“I better spell it out for you,” Boyd said. “There’s only so much a law-abidin’ community should have to put up with. We’ve had our citizens killed, our town set on fire, a woman kidnapped. Enough is enough. We can’t let those outlaws get away to do to others like they’ve done to us. When we find them, we end this, permanent.”
“How permanent?” the grocer said.
“We’re goin’ to kill every one of those sons of bitches.”
Chapter 27
Cecelia Wilson had a new worry. The outlaws were up to something and she had no idea what. They had saddled their horses and tied their bedrolls on, and now they were packing things and strapping the packs on packhorses. All this after Cestus Calloway mysteriously rode off.
Calloway had startled her when he came over and asked out of the blue for something he could tell Boyd Cooper that only she would know. She’d asked why, and Calloway said he was going to have a talk with the marshal. When she wanted to know if Calloway was arranging to set her free, the outlaw had smiled and said he’d tell her all about it when he returned.
What was Calloway up to? Cecelia wondered. Why were the rest preparing to depart? She thought she might find out by asking the only other outlaw who had been friendly to her, and when Bert Varrow walked past, she cleared her throat and said, “Might I have a word with you, Mr. Varrow?”
“Of course, ma’am,” Varrow replied, doffing his derby. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d very much like to know what all the commotion is about, and where Mr. Calloway got to.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“You’ve always been so considerate,” Cecelia said sweetly. “Why change now?”
“I do as Cestus wants, and he wants to talk to you himself once he gets back.” Varrow paused. “If he gets back.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“He went to talk with the marshal by his lonesome, and wouldn’t let any of us go along to cover him.”
“You expect trouble?”
Varrow shrugged. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but when a woman is involved, men can be hard to predict. Your friend with the tin star might not take kindly to what Cestus is goin’ to propose. Could be the marshal will resort to his six-shooter.”
“My word,” Cecelia said in alarm. “Is that why Mr. Calloway took that little white flag?”
Varrow nodded.
“I’m terribly worried. Can’t you at least give me a hint as to what it’s all about?”
“It’s about you, ma’am.” Varrow gave her another smile and walked off.
Cecelia sat back. She had been hoping that maybe, just maybe, Calloway was arranging to turn her over to Boyd. But if so, there’d be no need for six-shooters. Boyd would be happy to have her back. The only reason she could think of that he might become angry enough to pull his pistol was that the outlaws didn’t intend to release her, but had something else in mind.
Cecelia started to scratch at her bandage but caught herself. Her wound was bothering her. It itched something terrible. At least she had recovered much of her strength and was no longer dizzy.
Calloway had mentioned she’d likely have a scar. She wished they had a mirror, but evidently outlaws didn’t care how they looked.
Her thoughts drifted to Sam and she grew glum with sorrow. She had loved her brother dearly. As brothers went, he was a treasure. He’d always treated her with respect and consideration. Her whole life, Sam had always been there for her if she needed him, and now he was gone. Murdered by the men around her. From what she’d overheard, she knew who was to blame, and she watched him now, wishing she had a gun.
The Attica Kid had his mount ready to go and was at the cave entrance, pacing. Waiting for Calloway, she imagined. He must be worried too, all the back-and forth he was doing. Which surprised her. He rarely showed emotion. Whenever she looked into his eyes, it was like looking at twin frozen ponds. Deep down where most people had feelings, the Attica Kid had next to none.
She understood why folks said he was a natural-born killer. She’d heard the term before, of course, but never met anyone who fit the description until she met the Kid. He wasn’t normal. Either he had been born the way he was or something had happened in his past to make him less than human. Or perhaps, she speculated, he liked to kill, and made himself as he was on purpose.
Her head swam a little, and Cecelia closed her eyes. She hoped she was thinking clearly. She knew that people who suffered head wounds sometimes got concussions and their thinking was jumbled for a while. She didn’t think her thinking was, but she couldn’t be sure.
From outside came the clatter of hooves, and Cestus Calloway drew rein. The others quickly converged on him. Calloway glanced in her direction, then spoke to his men in low tones. Toomis and Varrow appeared quite pleased.
Cecelia unconsciously fluffed her hair as Cestus came toward her, a habit of hers when she was nervous. “Well?” she said before he reached her. “What did Marshal Cooper have to say?”
“We had us a nice talk, ma’am,” the outlaw leader informed her, and sank down cross-legged. “Now you and me need to have one.”
“I was hoping you would explain what this is all about.”
“It’s about greener pastures for my men and me, and how to get to them without bein’ dogged by the posse every step of the way.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” Cecelia said.
“It hit me last night how fond the marshal is of you. Not a little bit but a lot. It gave me an idea how my men and me can get out of this country in one piece. I’ve already lost three and I don’t aim to lose any more.”
“I still don’t follow. How does the courting help you?”
“Why, that’s simple, ma’am. The marshal cares for you. He cares enough that he won’t do anything that might see you harmed.”
An awful sinking feeling formed in the pit of Cecelia’s stomach. She didn’t like the sound of that. “What are you saying?”
“That I’m usin’ you as a hostage, ma’am,” Calloway revealed. “So long as we hold on to you, the marshal will do whatever we want. I offered him terms, and he’s agreed.”
