“You’re doing the talking,” Bullock said agreeably.
“Plus,” McTeague went on, “it seemed particularly fitting that these three rascals I brought with me—good men all, says I—happened to be on hand for that very consideration.”
“And there wasn’t even a whisker of arm-twistin’ to it,” Ray Monte was quick to add. “When we heard what was up, we was more than willin’ to pitch in and help. We’d consider it an honor, Marshal.”
“I don’t know about that. But having some extra men on hand for this situation sure ain’t a bad idea,” said Bob. “You fellas took your medicine for that scrap at the Grand a few nights back, so things are square between us. And a nod of approval from Angus McTeague ought to be good enough for anybody. So welcome aboard.
“Now just to make sure you know what you’re up against—and that goes for all of you—I reckon you got a dose of the mood of that pack of jackasses outside as you came in. You wouldn’t’ve had to hear much to figure out that I don’t rate very high in their opinion and our prisoner Larkin even less so. Mike and Angus, like me, you probably know most of those men so you know they really ain’t bad sorts given to making any kind of serious trouble. Way I figure, most of what they got stuck in their craws is just hot air. But they’re stirred up. And stirred-up men, even decent ones, can get out of hand. So that’s what I want you to keep in mind. I don’t believe that bunch has got any serious troublemaking in ’em, but at the same time you’ve got to stay ready for that possibility.”
“We’ll be ready okay,” said Bullock. “Speakin’ for myself, ever since that kind of talk got started—putting you in a bad light and making noise about lynching Johnny Larkin—I’ve been practically aching to knock some stupid heads together. If this gives me the chance to do that, you damn betcha I’ll be ready.”
“Same goes all the way around for the rest of us,” stated McTeague.
“All you need to do is hold the line,” Bob reminded the two old bulls. “If all they do is gather out there and grumble and make noise, leave ’em to it. That’s their right. But if they make any attempt to actually get at Larkin, then of course it’s a different story . . . Now me and my deputies ought to be back by nightfall. We’re either gonna have some luck taming down the situation between the two brands, or we’re not. But we’ve got to try, otherwise I’m afraid there’s gonna be a lot of blood spilled.”
“Just make sure you don’t get caught in the middle so some of that blood ends up being yours,” cautioned Bullock. “If those stubborn damn cattlemen insist on blazing away at each other, there’s only so much you can do.”
“I know that,” allowed Bob. “I also know that our first priority is this town. Those who’ve been finding so much fault with me of late will probably seize on us going out there as something more to bitch about. Maybe they’re right. But like I said, we feel obligated to try. That makes us mighty grateful to you men for helping out here, so we’re able to.”
“Never mind all that. It’s understood,” said McTeague. “Now go ahead and get going. We’ve got the handle on things here.”
* * *
Bob, Fred, and Peter had barely ridden beyond the city limits before they were brought to a halt by the sight of three horsemen on their way into town, pushing their mounts hard. Riding in the center of the incoming trio was Vern Macy.
Vern and the men with him reined up sharply and the two groups milled together as a delayed cloud of dust rolled over them.
“Sounds like we’re running a mite late, at least for the initial clash between the two brands,” Vern reported, slightly out of breath. “I ran into these two fellas on their way in to see you, Marshal. They’re Rocking W hands . . . Leastways they were until this morning. I’ll let them tell you what they know about what’s going on.”
As the dust thinned out, Bob recognized the two wranglers—Temple and Reese; the young cowpokes he’d singled out to give him a hand the day he’d broken up the attempted lynching of the two drifters, Hicks and Streeter. While Ed Wardell, Smoky Barnett, and the rest of the Rocking W riders who’d been present that day looked all too eager to be participating in what was under way, Bob had recognized a measure of reluctance on the faces of Temple and Reese, which was why he’d ordered them out of the rest of the pack to gather up weapons and assist him in getting the two near-victims a safe distance away. On their faces now, he once again saw disturbed, unnerved expressions.
