Lawless Trail

by Ralph Cotton

  “Old habits don’t die easy, Ranger,” Hardaway said, cutting him off. “But the thing is, Wes was always doing stuff like that—giving outlawry a classy turn, if you know what I mean.”

  “And that favorably impressed you,” Sam said flatly.

  “Yes, it did,” said Hardaway. “Leastwise, enough to make me feel bad about jackpotting them this way. All the time I rode with them, they never hurt anybody—maybe cracked a head or two. They only steal from banks and railroads. Let’s face it, banks and railroads are the worst thieves in the world. The Traybos haven’t killed innocent people. Just the railroad dogs out to kill them.”

  “It might surprise you to hear this, Hardaway, but not everybody thinks the way you do about banks and railroads,” Sam said. “Anyway, the Traybos are outlaws. Let’s keep that straight. No matter how well they play their hands, sooner or later something will go wrong and some innocent persons will die. Maybe I can get to them before that happens and take them in alive—” He stopped short and looked off toward the trail they’d ridden up on, hearing a faint but familiar sound.

  Hardaway looked at him, knowing something was up.

  “What is it?” he asked in a whisper, his hand already closing around his gun butt.

  “Horses, coming up the other side,” Sam said under his breath.

  “Horses . . . ?” Hardaway said. “Are you sure?”

  Sam just gave him a look.

  “Sorry,” Hardaway whispered. “Want me to kill the fire?”

  Sam considered it.

  “No,” he said. He reached over to his saddle and drew his rifle from its scabbard. “Build it up some. Somebody’s on this trail, we need to find out who it is and what they’re up to.”

  Chapter 7

  Artimus Folliard and another detective, a wiry little Arkansan named Suell Crane, were the first two members of the detective posse to walk their horses up from the trail into the outer edge of the circling firelight. The two stopped and looked all around from behind the cover of a rock, Folliard wearing a blue cloth wrapped beneath his chin and tied at the top of his head to ease the throbbing pain from his broken teeth. On either side of the flickering fire, they saw the outlines of two sleeping figures, each wrapped in a blanket lying back a few feet out of the firelight.

  “This is too bloody good to be true,” Crane whispered to Folliard.

  Folliard’s covered jawline still revealed much of the swollen purple flesh left from the blow of his own gun barrel. Dried blood had formed in the corner of his mouth from the broken teeth.

  “Yeah, wait here, watch the horses and keep me covered,” he whispered to Crane in a stiff and pained voice.

  “What?” Crane whispered, surprised, seeing Folliard start to move forward in a crouch.

  “I said wait here, damn it,” said Folliard. “I’m going to wake this bastard with my gun barrel staring him in the eye.”

  “Garand said wait until everybody gets this camp surrounded,” said Crane. “You best do as we’re told.”

  “I’m Garand’s huckleberry. I can do no wrong,” Folliard whispered confidently. “I’m not waiting—not after what that outlaw did to me.” He started to move forward again. Crane grabbed his arm.

  “You’re not thinking straight, Artimus,” said Crane. “You don’t even know it’s them.”

  Folliard stared down at the wiry little detective’s hand clasped around his forearm. Crane turned him loose quickly.

  “It’s them all right,” Folliard whispered. “Who else would be on this trail this close to where we found the wagon?”

  “I don’t know. But Garand said wait,” Crane insisted. “If this is them, where’re the doctor and the woman?”

  But Folliard would have none of it.

  “I’ll find out from one after I’ve killed the other,” Folliard whispered. He turned and moved away silently in a crouch toward the firelight.

  “He’s lost his mind . . . ,” Crane murmured to himself, moving forward a few steps to keep Folliard covered. He watched Folliard move slowly until he stood over the nearest blanket on the ground. As Folliard held a borrowed Colt out at arm’s length, cocked and aimed down at the blanket, Crane cursed under his breath, even as he started to step closer.

  But before he could take his next step, he recognized the feel of a cold rifle barrel against the back of his neck. He froze, staring straight ahead where Folliard stood ready to pull the trigger on the big Colt.

