“Don’t shoot,” he said dully, holding out one hand. “For the love of God, no more shooting.”
Bob and the others pouched their guns and converged quickly on the newspaperman, who looked ready to collapse.
“Take it easy, Dutton. Get hold of yourself,” said Bob as he swung down from the saddle and reached back to grab his canteen. When Peter Macy stepped up to help steady Dutton, Bob unscrewed the cap off the canteen and held it up to pour some water down the newspaperman’s gullet. When more started bubbling back out of the man’s gaping mouth than going down, the marshal lowered the canteen. By then, the others were also gathered around close.
“What took place here? Tell us what happened to cause this,” Bob said.
Dutton passed the back of one hand across his mouth. “Early this morning, back at the Rocking W, I was having breakfast with Ed Wardell when his foreman, Smoky—”
“We know that part,” Bob interrupted. “You rode out on the report of some rustled cattle that had been tracked onto V-Slash property. What happened after you got here?”
As he answered, Dutton’s eyes swept slowly over the carnage of the scene. “Not too long after we got here, some other riders showed up . . . V-Slash men. Carlos Vandez was with them . . . They had gotten reports of Rocking W men trespassing onto V-Slash land . . . Wardell and Vandez had a heated exchange. Wardell called him a thief, among other things, and pointed to the cattle as finally having the proof he’d always been lacking before. At first, Vandez simply denied knowing anything about how the cattle got here. But then, when Wardell refused to believe that, Vandez accused him of purposely planting the cattle in this spot for the sake of provoking a confrontation.”
Dutton paused to catch his breath. The expression on his dirt-streaked face was one of anguish. It only deepened as he continued. “‘And a bloody goddamned confrontation is what we’re gonna have!’ is how Wardell answered the accusation. And, God help us, was he ever telling the truth. The Texas gunmen Wardell had hired went for their weapons first and the rest of the Rocking W men didn’t hesitate to follow suit. The V-Slash men were caught totally by surprise and badly outnumbered. Bullets started flying everywhere. Cattle, horses, and men were cut down. It was an unimaginable horror.”
“The V-Slash boys must have made some kind of fight of it,” observed Temple. “A couple of these fallen men are Rocking W riders.”
Dutton nodded. “Oh, yes. They fought . . . bravely, desperately.”
“And Vandez managed to get away?” Bob asked.
“Yes. I saw him get hit, though. It looked pretty serious but somehow he managed to stay in his saddle. Then he and the remainder of his men, some of them wounded, too, rode off.”
“Wardell and his bunch didn’t follow?” Bob asked.
“Not right away,” Dutton said. “But Wardell swore this wasn’t going to be the end of it. He said he meant to finish that thieving Vandez once and for all and today was going to be the day. But, to do so, he wanted more men. So he sent a couple riders back to the ranch for the rest of the crew. ‘Tell ’em they’d better show up ready to ride and fight for the brand or not be anywhere in my sight when this is over’ was the order he gave.”
“That sounds like Wardell,” Temple said sourly.
“At any rate, it was a message that got results,” said Dutton. “In no time at all, a couple dozen more riders responded, all armed to the teeth. With Wardell in the lead, they took off hell-for-leather toward the V-Slash ranch headquarters.”
“Why didn’t you go with ’em?” said Fred.
“I started out. I didn’t figure I had any choice,” Dutton answered, looking like he was none too happy with the lack of an option. “But just over the rim of the slope”—he jerked a thumb, indicating the inclining ground behind him—“my horse stepped wrong and threw me. It’s a wonder I didn’t get trampled by the rest of the riders passing by. They either didn’t notice I’d taken a spill or simply didn’t give a damn. The good news was that I didn’t get trampled; the bad news was that my horse broke its leg. So I had no means to follow or to go anywhere. I found some shade behind a rock and sat down to wait, hoping somebody would eventually come along.”
“Did you put your horse out of its misery?” Vern wanted to know.
Dutton made a face. “I don’t carry a gun—I could have gotten one off one of the dead men out there, I know—but the poor beast doesn’t really seem to be suffering and I-I just didn’t have the heart . . . not to do still more killing.”
