But in the meantime, he was still intent on running down John Larkin. A task that was taking all his focus because his quarry’s trail was getting harder and more erratic to follow. The cause for this was Larkin’s tactic of choosing rocky passages that wouldn’t take a hoofprint, even if it meant tougher going for himself, and veering at odd angles to the general northeastern direction he seemed to be heading. More than once Bob had lost several minutes switching back and forth over such hardpan breaks before he finally found an outlet point or a hoof scuff or some other obscure indicator that gave him a sign to keep following.
The higher peaks and sheer cliffs of the Shirleys, although not considered particularly large or imposing, not compared to the Rockies to the south or some of the various other ranges scattered through west central Wyoming, were nevertheless plenty rugged and steadily closing in. Combined with thickening pine growth and short, twisty canyons that led nowhere, suitable routes to continue north were becoming trickier. It was apparent that Larkin didn’t know these mountains worth a damn and was simply blundering ahead in an effort to make his way through. Recognizing this, Bob’s expectations had broadened from a plan of simply overtaking the fugitive to one that included the possibility of Larkin plunging into a blind canyon where he’d find himself cornered. The marshal cared little how the chase ended, he just wanted it over with so they could get headed back to Rattlesnake Wells.
With the sun in a cloudless sky beginning its slide downward toward the western horizon, Bob had picked Larkin’s trail back up once again after an especially frustrating period of having lost it. The skunk had entered into a fast-running stream that cut deep through a long stretch of ground made up of nothing but flat, rocky slabs. Finding where Larkin emerged out of the water onto such a hardened surface that refused to take any kind of mark or hold a drop of wetness had required painstaking effort. When Bob finally found the trace he was looking for, he discovered the crafty bastard had traveled only a few hundred yards upstream before leaving the water and continuing on.
Cursing all the time he’d lost over such a short-ranged diversion, Bob heeled his own mount out of the water and locked on the trail again. When he did, the echoing crack of his horse’s hooves on the slabbed surface sounded as angry and determined as his mood . . .
CHAPTER 45
“And this is well into V-Slash property—you’re certain of that?”
Smoky Barnett scowled at the question put to him by Rance Brannigan. “Yeah, I’m certain. We’re close to a mile over the line. I’m also certain that I don’t like being here. Not one damn bit. I got an itch between my shoulder blades like some V-Slash brush popper is drawin’ a bead on me and ready to trigger a round any second.”
Brannigan emitted a dry chuckle. “Hell, son, that’s a feeling I live with practically every day of my life. You get used to it, even learn to appreciate it. It’s what keeps a man on his toes.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Barnett said dryly. “But I don’t think I’m in any hurry to try and get used to it.”
The two men, along with Charley Drake and Wilbur Nixon, sat their horses just back from the crest of a long grassy hump, what some would refer to as a hogback. The afternoon sun beat down on them, casting their shadows across the breeze-rippled grass. Over the crest, the land sloped gradually down into a fair-sized natural bowl with a few outcroppings of rock and some stands of trees around its edges.
Leaning forward on his saddle horn and gazing down into the bowl, studying it, Brannigan said to Barnett, “You might need to do some rethinkin’ on that, on the gettin’ used to it part. Because I got a hunch this ain’t the last time we’re gonna be visiting this spot.”
“Why would that be?” Barnett wanted to know.
Brannigan jerked his chin. “Just look at the layout. If I was a dirty lowdown rustler in the habit of long-loopin’ my neighbor’s cattle in the middle of the night, this strikes me as exactly the kind of spot I’d bring ’em to. A sorta hidden little place where I could take my time re-markin’ the critters’ brands or maybe just holdin’ ’em for a spell until I had some kind of sell-off worked out.”
“And the fact we saw a nice little bunch of Rockin’ W cattle not too far back on the other side of the property line,” interjected Wilbur, “makes this spot all the more suitable. Wouldn’t be but a short ride in the moonlight to nudge a few head of beeves from one location to the other.”
