Wanted: Dead or Alive

by Ray Hogan

  Anger whipped through Ben, not only at being accosted in so high-handed a manner, but at his own carelessness. Just as the end of his problem was in sight, he had allowed himself to get tripped up. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he snapped, “he was given to me.”

  “I’m making it my business,” the dark-faced man said. He reached into his pocket, produced a star. “Name’s Sharpe. Deputy town marshal.” He waved his hand at the pair behind him. “Frick and Rosen. They’re working with me. We’ve been on the look out for that sorrel. What’s your name, mister?”

  Jordan breathed easier. “Ben Jordan … and I can explain about the horse. It belonged to a man named Woodward, Walt Woodward.”

  “I know him,” Sharpe said.

  “He got shot up. I found him dying in a shack, back in the hills. I’d lost my horse so he gave me his.”

  “Why?” Sharpe’s tone was cool, suspicious.

  “I just told you … and I agreed to do him a favor.”

  “Favor?” Sharpe repeated, his voice lifting. Frick and Rosen moved up beside him, rifles still cocked and leveled at Jordan’s breast.

  “Something personal,” Ben said.

  The lawman studied Jordan in suspicious silence. Finally he said: “Maybe you could have killed him, stolen the sorrel.”

  “No,” Ben rapped impatiently, realizing in that same moment that he had no proof of any sort, except the $20,000. “It was just the way I’ve said it.”

  Sharpe rode forward, lifted Jordan’s gun from its holster, thrust it into his own belt. He leaned to the side, elbow on the horn of his saddle. “This favor you’re talking about, what was it?”

  Jordan hesitated, and then shrugged. Telling the whole story would likely be the only way he could prove his innocence. A man, killing another for his horse, would not be delivering a small fortune in cash to the widow. And he was talking to the law; there could be no danger.

  “He asked me to carry some money to his wife … widow. He’d just sold out a ranch, he said. Made me promise to see she got the cash.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars?” Sharpe said.

  Ben stared. “How’d you know that?”

  Sharpe shook his head. “The Woodwards are friends of mine. Personal friends. I knew about the deal from the start.” He paused, cast a sideward glance at Frick and Rosen. “We’ve been worrying about Walt. The money in those saddlebags?”

  Jordan nodded. “I’d be obliged if you’d take me to Missus Woodward. I want to get it off my hands.”

  “No use you having to bother about it any longer,” the lawman said. “I’ll see she gets it.”

  “I appreciate that, too, but I’ll have to do it personally. I gave my word to Woodward.”

  “We’ll do it my way,” Sharpe said quietly and firmly. He motioned to Frick. “Tubo, get the saddlebags.”

  “Now, hold up a minute!” Ben said. “I don’t see where it makes any difference to you …”

  “You walk easy, mister!” the lawman cut in sharply. “I’m still not sure I swallow that yarn you handed us about finding Woodward dying, and him giving you his horse.”

  “Then what the hell am I doing here, bringing his widow all that money?” Jordan shouted, furious. “If I had killed Woodward and stolen his horse, I’d be going the other way fast as I could!”

  “A point in your favor,” Sharpe said calmly. “I’ll tell it to the marshal. Get the saddlebags, Tubo.”

  Jordan sat motionless, helpless, as Frick pulled the pouches free and handed them to Sharpe. The deputy unbuckled one side, checked the money. He nodded as if satisfied. “All here, far as I can tell,” he said. He turned to Rosen. “Barney, take Jordan here in and lock him up until we get things cleared around. I want to talk to Missus Woodward about it, see what she thinks.

  Jordan sighed in disgust. “You’re wasting a lot of time, time I sure don’t have to spare, Deputy. I can’t afford to lay around in jail for two or three days. I’ve got a job to get back to.”

  Sharpe considered that for several moments. Then: “Reckon you’re right. I won’t keep you waiting any longer than I just have to. And you give me your word you’ll hang around until I straighten this out and I won’t lock you up. Just you check in at the hotel. Guess the word of a man honest enough to ride clear across the territory with another man’s money ought to be reliable.”

