by Paul Lederer
Directly in their path Wage Carson had positioned his horse. He stood behind the gray, rifle across the saddle, muzzle trained on Virgil Sly.
‘Drop your guns, Sly,’ Wage ordered. Was it his imagination or was his voice a little shaky? He knew Sly’s reputation, had seen some of his work first hand.
‘What do you want?’ Sly called back. Liza kept her eyes on Wage, hoping intently that he knew what he was doing.
‘Just the girl,’ Wage answered across the intervening distance which was no more than twenty yards. The gray horse stamped a foot and Wage prayed the big animal would stand, providing a bulwark against Sly’s guns.
‘Sure,’ Sly replied after a moment’s thought. ‘Then what – if I let her go?’
‘Then nothing,’ Wage said meaning it. ‘She’s all I want. You can go on your way. You have my word for it.’
‘He means it,’ Liza said in a breathless voice. ‘He’s too honest to lie.’
‘They don’t make any men like that,’ Sly said.
Still what choice did Sly have now? There was no way of firing past the horse. Skilled as he was, there was no clear target offering itself. What then? Trust the bulky marshal? Sly hadn’t gotten as far as he had by taking anyone’s word for anything. If he turned over the girl, what was to keep the marshal from opening up on Sly with that Winchester?
‘I don’t like it,’ Sly shouted.
‘I’m not asking you to like it,’ Wage answered, ‘I’m just telling you to do it. Let the girl go, Sly!’
‘Put that rifle down. I’ll walk her over to you,’ the gunman offered.
‘I don’t think so!’ Wage called back. Sweat trickled into his eyes. The sun was brilliant in a white sky. The heat of his horse’s body was too near. Wage waited. Sly made no move, offered no response.
Suddenly Sly did move. ‘All right, then!’ he shouted. ‘Her she is!’ And Sly shouldered Liza roughly so that she tumbled from the seat of the surrey and fell headfirst to the ground. Simultaneously Sly drew his pistol and fired. His shot was aimed at nothing, was not meant to be. It panicked Wage’s gray horse, however, which had been Virgil Sly’s intent.
Wage who had watched Liza fall from the wagon was momentarily uncertain if Sly had shot her. At the same time his horse, taking fright, kicked out his heels and bounded on to the open desert beyond the trail.
Sly had started the matched black horses into a run, and he now bore down on Wage who had no choice but to throw himself aside, landing roughly on his shoulder. On the run, Sly winged two shots at Wage from the seat of the surrey. One of the bullets missed by inches, kicking powdered earth into Wage’s eyes. The second one caught solid flesh, searing its way across Wage Carson’s chest.
Sly drew the team up to finish the job.
Liza had risen and, screaming frantically, she ran toward Wage who lay twitching against the earth. Sly had clambered down from the wagon, and now with his hat tilted back he calmly reloaded his pistol as he strode toward Wage.
‘Wage!’ Liza shouted as she went to her knees beside the fallen marshal. He did not answer, could make no move to protect himself. Virgil Sly had just snapped the loading gate of his Colt shut when Liza scooped up Wage Carson’s Winchester, steadied herself on one knee and shot the gunfighter through the heart.
Sly hadn’t the time to say anything although his lips moved. He seemed, however, although it might have been Liza’s imagination, to wink as he collapsed to the ground, already dead.
Liza bowed her head to Wage’s body, searched for and found his steadily beating pulse, and rose quickly to catch up the black horses.
Returning, she managed to get Wage to his feet, but only briefly. He was murmuring words with no meaning through the pain. In a staggering walk they moved the ten feet to the surrey where she managed to topple the big man on to the back seat of the four-passenger rig. Panting with the exertion she went to the far side of the surrey, took Wage beneath both arms and tried to tug him all the way in. She couldn’t do it!
The dry wind shifted her short dark hair. Liza stood up, breathing rapidly, shallowly. Walking to the other side of the wagon once again, keeping her eyes from the form of the dead Virgil Sly, she studied the situation. Wage’s boots still touched the ground. He could not be roused from his pained slumber to assist her.
