegade lawman. They’ll nail up your hide, sure.”

  Charlie nodded, smiling a little. “It’ll be pretty rough. But once they find out you’re innocent and that you turn up Murray Broome, I’ll be all right.”

  “But I won’t turn up Murray!” Will said swiftly. “Forget that. You can’t count on that, Charlie.”

  “I am countin’ on it.”

  “And you’re willin’ to risk roostin’ in jail for twenty years on it?”

  “Hell, I’d risk hangin’.”

  “You’re a sucker. Give me the gun,” Will said meagerly.

  “You promise that when you find Broome’s a crook, you’ll help me get him?”

  “If I find he’s a crook, I’ll come to you and help you get him,” Will promised.

  Charlie handed him the gun and rose. “I don’t have to tell you that Phipps is an honest lawman. Don’t hurt him.” He shook hands with Will and went out, a ruddy-faced, stocky man who saw nothing strange in what he had just done. At the door he paused to button his coat so t
hat his empty holster would not show to the men in the office.

  When he was gone, Will hid the gun under the blanket on his cot. The others watched him, speechless with surprise. Then Ollie Gargan growled, “Will, you’re goin’ to walk into a trap. That-there marshal will have a dozen men with rifles planted across the street.”

  “You boys want to try it with me?” Will countered.

  Ollie considered, and then said, “I reckon.”

  “How about you, Pinky?”

  “I’ll take a chance.”

  “Pablo?”

  “Me, too.”

  Will sat back to consider. Unless he played this cagey, none of them would get out. You couldn’t stick a gun in Phipps’s face and tell him to open up. What if he didn’t have the keys with him? But he carried them, Will remembered. What if he refused, knowing you wouldn’t shoot? You’d have to get him in the cell, and that meant waiting till meal time. And that meant making an escape in daylight, which would be more dangerous.

  No, he’d have to try it at night—tonight.

  Every night at ten or so either Phipps or one of his deputies would come in and blow out the lamp. This was the time to act. The other three were looking at him, and Will said, “Let me play this my way. Just watch.”

  He smoked two cigarettes in quick succession and then waited impatiently. The others were lying on their cots, watching him.

  Presently, one of the deputies, a big young puncher, came in to blow out the lamp.

  “Roll in, you bums,” he said cheerfully.

  Will was sitting on his cot. He yawned and said idly, “Phipps still here?”

  “Yeah, but he won’t talk to you,” the deputy said.

  Will stood up and took out his gun and stepped to the bars. The deputy reached up for the lamp and Will said quietly, “Leave that alone.”

  The deputy glanced at him, then his gaze traveled down to the gun. His mouth sagged open, and slowly he raised his eyes to Will’s face.

  “One yelp out of you and I’ll blow out your short ribs,” Will drawled tonelessly. “You got it?”

  The deputy nodded in speechless assent.

  Will saw he didn’t have a gun. He said, “Come over here by the door. Make it quick!”

  The deputy did as he was bidden. Will knew he was too scared to bluff it out and too dumb to gauge a prisoner’s desperation, as Phipps would do.

  Will rammed the gun in his midriff and said swiftly, “Does Phipps carry the cell keys with him?”

  The man shook his head in negation, and for a moment Will knew despair. He thought quickly, wracking his brain for some way to get Phipps in here with the keys. He didn’t dare let the deputy go. Then he said, “Listen careful, now. Tiptoe over to that corridor door and open it, soft. Then come back here, stand in front of that Mexican’s cell, and yell for Phipps to bring the keys. Wait a second.”

  Still keeping his eyes on the deputy, Will said, “Pablo, lie down on the floor away from your cot. When Phipps comes in, don’t move, don’t say anything. You sabe?”

  “Sí, I’m seeck,” Pablo said.

  “That’s right.” To the deputy Will said, “Phipps don’t smoke, does he?”

  “No.”

  “Give me your tobacco.”

  The deputy was too scared to be mystified at the request. He handed over his sack of dust, and Will pocketed it. Then Will said, “If that door squeaks when you open it, I’ll shoot you in the back. Hurry it!”

  The deputy went over to the corridor door and silently pulled it ajar under Will’s gun. Getting Will’s nod, he came back to Pablo’s cell, where the Mexican was lying on the floor, and then called, “Hey, sheriff! Bring in them cell keys, will you?”

  It was good. There was just enough urgency and excitement in his voice to arouse curiosity. Will sank on the cot, put the gun behind him, and waited.

  Phipps stalked in, hand on gun. When he got into the cell block the deputy pointed. “He’s sick or somethin’. You want to look at him?”

  Phipps was an old hand at all the dodges. He came up to the cell, looked at Pablo, who was jerking his legs in a strange manner.

  “Go out and get a doc,” Phipps said meagerly.

  The deputy looked at Will, and Will realized he’d have to stop him.

  Will came to his feet, gun in his waistband in the small of his back and drawled, “No need for that, sheriff. You got the keys?”

  “I got ’em.”

  “Then roll him over and blow tobacco in his nose. It makes him sneeze and he comes out of them fits.”