“We ain’t rightfully positive about all the shenanigans that have gone on back at the ranch lately, Marshal,” Reese reported. “But we’ve seen and heard enough—too much—to stick around and risk gettin’ caught any deeper in it.”
“As soon as those three Texas gunnies showed up,” added Temple, “everything took a turn toward harder and meaner. Mostly on account of their leader, a fella who calls hisself Rance Brannigan. He is one cold-eyed polecat, yet Smoky Barnett and some of the other Rockin’ W riders—even Mr. Wardell to a certain extent, it seemed like—started hoppin’ to the way he called the tune.”
“So what happened that caused you to be on your way in to see me?” Bob wanted to know.
After getting a nod from Temple indicating he should be the one to go ahead and tell it, Reese said, “Last night, Temple and me was scheduled to ride out on nighthawk duty over this small herd of cattle we’d only recently moved to a new pasture. But then, at the last minute, Smoky came to the bunkhouse and told us to sit tight, there’d been a change of plans and we could sleep in. Well, hell, that was pretty good news to our ears so we didn’t think too much more about it. Not at first. But then, a little while later, we saw Smoky and those three Texans, along with three or four other hands, go ridin’ out. That seemed kinda odd, takin’ so many men if they was just on their way to cover nighthawkin’.”
“Extra odd,” added Temple, “that they was in-volvin’ those Texans. From the time they showed up, they never before done a lick as far as ranch work.”
“Anyway,” Reese continued, “off they rode and we didn’t think a whole lot more about it. We was just glad for the extra sack time, I guess. By the time mornin’ rolled around, none of those who’d rode out late had showed back up for breakfast. Just about the time the rest of us hands was finishin’ up eatin’, though, here comes Smoky Barnett tearin’ in like his tail was on fire and his ass was about to catch. He went straight to Mr. Wardell’s house, and, not more’n a minute later, Wardell and that newspaperman he had with him came hurryin’ back out with Smoky.”
“What was the newspaperman doing there?” Fred asked.
“Wardell sent for him to come out the evening before,” said Temple. “He wanted him—Dutton his name is—to do a story on the rustlin’ Wardell is so bound and determined is goin’ on. Dutton came around and talked to some of us hands, scribblin’ down our thoughts about the trouble. ‘Background,’ he called it, for the articles he’d be puttin’ in his paper.”
Reese picked it up again from there, saying, “When it got late, Wardell had him to supper at the big house and then had him stay overnight. That’s how he happened to be around in the mornin’ when Smoky came a-thunderin’ in with his big announcement.”
“What announcement was that?” Bob asked, already having a pretty good hunch what the answer was going to be.
“New rustlin’ activity that had took place durin’ the night. Smoky and the boys ridin’ with him had found sign of it and tracked the long-loopers onto V-Slash land. The rest of the men had stayed with the cattle, to hold ’em in place, while Smoky had come to fetch Mr. Wardell so’s he could see for himself.”
“Wardell and the newspaperman, right?” said Bob.
“Uh-huh. Dutton went with ’em.”
Bob cocked one eyebrow dubiously. “Mighty convenient for the newspaperman to be so close by when the rustling took place, wouldn’t you say?”
Temple and Reese exchanged uneasy glances. “That’s, uh, what we got to thinkin’, too,” said Reese.
“Not so much about Dutt
on, necessarily, but more to the point of Smoky and those Texans bein’ out prowlin’ on a night when the rustlers hit. In the first place, how could the rustlin’ take place under the nose of all of ’em out there supposedly nighthawkin’? Not only that but, for the first time ever, then bein’ able to track ’em over onto Vandez land.”
“That’s why we decided to take a look for ourselves,” Temple said. “Sure enough, when we got to that herd we would’ve been nighthawkin’ over if Smoky hadn’t changed our schedule, you could quick enough tell there was a mess of ’em missin’. Four, five dozen at least. We didn’t have no trouble seein’ the way they got driven off, neither, and there wasn’t much doubt it was in the direction of the V-Slash property line. So, our curiosity already pricked, we followed it for a ways.