Again she tried to pull him farther into the surrey, her joints cracking as she strained against his weight. How does a man get so large! It was impossible for her to move him. The big oaf looked troubled in his sleep; blood stained his shirt. Giving in to an irrepressible urge she lowered his face to his and kissed him lightly. Wage lifted his arm and his eyes opened slightly. She thought she detected a hint of a smile on his broad face.
‘Wage,’ she tried, ‘Scoot up a little.’
Remarkably he did so, obeying Liza as if he were her child. Perhaps he was in a sense. The big blockhead.
Wage managed to pull himself into the surrey and then fell into unconsciousness once again. The dry wind whipped the tears from Liza’s cheeks. She started the surrey toward Hangtown.
It took the three of them to get Wage upstairs into a hotel bed – Liza, Josh Banks and Gus. Josh and Liza did the best they could to bandage Wage’s wounded chest. In Josh’s opinion the wound which had bled copiously, was not life-threatening, but you never knew about gunshots, especially out here in the wilds where there was no decent medical aid and there was a constant threat of infection.
After Gus had gone Liza and Josh took up stations on opposite sides of the patient’s bed and watched the big man pale with the loss of blood, inert and silent. The door to the room had been left open, but the window had been shut. A late afternoon windstorm had descended upon them and dust darkened the skies and coated the buildings of Hangtown with fine silt. The wind creaked and whistled, whispered and moaned through every opening like some evil omen.
‘It’s all my fault,’ Liza said miserably. She held a handkerchief in her small hands, twisted as tightly as a rope.
‘No,’ Josh Banks answered. ‘It’s not, Liza. Don’t start thinking that way. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me for letting him pin on that marshal’s badge in the first place.’
‘He would have come for me anyway,’ Liza said, lifting dark liquid eyes to Josh Banks.
‘Yes,’ Josh said after a moment. ‘I suppose he would have. No one’s to blame then. Maybe it’s just Hangtown – I can’t see that this place has ever brought anybody any luck.’
The sandstorm had taken Laredo by surprise. He had seen Jay Champion veer off the road and strike out across country toward the Arroyo Verde cut-off, following very nearly the path that Wage Carson had used. Laredo, sensing triumph, urged his buckskin horse on to an even faster pace. Champion was not going to escape. Not this time.
He had seen the surrey boiling it toward town with a still figure thrown on to the rear seat. Wage Carson, it seemed, had met his match. That indicated to Laredo that Sly might still be waiting on the trail to join up with Champion. Or – had the marshal managed to take Sly down? That seemed unlikely, the big clumsy kid against a gunslick like Virgil Sly. But you never knew. When the bullets started flying, they had their own minds.
Still, Laredo rode with the assumption that both Sly and Champion were ahead of him, together or separately.
Now with the sky lowering, the first gusts of wind picked up the light sand and hurled it into Laredo’s face. It would only get worse, he knew from past experience. No matter. He would not allow Champion to lose himself in the dust storm, he would not allow him to escape. The sky darkened, the wind increased, driving sand as stiff as buckshot against him. He could barely see the trail ahead of him now, would not have known if a hundred guns were positioned beside the road, waiting for him. He tugged his bandana up over nose and mouth and rode blindly into the swirling darkness of the hellish day.
TEN
The temperature rose, the gusting swirls of hot dust continued as Laredo rode on, trying not to lose the trail to the elements. He t
ook only shallow breaths now, and his eyes were squeezed into a squint against the driving dust storm. He muttered curses, realizing that it was a futile waste of breath. Cursing men did no good and to threaten Mother Nature with a dry oath went beyond futility.
He had slowed his buckskin to a walk. He could not risk losing the path of the Arroyo Verde cut-off. That would leave him wandering aimlessly in the desert, miles from any hope of help. His only consolation was that Jay Champion could not be making better time under these conditions.
Nor Virgil Sly.
In this pelting, brownish haze, however, he could ride directly into their waiting guns if they had decided to pause and wait out the dust storm. Laredo’s mouth was dry; his nostrils, despite the bandanna he wore, were clotted with dust. His eyes burned fiercely from the sandy assault of the wind.
