“You’re as green as grass and that’s no lie,” Mad Dog said.
Mitch paid him no mind.
“Why would the marshal hire somebody as dumb as you?”
Mitch pretended to be interested in an account of a town council meeting from weeks ago. Not much had happened. The minutes had been read, and the mayor proposed an ordinance to prohibit hogs and chickens from running loose in the streets. Not that it happened all that often. But then, the mayor loved to pass new ordinances.
“Don’t act like I’m not here, boy,” Mad Dog said. “It riles me.”
“Leave me be,” Mitch said. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“You’re really readin’ that?”
“Of course.”
“I never learned how,” Mad Dog said. “My pa used to say it was a waste of time. He had better use for me in the fields.”
“Your father was a farmer?”
“What of it?”
“Farmers are usually nice people.”
“We’re back to that again,” Mad Dog said. “You’re wonderin’ how a farmer raised a whelp like me?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“Farm work bored me, boy. There was nothing’ about it I liked. Not milkin’ the cows or feedin’ slop to the pigs or plowin’ or any of it.”
“So that’s your problem,” Mitch said. “Life doesn’t please you.”
“I didn’t say all life,” Mad Dog replied. “I said farmin’.” He stepped to the bars. “Fact is, there’s a lot about life I like. Stealin’ other folks’ money. Spendin’ a night with a whore. Killin’.”
“No one likes to kill,” Mitch said. “That’s not natural.”
Mad Dog gripped the bars. “Let me out and I’ll show you how much I like it by killin’ you.”
“No, thanks,” Mitch said. He was almost to the end of the council account, and trying to remember what unanimous meant.
That was when the front door opened, admitting a blast of noise from up the street.
Mitch idly looked over, expecting it to be a townsman or maybe Arthur Hunnecut again. But no. The man who filled the doorway wasn’t much older than he was, and dressed all in black. Even as Mitch looked, the man’s hand flicked and a Colt Lightning appeared, pointed squarely at Mitch.
“Stay right where you are, law dog.”
“Kid?” Mad Dog said
Belatedly Mitch recognized the Attica Kid. He felt as if ice-cold water had been poured into his body, and froze.
The Kid moved to one side and Cestus Calloway strolled in as casually as could be. Behind him came the old outlaw, the man called Ira Toomis, with his six-shooter out.
“It was plumb easy,” the Attica Kid said.
“Told you it would be,” Cestus Calloway said. Smiling grandly, he stepped to the desk, roosted on the edge, and rested his wrists on his leg. “How do you do, Deputy?”
Mitch had to try twice to say, “Mr. Calloway, sir.”
“Sir, is it?” Cestus said, and chuckled.
“Where are the others?” Mad Dog asked.
“Bert and Cockeye are out back with the horses,” Cestus said. “Some of the animals are skittish from the smoke and all the yellin’, and we don’t want them runnin’ off.”
Mad Dog tried to shake the bars, but they were firmly embedded. “Let me out. I hate bein’ caged more than I hate just about anything.”
Cestus bent toward Mitch. “Are those the keys yonder, on that peg?”
Even though Mitch knew that they were, he looked and nodded. “Yes, sir. They are.”
“Ain’t you polite?” Cestus said. He pointed at Ira Toomis and the grizzled outlaw crossed to the wall, slid the ring from the peg, and moved to the cell door.
“I’ll have you out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Hanks.”
“About damn time,” Mad Dog growled. “I was beginnin’ to think you were goin’ to leave me here to swing.”
“We’re here, ain’t we?” Toomis said. Inserting the key, he twisted, and there was a click.
Mad Dog didn’t wait for Toomis to open the door. He pushed, forcing Toomis to move aside or be struck. Storming out, his fists clenched, Mad Dog strode to the desk. Suddenly bending, he relieved Mitch of his revolver, stepped back, and cocked it.
“No,” Cestus Calloway said.
“Why the hell not?” Mad Dog demanded.