“And before long was when we heard all the shootin’,” Temple finished.
CHAPTER 52
Saul Norton finally decided that, since his voice had been such a big part of stirring up the very emotions they were displaying, he needed to make an appearance and join the crowd gathered outside the jail. He’d had reservations about going after hearing that Sweeney was also being kept in the lockup, though nobody seemed to be sure why.
Norton’s concern was that his appearance on the scene might lead to the exposure of his past dealings with Sweeney. In the end, he’d decided that if the matter came up he would simply deny knowing anything about it. After all, lacking any kind of proof on Sweeney’s part, who would believe a penniless black man over him?
When Norton arrived at the jail and found out the marshal and his deputies had ridden off to attend to some other trouble out of town, he was emboldened and suddenly very glad he came. By this point the crowd had swelled to nearly thirty in number and their mood was increasingly restless and rowdy. When he stood before them and they shouted his name, Norton felt a rush of power and influence like he’d seldom ever known before.
“If anybody needed any further proof of our marshal’s total breakdown of priorities and his repeated disregard for the importance of having a killer like John Larkin in his custody,” he addressed the crowd, his voice raised high and quavering with outrage, “you have it presented before you in a stark display! Marshal Hatfield rides off—with all of his deputies, mind you—and leaves the confinement of a dangerous murderer in the hands of a handful of rank amateurs. Does that strike you as either prudent or competent? Are those the actions of someone who is committed to the safety and best interests of our community?”
Responding shouts came out of the crowd:
“Hell no! He ain’t fit for the job!”
“We need to take responsibility for our own safety—we need to give Larkin what he deserves before he gets loose and kills again!”
“And then we need to get rid of that worthless damn Hatfield!”
Norton had stepped up on a porch-like strip of boardwalk that ran in front of the jail building, elevating himself slightly for addressing the crowd. When the front door of the jail opened behind him, the crowd suddenly quieted and Norton stepped aside with a bit of a start.
Mike Bullock came out onto the boardwalk. In the doorway behind him loomed Angus McTeague with a scattergun held on prominent display.
“It’s getting awful stinking noisy out here,” Bullock growled. “I not only don’t like the noise, I double-damn don’t like the words contained in it. Running down Bob Hatfield behind his back? That makes the whole lot of you not only gutless, it makes you about as wrong as wrong can be.”
“It’s a free country,” argued Norton. “We have the right to assemble and the right to speak our piece.”
“And I have the right not to like it and not to like you,” Bullock told him.
“That may be, but it still doesn’t change the situation.”
“And what is the situation?” Bullock demanded. “When I hear ‘give Larkin what he deserves’ and ‘get rid of that worthless damn Hatfield’—is that it? I’d call that more than talk, mister, I’d say those sound mighty damn close to threats.”
“And if that’s the case,” said McTeague, crowding farther into the doorway, “then any of you loudmouths wanting to try and make good on ’em by marching through us handful of ‘rank amateurs’—well, you’re welcome to try.”
No one in the crowd appeared eager to take him up on the offer.
Sensing he was losing control over the group, Norton was quick to say, “Bullying honest citizens instead of protecting them against the likes of a John Larkin—yeah, it’s plain to see Marshal Hatfield was the one who trained you for your acting deputy roles.”
“You think anything we’ve said or done so far is bullying?” said Bullock, his face reddening. “Then maybe it’s time to give you a demonstration of the real thing.”
Before anything more was said, attention was shifted and heads were abruptly turned by a stirring in the group of onlookers that started toward the back and seemed to ripple quickly through to the front.
Brenda Emory emerged from the pack and stepped boldly up onto the boardwalk between Bullock and Norton. She was clad in a long maroon skirt, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, and a crisp white blouse. Her long reddish hair, looking molten in the morning sunlight, was pulled back and tied in a loose ponytail that flounced lightly when she moved her head.
