by Ralph Cotton
“You don’t know me, Ranger, but I sure know about you,” the man said. “If you’ll permit me, I’m Walter Nye, Maley’s blacksmith.” He gestured a wide callused hand toward the other three. “This is Albert Hasp, Barnes Coomer and James Franklin.” He explained, “We’re sort of the town overseers until we get ourselves a new sheriff.”
“Gentlemen,” the Ranger said with a nod. He gestured a hand toward Hardaway. “This is Mr. Hardaway. We were on our way to Cottonwood when we ran into Garand’s posse.”
“Mr. Hardaway, you look familiar,” said Albert Hasp, speaking around a thick cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“No, I don’t look familiar,” Hardaway said bluntly. “I’ve never been in Maley before.” He continued to stare at Hasp.
Hasp shrugged and tried to let it go. He took his cigar from between his lips.
“I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I see lots of faces in the beverage and entertainment business. I often think I recognize faces I’ve never seen—”
“You’re excused,” said Hardaway, cutting him off. He raised his coffee mug and sipped through a rising curl of steam.
“Any success to report from the posse, Ranger Burrack?” Walter Nye asked, diverting the conversation away from Hardaway.
“None, I’m sorry to say,” the Ranger replied. “Whoever owns the stolen buckboard will find it up the trail—no horses, though. I expect they took them for the young woman and the doctor to ride.”
“Yes, of course they did,” said Franklin, the town real estate broker. “But that’s a relief. Better than those two walking, being dragged along on these hill trails in the dark of night.”
“Yeah,” said Hasp. “But I’m not nearly as concerned for the young puta as I am for our town doctor. Let them drag her along. Mexican whores come a dime a dozen these days.” He chuckled under his breath.
“Do they, now?” the Ranger said pointedly, his eyes fixed and locked on the saloon owner.
Hasp’s smile vanished.
“Figuratively speaking of course, I should add,” he said.
“Tell me about this woman,” Sam said, eyes still locked on him.
“Tell you what,” Hasp said, his hands spread. “She’s about so tall, a hefty gal, but sweet as a plum—big on top, if you know what I mean.” He cupped his hands at his chest and jiggled them and laughed. But his laughter wasn’t returned.
“Who’d you buy her from, the Durango slavers?” Sam asked flatly.
“Oh no, no! Ranger,” Hasp said, wagging a finger, “I’m afraid you mistake me. I don’t buy Mexican putas. They just show up.”
“Her name is Rosetta,” Nye cut in. “Or so she says.”
“Yes, Rosetta is her name,” said Hasp. “She showed up out of nowhere less than a month ago.” He gave another innocent shrug. “Said she needed work—said she likes whoring, to tell you the truth.” He looked back and forth among the townsmen for support. “So . . . I put her to work. Can you blame me?”
The Ranger ignored him.
“What about the doctor?” he asked Walter Nye. “What kind of man is he?”
“Oh, Dr. Bernard is the best, Ranger,” Nye said. As he spoke he and the other townsmen gave each other a look. “He may have his peculiarities,” he said. “But we’re all grateful to have such a talented young physician.”
“What’s that look?” the Ranger cut in.
“Look? What look?” said the blacksmith.
“The look you just gave each other,” Sam said, pressing, turning his gaze from one townsman to the next. “Is there something about the doctor I need to know?”
Franklin, the real estate man, stared to speak, but before he could the front door swung open and the barber, Lyle Medford, hurried in carrying a bloody wad of bandage in his hand.
“Whoa, Medford, slow down!” said Nye as the barber hurried to the counter.
Noticing the Ranger, Medford held the bloody bandage out for all to see and said, “Ranger, I’m glad to see you here. I’m afraid something terrible is going on.”
The Ranger and the others looked at the bloody bandage.
“I—I went by the doctor’s house a while ago—” He panted, out of breath as he looked at the townsmen. “—you know, just to make certain young Burle Minton was comfortable there alone.” He saw the look on the other townsmen’s face as he spoke. His hand trembled. “Anyway, Burle Minton is gone! I found this bandage and many more just like it. Something’s going on there!”
