“Did you hit him?”
“I don’t think so. He was moving pretty fast, the last I saw of him. I started to go after him, but . . .” Drake glanced at Lady Arabella.
“I asked him not to. We were both all right, and I was afraid Steve might be hurt if he gave chase.”
Slaughter glanced at Drake and thought that the decision not to pursue the bushwhacker probably hadn’t set very well with him. The gambler looked like the sort of man who wouldn’t take it kindly if anybody shot at him and his ladyfriend.
And in this case, that description of the brunette was even more apt.
“He was hiding in the alley, you say?” Slaughter asked.
“That’s right,” Drake said.
“Let’s take a look.”
It was light enough to see in the alley and avoid the trash that littered it. After telling Lady Arabella to wait on the boardwalk, Drake joined Slaughter.
“Whereabouts did you see him?” the sheriff asked.
Drake pointed. “Along in there, behind those crates. I caught another glimpse of him at the end of the alley as he fled.”
Slaughter fished out a match and lit it to dispel any lingering shadows behind the crates where the would-be killer had waited for his quarry to come along. He saw some footprints in the dirt, but they didn’t tell him much.
The tracks weren’t left by the sort of high-heeled boot favored by cowboys, but rather had been made by either low-heeled work boots or shoes. There were hundreds of pairs of such footgear in Tombstone.
A cigar butt also lay there behind the crates, but it didn’t mean anything, either, as far as Slaughter could tell. Plenty of men smoked cigars.
A quick search of the rest of the alley proved equally futile. As they stood at the far end of it, Slaughter asked Drake, “Did you hear a horse gallop off right after the shooting?”
“No, not at all. If I had to venture a guess, Sheriff, I’d say that the bushwhacker fled on foot and is still here in Tombstone.”
Slaughter grunted. “That’s the way it appears to me, too. Do you have any idea if the gunman was aiming at you or the lady?”
“The bullet could have easily struck either of us, so it’s impossible to say.”
“Then it wasn’t a warning shot. He was out to kill you.”
“It definitely wasn’t a warning shot.”
“How did he know the two of you would be coming along the street right here?”
“That’s something that immediately puzzled me as well, Sheriff. You see, Lady Arabella and I had just left the Top-Notch and were on our way to get some breakfast. I suppose the bushwhacker could have followed us from there and circled around to get ahead of us and set this trap.”
“Is the poker tournament over already?” Slaughter figured that was too much to hope for.
Drake confirmed that hunch. “No, the players are just taking a break to get some food and rest. We’ll be back at it later today.”
Slaughter nodded. “Well, I don’t see what else I can do here, except maybe advise you to keep an eye on your back.”
“I’d be doing that anyway,” Drake said with a nod of his own.
Before either of them could say anything else, someone hurried along the alley toward them and called, “Sheriff ! Sheriff Slaughter!”
“That’s one of my deputies. What is it, Mose?”
“You’d better get over to the courthouse, Sheriff,” Tadrack said. “Looks like Dallin Williams has busted out of jail.”
* * *
Stonewall was sitting in a chair gingerly rubbing the blood-smeared lump on the side of his head when Slaughter hurried into the office.
“What in blazes—” Slaughter burst out then stopped and looked relieved for a second before a stern, angry expression took over his face again. He snapped, “What happened here?”
Burt Alvord was at the stove pouring a cup of coffee from the pot brewed the night before. “Mose came in and found Stonewall and Tommy knocked out and Williams gone. He was on his way to find you when he ran into me. I came on here to see how bad they were hurt.”
“Where’s Tommy?”
“Jeff took him home. He was still pretty woozy and not making much sense. I figured you could talk to him later.” Burt handed the cup of coffee to Stonewall, who took it and sipped gratefully. “Stonewall can tell you what happened.”
“I’m waiting,” Slaughter said with his slightly bushy eyebrows drawn down in a frown.