“What are you talking about? Do you have some kind of tip that Vandez is plannin’ a rustlin’ raid soon and will be bringin’ Wardell cattle here?” asked Barnett, an unmistakable touch of excitement edging into his voice.
“What if he did?” said Brannigan. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Maybe not for bringin’ the stole cattle right to this spot, but takin’ ’em somewhere all the same. Ain’t that the way it’s been going?”
“That’s the way Wardell has been figurin’, yeah.”
“But the reason he’s never been able to get the law or nobody to see it the same way, and the reason he’s never taken any hard action on it—leastways not until he called in my pards and me—is because Wardell’s never been able to prove what’s goin’ on. Ain’t that right?” Brannigan pressed.
“Yeah, that’s pretty much the size of it,” Barnett allowed.
“Then that makes bringin’ us in,” said Drake with a sly, knowing grin, “all the smarter on Wardell’s part. You see, we happen to not only be pretty damn good at findin’ proof of this kind of dirty doings, but then, once we do, we are downright experts at sweepin’ away the dirt.”
“But no matter how good we are,” Brannigan was quick to add, “we sometimes still need help gettin’ things lined up in order to make it a clean sweep. That’s where you could come in, Smoky. I’ve had my eye on you right from the start. Yeah, you’re already the ramrod of this outfit, but I see a fella with the grit and savvy to be a lot more. And unless I’m wrong, something that would help you take that next step would be the chance at some real money—a helluva lot bigger payday than you’re ever gonna get workin’ for wages. Am I right, or am I right?”
“Well, yeah. Hell yeah. I like money as much as the next fella. But I gotta tell you, I ain’t so sure I’m ready for—”
“We ain’t talkin’ nothing illegal. Not exactly,” Brannigan cut him off. “But where has stickin’ tight with the law got Wardell or you when it comes to this stinkin’ greaser who’s been robbin’ you blind? Sometimes you gotta bend the law a little, poke your elbows out past the edges some, in order to make it work to your advantage. That’s all I’m sayin’. And I’m talkin’ more than just this rustlin’ business, too. When we get that taken care of, there’s something even bigger practically right under your nose. That’s where the real money is gonna be. You throw in with us now, you’ll have your chance to get included in on that as well.”
Barnett licked his lips. “You’re throwin’ an awful lot at me. But you’ve damn sure got my interest, I’ll tell you that.”
“Good. Then go with your gut,” Brannigan urged him. “Hear us the rest of the way out, you won’t be sorry. And another thing. Once you’re in, we’ll need you to find us four or five more men from your wranglin’ crew who are also cut out for what needs to be done . . .”
* * *
Owen Dutton held a copy of the Wells Gazette at arm’s length and gazed on it admiringly. It was a special edition—the first one he’d put out since starting the paper—and he felt as proud as a beaming papa holding up a brand-new son. Not only was his chest swelling because it was a special edition, but it also happened to contain, in Dutton’s not-so-humble opinion, some of the finest, hardest-hitting journalism he’d ever run.
Given the rich subject matter of events from the past few days, how could it have been otherwise? The mysterious, still-unsolved sniper attempt on one of the community’s most highly regarded citizens; a gunsmoke-shrouded shoot-out in the middle of the street; the murder of a beloved citizen by a vengeful former convict wh
o’d betrayed all the chances he’d been given to prove himself reformed; the heroism of a fellow citizen who—in spite of still recuperating from a beating suffered in a craven, also still-unsolved prior assault—had tried valiantly to stop the murder victim from going to his doom; the ultimate tragedy of a widow now left heartbroken and alone. All of this capped off by a bold, insightful editorial that questioned the judgment of a marshal who didn’t seem to hesitate when it came to gunning down a young, drunken rowdy yet failed time and again to restrain the actions of an obviously embittered individual who ended up taking the most innocent of lives.
Standing in horizontal slashes of late afternoon sunlight pouring through the blinds of his office, yet another tingle of excitement passed through Dutton as he scanned the layout of articles he’d single-handedly written and typeset. After working feverishly long into the night and then every minute of the day up to this point, he should have been exhausted. But he wasn’t. He felt vibrant, energized. And for the first time in a long time he felt like he was truly representing the power of the press the way it was meant to be wielded.