“Enjoyable as seeing you give a demonstration of bullying to Mr. Norton might be,” she said to Bullock, “I hardly think that’s the kind of thing Marshal Hatfield left you in charge to do, is it, sir?”
Bullock scowled at her but didn’t say anything right away.
Not waiting, Brenda turned her head and aimed a scowl of her own at Norton, saying, “And you, Saul—rabble-rousing when you belong at home still convalescing. Is this the wisest way for you to be spending your time?”
Norton showed no hesitation when it came to responding. “How I spend my time is my business. More to the point is what the hell are you doing here, Brenda?”
“I came to see John Larkin,” she answered, thrusting out her chin defiantly. Then, narrowing her sparkling brown eyes and turning to rake them over the gathering, she simultaneously raised her voice so that everyone could hear, adding, “Unlike some, I happen to believe in one of the basic rules of our land that teaches a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.”
“Your behavior in coming here is scandalous,” Norton hissed. “Do you know how hard it is on your father every time you—”
Brenda cut him off with, “Leave my father out of this! Where I go and how I choose to behave is my business.” Turning back to Bullock, she said, “How about it, Mr. Bullock? Will you allow me a brief visit with the prisoner?”
Bullock looked momentarily uncomfortable, uncertain. But glancing past Brenda and seeing how displeased the notion clearly made Norton helped him make up his mind. “Probably not something the marshal would like for me to allow. But what the hell,” he muttered. “Come ahead on in, Miss Emory.”
CHAPTER 53
With Temple and Reese leading the way toward where they’d heard the sound of heavy gunfire, Bob and his deputies rode hard over low, rolling hills and in and out of brushy draws. The sun climbed higher in the sky overhead and the air was totally still. For a time the whole world seemed to be one of only thundering hooves, boiling dust, and a sensation of rushing toward danger they hoped they would be in time to help quell.
At last, as they approached a long, flat-topped hogback rising up a short ways off to the east, Reese raised one hand and they slowed to a walk and then a halt. Reese stood up in his stirrups and cocked one ear, listening sharply. When Bob moved up beside him, he said, “Somewhere about here is where we judged all the shootin’ was comin’ from. We was a ways back to the west. But by this point I’m pretty sure we’ve crossed onto V-Slash land, wouldn’t you say, Temp?”
“For certain,” Temple agreed.
Everyone sat their horses, remaining very still. The only sounds were the animals blowing, the occasional creak of leathe
r, and the gentle whisper of settling dust.
After a minute, Bob said, “Let’s move up onto that hogback and see if we can’t make out something from there.”
When they crested the hogback a handful of minutes later, they were indeed able to make out something. Something they’d been hoping to be able to prevent.
The back side of the hogback sloped down into a shallow natural bowl ringed by stands of scraggly timber and scattered, jagged rock outcroppings. Across the floor of the bowl, several head of cattle stood in two or three loose clumps. Interspersed among them were half a dozen carcasses sprawled flat and still, riddled with bullet holes. Two or three horses lay in the same condition . . . And then there were the bodies of the men. Five in all, three of them dropped flat, two others fallen in twisted, grotesque positions. All splashed with bright red smears of blood pumped by their dying heartbeats.
The six men looking down on this slaughter each uttered either a curse or a bitter lament to the Almighty under his breath.
Nudging his horse forward and down, Bob said in a low, husky voice, “Spread out. Look for any signs of life.”
It didn’t take long for them to work their way across the floor of the bowl. Other than the milling cattle, there was no living thing requiring closer examination or aid.
And then, partway up the slope on the far side of the bowl, something moved. Six Colts—none faster than Bob’s—were swept from their holsters and leveled on the spot where the movement had taken place. The sound of hammers being thumbed back melded together like the exclamation point to an unspoken warning.
From behind one of the rock outcroppings, a disheveled-looking man emerged with jerky, unsteady steps. Minus his bowler hat and with his hair sticking up wildly and his face smeared with dirt, it took a moment for the man to be recognizable as Owen Dutton.
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