Cecelia’s mouth had gone dry. She had to swallow to ask, “What kind of terms?”
“That he turns his posse around and goes back to Alpine.”
“Boyd would never agree to such a thing.”
“Didn’t you hear me? He already has.”
Cecelia was shocked beyond measure. She couldn’t conceive of Boyd abandoning her. Had she misjudged him that badly?
“I gave him my word you wouldn’t come to harm if he agreed,” Cestus continued. “I could tell it didn’t sit well with him, but he’s not about to let anything happen to his filly.”
“So that’s it,” Cecelia said bitterly. “You threatened to hurt me if Boyd didn’t give up the hunt.”
“Not in so many words,” Cestus said. “Although Mad Dog Hanks did come up a few times.” He chuckled.
Cecelia wasn’t the least bit amused. Mad Dog had been giving her dirty looks all morning. It was apparent he’d love to be rid of her, and equally apparent how he’d go about it. “You’re despicable, Mr. Calloway.”
“Now, now,” Cestus said. “I’m only doin’ what I have to. You fell into our hands, so I’m makin’ use of it.”
“If I refuse to go along?”
“Do you really need to ask? You’re comin’ with us whether you want to or not, and you’ll behave or I’ll give you to Mad Dog and have him look after you. I doubt you want that.”
“My original remark stands. You’re really not as nice as you pretend to be. When it comes right down to it, you’re not much different than Hanks or any of these others.”
“I’m an outlaw, ma’am, not a saint.”
“Don’t patronize me. And what are your intentions? How long do you plan
to keep me your prisoner?”
“Only until we’re clear of these parts. The first town we come to, we’ll set you free and you can get word to the marshal and have him fetch you.”
“I look forward to that.”
“I’d imagine you do.” Calloway stood and stepped back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some last-minute things to attend to.” He touched his hat brim and strolled off.
Cecelia struggled to stay calm and clearheaded. This was disastrous. Every moment spent in their company increased the chances of something terrible happening. Mad Dog Hanks was a keg of black powder that could explode at any time. Then there was the Attica Kid and that other fellow who didn’t like her, Ira Toomis.
The outlaws squatted around the fire and spoke quietly. So she wouldn’t overhear, she figured.
Cecelia rested her elbows on her legs and her chin in her hands. Overcome by sorrow, she stared out the cave at the forest. When something moved she didn’t pay much attention. She took it to be a bird or a squirrel. Then it moved again and she focused on the spot and felt a jolt of surprise.
It was a hand.
Waving at her.
• • •
Harvey Dale was embarrassed. He’d seldom lost a trail his entire career as a scout. To lose the outlaws ate at him. He fretted he was growing too old and losing his former skills.
So when the marshal told him to follow Cestus Calloway, Dale took to the task like a hound dog to the scent of a raccoon. He had something to prove, to himself as well as to the others.
As it turned out, following Calloway wasn’t much of a challenge. The outlaw only looked back a few times. Calloway appeared confident no one would come after him.
That puzzled Dale. But he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He hung well back and now and then marked a tree with his knife. It was as easy as anything.
Calloway came to a part of the mountains Dale had never been to. Beautiful but rugged scenery, the kind that always stirred him. The kind he’d loved to explore in his younger days.
Dale hated growing old. He hated that his body couldn’t do all the things it used to. Hated that sometimes his joints ached and his muscles were sore for days on end. He hated too that he rarely felt the urge to go off into the wilds anymore.
He almost envied acquaintances from his early days who’d met their end by arrow or bullet. They’d gone out young, in the prime of life, before time reduced them to pale shades of their former selves.
Dale yearned for his youth and his vigor. He remembered someone telling him once that if a person had his health, he had all that was worth having. That always struck him as silly. Then his own health started to go, to be eaten away in crumbs and pieces by the relentless maw of time, and he realized they were right.
When Calloway came to a cave, Dale forgot about everything except the job at hand. He’d found their hidey-hole. Drawing rein, he debated what to do. Should he fly back to the posse and bring them on, quick? Or should he keep watch until the posse showed up?
Faint voices reached him, one of them female, and Dale made up his mind. Dismounting, he tied his horse, shucked his rifle, and cat-footed toward the cave mouth. He could still move silently when he needed to, and the wind favored him in that it was blowing his scent away from the cave, and the outlaws’ horses.
Crouched over, Dale came to a waist-high boulder and leaned against it. He cautiously peered around and saw the outlaws huddled together, talking. He also spied Cecelia Wilson, seated on some blankets. She looked sad as could be, and was staring gloomily in his direction.
Dale took a risk. It would cheer her to know help was on the way. He moved his hand where she would see it. At first she didn’t notice. Then she sat up, and he quickly ducked back before she gave him away.
Now all he could do was wait. He figured it would take the posse the better part of an hour to get there, and he might as well make himself comfortable. Settling back, he placed his rifle across his legs.
This reminded him of the time he’d tracked a Sioux war party and had to wait for the cavalry to catch up. He’d blazed some trees, just as he had for Coop, but the fool captain lost the sign. Eventually the warriors rode on, and he’d had to backtrack to find what was keeping the troopers. They never did catch those Indians.
