Boyd saw blood trickle from a corner of Sam’s mouth.
“It would please me to know you’re looking after her,” Sam said. “Not that she needs to be. Cecelia can take care of herself just fine. Don’t ever tell her I said this, but I’m as proud of her as a brother can be.” A trickle seeped from the other corner.
“Sam, please.”
“I know,” Sam said. “I know.”
Boyd took Sam’s hand and squeezed it. “Can you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“You’ve been a good friend,” Boyd said, suddenly feeling congested.
“We never know, do we? When I got up this morning it was just another day. And now I—”
When he didn’t go on, Boyd said, “Sam?” and bent down. There was no answer, and never would be.
Boyd folded Sam’s arms across his chest, sat back, and bowed his chin. Of all the days of his life, this had been the worst. His best friend, gone. The woman he cared for, shot and taken by outlaws. His deputy, murdered. He stared at the tin star pinned to his shirt and asked out loud, “Is it worth it?”
The silence ate at him. He faintly heard the ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlor and the lowing of a cow in the pasture.
Boyd half thought he might shed a few tears, but no. The emotion building in him wasn’t sadness. It was rage. A rage such as he’d never known. A rage that boiled so red-hot he struggled to contain it. Rage at the perpetrators of the misery in his life.
The outlaws.
Boyd never considered himself a violent man, but his mind raced with violent images. Of him shooting Cestus Calloway. Of him taking a club to Mad Dog Hanks. Of putting nooses over the necks of the others and laughing as they dangled and gurgled and died.
“God help me.”
Rousing, Boyd stood. He had a lot to do. He must notify the undertaker. And see to it that someone came out to look after the farm until Cecelia returned, if she ever did.
Despair tore at him, and Boyd fought it off. He focused on his rage. His rage would sustain him. His rage would keep his head clear so he could do what needed doing.
He closed and bolted the back door, blew out the lamp, and wearily walked down the hall past the parlor. The sight of the settee reminded him of the last time he sat there with Cecelia. The memory fanned his rage into an inferno.
The night air was cool, but Boyd felt hot all over as he stepped onto the front porch. “I failed her when she needed me most,” Sam had said. Boyd had failed both of them. He should have done more. He should have protected them somehow.
Boyd vowed to make it up to them when the posse caught up to the outlaws.
This time the outlaws weren’t getting away. This time Boyd was going to do what he should have done the first time.
Kill all of them dead, dead, dead.
Chapter 23
Some folks might think it was ridiculous, but Cestus Calloway tried hard to be a good outlaw. He wasn’t cold-blooded. He wasn’t a natural-born killer, like the Attica Kid. Or a vicious sidewinder who liked to hurt people, like Mad Dog Hanks. No, his main failing in life, as most would regard it, was that Cestus was lazy.
Not a little bit lazy either. Cestus was as lazy as hell, and would be the first to admit it. Ever since he could recollect, he’d hated work of any kind. Even as a boy, when his ma and pa made him do chores, he hated it. He’d much rather loaf the day away. Every day.
Cestus couldn’t rightly remember when it first occurred to him that there was a way of life that involved a lot of loafing. It was called “crime.” Rob somebody, or rob a stage or a business or a bank, and he had enough money to loaf for as long as the money lasted.
He was always polite about the robbing, always friendly. Why be mean to folks when there was no need? Why put fear and resentment and hate in them, and have them wish he were dead?
Cestus had found that the robbing went easier when he was nice. So he smiled and made small talk and generally gave people the impression that he was the nicest gent around. That was partly why he gave money away after a bank robbery. It wasn’t just to crowd a street and slow pursuit. Cestus liked giving the money away.
For a couple of years now things had gone better then he’d dared hope. He’d formed a good gang and they mostly did as he wanted and didn’t give him a lot of guff. There was an exception, as there was to just about everything in life, and that exception was Mad Dog Hanks.