  Phipps looked as if he didn’t believe it, but he said to the deputy. “Got some tobacco?” The deputy, deprived of his tobacco, shook his head.

  “Here,” Will said, and held out the sack through the bars. The deputy made a start for it but hauled up at Will’s warning glance. Phipps didn’t notice it. He came over, reached absently for the sack, and then Will grabbed his wrist. He swung him round, yanked him to the bars, and wrapped his arms around Phipps’s neck, choking him. Phipps kicked like a horse and tried to grab his gun, but Will had his hand on it. Will said swiftly to the deputy, “Unlock this door, fella.”

  “Don’t!” Phipps gasped.

  And then the deputy caught his meaning. He stopped, undecided, and Will saw he was wavering. He clamped down on Phipps’s throat and yanked out the gun and pointed it at the deputy.

  “Open up or I’ll gut-shoot you!”

  “No!” Phipps gasped.

  Will knew he would have to act, regardless of the danger. He shot once. The slug plucked at the deputy’s sleeve and slammed into the stone wall. The report bellowed in the cell block.

  “Next time it’s dead center!” Will snarled. “Get them keys!”

  The deputy was really scared now. He lunged for the keys in Phipps’s pocket and the game sheriff tried to fight him off. But Will was choking him savagely.

  The deputy got the keys and fumbled them into the lock; the door swung open. Will dived through it, brushing the deputy aside. Phipps was just coming to his feet then, and Will swung a left into his jaw that knocked him flat. Will didn’t even wait to watch him. He swung the gun on the deputy and said, “Open the rest!”

  “Go on, Will!” Ollie yelled. “You ain’t got time for us!”

  Already they could hear shouting in the street.

  But Will stubbornly prodded the deputy over to the end cell. He let Pinky and Ollie out. Just as they came through the door they heard footsteps pound through the office.

  Will raced for the corridor door, and he was halfway to it when it slammed open and a puncher tumbled through shooting wildly. Will shot low and the puncher went down, and then Will yelled, “Come on!” and jumped over the downed man and through the door. Two more men from the saloon across the street boiled into the office and slammed into Will. Immediately they were at such close quarters they couldn’t shoot, and Will slashed out with his gun. He caught one man on the side of the head, and he went down, and then Will kicked out at the other, who was bringing up his gun. The shot boomed hollowly in the room, and the slug slammed into the roof, and then the gun went kiting after it. Will picked up a chair and smashed it down on the man’s head, then turned to look back. The downed puncher had Ollie and Pinky covered, and they were backed against the wall, hands overhead. Ollie saw him and yelled, “Go on, Will!” and the puncher turned and snapped a shot at him. At the same moment someone from across the street let go with a rifle, and the slug bored into the doorjamb beside Will’s head. It was too late to help his crew now, Will knew. He lunged out into the night, and was immediately caught in a cross fire along the boardwalk. He vaulted the tie rail and then saw the stream of men pouring out of the saloon toward the sheriff’s office. It was so dark out here that nobody was recognizable, and Will knew they couldn’t spot him unless they heard the shouting of their companions. He ran out into the street, shouting:

  “Surround the place! Get around in back!” Exhorting each man as he passed him, he ran for the horses at
the tie rail in front of the saloon.

  But now he was in the dim lamplight cast through the saloon windows, and he heard men yelling behind him. He was recognized now.

  He piled into the protection of the horses and swiftly untied the reins of one. Before he mounted, he looked across the street. Men were running up the boardwalk now, flanking him, cutting him off. As soon as he pulled out from the tangle of horses he would run a gantlet of fire. And yet he had to have a horse to escape.

  He made up his mind after one bitter moment of indecision. He swung into the saddle of a big chestnut, crouching low on his neck. He roweled him through the narrow passage between two tie rails onto the boardwalk. Then he reined him straight into the door of Hal Mohr’s saloon. A tattoo of gunfire beat on the sign above the door.

  Will savagely roweled the horse which brushed open the door with his shoulder and ran across the sawdust floor of the saloon. Will lifted him over one long table and snaked him in between two others. Hal Mohr’s shotgun blasted across the room, and Will heard the buckshot slap on the opposite wall. Will reined him through the back door, the horse slipping and almost going down and catching himself, and then lunging forward through the open door into the alley. A parting blast from the shotgun stung Will’s back and the horse’s rump, but the distance was ineffective for shooting.

  Will turned the horse up the alley and let him stretch out into a lope, heading north. He knew that darkness would hide him until he was swallowed up hours later in the Sevier Brakes.

  Chapter Eleven

  FUGITIVE

  Case had left the house for the barn some time ago, and Becky was cleaning up in the kitchen. There was a worried frown on her face, and a kind of dread excitement within her. Case was going to town this afternoon, and she was going with him. Sometime during the evening she would call on Will in jail, and when she left he would have the gun she smuggled to him. She had given much thought to how she could help, and had settled on the gun. All other ways were closed to a lone woman, and she was exasperated by her helplessness. What if they caught Will with the gun, using that as an excuse to shoot him?