“Well, Sheriff, it was like this.” Stonewall could hardly stand to look at his brother-in-law as he explained how the prisoner had gotten the drop on him and then knocked him out. He knew Slaughter would be really disappointed in him.
Slaughter looked angry, all right, but his voice held a touch of concern as he asked, “How badly are you hurt?”
“Ah, hell, John—I mean, Sheriff—you know how hard this head of mine is. It’d take more than a gun barrel to dent my skull. I’ll be fine.” Stonewall nodded to reinforce his answer, but stopped with a wince as fresh jolts of pain jabbed into his brain.
“You’d better be,” Slaughter snapped. “I’d hate to have to explain to your sister how you got your head busted open.” He turned to Burt Alvord. “Any idea which way Williams went when he lit a shuck out of here?”
Burt shook his head. “I haven’t had a chance to look into it yet, Sheriff. It could be that he’s still here in town, hiding out somewhere.”
“I doubt it,” Slaughter said. “He’ll want to put some distance behind him, now that he’s on the run. He probably stole a horse off the street and the owner doesn’t know yet that it’s gone because he’s still asleep in some alley or whore’s crib.”
Stonewall swallowed some more of the bitter coffee. “I’ll find him. It’s my responsibility, Sheriff. I’m the one who let him get away.”
“We’ll talk about that, but not now,” Slaughter said as he put a hand on Stonewall’s shoulder. “Wherever he is, Williams had better hope that the law finds him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because when Little Ed McCabe finds out about this, he’ll see it as his chance to go after Williams again himself,” Slaughter replied grimly. “And if McCabe and his punchers get their hands on him first, there sure won’t be any trial.”
Chapter 15
Dallin Williams clamped his hand over the horse’s nose and held his own breath as the riders passed by about fifty feet from the arroyo where he had taken cover when he spotted them coming. He didn’t think they had seen him before he went to ground, but he couldn’t be sure. He had to keep his horse quiet and hope for the best.
If they came for him, he would put up a fight. He had five rounds in the Colt he had taken away from Tommy Howell. He wished he had thought to look through the desk in the sheriff’s office and see if he could find a box of .45 cartridges before he fled from the jail, but it hadn’t occurred to him at the time.
All he’d been able to think of was getting out of there before somebody came along to lock him up again.
He couldn’t stand being locked up. It had gnawed at his brain like a hungry coyote with a jackrabbit carcass.
He heard the hands talking, even though he couldn’t understand all the words. From what he could tell, it was the typical sort of desultory range chatter that cowboys exchanged while they were riding on some errand or other, casual and mostly meaningless.
He would have given a lot to live that seemingly boring life again. The old saying was sure enough true—a fella just didn’t appreciate what he had until it was gone.
Back in Tombstone, Dallin had pulled his hat brim down low over his face and acted casual as he’d walked out of the jail, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He knew he didn’t have much time to get away.
The hour was early and not many people had been up and about, but the streets weren’t completely deserted. He’d worried somebody might spot him and raise the alarm.
The hitch rails in front of the courthouse stood empty. He’d hea
ded along Toughnut Street toward the closest rail where horses were tied. It was a long hundred yards away, maybe the longest of his life.
There hadn’t been any hue and cry by the time he’d reached the three saddle mounts tied there. He chose the best-looking animal of the bunch and untied its reins, well aware that what he was doing made him a horse thief.
He regretted that, he truly did, but they could only hang him once, he’d thought.
He had swung up into the saddle, his movements still easy and unhurried. Clucking to the horse, he’d turned it away from the hitch rail and heeled it into a walk. He’d kept his head down and rocked along, just a cowboy headed back to the home ranch after a night in town.
His pulse had hammered like thunder. He’d expected that at any second he would hear an angry shout or the roar of a gun. His muscles were tensed for the strike of a bullet.
Nothing had happened. He’d ridden out of Tombstone without the least bit of commotion or calamity.
Once clear of the settlement, Dallin had turned his stolen mount toward the northeast.