Yes, he’d been well aware of how many people scoffed at the notion of a newspaper in Rattlesnake Wells. Especially when they saw that it was nothing more than a one-man operation cranking out copy from an ancient, rickety press on the cheapest paper to be had. Plenty still scoffed even after he began putting out regular editions and a loyal readership began to build. And yes, Dutton was well aware that he had a propensity toward sensationalism and the use of descriptive passages straight out of dime-novel prose. Everybody from his journalism teachers to Marshal Hatfield seemed to go out of their way to point this out to him.
But truth and accuracy were still what counted, damn it, even if presented in a less than polished style. And with the just-published editorial calling him to task for the way he’d handled the whole Larkin matter, if Marshal Hatfield was smart he’d be a lot more concerned about the perception of how he did his own job rather than how Dutton wrote his articles.
CHAPTER 46
Long, thick shadows thrown at crazy angles by the higher mountain peaks were hurrying the onset of dusk. Bob Hatfield was still locked on Larkin’s trail and he sensed he’d shortened the time gap between them to possibly as slim as half an hour. Nevertheless, it didn’t look like he was going to be able to close completely on his quarry before nightfall. Which meant another night’s cold camp and then continuing his track-down into another day. Bob swore under his breath at the prospect.
But at least, he tried to console himself, he was confident he could catch up sometime tomorrow morning. The thing to consider at that point would be what was it going to take to secure Larkin’s apprehension. In the back of his mind, Bob had been figuring all along that it somehow wouldn’t come to a shoot-out. Although he couldn’t say exactly why, he was counting on Larkin to give himself up if chased down. But maybe that was wishful thinking on Bob’s part—he didn’t want to kill Larkin to stop his flight, he was sure of that much; yet he would if he had to. Conversely, he didn’t believe Larkin was desperate enough to kill him, a lawman, even if to avoid capture. But all indications were that he’d already killed once and he sure hadn’t hesitated to damn near knock Bob’s block off for the sake of making good his escape in the first place . . . so nothing was certain.
What it boiled down to was that Bob needed to be extra cautious for his final close-in, making it all the more important not to push too far into the rapidly descending darkness.
Abruptly, with these thoughts running through his mind, the marshal came to a small, teardrop-shaped clearing. He’d been moving through a stretch of scraggly pine growth, following bent, broken twigs that marked Larkin’s passage ahead of him more clearly than at any time all day. He reined his horse at the edge of the clearing before venturing out into the open. On the far side, he could see where the pine growth picked up again, although at that point starting to be interrupted by frequent outcroppings of jagged rock.
And then he spotted something else. Surprisingly, almost astonishingly, he could see the yellow-gold flicker of a campfire just within the pines on the other side.
Bob gripped his reins tighter. Man and horse froze into a single motionless shape. Only the rider’s eyes moved—sweeping alertly from side to side, measuring, studying.
From the deep shadows within a thicket immediately to Bob’s right, not more than a dozen feet away, a voice said low and clear, “Stay frozen just like that . . . And be especially careful not to move your hand anywhere near the Colt on your hip or the Winchester in the saddle scabbard.”
Bob recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to John Larkin.
He wasn’t aware of holding his breath until, after several tense clock ticks, he felt it hiss out through his teeth. “Well? Are you gonna shoot me or not?”
Larkin didn’t answer right away. Then, after easing into view with a Winchester rifle leveled on Bob, he said, “I’m thinkin’ on it . . . But no, I reckon I won’t. If it was anybody else . . . maybe. But I should’ve known you’d be the one to come after me.”
“You made it kinda personal by wrappin’ that bucket around my head.”
“And I could say you made it kinda personal by makin’ me reach into that slop.”
“By killing a man, you’d already reached pretty low all on your own.”