  Oh no! He had a sinking feeling deep down in his stomach as he watched Folliard reach out with his boot and kick it sidelong against the sleeper on the ground.

  “Wake up, long rider. It’s time to die,” Folliard growled through his swollen jaw. He pulled the Colt’s trigger and sent a streak of fire blazing down through the blanket. As soon as he’d pulled the trigger, he swung the Colt toward the second blanket on the other side of the campfire, cocked it and braced to fire again. He stood waiting for a second. When no movement came from the other blanket, he looked back down.

  “What the hell?” he said. He swung around toward Crane. But instead of seeing his partner standing fifteen feet away where he’d left him, he saw the shadowy outline of a man drawing back the butt stock of Winchester rifle. “Oh no,” he managed to say just as the rifle butt jabbed forward with a fierce blow and nailed him squarely across his forehead.

  The Colt in Folliard’s hand fired wildly as he fell backward to the ground. The Ranger ducked to one side instinctively as the bullet whistled past him, past Hardaway, toward the detectives’ waiting horses.

  “Ho—ly!” shouted Hardaway, he and Crane both flinching, turning toward the horses, seeing the bullet had stricken Folliard’s saddle horn and shattered it into pieces. The exploding saddle horn sent Folliard’s terrified horse into a wild, rearing, bucking frenzy. Crane’s horse, also badly spooked, charged across the campsite. But Sam caught its reins and held on, letting the animal spin in a full circle until it settled and drew to a halt. Folliard’s horse went racing away in the dark, whinnying loud and long in the otherwise quiet night. Bits of the shattered saddle horn sprinkled down like raindrops.

  “All right, ambusher, start talking,” Hardaway said to the other detective as Sam led the horse over to them. He kept his face hidden beneath his lowered hat brim from force of habit. “How many more ambushers are out there?” He gave the man a poke with his gun barrel for good measure.

  “There’s a whole posse of us coming, mister,” the wiry little detective said. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll lower the rifle and give yourselves up to me.”

  “Now, why on earth would we do that?” Hardaway asked as the Ranger walked over to them leading Crane’s horse, Folliard’s smoking Colt dangling in his hand.

  “To keep us from hanging you on the spot,” Crane said, growing more confident.

  “Hear that, Ranger?” said Hardaway. “These ambushers will hang us on the spot if we don’t roll over and show them our bellies.”

  “Ranger?” said Crane, taking on a peculiar expression.

  “Yep, Ranger Samuel Burrack,” said Hardaway, suddenly liking the idea of having a lawman riding with him. “What does that do for you, ambusher?”

  “Ranger, you’ve got us all wrong,” Crane said, speaking rapidly, seeing the badge on Sam’s chest in the flicker of firelight. “We’re not ambushers. Me and Folliard there are both railroad detectives, riding posse with Dallas Garand. We’re after a band of robbers—the Traybo Gang. We got word they were hitting our bank and we tried to catch them red-handed.”

  “How’d that go?” said Hardaway beneath his lowered hat brim.

  “Not good, not good at all,” said the detective. “That’s why we’re tracking them.”

  Sam only stared at the detective for a moment, hearing more hooves moving along the trail leading up to them. The riders had given up on staying quiet now that they’d hea
rd gunfire erupt ahead of them.

  “Your posse will be here any minute,” the Ranger said. “I expect Dallas Garand will be leading it?” As he spoke he shoved Folliard’s Colt down behind his gun belt.

  “Yes, he is, Ranger,” said Crane, his hands still chest high. “He won’t stand for nothing ugly happening to Folliard and me.”

  “Good for Dallas Garand,” said Hardaway, gigging the detective again with the gun barrel. “Don’t do nothing ugly and nothing ugly will happen to you.” He grinned. “Right, Ranger?”

  Sam didn’t answer. He reached behind the detective’s coat lapel and pulled a long Smith & Wesson Schofield from a cross-draw belly rig. He turned the pistol in his hand, looked it over and shoved it down beside Folliard’s borrowed Colt.

  “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” he said to the worried detective. “We’ll talk it all out when Garand gets here.”

  “Garand is here, Ranger,” said a booming voice from the darkness surrounding the campsite.