Toward the Bar EM.
He knew it was a foolish thing. Mexico wasn’t that far to the south of Tombstone. He could be across the border in a day, maybe a day and a half. All he had to do was dodge any pursuit for that long and he’d be safe.
Only he wouldn’t be. He would never be able to return to Arizona Territory without worrying about the law, and there was a good chance Little Ed McCabe would chase him into Mexico, anyway. If the rancher didn’t come after him himself, he could hire gunmen to do it; he had the money.
Dallin had spent a lot of time thinking about it while he was cooped up in that cell. He hadn’t had much of anything else to do. And he had come to an inescapable conclusion. The only thing that would free him from having to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder was the truth.
And the only person who could tell the truth was Jessie McCabe.
The cowboys were finally out of earshot. Dallin couldn’t hear them or their horses anymore. Despite that, he waited another five minutes, baking in the heat that flowed along the arroyo like thick mud, before he risked a look.
The two riders were gone.
He heaved a sigh of relief, took off his hat for a moment, and sleeved sweat from his face. He thought again about what a loco thing he was doing then mounted up and rode up a caved-in section of bank out of the arroyo.
He had been working for Little Ed McCabe for several months, so he knew the Bar EM range quite well. He knew how McCabe split up his crew and where he was likely to have them working. He could take advantage of that. With any luck, he could make it to the ranch house without being spotted.
He would take all the luck he could get. He would use whatever he had to, do whatever was necessary, to prove his innocence.
In all honesty, he had been a little surprised that it bothered him so much to be accused of attacking Jessie. He had done plenty of things in his life that he wasn’t proud of. Not that he was going to apologize for them, that wasn’t the way he was made, but he was smart enough to know that he was a pretty sorry excuse for a human being sometimes.
But he wasn’t in the habit of hurting folks, especially women. Especially young gals like Jessie, who had a sweet innocence about her that he found likable.
Except it seemed like she wasn’t quite as innocent as he had thought, he reflected as he rode toward the ranch house. If she really did have a bun in the oven, he hadn’t put it there. That was one thing he was damned sure of.
Which left him with the question of who had.
That was none of his business, he told himself, other than how it related to his current predicament. Jessie was going to have to bite the bullet and tell her pa and the sheriff and anybody else who would listen who really had attacked her . . . or who she had been messing around with of her own free will.
It was one of the first things that had occurred to Dallin. If a gal had been sneaking off to see a boy and got herself caught in a bad situation . . . and if her pa was loco wild as Little Ed could be when he was mad . . . and if she really cared about the fella who’d got her in trouble . . . well, the easiest thing in the world would be to holler that she’d been attacked and point her finger at somebody who was notorious for his tomcattin’ around. Her folks had believed her, and so had everybody in Tombstone.
Shoot, even Stonewall had believed her, and that bothered Dallin about as much as anything. He had thought that he and Stonewall were pards.
No time to worry about that, he realized as he topped a little rise and spotted the ranch house a quarter mile ahead of him. The place looked sleepy in the heat and the morning sun.
He reached down to his waist and touched the hard lump of the Colt he had tucked behind his belt and under his shirt. He hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt anybody.
But he wasn’t going back to jail.
Not ever.
* * *
“Jessie, you go out there to the hen house and gather those eggs,” Hallie McCabe told her daughter in a stern voice.
“Yes, Mama.” Jessie picked up a wicker basket from the kitchen counter. She’d been using it to gather eggs for a long time. That was one of her jobs, along with milking.
Everybody worked on a ranch, her pa was fond of saying. He drove everybody hard . . . although none harder than himself, especially since Jessie’s brothers had died.
The Bar EM was as self-sufficient as the family could make it. A hen house full of chickens provided eggs. There were two milk cows in the barn. Little Ed raised hogs, too, and slaughtered them every year so the family would have something to eat besides beef. Jessie and her mother tended to a vegetable garden, although that was a real struggle in the arid land. Most years the garden didn’t make much, but Hallie McCabe didn’t give up on it.