Mad Dog was one of those people who were born with sour acid in their blood. They were never happy, even when things were going their way. Hanks was a grumbler, but usually he did as Cestus told him once he got the grumbling out of his system, so Cestus tolerated him.
Of late, though, Cestus had begun wondering if Mad Dog wasn’t more of a bother than he was worth.
Cestus was thinking that now.
It was the middle of the day and they were still miles from the cave. They’d had to stop because Cockeye had fallen from his saddle. Cestus had been first to reach him, and propped him against a boulder.
“Lordy, I hurt,” Cockeye had said.
Cestus had squeezed his shoulder and joked, “Don’t die on us. We don’t have any shovels to bury you.”
That was when Mad Dog said, “Let’s put him out of his misery and leave him for the buzzards.”
“You could do that to a pard?” Cestus said.
“Pard, hell. Him and me ride for you, is all. I can’t rightly say I’m pards with any of you.”
“Is that so?”
“What’s eatin’ you?” Mad Dog said. “Are you mad because all your highfalutin notions have gone to hell?”
“Which notions, exactly?” Cestus asked.
“Let’s start with bein’ an outlaw but not actin’ like one,” Mad Dog said. “That’s plumb silly.”
“Stop insultin’ him,” the Attica Kid said.
Mad Dog frowned and leaned on his saddle horn. “Here we go again. What is with you, Kid? Nobody can so much as sneeze in his direction and you get your spurs in a snit.”
“Be real careful,” the Kid said.
Bert Varrow cleared his throat. “If you three can quit your squabblin’ for a minute, what do you want me to do about the lady here?”
Cestus stood and went over. Cecelia Wilson was still unconscious. “Help me get her down so I can take a look at how bad she is.”
They laid her on her back in the grass next to Cockeye, and Cestus examined a gash in her head. It wasn’t deep, but it was long, five or six inches. It started above her left eyebrow and ended above her ear. “We’re lucky,” he announced. “The bullet glanced off.”
“Why are we lucky about that?” Mad Dog said.
“I told you before,” Cestus said. “She dies, and we’ll have the whole territory up in arms. Nothin’ stirs folks up worse than killin’ a woman.”
“What do you aim to do with her?” Bert Varrow said.
“We’ll take her to the cave, patch her up, and when she’s fit enough, drop her off in Alpine, like I said. Folks will see that as a good gesture on our part.”
“Oh hell,” Mad Dog said. “You beat all, Calloway.”
“Is it wise to let her see the cave?” Ira Toomis asked.
“What can it hurt?” Cestus replied. “We’ll blindfold her when we take her back. She’ll have no idea where it is.”
“That should work,” Bert said.
“Cestus?” Cockeye said. “Can I have some water?”
Cestus got his canteen, opened it, and carefully tilted it to Cockeye’s lips. Cockeye swallowed a few times, and thanked him. Setting the canteen aside, Cestus pried at Cockeye’s shirt so he could see the wound. Gut shots were always nasty, and this was no exception.
“That damn law dog,” Cockeye said. “He took me by surprise.”
“It happens,” Cestus said.
“I should have sho
t first.”
“We all make mistakes.”
Cockeye did a rare thing for Cockeye. He smiled. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You forgive folks.”
“Does anyone hear harp music?” Mad Dog said.
“Pay him no mind,” Cockeye told Cestus. “He doesn’t savvy you like I do. You’re all right, Calloway.”
“Thank you,” Cestus said. He’d never been all that close to Cockeye and it surprised him the man felt this way.
“It’s why I stuck with you so long,” Cockeye went on. “You’re just about the nicest outlaw anybody ever saw.”
Mad Dog snorted.
“If I could draw my six-shooter I’d shoot you, Hanks,” Cockeye said.
“I might anyway,” the Attica Kid said.
Cockeye’s mouth curled in a lopsided smile. “I’m fadin’, Cestus. I can feel it. I’m sorry to go out like this. Sorry for inconveniencin’ you.”
“It’s no bother,” Cestus said.
“You know somethin’ else I always liked about you?”
“No.”