  “Sure ought,” Barney Rosen agreed.

  “Won’t take no longer’n tomorrow morning. Main thing is for me to explain it all to Bardett … he’s the marshal. And I’ve got to see what Missus Woodward wants to do about that horse.”

  “Her husband gave him to me.”

  “I know that. You told us. But you’ll need a bill of sale. Woodward was pretty well known around here and people will be recognizing that sorrel of his. You’d better have some papers proving he’s yours, or you’re liable to get strung up for horse stealing.”

  Ben shifted on the saddle. No matter what his personal thoughts were, it seemed he had no choice but to do as the deputy directed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be at the hotel. But hurry things along. I want to be on my way home by tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll sure move fast as we can,” Sharpe said. “Hotel’s down at the end of the street. I’ll go first off and see Missus Woodward.” He reached down, plucked Jordan’s gun from his belt, and returned it. “Might as well have this back,” he said, and started to move off. He drew up suddenly. “One thing more, don’t think you ought to mention anything about this money to anybody. Risky business having twenty thousand dollars just laying around. Sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to it before the widow Woodward could get it stashed away in the bank.”

  Jordan said: “All right, Deputy. Whatever you say.” And he rode on toward a scattering of buildings.

  XIII

  Jordan entertained no thoughts of registering in Langford’s hotel. He would allow the deputy until nightfall to satisfy himself that all was honest and aboveboard and then, whether Sharpe liked it or not, he was returning to the Lazy A. If there were matters still to be cleared up, the lawman could come to him at Ashburn’s. He felt he had fulfilled his promise to Walt Woodward—at least he had done so to all practical purposes—and that ended it. He angled the sorrel into a hitch rack in front of a café, the only one in the settlement, it appeared, and dismounted. He had eaten no breakfast and now hunger was making itself known. The café was far from clean but he settled down at the counter and ordered himself a meal.

  It was good to have the responsibility of Woodward’s money off his hands, and with it the knowledge that Bart Crawford and his men would not again be dogging his trail. Yet there was something about the whole affair that left him vaguely dissatisfied and disturbed. He was not feeling the tremendous relief that he had imagined would be his, once the chore was finished; instead, there was a gnawing discontent, a sense of having left a job partly undone. But there had been no other way. Sharpe was a lawman, a deputy marshal according to what he had said, as well as the badge he carried, and he had claimed to be a close friend of the Woodwards. The fact he knew the exact amount of money in the saddlebags further verified that statement. Still, he wished now he had insisted more forcefully on delivering the money himself to Olivia Woodward. Sharpe and his two helpers could have accompanied him, if there were doubts in their minds as to his intentions. Ben stirred restlessly; that was the way he should have handled it.

  His food came and he dallied and toyed with it for a full half hour, taking no pleasure from it. When he had enough, he arose, paid his check, and returned to the street. On the opposite side, a few doors down, he saw the marshal’s office and jail. Leading the sorrel, he crossed over. The lawman’s headquarters were empty, the single cell vacant. Ben turned, walked back into the open. A man, standing in front of a saloon a short distance farther on, looked at him inquiringly.

  “You hun
ting for Marshal Bardett?”

  Jordan said: “Yes. Any idea where I can find him?”

  “Nope. Sure don’t. But I reckon he’s around somewheres. Might be he’s out in the country.”

  The dissatisfaction within Ben Jordan continued to grow. “What’s his deputy’s name?”

  “Ain’t got no regular man. Once in a while appoints himself a special deputy when they’s something that’s got to be done like moving pris’ners.

  “Know one called Sharpe?

  The man thought for a moment, shrugged. “Don’t recollect the name, but could be. Like I said he hires on somebody now and then. What’s the trouble? You needing help?”

  Jordan gave him no reply. After a time he said: “How about Missus Olivia Woodward … know where she lives?”

  “Ollie? Sure.” The man grinned broadly. “Down to the end of the street, turn left. Green house setting off to itself.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said, and swung onto the sorrel.

