The slope was almost half a mile across. Aspens bordered it, their leaves shaking in the breeze. A pair of ravens took flight, the rhythmic beat of their wings unnaturally loud in the rarified air.
His hand on his Colt, Boyd entered the aspens. It was an unlikely spot for an ambush; there was too much cover for him to use. The outlaws would spring their surprise out in the open where they could pick him or anyone else off as easy as pie.
A couple of black-tailed does bounded off, their trails raised like flags.
More proof the outlaws weren’t nearby.
Another arrow had been carved into a large aspen at the end of the stand. It too pointed northwest.
The slopes became steeper, and rockier. Alpine growth replaced the timber. Once, in the distance, a bull elk stared at him without fear.
Boyd decided to stop. The chestnut could use the rest. He came to a boulder field and drew rein at the bottom after scouring the boulders for movement or any other hint the outlaws were lying in wait.
A swig from his canteen quenched his thirst for the moment. Opening a saddlebag, he helped himself to a piece of jerky. A flat boulder gave him a place to roost, and he sat and chewed and scanned the heights.
Boyd smothered a yawn and wished he had some coffee. He could use a cup or three.
Turning his attention to the lower slopes, Boyd sought sign of the posse. He figured they weren’t far behind unless by some fluke they’d lost the sign. He was so intent on spotting them that when the chestnut nickered, he didn’t look to see why. Only when he heard the unmistakable click of a gun hammer did he jerk around, and freeze.
“Howdy, law dog,” the Attica Kid said. He had come out from behind a boulder not ten feet away, his Lightning level at his waist.
Boyd almost went for his revolver. Only the fact that he’d be shot before he touched it stopped him.
“You made this plumb easy,” the Attica Kid said. “For a tin star you’re not much.”
Boyd was incensed at how handily he’d been taken. He considered throwing himself off the flat boulder and scrambling to another but knew he wouldn’t make it.
“Whatever you’re thinkin’,” the Attica Kid said, “don’t.”
Boyd glanced at other boulders. “Where are your pards? And where’s Miss Wilson?”
“I should think you’d be wantin’ to know why you’re still alive. I could have splattered your brains.”
“Like you did Harvey Dales’s?”
“That old scout? How did you guess? Yes, that was my work.”
“And now you’ve been waitin’ here for me,” Boyd said.
The Kid’s mouth quirked. “You’re awful slow between the ears. Cestus saw you comin’ from a mile back. He’s got the spyglass, the one that used to belong to the old scout.”
Boyd had forgotten all about it in the shock of finding Harve’s body.
“We could have picked you off, but Cestus wants you breathin’, which is why you’re sittin’ there with that dumb look on your face.” The Kid extended the Lightning. “I want you to shed your gun belt, real slow.”
Boyd started to move his hand.
“Slow means slow. No sudden moves,” the Kid warned.
“You never answered me about Miss Wilson,” Boyd said as he imitated molasses. “Have you harmed her?”
“Toomis has been spankin’ your sweetheart’s rump a lot, but I wouldn’t call that harm.”
“Spankin’ . . . ?” Boyd said, and grew hot with fury. “Calloway let him lay a hand on her?”
“Don’t you dare,” the Attica Kid said. “You’re a fine one to talk. You gave your word to him, remember? You sittin’ there proves how much that’s worth.”
Boyd’s gun belt made a thunk as it struck the flat boulder. He hiked his hands and went to stand.
“No!” the Kid barked. “What do you think you’re doin’? I’ll say when you can get up.”
“I want to see her.”
The Attica Kid walked over and reached down without taking his eyes, or his Lighting, off Boyd. He helped himself to Boyd’s gun belt, stepped back, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“What you want doesn’t count,” the Attica Kid said. “You’re ours now. You’ve stepped in it and that’s no lie.”
Boyd simmered in frustration. Things had gone to hell so fast he could scarcely believe it. “The posse isn’t far behind me,” he tried. “You shoot, and they’ll hear and come on fast.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” the Attica Kid said. “Cestus told me your boys are a good ways behind you. That spyglass sure does come in handy.”