“You’re one of the few who never saw me as ugly. I could see it in your eyes that you didn’t. You looked at me the same as you looked at everybody else.”
“Now I’ve heard it all,” Mad Dog said.
“Go to hell, Hanks,” Cockeye said. “I know you think I’m ugly. You think it every time you look at me.”
“Forget about him,” Cestus said.
“Don’t worry. I don’t want to die thinkin’ of his ugly puss,” Cockeye said. He smiled, exhaled, and was no more.
Cestus squatted there another minute, wrestling with his emotions. Then, slowly standing, he turned to Mad Dog Hanks. “You couldn’t let him die in peace, could you?”
“What did I do?”
“You didn’t leave him any dignity.”
Mad Dog appeared bewildered. “What the hell does that even mean? I didn’t treat him any different than I treated him all the rest of the time.”
“You need to watch yourself,” Cestus said. “You truly do.”
“First the Kid and now you,” Mad Dog said. “This outfit is becomin’ a flock of mother hens.”
“You’re welcome to light a shuck anytime,” Cestus said, hoping Hanks would take him up on it.
Mad Dog didn’t respond.
“What about Cockeye?” Ira Toomis said. “Do we leave him for the coyotes to eat or the posse to find?”
“We do not,” Cestus said. “We take him with us and bury him at the cave. We owe him that much.”
“And now there are only five of us,” Toomis said.
Bert Varrow helped Cestus place Cockeye belly-down over his horse and tie the body so it wouldn’t slide off. Then Varrow climbed back on his own mount and Cestus hoisted Cecelia Wilson up.
Cestus rode hard, despite the wear to their horses. The last mile, they resorted to a trick they liked to use. They veered west to a long stretch of caprock and followed that to within a holler of the cave. Horses didn’t leave tracks on caprock.
They were a weary bunch of outlaws when they finally drew rein. Cestus had Bert and Toomis take care of the horses and told Mad Dog to get a fire going. With the Kid’s help, he carried Cecelia Wilson in and Cestus spread his own blankets and they gently set her down.
Cestus filled a pot with water from the spring and put the pot on the fire. He didn’t know much about doctoring, but his ma had taught him that hot water was the best thing in the world for cleaning wounds. He needed a cloth for a bandage, so he took a small towel of his, cut it into strips, and washed them once the water was warm enough.
No one said much. They were drained. They’d suffered the loss of three of their own, and that rested heavy on their shoulders.
Once the pot was boiling, Cestus took it over to his blankets. He had to wait a bit for the water to cool enough for him to dip a cloth in. He wrung it out and pressed it to the wound, and Cecelia Wilson groaned.
Cestus made sure to clean the wound good. Infections from being shot killed more people than being shot, and he was sincere about wanting her to live. He was wiping the last of the dry blood from above her ear when he happened to look down and discovered her eyes were open and she was staring at him. “Ma’am,” he said.
“Where am I? What has happened?”
“We brought you back with us so we could tend to you,” Cestus said. “I’m just about to bandage you.”
Cecelia stared past him at the others and then at the roof and the sunlight outside. “It’s a cave.”
“Right the first time,” Cestus said, smiling.
“You surprise me, Mr. Calloway. You’re going to a lot of bother over an old woman you could have left for dead.”
“You’re not that old, ma’am,” Cestus said. “And leavin’ folks for dead isn’t somethin’ I do.”
“I see.” Cecelia tried to sit up, and grimaced.
“You might want to lie still. A wound like this, you try to stand, you’ll get woozy and maybe sick.”
“I’m already woozy,” Cecelia said, and stiffened. “Wait. My brother. What happened to Sam? The last I saw, he was fighting that awful Mad Dog Hanks.”
Cestus debated whether to tell her. She’d likely take it hard, and she was feeling poorly enough as it was. “I don’t know, ma’am,” he hedged. “The last I saw, your brother was lyin’ on the floor. He was still breathin’, I think.”
“You think?”
