by Ray Hogan
“No … and he’s not a lawman. I just found that out.”
“Not a deputy?” Crawford said, turning around slowly.
“He’s an outlaw, same as the two men with him. They’re together now. Woodward’s widow is with them. They’ve got the money.”
Crawford’s dark, intense face showed interest. “Where?”
“Wait a minute, Marshal,” Bishop said. “You ain’t falling for this yarn he’s handing us, are you? It’s ten to one he’s cooking up a scheme to get you off his tail so’s he can keep going with that money.”
“He sure don’t have it on him now,” Crawford answered. “And I reckon a man could get himself tangled into a mess, like he claims.”
“Only thing I’m interested in is clearing my name,” Jordan said. “Give me your word there’ll be no charges against me, and I’ll help you nail the outlaws and get the bank’s money back.”
At once Crawford said: “Don’t see why there’d be any reason to hold you, was you to do that. Far as I’m concerned, it would prove you’re telling the truth. Where is that bunch and the money?”
Jordan said: “Then we’ve got a deal?”
“We have. Now where …?”
“In that shack,” Ben said, handing Crawford his pistol. “They’re all there, even the woman.”
“For hell’s sake,” Gates muttered in an amazed voice. “That close?”
“How do you know?” Bishop demanded, still far from convinced.
“That’s where I’ve been, listening to them talk. They figure to ride out after dark.”
“Only three of them, you said,” Cleve Aaron remarked. “Won’t be no trouble breakin’ in and takin’ over.”
“Wouldn’t be easy,” Jordan said. “Couple of us are bound to get killed. And, like I told you, Missus Woodward’s in there, too. Be smarter to wait until they come out. Not long now until dark.”
“Surround the place,” Gates suggested. “Maybe they’d throw out their guns and quit.”
“Not them … not with twenty thousand dollars at stake. They’d fight and shooting would bring half the town running out here,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “Never like outsiders hanging around at a time like this. Always somebody getting shot accidental. I figure Jordan’s got the best idea. We’ll wait.”
XVII
The others dismounted, led their horses into the dense brush, and tied them. Crawford held back until they were again at his side.
“We’ll move up, close as we can to the door,” he said. “Best we spread out, cover it from all angles. Now, keep low. Don’t want them spotting us.”
They slipped off into the tangled growth, circling to the east until they were directly opposite the cabin. They paused there briefly, then worked their way up to the edge of the tall weeds, rocks, and scrubby bushes. No more than thirty feet of open yard now separated them from the doorway through which the outlaws would soon come.
Crawford, with whispers and gestures, placed his men at short intervals. Aaron was at the extreme left, then Arlie Davis, and Crawford. Next in the line was Oran Bishop, flanked by Jordan. Gates was at the right end.
“I’ll give the word,” Crawford said, hunkering on his heels. “Everybody wait for it.”
“I’m wonderin’,” Gates murmured, “is there a back door?”
Crawford glanced at Ben. “How about it?”
Jordan shook his head, saying: “Only a small window. Could be a door around the side.”
“Take a look,” Crawford ordered, ducking his head at Gates. “See where they got their horses, too.”
Gates made no answer but, on hands and knees, crawled off through the brush. He was back in only a few minutes.
“Ain’t no door,” he said in a hushed voice. “Just this one here in front. Three horses standin’ in a corral behind the shack.”
“Supposed to be four,” Arlie Davis said.
“The woman walked here from her place,” Ben said. “I followed her. She and Sharpe figure to ride double until they get a mount for her.”
“Somebody’s comin’ out,” Gates warned softly.
The door opened wide. Tubo Frick blocked the doorway. He glanced at the sky, judging the hour.
Crawford muttered: “Frick … that lousy tinhorn.”
Jordan looked at the lawman. “Know him?”
Crawford nodded. “A long time. Probably know the others, too. Same as I knew Woodward.”
Frick turned about, went into the cabin, and closed the door. The low rumble of words coming from the dark interior of the shack ceased.
Ben felt Bishop’s eyes upon him, twisted about to face the cowpuncher. “You convinced now I’m telling the truth? This proof enough?”