“Because he said so,” the Attica Kid said. He was still holding his Lightning, and trained it on Hanks.
“Don’t you dare,” Mad Dog said.
“Do as Cestus says.”
“He’s a tin star,” Mad Dog fumed, and wheeled on Calloway. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t?”
“I’ll give you a heap of reasons,” Cestus said. “You shoot him, someone will hear. Most folks are out at the fire. That’s why we started it. But not everyone is, and if some hear the shot and come runnin’, we might have to shoot them too.”
“So?”
“So robbin’ banks is one thing. Shootin’ up a town is another,” Cestus said. “Word will spread. Folks from Cloverleaf and Red Cliff and Alpine and others will band together to stamp us out—”
“You don’t know that,” Mad Dog said.
“I’m a hell of a good guesser. And that’s not all. There are bound to be—”
Mad Dog wasn’t listening. He barreled toward the door, muttering, “Some outfit I’m with. They kill two of us, but we can’t kill any of them.” He slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
“I’m sorry I let him out,” Toomis said.
“He’s so mad he forgot to collect his own hardware,” Cestus mentioned. Sliding off the desk, he pushed his hat back. “How about you hand his things over, Deputy? Then I’ll put you in that cell. We’ll light a shuck and you get to go on breathin’.”
“I’d like that a lot,” Mitch said. He’d taken it for granted he was a goner when they walked in. To find out different made him want to whoop for joy. He opened a drawer and took out Mad Dog’s gun belt and effects.
“Let’s go,” Cestus Calloway said.
Raising his hands to show he wouldn’t resist, Mitch rose and backed toward the cell. He saw the Attica Kid twirl the Lightning into its holster, saw Ira Toomis wink at him, saw Cestus Calloway looking as pleased as could be. Then the door opened and in strode Mad Dog Hanks. Before Mitch or anyone else could guess his intentions, Mad Dog pointed the revolver he’d taken from Mitch.
“Hold on there!” Mitch blurted.
“Like hell,” Mad Dog said, and shot him.
Chapter 19
Marshal Boyd Cooper was several blocks from the jail, with Harvey Dale running at his side, when a woman with two small children pointed toward it as they drew near her.
“There was a shot from down that way, Marshal,” she said anxiously. “People should know better than to shoot where there are women and children out and about.”
Boyd kept on running. It took effort. Fighting the fire had taken a lot out of him, and now this. He was winded and his legs were close to giving out.
Dale, despite his age, was hardly panting at all. “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
Boyd puffed and strained and didn’t answer.
“The outlaws started that fire to draw us away from the jail so they could free Mad Dog Hanks,” Dale guessed.
Boyd grunted.
“I thought so,” Dale said. “Damn, I hope that boy is all right.”
So did Boyd. His gut was bunched in a knot from worry. Mitch was a good deputy but inexperienced, and in law work that could get a man killed.
“Look!” Dale exclaimed. “The front door is open.”
Boyd peered ahead. The scout must have good eyes. He couldn’t tell if the door was or wasn’t open, but he did see a small crowd forming. “No,” he gas
ped, and dug deep inside for a reserve of stamina he didn’t know he possessed. He covered the last twenty yards at a sprint, shouting, “Let me through!” to part the gawkers.
Boyd burst into the jail, and stopped cold. “No,” he said again, softly, and went numb with shock. He was barely aware of Harvey Dale moving past him to the body.
Sinking to a knee, Dale put his fingers to Mitch’s neck and after a bit shook his head. “There’s no pulse. Not that I expected there would be.”
Neither did Boyd. Mitch’s eyes were wide and glazed, his face rigid with the horror he’d felt at being shot in the forehead. A lot of his hair and most of his brains were splattered on the floor.
“Poor kid,” Dale said.
A constriction in Boyd’s throat kept him from replying. He stared at the cell, feeling as empty as it was.
“Wonder which one shot him,” Dale said.