The Ranger looked at the bandage, then at Hardaway.
“Let’s go,” he said, already headed for the door.
• • •
In the first silvery light of morning, Carter Claypool backed his horse out of the early rays of sunlight into a dark shadowed crevice atop a steep ridge. Stepping down from his saddle, rifle in hand, he listened as the sound of hooves pounded closer along the trail far below him.
Stepping forward in a crouch, he stooped down, laid his Winchester across the top of a rock and aimed down on the shadowy trail. As the riders drew into sight around a turn in the trail, he recognized Wes Traybo in the lead and centered his aim on his chest, adjusting the sights on his rifle with his finger and thumb until the yardage and his adjustment suited him. He waited and watched until Wes rode into a long stretch of sunlit trail.
Perfect . . . He took a breath, let it half out, then held it again, the rifle sights homed on his target.
“Bang,” he whispered to himself, his finger only lying loose against the trigger. As soon as he whispered, he simulated jacking a fresh round into the chamber as he swung the rifle sights away from Wes Traybo onto Ty Traybo, who rode double with the woman, lagging back a few feet at his brother’s side. “Bang,” he whispered again. Then he lay with a half smile as he watched the riders file past his rifle sights, Wes casting a quick glance up along the ridgeline.
When the riders had disappeared out of sight, he lay quietly for a few minutes, his swollen face feeling the lingering coolness of morning. Moments later he stood and looked all around. This was a good spot for a gunfight, he told himself, dusting his trouser legs. He’d have to get a move on now, get in front of them and scout the trail toward the border. He might have to scour the hill line a long ways before finding another spot this good. But that’s the work, he told himself. He jacked a real round into his rifle chamber, stepped over and had started to shove the Winchester down into his rifle boot when he caught the distant sound of more hooves on the trail below.
Turning, he slipped back into the same position behind the rock and waited as the sound grew nearer. He watched the trail where the sunlight cut sharply across the shadowy darkness. When the riders came into the slanted sunlight two abreast, he was ready for them.
The first two to ride into his rifle sights were Artimus Folliard and Suell Crane, Garand himself having instinctively fallen back when he saw the bright open stretch of trail ahead. Claypool’s first shot flipped Crane backward from his saddle and sent him sprawling on the trail in a spray of blood. The sound of the shot followed a second behind its impact.
From his rocky perch, Claypool jacked a fresh round and swung his smoking rifle to Folliard. In a split second he centered his sights on Folliard as the stunned detective drew his horse around in a sharp circle. The sights moved from Folliard’s chest to the center of his back as the horse finished its turn and bolted away. Claypool started to squeeze the trigger.
No, wait!
He stopped himself, turned down his shot at Folliard and instead swung his rifle at the sound of a pistol shot. He squeezed the trigger without hesitation and lifted Huey Drambite from his saddle, sending him spilling from his saddle behind a spiraling ribbon of blood.
As he levered another round and swung his Winchester, searching for his next target, he heard Dallas Garand shouting at the posse as the riders turned their horses, the animals bun
ching up on one another, and fell back out of the sunlight in a billowing rise of dust.
Two more quick pistol shots erupted, but Claypool heard them fall short and whine as they ricocheted off the hillside rocks.
Damn it!
“Why’d you do that?” he chastised himself under his breath, wincing. He’d just let Detective Artimus Folliard, the man who had beaten him mercilessly, ride out of his sights when he knew he had him cold. That was crazy!
Claypool tightened his trigger finger, needing to make up for what he’d just done. But he had to ease down as he realized the posse men and their spooked horses were already melting from sight into their shadowy back trail.
It was nothing but stupid! he scolded himself in silence, still smarting inside for letting the detective go. He backed away in a crouch as rifle fire from the shadowy trail began nipping at rock and hillside in retaliation. All right, it was a mistake, but now it was over. Forget it, he reconciled with the angry voice inside his head.