As Jessie started to leave the house with the basket, her mother said, “Land’s sake, girl, put a bonnet on before you go out there. That sun’ll fry your brain in heat like this if you don’t cover it up. You’ve got to learn to take care of yourself.” She sniffed. “Especially now.”
“Yes, Mama,” Jessie said again. It was easier than arguing. She tied on a sunbonnet and went out the back door of the ranch house, pausing just outside to run her hand over her belly.
It was still flat, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.
Not wanting her mother to catch her lollygagging, Jessie walked on toward the hen house. She didn’t hurry; only a fool hurried in such weather. But she didn’t waste any time, either.
A moment later, she stepped onto the hard-packed dirt floor of the hen house. The roof provided shade, although it stunk to high heaven in here. She took only a couple steps toward the nearest setting hen when a shape moved fast out of the shadows inside the gloomy structure and a hand clamped over her mouth to silence her. Another arm wrapped around her waist and held her still.
“Don’t you go to fightin’ me now, darlin’,” a man’s voice whispered in her ear.
Jessie stiffened. She recognized that drawling voice. She had heard it often enough, laughing and telling whoppers to the other members of the ranch crew, even though Dallin Williams had never talked much to her.
“I knew your mama would be sendin’ you out here about this time to gather the eggs. That’s why I waited here for you.” Dallin paused. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
Jessie didn’t say anything. She was too terrified to move, let alone speak. Anyway, Dallin still had his hand over her mouth.
“You heard what I said, didn’t you?” he prodded.
She ventured a tiny nod in response.
“You give me your word you’re not gonna holler?”
Again she nodded, barely.
“Don’t think you can trick me. I can get my hand back over your mouth before you get out a peep if I need to. Now you just stay calm. I’m gonna move my hand.”
The tight grip left her face, but his hand hovered just in front of her mouth. Jessie’s mouth and
throat were so dry she had to swallow a couple times before she could say, “Don’t hurt me again. Please.”
“Again?” Dallin repeated. “Dadgum it, girl, I never hurt you the first time, and you know it. That’s why I’m here. We’re gonna march in that house, and you’re gonna tell your mama the truth. You’re gonna tell her I never laid a finger on you, and I sure as hell didn’t do what you told the sheriff I done.”
“I-I can’t,” she whimpered.
“Sure you can. Are you really in the family way?”
“Yes.” Her voice was just a whisper.
“Well, then, you don’t want the fella who really attacked you gettin’ away with it, do you?” Again Dallin paused. “Unless the hombre didn’t attack you at all.”
Jessie didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.
He took his hand away from her face, evidently convinced that she wasn’t going to scream or shout. “I knew it. I knew I’d figured it out. You been sneakin’ off to meet some boy, and when you told him what happened, he begged you not to say anything about it bein’ him. Ain’t that right, Jessie?”
She looked down at the dirt floor, still unable to speak.
“So you decided you’d blame me.”
She heard the angry, bitter tone in his words.
“You knew ever’body would believe you if you pointed the finger at that ol’ hound dog Dallin Williams, and sure enough, that’s what happened.”
Finally she was able to get some more words of her own out. “I-I never meant for you to get hurt, Dallin.”
He still had his arm around her waist, but he let go of her entirely and stepped away from her to fling his arms out in exasperation.
“Didn’t want me to get hurt? Good Lord, gal, don’t you know what your pa’s like? What’d you think he’d do when you told him I attacked his little girl, the only young’un he’s got left?”
“I didn’t think about it,” she practically moaned. “I was just so scared.”
Dallin’s angry attitude softened slightly. “Well, I reckon I can’t blame you for that. But you got to know it ain’t right to get me in so much trouble for somethin’ I never done. You got to tell everybody the truth, Jessie, and let things work out however they’re gonna.”
Deadly Day in Tombstone Page 12