Vern made a face, too. One of disgust. “You don’t put down a suffering animal for the sake of killing—and it is suffering, no matter what you think—you do it for mercy, you spineless fool.”
“Go take care of it, will you, Vern?” Bob said.
The young deputy went quickly up the slope.
To Dutton, Bob said, “How many men total do you figure Wardell rode away from here with?”
“Thirty, I’d say, give or take.”
“That sounds about right, if they cleared out most of the crew,” said Reese.
“How long ago?”
“Less than half an hour. Maybe only twenty minutes,” Dutton said.
Bob regarded Temple and Reese. “The odds are plain enough. You helped by guiding us this far, even after cutting yourselves clear of this mess once before. Nobody’d blame you if you wanted to finish riding clear now.”
The two men exchanged looks. Then Temple said, “Odds ain’t the whole of it, Marshal. Ridin’ on the right side of a thing counts for something, too. Reckon that’s what we’ll be doin’ if we continue to stick with you.”
“Obliged,” Bob said with a curt nod. Turning back to Dutton, he said, “We can’t take you along. We can’t be slowed by somebody riding double,” he said.
“I understand,” Dutton replied.
The flat crack of a rifle shot sounded from up over the rim of the slope.
“Let’s get mounted. Somebody grab Vern’s horse,” Bob ordered. Once up in his own saddle, he looked down at Dutton again and said, “You can find water in the canteens of those dead horses . . . Maybe a horse from one of the fallen men will wander back through here now that the shooting has ended. That happens, you’ll have a fresh mount. If not, we’ll send somebody for you as soon as we can.”
“I understand,” Dutton said again. Then he added, “Good luck, Marshal.”
CHAPTER 54
In addition to already knowing the way to the V-Slash ranch headquarters, Bob and those riding with him could easily see the tracks of Rocking W men who’d only recently gone before them. The way took them on a southwesterly slant from where they’d left Dutton and the “rustled” Wardell cattle, the terrain a continuation of the rolling, grassy hills and brushy draws that made up most of the rangeland north of Rattlesnake Wells.
This time Bob held them to a steady but more moderate pace, wanting to risk neither unexpectedly overtaking the Rocking W outfit nor warning them with the approach of a too-noticeable dust cloud. As they drew nearer to the ranch, he slowed them even more. Shortly after that they began to hear the reports of gunfire, both pistol and rifle.
Bob signaled a halt. “Sounds like once again the party has started without us,” he said.
“Not unexpected, really,” Fred responded. “Wardell and his bunch likely didn’t wait too long to kick off the festivities. Fired up as they were after routing the V-Slash boys in that first skirmish, I expect they went tearing in on a full-out follow-up charge, hoping to hit with as much surprise as possible.”
“Reckon that’s how I’d’ve done it,” agreed Bob. He settled back in his saddle some, not saying anything more for a minute. His eyes scanned the landscape ahead as he pictured in his mind the layout of the V-Slash headquarters from his recent visit there. Then: “Way I recollect, the main house would be about due west if we go in straight from where we are now. That puts the outbuildings, bunkhouse, corrals, and such on the near side to us. Figuring the Rocking W crew rode straight in, that would
mean—after their initial charge—they could scatter, dismount, and take to cover in among those buildings and whatnot while they poured lead at the main house and wherever the V-Slash fellas tried to find cover of their own. With superior numbers on their side, the Wardell outfit could then steadily close in as they continued to blast away.”
“That’d turn Vandez’s front yard into a battlefield,” said Vern.
“Judging by the sound of all that shooting,” added Peter, “that’s exactly what it’s become.”
“Whatever you call it,” said Fred, “we go sashaying into the middle of it we’ll risk drawing fire from both sides because each will suspect we might be there to help the other.”
“There might be a way around that,” said Bob. “But first, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, I want a better look at what the situation we’ll be riding into actually is. To the north, there’s some higher ground that sorta looks down on the ranch buildings. Let’s work our way around to there and have ourselves that better look-see before we do anything rash.”