Loosening his horse’s reins, he led the animal away on a hidden path leading up the side of rocky cliff. Below, rifle fire filled the air. Looking back, he saw a gray looming cloud of burnt powder drifting up the hillside. At the top of the path, he led the horse aside, slipped back down a few steps and watched until he saw a man in a bowler hat and a long duster venture forward, scanning the hillside, a rifle in his hands.
Claypool smiled to himself. It was time he’d signaled Wes Traybo anyway, he decided. Taking an aim on the trail below, he spaced three signal shots close together. The first two shots hit the dirt only inches from the posse man’s toes. Before the man could jump back quick enough, the third shot nailed his left foot dead center.
“That’ll keep everybody busy for a while,” Claypool said to himself, watching the rifleman hurriedly limp away, dragging his bleeding foot back into the shadowed cover of the trail.
As quiet as a ghost, Claypool walked back up to his horse, slipped up into the saddle and put the horse forward behind the cover of the towering cliff.
Chapter 11
The Ranger had spotted Dallas Garand and his posse an hour earlier in the grainy morning light, as the Ranger and Hardaway rode up off the flatlands and stopped on an old game trail. Looking out across a deep valley at another trail known for leading onto a winding route to the Mexican border, they saw detectives and townsmen alike moving along at a fast pace, their duster tails flapping out behind them.
“Garand reasoned things out and turned back quicker than I expected he would,” the Ranger said, backing his speckled barb into a lingering slice of morning trail shadow.
“We could still beat them to the Mexico trail fork if you want to push it,” Hardaway offered.
The Ranger looked at him.
“I don’t want to push it,” the Ranger replied. “It’s going to be a long day for them if one of their horses comes up lame or, worse, runs off the side of a hill.”
“I’ve done it more than once,” said Hardaway. “It’s risky, but it’s better than—” He caught himself and stopped.
“You did it because you had to,” Sam said. “There’s nobody chasing us, Hardaway. You keep forgetting we’re not the ones on the run.”
Hardaway looked embarrassed. “I’m just saying, we can get on the Traybos’ trail before they do—if we want to, that is.”
“I understand,” said Sam. “We’ll make up time once we’ve got some better light. He watched the posse men move out of sight around a turn in the distant trail. Then he put the barb forward, Hardaway right beside him.
“I’m just trying to get us ahead of the game, Ranger,” Hardaway said, trying to sound restless. “The quicker we catch up to the Traybos, the quicker I can get my money in Cottonwood and put all this behind me.”
“We both know this is the same trail we’d be riding to the border whether we’d come across the Traybos’ robbery or not,” said Sam.
Hardaway fell silent for a second.
“Does it make any difference if it is?” he asked after a thoughtful pause.
“Not a bit,” the Ranger replied. “Right now I’ve got the Traybos’ trail. But if I lose it, I’ll still need you to take me to their hideout. Either way, your money’s still coming to you. There’s no tricks here. You’re just not used to people giving their word and meaning it.”
Hardaway relaxed and pushed up his hat brim.
“You’re right,” he said.
The two rode on in silence for the next half hour until morning sunlight had risen enough to warm and reveal more clearly the rocky hill trails. As they reached the end of the deep canyon and started around it toward the trail the posse men were on, rifle fire erupted in the near distance, causing them to quicken their horses’ pace.
“Sounds like Garand just caught up with the Traybos,” Hardaway said as they rode along.
“Lucky him,” the Ranger said wryly, drawing his rifle from its boot as he urged the barb forward. “From the sound of it, there’s only one rifle in the fray. It’s not one of Garand’s men. I’d say they’re in big trouble.”
On the trail, Dallas Garand stood out from behind a tree as the Ranger and Hardaway rode into sight and reined their horses down to a halt. They stopped a ways back from where the rest of the men were still taking cover behind rocks alongside the trail. Garand hurried forward in a crouch as they stepped down from their saddles and walked toward him.
“Get your head down, both of you!” Garand ordered. “Unless you want to get it blown off.”
