Bob spat a curse and his right hand instinctively drifted down to touch the handle of the Colt riding on his hip. And then his gaze locked on something else. A rope had been tossed up and over a high, horizontally extending limb on one of the trees . . . and its free, dangling end was fashioned into a hangman’s noose!
An instant later, Bob was spurring his horse forward, down the long slope at a hard run. Instead of drawing the Colt, he pulled his Winchester Yellowboy rifle from its saddle scabbard. Holding it out at arm’s length, he whirled it one-handed, working the lever to chamber a round. Then he thumbed back the hammer, aiming skyward, and triggered a jarring shot.
A half dozen startled looks cut in Bob’s direction as he whirled the Winchester once again.
He came thundering up to the group of men less than a minute behind the two riders dragging their hapless victims. The two abused men were left lying on the ground, all but smothered by swirls of yellowish dust from the horses’ hooves. Through the haze, Bob could see feeble movement in the tattered, battered shapes, signaling they were at least still alive.
“What the hell’s going on here!?” Bob demanded. He raked a blistering gaze over the group of men, looking for the face of somebody he possibly recognized, might at least know the name of. A couple of the men dropped their eyes, unable to meet his. The rest looked back at him with flat, impassive expressions. Three of them held their hands close to the guns worn around their waists, marking themselves as the ones Bob would go for first in the event this showed signs of getting out of hand.
“What the hell business is it of yours?” came the response to Bob’s question.
Not surprisingly, this was voiced by none other than Ed Wardell himself. He sat the saddle of a blaze-faced black gelding, a little deeper back in among the other men, only a few feet to one side of the dangling noose.
“You know the answer to that,” Bob told him. “Crime and lawbreaking are my business.”
“Not out here they ain’t,” Wardell was quick to remind him. “Your jurisdiction ends at the city limits marker of that shithole town of yours. Recall that little detail, Marshal? You ought to, you told it to me enough times when I came to you seeking help.”
“You’re right,” Bob conceded. “When it comes to investigating an alleged crime or trying to put somebody under arrest, there are jurisdictional limits I’m bound by. But coming upon something like this—a crime clearly in progress—is something no self-respecting lawman or any decent citizen would turn his back on. I not only have a right but an obligation to intervene.”
Wardell chuckled nastily. “Wow. You really take that law-dogging serious, don’t you? You must be reading books and memorizing the fancy lingo and the whole shot.” He nudged his knees against the sides of his horse and threaded his way forward, separating himself slightly from his men and emerging from the shade of the trees out to where he was able to put on a better show of brazenly facing up to the marshal. “You hear that, boys?” he said over his shoulder, even though his eyes were locked on Bob’s. “We’re being intervened on because the noble marshal here feels the obligation to stop our lowdown, lawbreaking ways.”
Physically, there wasn’t much of anything noteworthy or impressive about Wardell. Average in height and build, crowding fifty, with gray-flecked sideburns bracketing a somewhat pushed-in face. Watery blue eyes, a slightly pugged nose, strong lower jaw that thrust the chin forward, exposing his bottom row of teeth when he talked.
“What about the lawbreaking ways of these two skunks? Don’t that count for anything?” said one of the horsemen whose lasso was still tied to a dragged man. He was a long, lanky number with a salt-and-pepper walrus mustache, hook nose, and mean eyes under bristly brows.
“Whatever they did, it don’t count enough to warrant a lynching,” Bob responded.
“And no lynching has taken place. That part ain’t been decided yet,” argued Wardell.
Bob’s eyes cut meaningfully to the noose dangling down and then back to the rancher. “Oh? Sure could’ve fooled me. From the look of things, it appears somebody has already made up their mind.”
“That’s just a little window dressing. A persuader, if you will . . . to help loosen the tongues of those two varmints so’s they’ll tell me what I want to know.”
“What about the dragging ’em behind horses part? What’s that supposed to do besides loosen their hides on their bones?”
