Lawless Trail

by Ralph Cotton

  Chapter 9

  Once inside the big clapboard house, Bugs fell back against the closed door and let out a long tense breath. Ruben, the doctor and Wes Traybo stood watching him recollect himself and push his hat up on his forehead.

  “I ain’t never doing nothing like that again,” said Bugs, pulling his Colt out from behind his shirt. “Somebody’ll just have to shoot me, send me straight on to hell.” He looked back and forth at the three faces in the darkened room.

  “Dang, Bugs,” said Rubens with a dark grin. “Don’t act like that. You did it so well.”

  “Don’t say another word, Rubens,” Bugs warned. “I won’t be joshed and kidded about this.”

  Rubens saw the young gunman was serious and he quickly dropped his grin.

  “I’m just saying you did a good job, is all,” he said.

  Bugs just stared at him.

  “Yeah, good job, Bugs. I mean it,” said Wes, seeing it to be the way to settle the young man. “You managed to save all of us without firing a shot.” He held Bugs’ gun belt out to him.

  Bugs only nodded, took the gun belt, pushed himself away from against the door, threw the belt around his waist and buckled it. He shoved the Colt down loosely into its holster.

  “I’ll go and check on my patient now,” the doctor said. “The townsmen won’t be back tonight, but we’ll need to get out of here as soon as we can—no later than first light, I’d say.”

  “Hey, Doc,” said Wes, stopping the doctor, his Colt cocked and pointed loosely at him. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  Dr. Bernard only stared at him without replying.

  “Yeah,” Rubens cut in. “Want to tell us all about this secret friend of yours?”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” the doctor said firmly. He started to leave again. Rubens stepped over in front of him.

  “We have a discreet relationship that accommodates our mutual needs,” the doctor said.

  “Good Lord,” Bugs said under his breath, listening. He brushed his shoulder where the barber’s arm had been.

  “I’m betting it does,” Rubens said, blocking the doctor’s way. “Just what kind of secret friends are you?”

  The young doctor stared coldly at him.

  “That’s none of your damn business, sir,” he said boldly, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “I’ll make it our damn business,” said Rubens.

  “Both of you, stop it,” Wes said, pushing the two apart as Rubens advanced. He looked at the doctor and said, “You’re right—it’s none of our business, Doc. You’re saving my brother’s life. That’s all I want from you.” He looked at Rubens and said, “Have a drink, settle down. You’re letting things rub you the wrong way. Hell, we’re outlaws. What do we care?”

  Rubens mumbled under his breath and walked away to where a bottle of rye stood on a lamp table.

  Wes turned back to the doctor and let out a breath.

  “You’ve done right by us so far, Doc. Get us through the night—that’s all I’m asking. Come morning, if you say Ty’s rested some and able to ride, we’ll be out of your hair for good.”

  “He brings me cadavers,” the doctor said quietly as he turned again toward the hallway.

  “What?” said Wes.

  “My special friend, Burle Minton,” said the doctor, stopping without looking back at him. “In addition to my practice, I do research in the discipline of pathological anatomy—morbid anatomy if you will. Mr. Minton provides me with cadavers to dissect.”

  Wes Traybo stood considering it for a moment, letting it sink in. “You mean you and he—”

  “No,” the young doctor said firmly. “Burle is an undertaker establishing himself over in Frey—married with three children. To make ends meet he sells me cadavers of drifters and derelicts. He delivers them at night while the town sleeps because many look down on medical research. When the barber got too nosy, I concocted a ruse, one I knew he’d let out, but that would be discussed in whispers—”

  Wes’ sudden outburst of laughter cut the doctor short. Bugs stiffened in place with a look of both rage and confusion.

  “We thought that you’re . . .” Wes said, letting his statement trail.

  “I saw what you thought,” the doctor said. “With the townsmen coming, I had no time to tell you otherwise.” He looked at Bugs, then back to Wes. “I don’t know why your first conclusion was of such a nature. I strive to understand the human body, not the mind.”