Sam and Hardaway ignored him. They stopped and scanned the hill line high above the trail.
“I haven’t heard any gunfire the past few minutes,” the Ranger said. “My guess is whoever was doing the shooting is gone.”
Garand straightened a little, then a little more as he turned and looked up with the Ranger.
“I don’t need you riding in to tell me that,” Garand growled, reluctantly standing up straight. The rest of the posse men stood up and backed away, looking upward with trepidation along the high ridgeline.
“Unless you’ve killed the shooter, he’s going to be sniping at you the rest of the way into Mexico,” Sam offered.
“Oh? You suppose so?” Garand said in a sarcastic tone.
Seeing the detective leader’s surly attitude, the Ranger touched his hat brim and said to Garand, “Sorry to have interfered.” He looked at Hardaway and said, “Let’s ride on up, get on this shooter’s trail before he sets up and strikes again.”
Dallas Garand watched the two turn back toward their horses. Behind him the townsmen had separated themselves from the detectives and formed a tight frightened-looking group.
“Wait a minute, Ranger,” Garand called out. “You mean you’re going to ride up there—up this hillside after him?”
The Ranger stopped and looked around at Garand.
“I see no choice. He’s not going to come down here to us,” he said.
“I know this shooter,” Fatch Hardaway cut in. “He won’t stop until the lot of you are lying dead.”
The Ranger gave Hardaway a silencing frown. But it was too late. The townsmen looked at each with fearful eyes. Garand saw it too and cursed under his breath.
“I am not in the least surprised that the man is a friend of yours, Fatcharack—” he said, bristling.
“I warned you not to call me that again,” Fatch said, cutting him off, taking a step forward. Sam held an arm out, stopping him, seeing Garand’s detectives starting to draw into a half circle around them.
“But these men from Maley are not afraid,” Garand continued in a grandiose voice. He raised a finger for emphasis. “They are driven to bring these cowards to justice.” He looked around at the townsmen. “Isn’t that right, men?”
“Hell no, it’s not right,” the cattle broker Don Stout said, emboldened by the Ranger’s presence. He stepped forward,
rifle in hand, his face crusted with trail dust and sweat. “You’ve dragged us through these hills and valleys all night—gotten two of us killed and one of us wounded—”
“Let me remind you that only my detectives are the ones lying dead or wounded,” said Garand, cutting him off.
“So far it has been your men,” said Stout. “So this is a good time for us to go home, while we’re still wearing our hide.”
“Just like that? You’re going to cut and run?” Garand said, hoping to shame the men.
A cattle pens worker named Mose Pullet stepped forward carrying a well-worn Spencer rifle.
“It’d be different if we were making any headway,” he said. “The way it looks is all we’ve done is ride half the night one way, then half the night back.” He turned to the Ranger and said, “Where’d you go, Ranger Burrack? How’d you know to pick up this trail?”
Sam wasn’t going to lie to defend the detective leader.
“We rode back to Maley,” he said. “We believe the Traybos and the doctor went back there, treated the wounded man and rode on. That’s what put us on this trail.”
“Bull!” Garand shouted. But he looked stunned. “The Traybos would not have dared show their faces back in Maley! They know we would have killed them!” His face reddened at his foolishness as soon as he finished his words.
“That’s why they led you so far up toward the Old Mexico Trail before they circled back, Garand,” the Ranger said. “I don’t know whose idea it was to go back to Maley. But it was a good one.”
Garand stood dumbfounded.
The Ranger turned and looked at the frightened and haggard townsmen.
“You townsmen are volunteers. If you want to leave, nobody’s going to stop you,” he said, looking at Stout as he spoke to the group. “Get your horse and ride out.”
“Just a damn minute, Ranger,” said Folliard, eager to get back in good graces with his boss. “You don’t waltz in here giving orders to Mr. Garand’s posse—”
“Let these cowards go, Detective Folliard,” Garand said, cutting him off. “We’re better off without them.” He turned his eyes to the Ranger and said, “There, they’re leaving with no trouble out of me. Satisfied?”