Bob again led the way, swinging his mount north and heeling it to a gallop. He was less concerned about raising a dust cloud now, figuring that men engaged in a gun battle would be far more focused on keeping to cover and trading lead than noticing a few wisps of dust on the horizon.
Going by the sounds of the guns, Bob’s group rode due north until they judged they were a distance above the battle. Only then did they cut to the west, ascending the swell of higher ground. At length, again going by the sound of the battle now somewhere below them, Bob signaled a halt. After dismounting and telling the others to stay put, the marshal proceeded on foot to the crest of a rounded ridge.
Crouching low in a fringe of knee-high grass, Bob gazed cautiously down on the ranch headquarters about five hundred yards below. He quickly saw that the way things appeared to be playing out down there was pretty close to what he’d expected. To the east, on Bob’s left, the Rocking W bunch was fanned out, no longer mounted, and had taken up positions behind buildings, wagons, and fences. From this cover, they were pouring lead at the main house and a handful of sheds and structures close to it. To Bob’s right, from the windows of the house and from behind the closer cover, V-Slash men were returning fire. Here and there were bodies—not necessarily discernible as to which side they belonged—sprawled motionless on the ground.
Scrambling back down to where he’d left the others, Bob said somewhat breathlessly, “It’s about like we figured, except there might be a few less Rocking W men than we thought. They’ve still got the edge in numbers, though, and they’re really pouring it on. A number of cowboys have already bit the dust. It ain’t pretty, not by a damn sight.”
“So what are we gonna do to try and tame ’em down—without taking a final taste of dust ourselves?” Fred asked.
“Mr. Temple,” Bob said, gesturing toward the former Rocking W hand. “I see you’re wearing a white undershirt beneath your outer shirt. Wonder if I might borrow it for little while?”
Temple looked abruptly and completely befuddled. “I, uh . . . The thing is, it ain’t just a shirt, it’s a whole set of long johns.”
“I don’t care exactly what piece of apparel it is, I want the color,” Bob told him. “Didn’t you ever hear of a white flag of truce?”
“Hey, I got a pair of white socks if that’d be any help. They’d be a lot easier to get off,” Vern offered.
Before Bob could say anything, Peter spoke. “They wouldn’t be big enough to make a decent flag. Besides—meaning no offense, little brother—but I’ve seen your so-called white socks after you’ve worn them a few times and I ain’t so sure they’d even rightly pass for white.”
Vern scowled indignantly and started to reply but Temple cut him off.
“Just give me a minute. I never said I wouldn’t hand over my long handles. I need time to get to it, that’s all.” Temple was down out of his saddle by this point, starting to unbutton his shirt. Moving quickly, with the gun-thunder from the ranch battle growing more intense by the minute, he kicked off his boots, shucked down to his skivvies and then more as he hopped about on stocking feet. Tossing the long handles to Bob, he began pulling his clothes back on even quicker than he’d peeled them off.
Temple was dressed again by the time Bob had the commandeered undergarment tied to the barrel of his rifle. It flowed out nicely, making a unique yet hopefully still effective white flag.
“Hard to believe what a difference a thin layer of cloth like that makes when it comes to sittin’ a saddle,” remarked Temple sourly as he climbed back into his. “My business is floppin’ awful loose in these britches, I gotta tell you. I hope I get my long handles back and not shot full of bullet holes, Marshal.”
Bob gave him a look. “If this flag gets shot full of holes, that’ll probably mean I will be, too. Comes to that, I hope you understand if my concern for your skivvies might be a little lacking.”
Temple looked somber. “Well. I hope neither of you get shot full of holes, then.”
CHAPTER 55
Down the northern slope they descended in single file. Bob was in the lead, prominently displaying the impromptu flag of truce. He was followed, respectively, by Fred, Vern, Peter, Reese, and Temple. Their standing orders were simple: In the event any of the gunfire was turned on them, they were to scatter and take cover. But in any event, they were to hold their own fire for as long as possible.