  “Why, you son of a bitch! That’s it! I’m killing him!” Bugs shouted. He leaped at the doctor’s throat with both hands out, fingers spread like talons. Wes caught him in midair. The doctor stood rigid, staring.

  “No, Bugs!” Wes shouted, holding the young gunman back while trying to stop laughing. “He didn’t lie to us. We took it wrong. Settle down before we crack your head. We can’t have this.”

  Rubens stepped over with his Colt out, the butt raised for a hard swipe if Wes gave him the word.

  Seeing the big gun butt looming, Bugs calmed down. He wiped a hand over his mouth and breathed deep.

  “All right, I’m done with it,” he said. But he still stared hard and cold at the doctor.

  Wes turned Bugs loose, holding up a warning finger toward him. Then he faced the doctor.

  “Doctor, I hope you’re not thinking that my brother might end up being one of your research cadavers,” he said, the laughter gone, a grim look on his face.

  “I’m not thinking it,” the doctor said. “But that’s exactly the sort of attitude I’d have to contend with if knowledge of my research were made public.”

  The others looked at him with blank expressions.

  “I understand,” Wes said, easing back as the doctor walked away down the hall toward the room where Ty lay sleeping.

  Rubens walked over and handed Wes the bottle of rye. Wes took a drink and passed it to Bugs. The two outlaws watched as Bugs took a long deep drink of rye and let out a whiskey hiss. He sloshed the rye around in the bottle, ready for another swig.

  “Feeling better, Bugs?” Wes asked.

  “Yeah, a hell of a lot,” Bugs replied, raising the bottle halfway to his mouth.

  Wes and Rubens looked him up and down.

  “What?” Bugs asked, seeing something was on their minds.

  “Two-handed Parcheesi?” Wes asked.

  The rye was calming him, and instead of flying off angry, Bugs just chuffed grudgingly, then took another swig and finally laughed with them.

  “What the hell else could I say?” he offered.

  Before either man could answer, the rear door creaked open and the three looked down the hallway, guns out and cocked as a black silhouette stepped in through the rear door.

  “It’s me, Carter,” said Claypool in a lowered voice. “This would be an easy place to rob.”

  The three relaxed, their guns lowered as Claypool walked down the hallway to them. Seeing the bottle, he held out a hand.

  “I’ll have a shot, unless this is a private party,” he said, taking the bottle. “I saw nobody standing guard out back, I heard you laughing, I eased on in. What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “You had to be here and see it,” Wes said.

  “I saw it from an alley across the street,” said Claypool. “I come looking from one end of town to the next for the doctor’s house. I saw Bugs out there with his hands in the air. Lucky I didn’t start shooting.” He took a drink and passed the bottle to Bugs.

  “For a minute there I wish you had,” Bugs said.

  “How’s the trail?” Wes asked.

  “Not good,” said Claypool. “That’s why I’m here. The posse went on just like we thought they would. But we’ve got a lawman on us.” He paused, then added, “Fatch Hardaway is riding with him.”

  “Hardaway? Damn him!” Rubens cursed.


  “Did you recognize the lawman?” Wes asked.

  “Ranger Burrack, out of Nogales, unless I’m mistaken,” said Claypool. “I recognized him in a lantern light—mostly I recognized his sombrero.” He looked at Wes closely. “How’s Ty coming along?” he asked.

  “Let’s go see for ourselves,” said Wes, turning to the hallway. “The doctor says with any luck we can leave come morning.”

  “I make the Ranger and Hardaway will follow your tracks and figure we’re here in about four hours,” Claypool warned. “From everything I’ve heard, Burrack is good at spotting a false trail when he sees one.”

  “Damn it,” Wes swore quietly. “It looks like we’ll be leaving earlier than I planned.”

  The three men looked at one another as they followed Wes down the hallway, into the room where Ty rested leaning back against a pillow. He gave a weak smile as the men walked in and stood near his cot. Rosetta gave them a look from where she stood holding a bowl of warm beef broth she’d heated in a glass beaker over a single flame. Dr. Bernard sat on the side of the cot. He turned toward Wes with a stethoscope in his ears and pulled the end of it away from Ty’s chest.