“We had to fan the breeze,” Cestus said. “That marshal friend of yours was somewhere near, and I didn’t want any more of my men shot.” He paused. “He killed Cockeye.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cestus studied her, then said, “Damn me if I don’t think you mean it.”
“No one should die like that. Being shot. We should all of us die peacefully in our sleep. In an ideal world we would.”
“I don’t know much about ideal,” Cestus said. “In the world I live in, folks are shot all the time. But I thank you for the kind thought.”
“You’re not what I expected, Mr. Calloway.”
“I hear that a lot,” Cestus said. “Now be still a bit.” He gently applied the bandage and tied the knot on the opposite side of her head from the wound. “Is that too tight?” he asked when he was done.
“It feels just right. Thank you.”
Cestus sat back. “Would you care for somethin’ to drink or eat?”
“Water would be nice,” Cecelia said. “I’m not all that hungry. My stomach is queasy still.”
“I’m sorry you were shot. I never meant for you to be hurt.”
“Only my brother,” Cecelia said bitterly.
“That wasn’t my idea,” Cestus admitted. “The others wanted him to pay on account of he was with the posse that killed Larner.”
“You’re their leader, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. But sometimes I don’t so much lead as go along with what they’d like even though I don’t want to.”
Cecelia’s eyebrows puckered. “Mr. Calloway, I don’t quite know what to make of you. You’re a strange sort of outlaw.”
“I’m just me,” Cestus said.
Chapter 24
“We keep goin’ like we are,” Lefty remarked, “we’ll ride our animals into the ground.”
“We are pushin’ sort of hard,” Sherm Bonner agreed.
Boyd turned to the cowboys. He’d called a halt in a clearing in the woods, but only because the pair was right; he was pushing too hard. “We’ll rest for half an hour,” he announced, and at least half of the ten posse members smiled or sighed in relief.
Vogel, the blacksmith, gigged his sorrel over and climbed down. Sliding his Maynard .50-caliber rifle from the scabbard, he cradled it in both of his big arms. “We need to talk, Marshal.”
“We do?�
� Boyd said. He was tired and irritable. He hadn’t gotten much sleep. Not as worried as he was about Cecelia.
Vogel gestured and moved away from the others.
Annoyed, Boyd followed. “Well, what is it?” he demanded when they were out of earshot of the rest.
“You,” Vogel said.
“How so?”
“It’s not what you’re doing so much as how you are,” the blacksmith said. “Sure, you’re pushing to catch the outlaws. That’s to be expected. They murdered poor Sam and they took his sister, and everyone knows you’re sweet on her.”
Boyd’s annoyance grew. “Her and me are none of your affair.”
“It is when you put my life and the lives of the rest of these men in danger,” Vogel said.
“Like hell I have.”
“Not being yourself can get us killed as sure as being reckless,” Vogel said. “And you’re not yourself.”
“What the hell do you expect? Besides Sam and Cecelia, my deputy was murdered. Of course I’m not myself.”
Vogel shook his head. “It goes deeper than that.” He paused. “I’m a hunter, Marshal. You know that. I’m good at it. To be good, you have to notice things. Little things that others usually don’t. The signs that game leave. Their tracks. Their habits. You learn a lot that way.”
“So?”
“It works with people too. You learn to read them like you do game. Not so much what they do or say, but the little things. Their expressions. Their eyes. Even how they walk and sit. It tells you a lot.”
“Again, so?”
“So what I see in you has me worried. You’re mad, and I don’t blame you for that. In your boots I’d be mad too. But there’s more than that. I see hate in your eyes whenever someone mentions the outlaws. I see hate, and something else. Something I never saw in you.”
“And what would that be?” Boyd said, half sarcastically.
“A hankering to kill.”
Boyd didn’t say anything. How could he when it was true? He refused to lie and say it wasn’t.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
Boyd didn’t answer.
“All right. Be that way,” Vogel said. “But I’ll be watching you. And if you do anything that I think puts the rest of us at risk, I won’t be shy about speaking up.”
Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Page 17