Boyd wouldn’t give two bits for his chances if he let the outlaws take him prisoner. He glanced at his chestnut, at the Winchester in the saddle scabbard.
“You must be hankerin’ to get yourself shot,” the Attica Kid said. “Go ahead and try. I’ll wing you in the leg so Cestus can do as he wants with you, but I can’t promise you won’t bleed to death.”
With considerable effort, Boyd willed himself not to try.
“That’s it,” the Attica Kid said. “Keep a level head and you’ll last a little longer.” Stepping to one side, he glanced up the mountain and hollered, “I’ve got him corralled. Come on down.”
Figures appeared at the top of the slope, leading their horses. Cestus Calloway waved to the Attica Kid, climbed onto his animal, and headed down.
Boyd remembered the farmhouse, and the death of his friend. “Tell me somethin’. Was it you who shot Sam Wilson?”
“That farmer?” the Attica Kid said. “What if it was?”
“He was a good man.”
“Now he’s a dead man,” the Kid replied. “What did bein’ good get him except an early grave?”
“He’d still be alive if not for you.”
“Well, boo-hoo-hoo,” the Kid said. “We all bite the dust sooner or later. It’s nothin’ to get in a tizzy about.”
“When your time comes, I hope it hurts like hell.”
The Attica Kid shook his head. “Not me, mister. I’ll go out shootin’. It’ll be quick and not much pain.”
“No one knows when or how,” Boyd said. “If there’s any justice in this world, you’ll be gut-shot like Cockeye.”
“You’re commencin’ to annoy me,” the Kid said. “You’re takin’ all this much too personal.”
“You murdered my best friend. How else do you think I’m goin’ to take it?”
“However you do, you’d best keep it to yourself. I am tired of your guff.”
Boyd didn’t provoke him further. He was more interested in the line of riders, particularly the last one. It shocked him to see Cecelia draped over Ira Toomis’s horse as if she were a sack of flour. She was looking down at him, but he couldn’t see her face all that well for the hair hanging over it. He smiled and gave a little wave.
“How sweet,” the Attica Kid said. “Why not blow the old gal a kiss while you’re at it?”
“Go to hell.”
“Careful,” the Kid said.
Cestus Calloway was beaming like a patent medicine man who had just sold out his stock. “I told you it would work,” he crowed as he brought his horse to a halt.
“That you did,” the Attica Kid said.
Mad Dog Hanks brought his animal past Calloway’s and placed his hand on his six-shooter. “Can I shoot the son of a bitch?”
“You can not,” Cestus said. Swinging a leg up and over his saddle horn, he slid down.
“He threw me in his jail,” Mad Dog said. “I owe him.”
“You killed his deputy,” Cestus said. “I’d call that even.”
“You’re always spoilin’ my fun,” Mad Dog complained.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t shoot him later,” Cestus replied. “I just said you can’t shoot him
now. We need him for the next part of my plan.”
Boyd barely heard them. He was focused on Cecelia. Only one eye showed through her hair, and it glistened. She reached out with her bound hands as if to touch him. He heard her say his name, softly.
Ira Toomis laughed. “Look at this. It must be true love, the way she’s carryin’ on.”
“Leave her be,” Bert Varrow said.
Clucking to his horse, Toomis brought it to within an arm’s reach of the flat boulder. “Here’s your sack of female, law dog.” Bending down, he smirked. “The two of you can hold hands and make cow eyes at each other.”
Boyd was off the boulder before he knew what he was doing. He leaped and seized Toomis by the shirt and together they spilled to the ground. Someone shouted and Cecelia called his name, but he couldn’t hear them for the roaring in his ears. His blood was on fire. He punched Toomis in the face, twice, then gripped the outlaw’s wrist to prevent him from drawing. Toomis cursed and tried to push away. Boyd hit him again and again, aware that Toomis was punching him too, but he didn’t feel the blows.