His horse was faring no better. As the wind increased yet again, to a heated banshee force, he decided that he had no choice but to stop. The trail had grown invisible beneath drift sand. He halted reluctantly and turned his buckskin’s head away from the wind. He, himself, squatted down between the horse’s front legs and, hunched and weary, fearing that he might have lost yet another prey, waited out the blistering storm.
It was no time for dreaming, but as Laredo sat miserably against the desert floor, head bowed, he did spend a few minutes idly thinking about the course his life had taken, wondering if he should not have become a dirt farmer or a storekeeper – anything but the way he had chosen. His only consolation as the dreary minutes passed was that he knew that he had put some very bad men into prison and saved the money of other people – dirt farmers and storekeepers included – and kept them from ruin.
Dusk colored the sand-swept land vividly. Lurid purples and streaks of crimson clung to the storm as it passed. At the hour before sundown, the wind seemed to shift and lighten. Peering skyward, Laredo thought that he caught a glimpse of the coming half-moon through the dust veil.
He did not want to rise. He did not wish to ride into the teeth of the storm again, even if it was weakening, but there was no choice. Jay Champion and Sly would be riding at the first opportunity. On cramped legs, Laredo rose to his feet and with his eyes turned downward to avoid the brunt of the blasting sandstorm, he fumbled his way into the saddle again and turned the big buckskin horse westward once more.
The trail, though drifted with sand, was now obvious. The sky, still painted with rufous colors, was slowly clearing. The driven sand seemed more like an annoying swarm of darting insects than an assaulting force. And the half-moon could now be clearly seen, illuminating the cut-off.
Laredo rode determinedly on. He had no anger directed toward Sly and Champion. He simply could not fail. Maybe that said something about Laredo’s own pride, his own needs. But he would not fail himself.
He would not let Jake Royle down. If not for Jake, Laredo might have found himself at this very moment sitting in an over-heated cell in the Territorial Prison at Yuma. A man took care of his debts even if the obligation was to a dead man.
Laredo rode on.
The night skies were amazingly bright with stars sprinkled around the moon and scattered to the horizons. There was no breeze. Not a breath. The storm had vanished as quickly as it had arisen. From the rise, Laredo could see the pueblo of Arroyo Verde below, home fires bright in the windows of the few dozen adobe houses there. Beyond the town was the shallow canyon after which the settlement had been named. Green willow and tall, crooked sycamore trees grew along the watercourse.
Mentally, Laredo girded himself. He would see that his horse had water first. Then he would find the men he stalked. They had to be here, must be. How much farther could Jay Champion have ridden without rest? The bank robber would not go easy. Not simply hand over the money and surrender. It was going to be a shooting war, probably a killing time. So be it. Jay Champion had chosen his way of life as Laredo had chosen his. Now either or both must pay the price for those choices.
Entering the sleepy town of Arroyo Verde in the hour after sundown, Laredo scanned the dark streets. There was little activity. Those who lived here were not rough cattlemen, but family folks who would wish to be home for their evening meal. Light from the low adobe-block structures bled on to the red-rust street as Laredo walked his buckskin along its length, eyes searching the shadows.
Where would Jay Champion have gone first? Well, to a stable to see that his desert-weary horse was tended to. Laredo progressed until he saw a roughly carved sign above the door of a two-story structure. The sign was hardly needed to mark it as a stable. The straw and dung scent was heavy in the night. Laredo decided to swing down from his horse and walk it toward the building.
It made it easier to hold his Colt revolver.
Laredo had no doubts that any confrontation with Champion or Sly would lead to gunfire. Why would the bank robbers not fight? They had spent much time and energy sticking up the bank and escaping with their loot. They would not give it up without a battle. Not now.
The only slim advantage that Laredo had was the fact that neither badman knew him on sight. Or so he believed.
Entering the darkness of the stable he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. There was no light to see by, only the distantly winking stars and hidden moon.
‘Hello!’ Laredo called out to the darkness, and Jay Champion popped up behind a stall partition with his pistol in hand.
Their two shots were triggered off within a split second of each other. Laredo spun, started toward the door as his horse reared up in panic. Then the stars blinked out one by one and the night went as black as night could ever be.