Dale prayed Coop didn’t lose the sign now. That poor gal needed rescuing. He would do it himself, only there were five outlaws and two of them were notorious killers.
Not that Dale was afraid of them. He’d never been scared of the Sioux or the Blackfeet or any other hostiles. A colonel once joked that he must not have any common sense, but Dale saw fear as useless. What did it gain a man to fret over taking an arrow when it might never happen? It seemed to him that people worried too much about things over which they had no control.
Dale was thinking that when he was jarred to his marrow by something hard pressed to the side of his neck. At the same instant a gun hammer clicked.
“Got you, you old goat,” the Attica Kid said.
Chapter 28
Marshal Boyd Cooper was close to his breaking point. It was bad enough his deputy and one of his best friends had been killed. It tore at his innards that the woman he cared for was in the clutches of the same killers. And now, on the verge of catching the outlaws before they could spirit her away, half of his posse was ready to quit on him.
It started when Boyd called a halt. They’d been pushing hard for two hours and their animals needed to rest. A short rest, he announced, and climbed down. He was too wrought up to sit, too agitated to stand still, so he roved about the clearing.
When Malcolm the grocer and four others approached, Boyd demanded curtly, “What do you want?” He’d rather be left alone.
“We need to talk, Marshal,” the grocer said.
The others nodded in agreement.
“Not again!” Boyd was tired of their quibbling.
“We’ve discussed the situation among ourselves,” Malcolm said, to more nods, “and we think you’re going about this all wrong.”
“I’m what, now?”
Malcolm thrust out his chin. “Hear us out. That’s all we ask. Then we can decide how to proceed.”
“I’ve already decided,” Boyd said.
“That’s the problem. We don’t agree with your decision. You’re putting Cecelia Wilson at great risk. We understand you have a personal stake, but you should have consulted us before you sent Dale to follow Calloway and made us ride ourselves near to death.”
Even more nods.
Boyd folded his arms and reminded himself they were a grocer and clerks and whatnot.
Over by the horses, the blacksmith and the cowboys and a couple of others listened intently.
“Now, don’t get mad,” Malcolm said. “But you have to admit that the course of action you’ve chosen will place Miss Wilson in dire peril. Cestus Calloway won’t like that you’ve broken your word, and there’s no predicting what Mad Dog and the others might do.”
“No one will lay a finger on her if we hit them hard and fast,” Boyd said. “It will be over before they can.”
“That’s terribly optimistic of you,” Malcolm said. “Now, I’m no fighter—”
“You’re sure as hell not,” Boyd couldn’t stop himself from saying.
“Please, Marshal. Insults ill become you.” Malcolm frowned. “As I was saying, I’m no fighter. I’m not a gun hand. I’m not an idiot either, and I know that in shooting affrays, things don’t always go as we like them to. If lead starts to fly, there’s no guarantee Cecelia Wilson won’t take a bullet. Do you really want that?”
“The longer she’s with them, the more risk she’s in. We have to get her away from them as quickly as we can.”
“Only that’s not all you’ve set out to do,” Malcolm argued. “Need I quote you?” And he did. “‘We’re going to kill every on
e of those sons of bitches.’”
“It seems to us,” another townsman said, “that you’re more interested in wiping the outlaws out than in saving Miss Wilson.”
“Don’t you dare,” Boyd bristled. “Not one of you here likes that lady as much as me.”
“Prove it,” Malcolm said. “Call this off before the unthinkable occurs. Let the outlaws leave. There’s every reason to believe that Cestus Calloway will be true to his word and release her at the first opportunity.”
Boyd almost grabbed him by the shirt and shook him. “Name one of these reasons of yours.”
“Eh?”
“Why take Calloway’s side over mine?”
“Because you’re not thinking straight. You’re so filled with fury and hate, all you want is the outlaws dead. Saving Miss Wilson is secondary.”
“We want to turn back, Marshal,” another man said.
“You’re doing wrong and we don’t want any part of it,” declared yet another. “We won’t have that woman’s blood on our hands.”
“No, sir, we sure won’t,” said someone else.
Boyd was fit to explode. “If the five of you go back, that leaves me with just five men, plus Harvey Dale.”
“We’re sorry,” Malcolm said, “but our minds are made up.”
“Damn you,” Boyd said. “Damn all of you.”
“Now, see here,” Malcolm said indignantly. “You have no call to address us like that.”
It was then that Sherm Bonner came over, his thumb hooked in his gun belt. “If’n they want to go, Marshal, it’s best we let them. They won’t be of much use in a fracas anyhow.”
Lefty had tagged along, and nodded. “My pard is right. Not if their hearts ain’t in it, they won’t.”
Vogel and the rest also drifted over, the blacksmith contributing his two bits. Patting his Maynard, he said, “I can drop half the outlaws before they know what hit them. We don’t need these weak sisters. I say cut them loose.”
“I resent your insult, sir,” Malcolm said.
“Just tuck tail and go,” Vogel said to him. He towered over them, and had more muscle than all of them combined. “I’m ashamed to be in your company.”
Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Page 20