Bob was nearly at the bottom of the slope before any of the shooters appeared to take notice. Heads began turning at the unexpected sight he made, and gradually the tempo of the shooting slowed, became sporadic, and finally stopped. This, however, did not prevent several of the guns on both sides from being aimed at him.
Emboldened by the cease-fire, not to mention the fact he hadn’t been shot yet, Bob held his horse to a slow walk and proceeded out into the flat, open area between the ranch’s main house and the outbuildings and fences behind which the Rocking W men were hunkered down. No-man’s-land. Behind him, his men fanned out on the edge of the open area and braced to cover him in case the quieted guns started up again.
Bob drew back on the reins and stopped his horse. For a minute he just sat there, looking ahead at nothing, saying nothing. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look in the direction of the main house; after several clock ticks he turned his head and looked the other way, seeking out the deeply frowning face of Ed Wardell peeking out from behind a corral gate.
Finally, Wardell couldn’t hold it in any longer. “What the hell are you doing here, Hatfield? What are you trying to pull?”
“I’m not trying to ‘pull’ anything. What I’m trying to do is stop any more of this senseless killing and maiming over a completely wrongheaded notion,” Bob answered.
“There’s nothing wrongheaded about a man fighting to keep what’s rightfully his from being stolen away from him,” insisted Wardell. “Besides, you had your chance to get involved in this and you wanted nothing to do with it. I practically begged you. But your answer was always that it was out of your jurisdiction.”
“It still is. That part hasn’t changed,” Bob told him. “But—”
“Then get your interferin’ ass out of here! Ain’t no ‘buts’ about it,” hollered out Smoky Barnett. “That badge of yours don’t mean nothing out here but a shiny target to aim at, and I, for one, am itchin’ to do just that.”
Bob made it a point not to look at Barnett, instead keeping his eyes locked on Wardell as he said, “I thought you ran the show at the Rocking W, Ed. Since when have you started letting this yappin’ mutt do your talking for you?”
“Go ahead and run your mouth, law dog,” Barnett said. “That just makes it all the more—”
“Be quiet, Smoky,” Wardell cut him short. “I’m handling this. You keep your place.”
“Now that I know who I’m dealing with,” said Bob, “let me finish my point about the wrongheadedness of what’s going on here. You see, the missing beef that started all thi
s—the ones you’re so hell-bent on blaming Vandez for—ain’t really missing at all. Leastways, not a good chunk of ’em.”
“What the hell are you talking about, not missing?” hissed Wardell. “I know when I’m short cattle and when I’m not.”
Bob wagged his head. “I’m not saying you’re not short cattle on your spread, on the range where you expect them to be. What I’m saying is that they can be found where you just haven’t looked yet.”
“You’re not making any sense!”
Bob made a placating gesture with his free hand. “Just hold on, I’ll explain. But before I do”—the marshal turned away momentarily and called toward the main house—“Carlos Vandez! Are you listening to this also?”
After a sight pause, Vandez called back, “Sí, Marshal Hatfield. If I was not listening, the bullets would still be flying.”
“Well, just keep listening and keep holding off on those bullets,” Bob told him. Then, turning back to Wardell, he said, “Two days ago, I had occasion to chase a fugitive up into the Shirley Mountains. I was able to stay on his trail, but he sure didn’t make it easy for me. In the course of following all the zigs and zags he pulled to try and throw me off, I came upon an interesting sight in the lower reaches of the Shirley foothills . . . Several pockets of cattle—each one numbering three or four dozen, maybe more, I didn’t take time for a tight count—nestled in a series of shallow, grass-bottomed canyons. Your cattle, Wardell . . . and some of yours, too, Vandez . . . scattered off their regular range by the hard winter and finding places to hunker in and survive, even thrive.”
Wardell slowly straightened up and eased partway out from behind the gate. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his eyes were boring into Bob. “That’s a helluva yarn you’re spinning, Hatfield.”
“Maybe so. But tell me it’s not possible,” Bob insisted. “You know how mean last winter was. Wasn’t plenty of the cattle you did manage to gather up this spring scattered far and wide over your spread?”
Right between the Eyes Page 29