  Hardaway spun around in surprise, his rifle ready to fire.

  “No, Hardaway, stand down,” the Ranger ordered him in a lowered voice. “Running into these fellows might be a good break for you and me both.”

  “Throw your guns down, Ranger,” Dallas Garand said. “I’m bringing my men in.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, here’s how it works, Garand,” Sam replied, unmoved by the posse leader’s demanding tone. “You only throw your guns down when you’re caught sneaking into camp trying to kill somebody in their sleep.” He paused, then said, “That would be your two men here.”

  Hardaway and the Ranger heard the posse leader curse and growl under his breath.

  “I didn’t tell them to do that, Ranger,” Garand said. “Detective Folliard has been acting strange from a gun barrel lick he took earlier today.”

  “He might be acting strange a little longer,” said the Ranger. He looked over at Folliard, who still lay knocked flat on his back, babbling like a drunkard. His right boot wagged back and forth slowly in the dirt.

  “We’re on the hunt, Ranger,” said Garand. “Either let’s talk law talk or we’ll be on our way. I don’t have all night.”

  “Come on in, Garand,” Sam called out. “Wake your man up and tell him where he’s at.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell him where he’s at,” Garand said in a threatening tone, stepping his horse forward into the firelight. “You can bet on it.”

  • • •

  The Ranger and Hardaway stood watching, guns hanging in their hands, as Dallas Garand and his posse pulled Artimus Folliard to his feet. Water dripped from Folliard’s face where Crane had emptied a canteen of tepid water on him to bring him around.

  “Serves him right, the son of a bitch,” Hardaway whispered sidelong to the Ranger. “Sneaking in here like he did.”

  “Walk easy around these men,” Sam warned him in a lowered voice, keeping his eyes on the detectives and townsmen who had laid their torches in a burning pile on the ground.

  “Obliged, Ranger, but you can’t tell me a thing about these buzzards,” said Hardaway. “They’ve had my bones on a spick for a long time.”

  “For good reason?” the Ranger asked under his breath.

  Hardaway stalled a moment, then said, “I’m probably not the best person to ask about that. But the fact is, I paid my time in Mexico, sitting things out awhile. I’m clean—just like you found out.”

  “Relax, Hardaway,” Sam said, seeing how tense the detectives were making him. “You’ve got the law standing beside you.”

  As the posse turned, Crane and two of the townsmen led Folliard away toward their horses while the other men followed Dallas Garand to where the Ranger and Hardaway stood.

  “Well, well,” Garand said, finally recognizing Hardaway, “if it’s not Fatcharack Hardaway himself.”

  Fatcharack? The Ranger gave Hardaway a curious look.

  “What are you doing riding with Fatcharack Hardaway?” Garand asked.

  “Nobody calls me Fatcharack anymore, Garand,” Hardaway said in a tight, threatening tone. “Not for long anyway.” His hand gripped the rifle tight. “Maybe you wouldn’t realize that, having only seen my name on old railroad posters and such. But it’s Fatch. And you’ll want to remember that in the future.”

  “I wouldn’t be putting lots of stock in the future if I were you, Fatch,” said Garand. He turned dismissingly from Hardaway to the Ranger. “Ranger Burrack,” he said, “let me introduce you to the finest crew of detectives ever brought together.” He gestured from his left to his right at the hard, grim faces of his men.

  “This is Earl Prew, Fain Elliot, L. C. McGuire, Huey Drambite and Rio DeSpain—or Spanish Rivers as some have called him.”

  Spanish Rivers, the rotten son of a bitch, Hardaway thought to himself, gazing at DeSpain, recognizing him less by sight than by name and bad reputation.

  Sam nodded at each of the six men in turn, recognizing the names Fain Elliot and Rio DeSpain. He stopped at DeSpain and looked him up and down, seeing the gunman’s fingers open and close restlessly around the butt of a Mason-Richards Navy Colt conversion.

  “Spanish Rivers,” Sam said. “Last picture I saw of you, they had you tied to a board out front of the sheriff’s office in Waco.”