  Jordan found the Woodward home with no difficulty. He tied the gelding to a fence post, made his way along a path to the door, and knocked. There was no immediate answer and after a time he repeated the summons.

  The panel opened. A heavy-eyed woman, her face smeared with cosmetics she had not troubled to remove the previous night, straw-colored hair falling in disarray about her shoulders, and clad in a faded robe that she clutched at the neck, stared out at him. Once she had possessed beauty but it was gone now, replaced by that brassy hardness common to saloon women. “What do you want?” she demanded harshly.

  “Are you Missus Woodward … Olivia Woodward?”

  “That’s me,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I knew your husband,” Ben said. “Name is Jordan.

  He watched Olivia Woodward’s haggard face for some reaction. If the deputy had been there, had delivered the money to her, she would recognize his name as that of the man who had brought it. Her features remained stolid. “Come on in,” she said, retreating into the shaded, over-furnished room. “Where is Walt?”

  Jordan, pushed by his own fears, entered. “Have there been three men here to see you … one of them Sharpe, the deputy marshal?”

  Olivia Woodward’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sharpe, the deputy?” she repeated as though startled. “No. Why would he be coming here?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  Jordan took a deep breath. “He’s bringing you the money your husband sent you. Twenty thousand dollars.” Ben paused. “I’ve got bad news, Missus Woodward. Walt’s dead.”

  The woman stared. “Dead? You sure?”

  “I was with him when it happened. Outlaws shot him. I buried him myself. Before he died, he made me promise to deliver the money he got from the sale of your ranch to you. Twenty thousand dollars, he said it was.”

  “You say Al Sharpe has it now?”

  Jordan nodded. “They … Sharpe and a couple of men he called Frick and Rosen … stopped me at the edge of town. Thought I’d stolen your husband’s horse. When I explained what I was doing, Sharpe took over the money, said he was a personal friend of yours, and he’d take it to you. Told me I’d have to wait around until he cleared up things. He a friend of the family?”

  “Yes, for a long time.”

  “Said he’d bring the money straight to you. I’ve been dodging outlaws all the way across the territory to keep my promise to your husband. Wish now I hadn’t turned it over to Sharpe.”

  Olivia Woodward smiled. “It will be all right,” she said. “I’ll get it. Al must have gotten sidetracked on the way. When did you say you gave it to him?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  She rose, moved to the door, and opened it for him. “I want to thank you for all the trouble you went through, Mister Jordan. And don’t worry about your promise to Walt. You’ve kept it.”

  “I wish I could make myself feel that way,” Ben replied, moving into the open. “But if you’re satisfied, I guess I should be. What about the horse?”

  “Horse?”

  “The sorrel. Walt gave him to me, but I’ve got no papers to prove he’s mine. The deputy said I had better get a bill of sale from you.”

  “Of course, and I want you to have him. Tell you what, the least I can do for you in return, is cook you a good supper before you leave. You get your bill of sale made up and be back here about dark. I’ll sign it, then we’ll eat.”

  “Sounds fine, but you don’t need to go to all that trouble …”

  “No trouble. You do what I say. Risking your life to bring that money … a good supper will be little enough pay.”

  Jordan walked on into the yard. “See you at dark, then,” he said, smiling, and continued on to where the sorrel waited.

  It was all finished now. He could stop stewing about it. Olivia Woodward, while seemingly not particularly saddened by her husband’s death, had exhibited no alarm when she had learned that Deputy Sharpe was in possession of her money and had failed so far to deliver it. But she was right, of course; he could have been delayed for some cause. And he guessed he was pressing things too hard. It had actually been little more than an hour since Sharpe had relieved him of the saddlebags. He was pleased that the sorrel was to become his legally. Now he need fear no subsequent problems in that matter. He would go to a livery stable, obtain a blank bill of sale, and fill in a description of the horse. With Olivia Woodward’s signature properly affixed, the transfer would be above question.