Then hands were on him, and Boyd was hauled to his feet. His arms were gripped by Mad Dog on his right and Bert Varrow on his left. Boyd would have struggled except that Varrow pressed a pistol against his ribs.
Bellowing in rage, Ira Toomis pushed to his feet and clawed his revolver from its holster. “I’ll kill you for that!”
“No!” Cestus Calloway shouted, stepping between them. “We need him.”
“You saw what he did?” Toomis was so enraged he shook. “I’ll be damned if you’ll stop me.”
“You’ll be dead if you don’t,” the Attica Kid said.
Toomis swiped at blood trickling from his mouth. “Don’t prod me, Kid,” he said, but he shoved his revolver back into his holster, then jabbed Calloway in the chest. “I’m tellin’ you now, Cestus. When the time comes, he’s mine and mine alone.”
“Like hell,” Mad Dog Hanks said.
“I mean it, Mad Dog,” Toomis said. “I won’t back down, not even for you.”
“Boys, boys,” Cestus said, smiling. “You’re like two cats squabblin’ over a mouse. There’s enough of him for both of you.” Turning, he brushed dirt from Boyd’s shirt and chuckled. “That was mighty dumb, Cooper. You could have been killed, and then where would your gal be?”
Boyd glared at Toomis.
“If they let you go, will you behave?” Cestus asked.
“Please, Boyd,” Cecelia said, raising her head. “Don’t provoke them further. For my sake.”
“I think I’m goin’ to cry,” Mad Dog said.
Boyd felt some of the rage drain out of him. “I’ll behave,” he said, “so long as you keep Toomis away from her.”
“What did Ira do?” Cestus said.
It was the Attica Kid who answered him. “That might have been my doin’. I told him how Toomis was fondlin’ her.”
“Well, no wonder.” Cestus nodded at Mad Dog and Varrow, and they released Boyd and stepped back. “Ira, you simmer down. And, Marshal, you’ll let us tie your hands. Then I’m takin’ the two of you a little higher and settin’ things up. There are some fish down below I aim to hook, and you two are my worms.”
Chapter 35
It was clever, the trap Cestus Calloway set. Damn clever.
Boyd admitted that to himself as he sat in a small clearing with a crackling fire in front of him. On the other side of the fire sat Cecelia.
The outlaws had hauled them above the boulder field to a bench mostly bare of vegetation. Above it grew thick brush but few trees. The outlaws had gathered enough brush and limbs for a fire that would put off a lot of smoke. They had bound Boyd’s ankles as they had already bound Cecelia’s, and made the pair of them sit. Then Cestus Calloway, the Attica Kid, Mad Dog Hanks, and Ira Toomis had gone up into the brush and hidden themselves while Bert Varrow took their horses far enough off that the posse wouldn’t spot them. Varrow was to stay with their animals until the slaughter was over.
That was how Mad Dog Hanks referred to it. “I can’t wait to start the slaughter,” he’d mentioned with a grin, then hefted his rifle and gone up into the brush with the others.
“Your poor posse,” Cecelia now said. “They’ll be shot to pieces, and it’s all my fault.”
“You don’t see me sittin’ here?” Boyd said.
“You’re part of the bait, as Calloway called it,” Cecelia said, “but none of you would be in this predicament if the outlaws hadn’t taken me captive.”
“Put the blame where it belongs. On them.”
Cecelia gazed at where the shelf fell away into the boulder field below. “How soon before they show up?”
“I can’t predict.” Boyd didn’t think it would be long. Vogel and the others would spot the smoke and use caution until they reached the top and saw Cecelia and him. He could shout to warn them, but Cestus had made it clear that if he so much as opened his mouth when the posse appeared, Mad Dog would put a slug in Cecelia’s head.
“I have somethin’ to ask of you,” Boyd said to her.
“Anything,” Cecelia answered, her eyes silently saying a world more than that single word.