  Spanish Rivers gave a sharp little grin that was more like some strange wolf showing a gold-capped fang. A round gold earring dangled from his left ear. The top third of the same ear was missing.

  “Yeah, they all thought I was dead that day,” he said. “But they found out otherwise. The photographer got close enough, I head-butted him—broke his damn nose like an eggshell. When they cut me loose, I wanted to light flash powder up his—”

  “So you see, Ranger,” Garand said, cutting DeSpain off, “I have all the right men to go after anybody foolish enough to rob our trains or bank holdings.”

  “Does that include your man over there?” Sam asked, nodding toward Folliard, who leaned against a horse, two men steadying him.

  “Hard to believe, but that idiot was one of my best men until he had his jaw creased with a gun barrel.” He shook his head. “Good gunmen are as unpredictable as they are hard to find,” he said.

  “Your man Crane there told us the Traybo Gang hit the bank in Maley,” Sam said. He took Folliard’s Colt and Crane’s Schofield from behind his belt and gave them to Garand. The detective leader accepted them with an embarrassed expression.

  “Yeah, they did,” he said grudgingly. “They emptied the rail pens, sent a stampede down the middle of town—killed a rail pen worker, one of my detectives and some innocent widow, never harmed a living soul in her life.”

  The Ranger looked at Hardaway with a grim expres-sion.

  “There goes the part about the Traybo Gang not killing innocent people,” he said. “I expect taking them in alive is out of the question now.”

  “Take them in alive? Ha!” said Garand. “I’ll take in their heads on the end of sticks. Don’t kid yourself, Ranger. This bunch is as bad as they come. Try taking them alive, all it will get a man is a hard fall and an early grave.”

  “It was just a thought, Garand,” Sam said. “I’m always sorry to hear about innocent people dying. Who identified the Traybos?”

  Garand stalled for a second, then said, “The thing is, this was a setup. We got word to the Traybos through a source I won’t reveal. We knew it was them coming in.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Sam said. “You knew they were coming? Still they did all that to you?”

  “Don’t judge me, Ranger!” Garand raised a gloved finger. “You had to be there to see how bad it went. We weren’t prepared for a cattle stampede. One of my detectives shotgunned one of them in the bank. I expect that one’s dead. We caught one of them making their getaway. Had him ready to break—about to tell us everything about where the gang’s headed!�
��

  “What happened?” Sam asked.

  Garand stared hard at him, but then he let out a tight breath and continued.

  “All right,” he said. “Wes Traybo rode back, freed him at gunpoint, kidnapped the town doctor and a young Mexican dove and rode away in a buckboard.” He jerked a nod toward the dark trail behind them. “We found the buckboard back there. That’s what made us think this might be their campfire.”

  “You think they would build a fire, a posse on their trail?” Sam asked flatly.

  Hardaway chuffed and shook his head.

  “That’d be as stupid as tracking them with torches,” he cut in before Sam could stop him.

  “You son of a bitch!” shouted Garand. “No long- riding, four-flushing trash tells me how to do my job!”

  Sam stepped between the two men as they both lurched toward each other.

  “Wait a minute, both of you,” Sam said, holding out a hand in each direction. “Save your fighting for the Traybos, Garand,” he said to the posse leader. To Hardaway he said, “This is law talk. Keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Garand settled, as did Hardaway.

  “What are you doing riding with this known felon, Ranger?” Garand asked again.

  “The fact is, he’s no felon,” Sam said. “The only charge he had against him has been dropped. The man he killed was wanted dead or alive by the state of Ohio. He acted as bounty hunter. I’m accompanying him to see to it he draws his reward without some lawman blowing his head off.”

  “If you’re thinking about changing your plans and going after the Traybos, forget it,” said Garand. “I’ve got them cold.”

  The Ranger didn’t reply.

  Garand turned a cold stare to Hardaway.

  “Bounty hunter, my dead uncle’s ass.” He sneered at Hardaway. “Sam, you’ll be lucky if this one doesn’t murder you in your sleep. I won’t have you riding the trail ahead of me, not with him in tow. He’ll warn the Traybos if you get close to them.”