Wardell’s chin thrust forward a bit farther. Challenging. Defiant. “How about we call that a message-sender? Any saddle tramps crossing my property are welcome to stop the night, camp, graze and water their horses . . . But not to make a meal out of one of my beeves.”
“And lynching ’em would be the exclamation point on the message. Is that it?”
“I already told you—”
“I know what you told me. I’m calling you a liar.” Bob’s narrowed eyes raked once more over the others. “And the rest of you are a pack of gutless curs who couldn’t stomp a stringy jackrabbit unless you ganged up to do it.”
“That’s mighty bold talk for somebody buckin’ one-to-seven odds,” sneered the hook-nosed horseman who’d spoken before.
Up to that point, Bob had been resting the butt of his Winchester on his hip, barrel angled skyward. Suddenly its muzzle was level and steady, aimed square at Wardell’s chest. “You want to try laying down a bet on those odds, go right ahead,” the marshal grated out the side of his mouth, addressing the sneering horseman but keeping his eyes locked on Wardell. “But as soon as you start turning cards, I guarantee your boss will be the first one to cash in his chips.”
“Smoky, you damn fool! Knock it off!” barked Wardell, all color instantly drained from his face. “This badge-toting bastard will kill me sure as hell.”
“And a good chunk of the rest of you, if it comes to throwing lead,” Bob warned.
Wardell licked his lips. “All right. What do you want? How do we play it from here?”
Bob held everybody within the range of his direct and peripheral vision. The Yellowboy muzzle never wavered a whisker from Wardell. “For starters,” Bob told him, “you light down out of that saddle. Shuck your guns and drop ’em to the ground. Real slow. Then walk over here and stand close beside me, like we’re best pals. Remember, the rifle will be on you all the way. And when you’re sided up good and close, it’ll be practically stuck in your ear. You might want to consider that a persuader, if you will . . . You know, helping persuade you and your boys not to even think about trying anything funny.”
Wardell glared hatefully at the marshal. But he followed his instructions precisely. After he’d dropped his guns and started walking, he muttered a strained reminder to his men, saying, “Do whatever he says. No need to risk anybody getting killed . . . We’ll have our turn another day.”
Once he had Wardell positioned the way he wanted him, Bob said, “Okay, now the rest of you. Stay mounted but, one by one, real slow and careful, shuck your weapons. Sidearms and saddle guns alike.” While this was taking place, he kept an especially close watch on the men who’d shifted their hands closer to their guns when he first rode up—making sure they didn’t decide to try something brave and stupid in spite of what their boss said. When their guns obediently hit the dirt, Bob hissed out a sigh of relief.
Next his gaze sought out the two men who’d averted their eyes when he initially confronted the group, signaling they weren’t entirely comfortable with the proceedings he’d ridden up on. “You and you,” Bob said, indicating the pair with a jerk of his chin. “Climb down. Grab your canteens and go cut loose those men on the ground. Cut the lassoes and cut their other bonds, too. Then see if they’re able to take some water. Not too much . . . The rest of you stay mounted and stay bunched together. Once the lassoes are freed, back away some.”
In a matter of minutes, the abused men had been untied and were sitting up, though still on the ground. After they drank thirstily and poured some of the canteen water over their faces—erasing the l
ayer of grime and dust and some patches of crusted blood—Bob was surprised to see they didn’t appear to be quite as battered as he’d expected.
“You fellas in good enough shape to ride a horse instead of being dragged along behind one?” he asked.
The revived men looked up at him. “Our own horses are tied somewhere back in those trees,” said one of them in a somewhat raspy voice. “Give us a chance to get back on ’em and, yeah, we’re in good enough shape to ride.”
“If it gets us away from these crazy bastards,” amended his partner, “you damn betcha we are!”
CHAPTER 7
Their names were Al Hicks and Ron Streeter. Their story was a simple one: They were a couple of drifters from off Utah way on their way to the Prophecy Mountain gold fields hoping to sign on to a mining crew until they could make enough money for a grubstake to start their own dig in the hope of hitting it big one day. The same dream as countless other souls lured by the yellow ore—some coming to work hard for a shot at their share, some coming to find an easier angle.