  “You feel like riding out tonight, brother Ty?” Wes asked, without giving the doctor so much as a glance.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ty replied. As he spoke he tried to edge up onto the side of his cot.

  “Hold it,” said the doctor, standing, jerking the stethoscope from his ears and letting the instrument hang from his neck. “We agreed to first thing come morning.”

  “How’s he doing, Doc?” Wes asked.

  “He’s doing well, but he still needs more rest—at least until morning. The broth is helping replenish his blood. But he’s not able to ride yet.”

  Wes reached around and took the bowl of broth from Rosetta and handed it down to Ty.

  “Here, drink this,” he said firmly. To the doctor he said, “It can’t be helped, Doc. We’ve got a new problem. There’s an Arizona Ranger on our trail. We’ve got to go.”

  The doctor shook his head slowly.

  “Don’t worry. We’re leaving you and the girl behind. You’ve done what we needed you to do.” As he spoke he held out a leather pouch full of gold coins to him. “We’re paying you for your service.”

  “Huh-uh,” the doctor said, refusing to the take the pouch. “Not until my patient is healed.”

  “He’s riding, Doc,” Wes said firmly. “There’s no time to argue it.”

  “Then I’m going with you,” the doctor declared in a tight, determined voice. “I won’t have a patient die for lack of proper medical treatment.”

  “Wait,” said Wes. He grabbed the doctor’s arm, seeing him turn to gather supplies for the trail. “It can get rough, Doc. Maybe you best consider this.”

  “I thought we didn’t have time to argue,” the doctor said. He looked at Wes’ hand on his arm in a way that prompted the outlaw to turn him loose.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Rubens. “We kidnapped him. Now we can’t get rid of him?”

  “So it appears,” Wes said. He looked at Rosetta and held the leather pouch out to her. “Part of this is for your help with Ty. The rest is to keep your mouth shut for a while until we’ve had time to clear out of here.”

  “I go too,” she said as she grabbed the pouch and made it disappear beneath her peasant’s blouse.

  “You too?” Wes said, surprised.

  “Sí, me too,” the young woman said. “I will take care of your brother. I do a good job, no?”

  “You’ve done a fine job, Rosetta, but now . . . ,” Wes said, his words trailing. He stared at her, thinking of all the reasons she shouldn’t ride with them. He saw the anticipation in her eyes as he searched for the words. Finally he settled on saying, “Why do you want to ride with us?”

  Rosetta looked back and forth at the eyes on her. She lowered her head and looked at the floor.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “To not be here?” Her answer was a question, yet Wes understood.

  “That’s a hell of a reason for going somewhere,” said Claypool, who stood checking his rifle as he waited. “But I’ve been using it all my life.”

  “Let her come,” the doctor said. “It beats what she’s got here. She’s new to Maley, probably brought here by one of the slavers.”

  Wes looked back at Rosetta.

  “Is that true?” he asked. “Los traficantes de esclavos te trajeron aquí?”

  “Sí, the woman sellers from Durango bring me here and sell me,” she said, her eyes still lowered. “But here is not where I want to be.”

  “Hell, me neither, far as that goes,” Rubens said, watching the conversation with a crooked grin. “She’s one horse-riding bitch—we’ve all seen that much.”

  “Sí, I am one horse-riding beech,” Rosetta said with a trace of a smile. “You have seen this much, eh?”

  “As good as any horseman I’ve ever seen,” Wes had to admit, nodding.

  Seeing Wes considering it, Claypool said in a lowered voice, “It’s not a good idea, Wes.” Then, seeing the way Wes was headed on the matter, he added, “But what the hell do I know?”

  Wes nodded at the woman and said, “You can ride with us as far as Mexico. Then you’re on your own.”

  “Sí, Méjico,” the young woman said, raising her face. “I will take good care of your brother, you’ll see.”