“Does it matter?” Boyd got out.
The ferocity of his tone caused Dale to jerk his head up. “No, it surely doesn’t. They have to pay for this. Every last one.”
“They will,” Boyd vowed. Moving around his desk, he sat. His legs were trembling. He’d liked Mitch, liked him a lot. Ernest and likable, Mitch would have made a great lawman given time to grow in the job. That potential was why Boyd had taken Mitch under his wing as another lawman once took him.
“Is there anything we can do, Marshal?” someone called out from the doorway.
Boyd had forgotten about the townsfolk. Swallowing, he said, “Fetch the undertaker. And I need some of you to go to the saloons. Ask around, find out if Sherm Bonner is in town, and bring him here. If he’s not, find any Circle T hand who can take him a message.”
“Glad to help,” the same man said, and several of them hastened away.
“The rest of you,” Boyd said, “close the door, if you please.” He said that last because there were women and children present, and they shouldn’t be looking at the blood and the brains.
“I’ll do it,” Dale said, going over.
Boyd stared at Mitch. He hadn’t expected anything like this. Certainly not a jailbreak. The only other time he’d ever heard of such a thing was years ago, and it happened down to Texas.
“I’ll get a blanket,” Dale offered, and went into the back.
Boyd didn’t care what Dale did. He was drained. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and wearily rubbed them. This was the lowest day of his career. Of his life. He would bear the burden the rest of his days.
A soft sound caused him to look up.
Harvey Dale was spreading a blanket over the body. “I can go after them and mark their trail for you and a posse. There’s still some daylight left.”
“Not enough,” Boyd said. “The sun will be down before I can get the men and the horses together.” He shook his head. “No, we’ll start after them in the mornin’. With any luck, we’ll have Sherm Bonner along.”
“We don’t need him.”
“Like hell we don’t. He’s the only gun hand we have. We need Vogel too. Him and that rifle of his.”
“I’ll spread word about the posse, and have them meet here at the jail. What time do you want it to be?”
“The crack of daylight,” Boyd said.
Dale nodded and went out.
Grateful to be alone, Boyd sagged in his chair. It was hard to believe that just a couple of weeks ago, all had been right with his world. Now it was in shambles, except for Cecelia. She was the one bright spot. He wished he could be with her now and take comfort from her presence.
Coughing, Boyd sat back up. “What in hell is the matter with me?” he said out loud. Pity was a poor substitute for grit. He needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. There were outlaws to go after in the morning, and revenge to take.
Yes, revenge, Boyd told himself. By rights he should arrest them and bring them back for trial. By rights he should stick to the letter of the law. But for once, he wasn’t going to. To hell with the law, Boyd thought, and startled himself. He would order his posse to shoot to kill, on sight. No one would hold it against him. Not after Parsons and now Mitch.
Hanging the outlaws would take too long. Hot lead was quicker. And if there were any justice in the world, he’d be the one to personally snuff out Cestus Calloway’s wick.
Yes, that would please Boyd greatly.
• • •
They rode hard through the woods south of town for a short way and then slowed to a walk. There was no sign of pursuit. Cestus hadn’t reckoned there would be, not with most of the men off fighting the fire.
The sun was setting, the shadows lengthening. They came to a clearing and Cestus drew rein and wheeled his chestnut. He had held his anger in, but now he let it out. “What the hell did you think you were doin’, Hanks?”
The Attica Kid came up next to Cestus and turned his animal, his hand on his Lightning.
Behind Mad Dog, Bert Varrow and Toomis and Cockeye sat their saddles and listened.
“Answer me, damn you,” Cestus said.
Usually so quick to bristle, Mad Dog acted surprised. “Doin’ what we agreed on. To kill everyone who was in that posse.”
“We agreed to spare the deputy. He was a kitten.”
“You wanted us to, but I never agreed to any such thing,” Mad Dog said. “He had it comin’ and I gave it to him.”