In the case of Hicks and Streeter, they struck Bob as two hard-luck sorts who were willing to sweat for the chance to get ahead; they just never realized much good fortune from their efforts. Before making it to the Prophecies, as they were crossing the Rocking W range, they found themselves flat broke, hungry, and down to a half-empty jar of jam in their supply pack. That’s when they came upon a sickly young calf, apparently abandoned by its mother, with no sign of the rest of the herd anywhere around.
“The poor, wobbly-legged little critter looked like he’d never make it through until morning. So we decided we’d save him from his misery and save our empty, aching bellies from theirs, too,” explained Hicks, what some might call a boyishly handsome individual despite being well into his thirties. His beard stubble had a blondish tint to it, matching the spare sideburns extending down from under his hat. He was average in build, not exactly soft looking but hardly exhibiting the kind of wiry toughness you saw in most drifters, either.
“And you can believe this or not,” Streeter added, “but we had in mind the whole while that if we saw any wranglers or spotted any ranch buildings the next day, we’d ’fess up to what we’d done and offer to work it off as repayment.” He was maybe a decade older than Hicks, taller and slower moving, with a long, sad face, dark whiskers, and, when he lifted his hat to sleeve away sweat, a shining bald dome except for a fringe around his ears.
The drifters were telling their tale on the ride back to Rattlesnake Wells. Their horses had been returned to them and they clambered aboard with a minimal show of difficulty for the battering they’d endured. Still, Bob was setting a steady but easy pace in recognition of what they’d been put through. Hicks appeared to be in the worst shape, sagging weakly in the saddle now and again, but then he would bolster himself and raise stubbornly upright once more. Mostly for his sake, Bob called a halt a couple different times, passing around a canteen and allowing a short breather.
Also accompanying them, for at least part of the way, were the two Rocking W wranglers Bob had singled out to cut Hicks and Streeter loose. Their names, he learned, were Temple and Reese. The marshal had further enlisted them to round up all the guns from Wardell and the others and bring them along until they were well removed from the ranch. Bob didn’t really think the ranch owner or any of his men would be foolish enough to retrieve their shucked weapons and mount an actual assault on him—no matter how far out of his jurisdiction he was—yet he nevertheless figured it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, he’d done a pretty good job of humiliating Wardell in front of his riders and had backed the lot of them down without firing a shot. That kind of thing could rankle some men past the point of showing good sense.
When they had covered more than half the distance back to town, Bob called another halt, this time for the purpose of allowing Temple and Reese to return to the Rocking W.
“I want you to give Wardell a message for me,” he told them. “Tell him I’m willing to consider this incident finished. Over and done with. If he insists on pushing it further, then what it leads to probably won’t be pretty but it will be strictly on him . . . You got that?”
The two wranglers nodded solemnly.
“All right. Get on back to your ranch, then.”
The two men hesitated. After exchanging looks with his partner, the one called Temple said, “Me and Reese here just want you to know, Marshal, that the whole business back there . . . well, it was settin’ mighty uncomfortable with us the way it was headed before you showed up. And we was awful glad to see you when you did.”
“When you say ‘the way it was headed’ . . . you figure a lynching was where it was gonna end up?” Bob asked.
Temple nodded. “That’s sure how it looked and felt.”
“When it comes to havin’ his cattle rustled,” said Reese, “Mr. Wardell is . . . well, he gets kinda crazy. He pure hates cattle thieves, especially when it’s his cattle gettin’ took.”
“And even more especially when he thinks it’s Carlos Vandez, a Mexican, who might be behind it. Right?”
“That’s the name he kept throwin’ at us,” spoke up Streeter excitedly. “He kept insisting we worked for Carlos Vandez and wanted us to admit it.”
“Yeah, he’s got no love for Vandez, that’s for sure,” said Temple.
“How much rustling is actually going on? How bad is the Rocking W getting hit?” Bob wanted to know.
Again Temple and Reese exchanged glances.