Bishop shrugged. “Could be you figure you’ve got yourself in a jam. This would be a smart way out.”
Impatience sharpened Jordan’s words. “You don’t make much sense. What would I get out of it? The bank will have its money back and I’ll …”
“You’ll save your own neck.”
Jordan spat in disgust. “You’re a plain fool, Oran. I wondered why Tom Ashburn didn’t turn that job of ramrodding over to you. Now I know.”
“Damn’ good thing for you I didn’t find those saddlebags that night,” Bishop retorted. “I’d have had you dead to rights then … could have proved to Ashburn what I suspected.”
“Or would you have grabbed them and run?” Ben suggested softly, deliberately baiting the man.
“Run … with the money? Why, damn you, I …”
“Forget it,” Bart Crawford snapped. “You talk much louder and they’ll be hearing you.”
There was silence after that, broken only by the dry clack of insects, the chirping of birds in the trees, and the low cooing of doves. Over in the direction of Langford a dog was barking, and somewhere on a road to the north of the settlement the drum of a hard-running horse could be heard.
The minutes wore on, merged into an hour. As the sun lowered, tension mounted gradually within Ben Jordan. He could see the effects of the long wait putting its mark on Oran Bishop, also. But if it were being noted and felt by Crawford and his three men, there was no indication. They were old hands at it, he guessed. Likely this was far from the first such experience for them. And it was not too different from certain days and nights in the Barranca Negra. There had been times when he, with his father and a few friends, had lain in wait for an expected raid by Mexican bandits. And later, after the death of his father, he had faced such danger without the reassuring presence of his parent. But somehow it was different here. There were only strangers around him, men he did not know and therefore was unaware of their abilities—and reliability, if something went wrong. He wished now he could have some of those who had sided with him during the black nights he had sweated out in the Sonora desert: Felipe Alvarez, Jésus Calderon, Old Manuel, Cristobal Lopez—Mexicans all, he realized suddenly, yet he would have felt more at ease with them than the gringos—these men of his own race, crouched near him. But there should be no trouble here. They were six to Sharpe’s three, if you didn’t count Olivia Woodward. Sharpe would recognize the futility of bucking such odds, and when called upon to throw down his guns, he would be smart enough to comply. And Frick and Rosen would follow his lead.
“Sun’s gone,” Cleve Aaron said laconically. “They ought to be comin’ out.”
Crawford said: “Be ready. Have your guns out. You know what to do when I give the word.”
“We’re just waitin’,” Aaron replied.
Ben Jordan fastened his eyes upon the closed door. He wished the outlaws would appear, surrender, and get the affair over with. He was beginning to feel the effect of the long hours, and the urge to get back to the Lazy A and assume his responsibilities was pushing him hard. There would be no trouble explaining it all to Tom Ashburn now. The rancher would listen, bu
t if there were any doubts in his mind, Bart Crawford could clear them up. And that was the way Ben wanted it. No doubts, no shadows. Tom Ashburn, and Sally, must believe in him and trust him, or else there was no future for him on the Lazy A. And they would, he was certain. Only Oran Bishop with his pig-headed stubbornness, might continue to doubt. While it meant little to him, he wished the blond cowpuncher would see matters in their true light, and admit he was wrong. Oran was a man he’d like to call friend.
“Here they come.”
Gates’ whisper was like a keen-bladed knife slicing through the half darkness. Ben stiffened as tension gripped him. There was a slight rustling sound as the men beside him prepared themselves.
“When I say the word …” Crawford murmured. “Not before.”
Olivia Woodward came through the doorway, paused, glanced back into the cabin momentarily, and stepped out into the yard. She turned left, walked slowly toward the far side of the cabin. Frick appeared next. Then Barney Rosen, carrying the nearly empty whiskey bottle by the neck. Both halted in front of the step. Al Sharpe loomed in the doorway. He swung the saddlebags over his shoulder and came on into the open. For a moment the three outlaws made a tight little group against the black rectangle of the cabin door.