“You stupid son of a bitch.”
“I wouldn’t make callin’ me that a habit.”
“Or what?” the Attica Kid said.
A crooked smirk twisted Mad Dog’s lips. “No, you don’t, Kid. You’re not goadin’ me into drawin’.”
“You consarned jackass,” Cestus said. “You gunned down an unarmed boy.”
“Boy, hell. He was full-growed and you know it.”
“Everyone will want our hides for this.”
“That’s another thing,” Mad Dog said. “You’re always so worried over what people will think. Who the hell cares? Let them hate us. It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Cestus said. “Why do you think I went to so much trouble to curry public favor? Why did I give money away after we robbed each bank? So people would like us. So they wouldn’t put pressure on the law to bring us in. Are you so stupid that you can’t see that?”
“That was all well and good, and it worked for a while,” Mad Dog said. “But in case you’ve lost count, we’re not as many as we used to be. Larner and McGivern are dead, and their dyin’ changed things. We can’t go around bein’ nice anymore. We’ll be a laughingstock if we do.”
“He’s right, Cestus,” Bert Varrow said.
“I think so too,” Cockeye said.
“There. You see? I’m not the only one,” Mad Dog crowed. “Shootin’ that deputy will bring the marshal and some of those others into our rifle sights, and ain’t that what we want?”
Cestus could have hit him. There was no reasoning with the man, none at all. He regretted ever letting Hanks ride with them; Hanks truly was a mad dog. And he wasn’t the only one who took exception.
“It bothers me, Hanks, you not listenin’ to Cestus,” the Attica Kid said coldly. “It bothers me you make trouble for us.”
“I already told you, I won’t let you provoke me,” Mad Dog said. “I’m not as dumb as your pard seems to think.”
“You want to go on ridin’ with us, you’d better start listenin’.”
“Who made you boss?”
Toomis gigged his mount up next to Hanks’s. “Enough of this bickerin’. We’re wastin’ time. We have somethin’ to do and we need to get to it.”
“You shouldn’t butt in, Ira,” the Kid said. “He’s not worth it.”
“I’m not doin’ it for him,” Toomis said. “I’m doin’ it for all of us. We’ve timed things so the posse won’t come after us until mornin’, but they might not wa
it, and here we sit squabblin’ like a bunch of biddy hens.”
“He has a point,” Bert said. “We should get it done.”
Cockeye nodded.
Some of Cestus’s anger faded, and he put the rest aside for the time being. They’d need Mad Dog later, when the shooting commenced. “Hanks, no more killin’ unless I say so.”
“Yes, Ma,” Mad Dog said.
Disgusted, Cestus reined around. The road would be faster, but he stuck to the woods where they were less likely to be spotted. They rode in single file until the chestnut acquired a shadow.
“I’ve about had my fill of him,” the Attica Kid said, “but he’s right about one thing.”
Cestus looked over but couldn’t read the Kid’s expression in the gloom. “You’re takin’ his side again?”
“We agreed the posse has to pay. You argued about the deputy, but most were for it. Now it’s done, and as much as you don’t like it, you need to accept things as they are.”
“I thought I could count on you.”
“Always,” the Attica Kid said. “I wasn’t provokin’ Mad Dog because he killed the deputy. I did it because he was buckin’ you.”
“So you don’t mind he shot the deputy?”
“Not a lick.”
Cestus sighed. “I am the lone voice in the wilderness.”
“You’re what?”
“I heard that somewhere.”
The Kid let half a minute go by, then said, “Mad Dog is right about you when it comes to curryin’ favor with folks. Givin’ all that money away. You ever hear of an outlaw doin’ such a thing? I went along with it because it worked for a while, but that was then and this is now.”
“I did what I thought best for all of us,” Cestus said grumpily.
“We know that,” the Kid said. “It’s why the others have stuck with you as long as they have. But now things have changed and we have to change too or we’re done for.”
Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Page 14