“Well. That’s kinda hard to say,” said Temple. “I guess nobody knows for sure, not as good as Mr. Wardell and maybe Smoky Barnett, his ramrod. They’re convinced the Rocking W has been losing a lot of head.”
“But you’re not?”
Reese said, “We’re coming off an awful bad winter, Marshal. You know that. The weather took a toll on everybody’s cattle. And for a spread the size of the Rocking W, what didn’t freeze got scattered from hell to breakfast. Some of us fellas are thinkin’ there’s maybe still pockets of animals we just ain’t caught up with yet.”
“Only Wardell don’t see it that way.”
Temple scrunched his face into a perplexed expression. “It’s almost like he wants it to be rustlin’ . . . wants to be able to blame it on that.”
“And blame Carlos Vandez specifically,” said Bob, thinking out loud, stating his suspicions more to himself than anybody. Then: “Let me ask you this—either of you heard any talk of Wardell bringing in some new wranglers? Hardcases. Gunnies, in other words, to help fight this rustling problem he’s so dead set exists?”
Yet again the Rocking W men exchanged glances before Temple answered, “Yeah, we’ve heard some talk like that. Smoky Barnett mentioned it a time or two.”
“Names?”
Both men shook their heads. “None we ever heard.”
“Either of you got any way of knowing if it went past more than just talk? Was anybody actually contacted or sent for?”
“We can’t say on that, Marshal. Not one way or the other.”
After Temple and Reese had ridden off, Hicks and Streeter, the unlucky drifters, finished rounding off their tale of the encounter with Wardell and his men up until Bob showed up.
At first light, some Rocking W riders had noticed their night camp and came riding down on it. Once there, it didn’t take long for them to also notice the carcass of the dead calf and the uneaten slabs of meat still hanging on a spit over the cold campfire. Things turned worse for the strangers in a hurry. They were cursed and thoroughly roughed up. Every time they tried to explain their situation they got knocked down again. Until finally the leader of the Rocking W men, the one they called Smoky, decided the trespassers should be taken to ranch headquarters, to Ed Wardell himself. A rider was sent ahead to advise Wardell what the others would be bringing in.
When they got there, Wardell was waiting. So was the noose over the tree limb. Wardell wouldn’t listen to a word they tried to tell him about who they w
ere and why they’d butchered the calf. All he wanted to know was how long they’d been working for Vandez and where were they keeping the rest of the cattle they’d been stealing.
Not getting the answers he wanted, Wardell didn’t waste much time giving the order to put them under the hanging noose. It was Smoky who halted that, at least temporarily, by suggesting that once the noose tightened around their necks they for sure wouldn’t be able to provide any information. It was his idea to tie Hicks and Streeter behind horses and drag them around for a while in a last-ditch effort to get them to spill the truth about their connection to Vandez and the V-Slash.
“I guess you know the rest from there, Marshal,” Hicks summed up the telling.
“And thank God you do,” added Streeter. “Thank God you came along when you did.”
“I don’t know about reading God into it with me,” Bob said. “But for the sake of you gents, I’m glad I arrived in time to break up Wardell’s plans . . . You both convinced he would have gone ahead with the hanging?”
“Not a doubt in my mind,” said Streeter.
“Same here,” confirmed Hicks. “If Smoky hadn’t come up with the idea to drag us around some—not that that was any picnic, I’ll tell you—all you would have found when you got there was a couple of choked-out corpses swinging by our necks.”
* * *
As soon as they hit town, Bob led the way to the doctor’s office. He was pretty sure Hicks had some busted ribs at the very least. Plus he judged a handful of the gashes and lacerations visible on each man probably warranted stitches.
“In case you forgot, Marshal,” Streeter said, his brow wrinkling with concern when he saw the doctor’s shingle hanging over the door of the building where they swung in to tie their horses, “we ain’t got a lick of money to pay no sawbones.”
“Doc Tibbs is a reasonable man,” Bob told him. “If I put in a good word for you, he’ll agree to some payment arrangement. Then I’ll see to it you follow through and square up with him.”
Right between the Eyes Page 5