  He mounted, turned back up the lane, heading for Langford’s one street. He had three or four hours to kill before dark and the hour at which he was to return to Olivia Woodward’s. The smart thing would be to go somewhere, get a little sleep, if he intended to spend the night riding back to the Lazy A. The livery stable where he planned to get a bill of sale—he could crawl into the loft and take a short nap in the hay.

  He reached the corner, halted, his eyes searching for such an establishment. He stiffened suddenly. Five men, riding abreast, turned into the far end of the street and came slowly, purposefully onward. Crawford and his friends again—and with them was Oran Bishop.

  XIV

  A smile cracked Ben Jordan’s lips as he watched the grim-faced outlaws approach. The laugh was on them now. The money was safe where they could not touch it. They were too late. And then Jordan frowned. What was Bishop doing with them? There was no denying the ill-feeling that existed between him and the cowpuncher, but he did not think Oran so bitter that he would seek to gratify it by siding in with outlaws such as Bart Crawford. Drawing back until the corner of the building where he had halted shielded him from the men’s view, he watched as the riders moved along the street and came to a stop in its center. Several persons emerged from the doorways of the weathered stores and stared at them curiously. There appeared to be a discussion between the five, something that had to do with the marshal, for all glanced now and then toward the lawman’s office.

  Jordan contemplated riding out into the open, moving up to them and having his moment of victory, but the presence of Oran Bishop among the group held him back. He could find no logical reason for the blond cowpuncher’s being with them unless—Jordan’s thoughts came to a halt—unless Crawford actually was a lawman, as he had claimed to be at Slaughter’s camp. And if that were true, then Walt Woodward, far from being an honest rancher, had been an outlaw in possession of stolen money. The possibility of that struck Ben forcibly, pinning him motionless to his saddle. It could be true, and it would account for Oran Bishop’s presence. When he looked back over the past days’ incidents, recalled the words spoken by Woodward, Crawford’s actions, the way Olivia Woodward, far from a grieving wife, had received the news, a pattern began to fall into place. But if it were so—Woodward an outlaw and Crawford a sheriff or marshal—he was now little better off in the eyes of the lawman than before. Crawford would never b
elieve his story of handing over the saddlebags and the $20,000 to Al Sharpe; he would have to have proof in the form of the deputy himself.

  A door slammed somewhere behind Jordan. He half turned, glanced down the narrow lane. Olivia Woodward, carrying a small carpetbag, was coming from her house, walking hurriedly. She was fully dressed with a light coat thrown over her arm. She cut sharply right when she left her yard, headed not for the street and the business section of Langford, but for the dense, wooded area that lay east of the town. As Ben Jordan watched her, his convictions grew. Olivia Woodward was leaving hastily. She was avoiding the settlement. That she had no intention of meeting him at dark was also perfectly clear; such had been only a means for getting rid of him. It all meant something—something that concerned him vitally.

  Jordan wheeled the sorrel about. As the gelding swung around, he moved briefly into the street. Ben flung a glance toward the five men and saw they had seen him. Crawford’s hand came up swiftly. There was sharp glint of sunlight on metal and then a gunshot echoed along the buildings. Ben felt the warm breath of the bullet and saw the five riders break into a charging run. He drove his spurs into the gelding, sent him plunging down the lane. He swung off to the right of Woodward’s place, drove hard for the trees and underbrush beyond it. He did not want to rush on after Olivia Woodward—not yet. He would lead Crawford and his party off to the side, lose them, and double back. She would not go far.

  The sorrel thundered along a hedge of wild roses, sailing effortlessly over a low, sagging fence, and gained the thicker growth. At that moment Crawford and his followers rounded the corner. Jordan, low in the saddle, did not look back. He heard Bishop’s voice yelling something at him but the words were lost in the pounding of the gelding’s hoofs. He expected Crawford to open up again with his pistol, but no more shots came. He raced straight ahead through the welter of rocks, brush, and scrubby trees for several hundred yards. Now there was no need to look over his shoulder; he could tell his pursuers were coming on from the hammering of their horses, and he knew they were not far behind. But they were having difficulty keeping him in sight. As they cleared the fence, he heard Crawford’s shout.