  “Good,” the doctor said. He stepped in and nodded toward a tall white supply cabinet against the wall. “Rosetta, help me gather what we’ll need.”

  As the woman hurried away to help the doctor, Wes looked at Claypool.

  “Get on ahead of us, Carter,” he said. “Clear the trail out of here.”

  “You got it,” Claypool said, his swollen, dust-streaked face looking tired and haggard. “Want me to check around town first, see if anybody else wants to ride with us?” he said wryly.

  “No, I think we’re good,” Wes said. “Now get going, ’less you want to stick around, cook breakfast for Fatch Hardaway and the Ranger.” He gave a slight half grin, but then it went away and he said, “We spilled blood in this town, Carter. That changes everything.”

  “I know that,” Claypool said, his tone more serious. “I’ll do whatever needs doing.”

  PART 2

  Chapter 10

  The first thin line of buttermilk sunlight streaked along the low, jagged hill line as the Ranger and Fatch Hardaway rode onto the wakening street leading into Maley. A freight wagon pulled to one side and stopped as the two rode by. Three men stopped on a boardwalk and stepped back out of sight into the shelter of morning shadow and stared warily.

  “This is an edgy bunch, for sure,” Fatch Hardaway said, looking back from his saddle in the grainy morning light.

  “They’ve been hit hard by your amigos,” the Ranger said, riding a few feet in front of him.

  “Former amigos,” Hardaway said. He winced and looked all around as if to see who might be listening. “I wish you’d keep that in mind if you’re going to keep bringing it up.”

  “I’ll try,” the Ranger said, staring ahead.

  Three of the last loosened steers still wandering free looked back and forth from the mouth of an alleyway. They back-stepped in unison as the two riders moved past them.

  The Ranger led the way toward the scent of coffee and the glow of lamplight in a restaurant window up the wide dirt street. Out in front of the restaurant, two workers stood atop ladders, their hammers already banging against the silence of morning. Two other workers stood steadying a new support post beneath a sagging overhang. All four workers stopped and stared as Sam and Hardaway veered their horses to a repaired hitch rail. They stepped down from their saddles and hitched their tired animals.

  A bald head above a black string tie and a long white apron appeared in the open doorway and cocke
d around toward the workers, the man having noted the halt of work tools.

  “I’m not paying for the time you’re loafing. I’m only paying you for the time you’re working,” the restaurant owner called out to the workers. Then he turned, looked the Ranger and Hardaway up and down, noting the badge on the Ranger’s chest.

  “My goodness, that was fast, Ranger!” he said, stepping back for them to enter. “We just got the pole and broken lines repaired last night.”

  “I’m not responding to a telegram,” Sam said. “I met Dallas Garand and his posse on the trail last night.”

  The owner looked at them as they walked past, across the floor to a counter, following the aroma of boiling coffee as if drawn to it. Four townsmen who sat huddled in conversation around a corner table straightened and watched as they stopped at the counter.

  “Oh? And you didn’t ride on with them?” said the restaurateur, slipping deftly around behind the service counter. Sam and Hardaway both caught a critical edge to his voice.

  “That’s right. I didn’t,” Sam said bluntly, leaving no promise of further explanation. He nodded toward a row of clean coffee mugs sitting bottoms up along a white cloth on the inside edge of the counter.

  The restaurant owner tried to redeem himself as he set two of the mugs upright. A Chinese waiter with watery red-veined eyes reached out with a large steaming coffeepot and filled them.

  “Oh well,” the restaurant owner offered. “I suppose not everyone should go the same direction at once.”

  “That’s right,” Hardaway said almost in a growl. “If they did, the trail would tip over.”

  The owner gave Hardaway a puzzled look.

  “Drink your coffee,” the Ranger said sidelong to Hardaway.

  Chairs scooted back from the corner table and the Ranger watched as four townsmen rose and walked to the counter, stopping a few feet away.

  “Ranger Burrack?” said a strong voice.

  Sam and Hardaway both turned, coffee mugs in hand. Sam only nodded in reply at the broad-shouldered townsman.