“I have to do what I can to warn my men,” Boyd said. “When I tell you to, drop onto your side with your back to the brush and curl up to make yourself as small a target as you can.” Mad Dog wouldn’t be able to see her head, let alone shoot it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Cecelia said. “I don’t mind taking a bullet to save the others. I truly don’t.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re as fine a woman as ever drew breath?”
“Not lately, no.”
They both smiled.
“Look at us,” Cecelia said. “There’s about to be a bloodbath and we’re making light of it.”
“We’re doin’ no such thing,” Boyd said. “When a fella is courtin’ a gal, he flatters her a lot. It’s just natural.”
“You’re trying to put me at ease, aren’t you? To keep me calm for when the shooting commences.”
“Is that what I’m doin’?” For the tenth or eleventh time, Boyd tested the ropes around his wrists. He strained. He tugged. He twisted his wrists.
“Are they loosening?”
“Not a lick.”
Cecelia bowed her head, and her hair fell over her face. “Oh, Boyd. I’m so sorry. If the men with you die, I’ll never forgive myself. Yes, I know I’m not to blame. But still.”
The ring of metal on rock, from down below, brought Boyd’s head up. “Did you hear that?”
“No. What?”
“I think they’re comin’.” Boyd glanced at the brush. The outlaws were so well concealed he didn’t see any of them.
Again a hoof struck rock, and there could be no doubt.
“Oh, Lord,” Cecelia said, “please preserve us.”
Boyd reckoned that the outlaws had heard too. They would be watching for the posse to come up over the shelf. They wouldn’t be watching him. Or so he prayed as he shifted so his back was to the brush, then placed his wrists directly in the flames.
“Boyd, no!”
“Shhh,” Boyd said, and had to grit his teeth as waves of agony washed over him. The heat was so intense he wanted to scream. He clenched his fists to try to spare his fingers.
“You could cripple yourself.”
Boyd smelled burning rope, and burning flesh. He moved his hands a little so they weren’t quite in the flames but the rope was. His shirt caught fire, but it couldn’t be helped. Strands of the rope blackened and parted and he exerted all his strength to try to break it.
More hooves thudded. The posse was taking its time, climbing warily.
Boyd dreaded the moment they’d come over the rim. That was when the shooting would start. He needed to be free by then. But he didn’t know how mu
ch more he could take. The pain was so bad he smothered a groan. More of the rope parted, but his forearms were blistered. They hurt terribly.
“Boyd!” Cecelia whispered. “Ira Toomis is watching you!”
Sure enough, Toomis had popped his head out from behind a scrub and was staring suspiciously down at him. Boyd stared back with as calm an expression as he could manage, and after a bit Toomis dropped from sight again.
“Do you think he suspects?”
Boyd couldn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to utter a sound. He tried one more time to break the rope, and gasped with delight when it worked. His hands were free. Quickly he pressed his forearms to his lap to smother the small flames licking at his shirt.
“Are you all right?” Cecelia asked.
Boyd grunted.
“You’re terribly burned.”
Boyd wished she wouldn’t remind him. He could move his fingers, though, and set to work on the rope around his ankles. The knots were tight, but he had strong fingernails.
“They’re taking forever,” Cecelia remarked.
That was good, Boyd told himself. It bought him the time he needed. He pried so hard he nearly tore a nail off, but a knot loosened.
“I saw some brush move where Calloway went to ground.”
Boyd was only interested in the rope. Come on! Come on! he thought, and pried harder.
The loudest clink yet of a horseshoe on stone preceded a nicker.
“What on earth?” Cecelia said.
The last knot came undone just as Boyd looked up.
A horse had come over the crest. Vogel’s, only the blacksmith wasn’t on it. A few seconds more, and a second and third animal appeared. They too were riderless.
“What does it mean?” Cecelia said.
Damned if Boyd knew. His posse had sent the horses up alone? It made no sense. Or did it? He watched, and a hatless head appeared. Vogel’s. The blacksmith ducked down again. It happened so fast the outlaws might not have seen him.
“Boyd?”
“I’m goin’ to grab you and make a run for it.”
Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Page 25