Sharpe said, “Let’s get moving,” and started to follow Olivia Woodward.
In the next fragment of time Bart Crawford rose to his feet. He said, “Now,” and instantly four guns opened up on the outlaws.
Sharpe, Frick, and Rosen slammed back against the wall, dead from the hail of bullets. Through the boiling smoke and deafening echoes, Olivia Woodward began to scream, a wild, piercing, unnerving sound that sliced to the bone. Ben Jordan stood in horrified silence. Bishop, his mouth gaping, turned to Crawford slowly.
“My God … that was pure murder!” he said in a strangled voice. “You never gave them a chance to …”
Crawford, calmly reloading his revolver, said: “Didn’t plan on it.” He glanced at Gates. “Shut that woman up.”
Gates brought his gun up, leveled it.
Crawford said: “Not that way. Rap her over the head. That ought to do it.”
Arlie Davis and Cleve Aaron moved out of the brush, followed Gates. Olivia Woodward’s screams faded before the men reached her. She pulled back against the side of the cabin, her eyes wide with terror as she stared down at the bullet-riddled figures of the slain outlaws.
Jordan, brushed aside the revolting sickness that had claimed him suddenly when hard suspicion had sprung to life. He took a half step toward Crawford. He watched the emotionless features of the man for several moments, and then he spoke.
“You’re no different from them. You’re killers, outlaws. You’re not lawmen.”
Crawford finished reloading his weapon and brought it up abruptly, covering both Jordan and Bishop.
“You’re smart, mister,” he said dryly. “Now drop your irons, right where you’re standing. Both of you. Then get over alongside the woman until I figure out what I ought to do.”
XVIII
Oran Bishop’s question was a gasp. “You … you’re not lawmen?”
“Hell, no,” Crawford said. “No more’n them three layin’ there on the ground.”
“But you said … you told us …”
Crawford laughed. “You think of a better way to go chasing after a lot of stolen money? It’s real easy, long as you ain’t around where folks know you.” He motioned toward the shack with his gun. “Move.”
Jordan gave Bishop a bitter, half smile. The blond cowpuncher knew now how simple it was to get fooled. When a man told you he was a lawman and exhibited some simple proof, such as a badge, it never occurred to you to question him. With Bishop, he walked out of the brush, crossed the small yard, and lined up beside Olivia Woodward. Gates was hunched over Sharpe, pulling the saddlebags from beneath the dead outlaw’s body. Davis and Cleve Aaron watched closely. Gates laid the pouches across Barney Rosen’s back and freed the straps from their buckles.
“It’s here,” he announced, thrusting his fingers inside and stirring about in the coins and currency.
Crawford said: “Finally run it down. But we got to be thinking about drifting. That shooting’s going to bring half the town out here.”
Olivia Woodward, a forced smile on her face, moved toward Crawford. “How about me?” she asked. “Where do I come in? It was my husband who robbed that bank. I’m entitled to a share.”
“Like hell,” Crawford grunted. “It was him that botched the deal up for us … him and them three owlhoots there with him. We were all set to clean out that bank ourselves. They beat us to it by about thirty minutes and got away with a stinking twenty thousand dollars. There was three times that much to be had. Woodward and his bunch didn’t know that.”
Olivia smiled wider. “Still a lot of money. Either you ought to give me a share, or else …”
“Or else what?” Crawford demanded.
Olivia Woodward tilted her head coyly. “Or else take me along with you. I can help you enjoy it.”
Arlie Davis said, quick and sudden: “No, sir. We don’t want no woman hanging around.”
Crawford appraised the woman slowly. He grunted. “I expect you could keep a man mighty busy, sure enough. And spend his money real fast, too, was you given the chance.”
“Then you’ll take me?”
Crawford shook his head. “Arlie’s right. We got no room for a woman tagging along. And there ain’t much cash to split anyway.”
“What are we doin’ with these two jaspers?” Cleve Aaron asked, coming into the conversation. “Not smart to leave them breathin’ so’s they can talk.”
“We won’t,” Crawford said. “We’re goin’ to make it look like a shoot-out between them and the others. But we got to move fast.”