Morning light was a dazzle against the white wall of the hotel room when Wage Carson finally opened his eyes. He winced, closed them again and felt a comforting touch on his hand. Slender fingers, gently touching his grizzly-sized paw. He smiled first and then opened his eyes again.
‘Liza.’
‘It’s me, you big lug,’ she said. ‘What were you doing, scaring us like that?’
‘Was I scaring you? I didn’t mean to. What was I doing?’ Wage asked. He tried to sit up, failed and lay back again.
‘All that bleeding and … oh, Wage! Are you going to be all right?’ Liza asked, still clinging to his hand.
‘Sure!’ he said with a confidence he did not feel. Then he asked, ‘What happened to me?’
‘You faced down Virgil Sly. He won,’ Liza said, thumbing tears from the corners of her wide dark eyes.
‘He got away then?’
‘No. We’ll discuss all that later,’ she answered. ‘I think, Wage Carson, that you are the finest, bravest, most noble man I’ve ever known.’ Then Liza dropped his hand, turned her back to him and marched out the door of the hotel room.
‘I wonder why they do that,’ Josh Banks said. It was only then that Wage noticed his old trail partner sitting in a shadowed corner of the room on a wooden chair.
‘I don’t know, Josh. But ain’t it fine?’
When Wage next came around it was late evening. Josh had gone, but Liza was back with a bowl of bean soup. Like a motherly nurse, she propped him up on his pillows and spoon-fed him the bland but tasty concoction. They spoke not at all.
After fifteen minutes or so Wage could no longer keep his eyes open. He tried to apologize, did not know if he had succeeded or not, and then fell off again into a deep slumber.
When Wage awoke again, dawn had broken. Liza was there, but her face was drawn, her demeanor stiff and apparently calculated.
‘What’s the matter?’ Wage asked from his bed.
‘Nothing. What could be the matter? How are you feeling?’
‘Fitter than I have a right to be,’ Wage answered. Heavily he swung his bare feet to the floor. Liza backed away.
‘Then I don’t feel so bad,’ she said hesitantly. Wage tried to study her eyes, but she turned them away from him.
‘So bad?’
‘Oh, Wage – I’m leaving. Cora’s pulling out and I have to go with her.’
‘Why?’ Wage asked, rising clumsily to his feet. Liza backed farther away, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘Because … because of what I owe her, Wage. And because—’
‘Because?’ Wage prompted.
‘Where are you going, you big oaf!’ she said, and then as if shamed, turned her back on him once again and rushed from the room.
Wage moved slowly to the window of the hotel room and looked down, seeing Rebecca, Madeline and Cora Kellogg standing around the surrey. Gus was loading something on to the Conestoga wagon. Liza … was gone.
It was a struggle for Wage to tug his jeans on and to button his shirt, but he made it eventually, and went out into the warming glow of the early desert morning.
In time to see the little cavalcade disappearing around the corner of Hangtown to line out toward the desert flats.
Wage breathed their dust for awhile and then made his way heavily to the marshal’s office.
‘Well, then?’ Josh Banks asked from behind the desk where he had been sitting with his boots propped up.
‘She’s gone,’ Wage said wearily. He clogged his way toward one of the wooden chairs and lowered himself gingerly on to it.
‘Did she say why?’ Josh asked.
‘She said she owes Cora too much. Said I’m going … nowhere.’
Josh didn’t reply. There wasn’t much to say to a man in love’s misery. He did manage to mutter ‘sorry’ after awhile.
They sat in uneasy silence. The women were gone. Josh had buried Cherry that morning. There was no one left in Hangtown.
‘What are we going to do, Josh?’ Wage asked dismally.
‘I don’t know, kid. I just don’t know,’ the old man admitted.
The sound of an approaching horse brought both of their heads up. Now who …?
The door to the marshal’s office swung open to admit a shaft of blue-white light.
And Laredo.
The tall man carried a pair of saddle-bags over his shoulder. He was trail-dusty and obviously weary, but he wore a smile as he marched to the desk and placed the saddle-bags on it.