Larkin’s tone took on a sudden edge. “Apparently you don’t listen so good, do you? Like I tried to tell you back in town, I had nothing to do with killing that little man! I opened the door and found him that way.”
“That might sound a little more convincing if you hadn’t immediately made a run for it and now are trying to plead your innocence from behind the barrel of a gun,” Bob told him.
“I should’ve stuck around and done my pleading in front of a judge and jury—that what you’re trying to sell?” Larkin sneered.
“It is.”
“Well, in case you need remindin’, I tried that once and it didn’t work out so hot for me.”
“You really think running and leaving everybody convinced you are a killer is any better?”
“At least I ain’t behind bars.”
“Not yet maybe. But as long as you’re on the run and being hunted you’re not really free, either. You’ll never know when the next man you lock eyes with—wherever you go, after no matter how long—might not be somebody who’ll recognize you and call you to account for what you thought you’d gotten away from.” As he heard the words spilling out, Bob suddenly realized he was talking to himself as much as to Larkin.
Whatever Larkin heard on his end, it was enough to make him go silent for another long minute. Heaving a heavy sigh, he said, “Why do you think I built the fire over there and then scrambled back here to wait for you like this?”
Bob frowned. “To catch me off guard, I reckon. To puzzle me, make me hesitate for a second so’s you could get the drop on me. Much as it galls me to admit, appears it worked.”
“Uh-huh. And if I wanted, we’re in agreement I could blow you clean out of that saddle right now and have a whale of a head start on anybody else who might come along next. Right?”
Bob just glared at him, said nothing.
“Okay. I want you to keep that in mind . . . And then I want you to be sure and remember this.” So saying, Larkin lowered his Winchester and took a slow step forward. “I’m letting you take me in. It sank in a couple hours back that this runnin’ shit ain’t no good. I got a raw deal before but this time, with you behind the badge, I figure I’ve got a better chance. That’s why I had to make sure it was you on my tail and then set this up so you’d see I was turning myself in of my own free will before you had me cornered to where I had no choice.”
Bob gave a crisp nod. “So noted.” Swinging down from his saddle, he reached out and relieved Larkin of his Winchester. “You understand,” he said, “I’m gonna have to put you in cuffs.”
“I understand,” Larkin said woodenly. “I just hope you had th
e chance to wipe ’em off some.”
“Understand, too, that I won’t hesitate to shoot if you try any tricks to break away again.”
Larkin furrowed his brow. “Now why in hell would I hand myself over, then try to make another run for it?”
“Just so we’re clear.” Bob took the irons from his belt and shook them out. “Hold out your hands . . . in front will do.”
Larkin did as instructed. As the bracelets were being clamped around his wrists, he said, “I got me another hope or two.”
“No promises. But what?”
“I furnished the fire . . . I hope you’ve got some coffee and grub to cook over it. On account of how sudden-like I lit out, I ended up a mite shy on provisions. Liked to froze my ass off last night, and I’m so hungry right about now my belly thinks my throat’s been cut. You being an upstanding officer of the law and all, you got an obligation to provide proper care for your prisoner, don’t you?”
Twisting his mouth wryly, Bob said, “I’ll see what I can do . . . Would’ve been a sight easier on both of us if you’d made your decision to quit running a whole lot sooner. I didn’t exactly have a warm, comfy time of it last night myself, so don’t expect me to feel too sorry for you.” Taking his horse’s reins in one hand and wielding the confiscated rifle with the other, the marshal added, “Go on, walk ahead of me. Get started across the clearing while we’ve still got some light. That fire will feel mighty good in a few minutes. When we lose the sun this high up, the temperature’s gonna drop like a stone.”
CHAPTER 47
Twenty-seven hours later, Marshal Hatfield and his prisoner arrived back in Rattlesnake Wells. After camping for the night on the far edge of the teardrop-shaped clearing, they’d started their return from the Shirley Mountains at the first hint of grayness in the eastern sky. By pushing hard and steady, now without being slowed by the mechanics of one man trying to hide his trail while the other strained to follow it, they nearly halved the time initially taken to cover the distance involved.
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