Olivia flung a quick glance at Jordan and Bishop. She edged nearer to Crawford. “You’re not treating me right,” she said protestingly—and threw herself directly into the outlaw leader’s arms.
Crawford cursed, tried to step back, stumbled into Gates. In that moment Ben Jordan and Bishop, gambling everything against certain death, lunged forward. Arlie Davis fired as Jordan swept Sharpe’s left-hand pistol from its holster. Ben felt the outlaw’s bullet burn along his neck. He triggered his weapon as he sprawled flat. Davis jolted as Jordan’s slug caught him in the chest, drove him backward. Another gun blasted. Ben heard someone yell—Aaron he thought it was, but he did not turn to look, instead simply rolled. From the tail of his eye he saw Olivia Woodward still clinging to Bart Crawford. The outlaw was staggering about, struggling desperately to dislodge her. Ben saw Gates then, whirling to shoot. He dropped the man with a hasty shot.
Beyond him Oran Bishop was pulling himself to his feet. Blood was streaming down one arm that hung limply at his side. But the blond cowpuncher was grinning, a tight-lipped, hard-cornered grin. Cleve Aaron lay motionlessly beneath him.
Jordan rolled to an upright position, leaped to where Olivia Woodward wrestled with Crawford. He seized the man’s hand, wrenched the pistol from his grasp. The woman released her deathlike grip and sank to the ground, exhausted and breathless.
Crawford stared down at her, his dark face furious, eyes burning. “A damned woman,” he muttered. “Tricked by a damned woman.”
Jordan rubbed at the stinging groove along his neck. “You can think about that while they’re hanging you for murder,” he said. He glanced at Bishop. “Hit bad?”
Oran shook his head. “Not much more than a scratch. You all right?”
“All I did get was a scratch. How about Aaron? He dead?”
“Knocked out. Couldn’t get my hands on a gun. Had to use my fist.”
“That’s two left for the law then,” Ben said, adding, “the real law this time.”
He reached down for Olivia Woodward’s hand, helped her rise. She was breathing more normall
y now, and womanlike she began to pin up her hair, shaken loose by Crawford’s frantic attempts to break away from her.
“No need for you to wait here,” he said. “Take my horse … your husband’s … and go back to your house before anybody gets here. The town won’t ever know you had any part of this.”
Ben glanced at Bishop, standing with a gun pressed into Crawford’s back. The blond cowpuncher nodded his approval.
Olivia Woodward gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“We sure owe you that much,” Bishop said.
Off, somewhere along the lane, the beat of oncoming horses sounded.
“You’d better hurry,” Jordan said. “You’ll find that sorrel over there in the brush. Keep off the road. You won’t be noticed.”
She nodded, ran across the yard. At the fringe of the brush she paused, looked back. “He’s still your horse,” she said. “When you get ready to leave, he’ll be waiting for you … with a bill of sale.”
She was gone in the next moment, out of sight in the weeds and brush. Jordan turned and pulled off his belt. Jerking Crawford about, he strapped the outlaw’s wrists together. With Bishop helping, they did the same for Cleve Aaron, using a strip of rawhide they found on Barney Rosen’s body. They put both men inside the cabin and waited outside the doorway for the riders they could hear coming.
Bishop stuck out his hand. “Reckon I sure made a real prime jackass out of myself,” he said. “That Crawford sure fooled me.”
“We both weren’t very bright,” Ben agreed.
Bishop was quiet. Inside the shack Crawford was cursing in a low, furious tone. Aaron, conscious and sitting up, was looking around in a dazed, puzzled way.
Oran Bishop studied the toes of his boots. “I know I don’t have much right to say this, but I hope what you said about me staying on the ranch still goes.”
Jordan shrugged. “All right with me. Up to you to square yourself with Tom Ashburn, though.”
“Won’t be no chore. Crawford took him in, same as he did me. But I figure I’d better warn you. I still think I’m the best man for that ramrod job and I aim to keep on working for it. If you don’t favor that, you’d better fire me now.”