Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  No, sir. The way Brady Anchor saw it, Sybil Cravern was not the kind of girl his nephew should be getting sweet thoughts over.

  Coming to the town of Sanderson, with the sun dropping towards the western horizon, Brady and Jeff rode slowly along the main street. They attracted little or no attention, for Brady had changed into his work clothes of a blue denim jacket, Levi’s pants and high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots. He still carried the Thunderer in the directional-draw shoulder holster. Jeff was dressed much the same as he had been in Rocksprings and, likewise, wore his revolver in concealment.

  From the moment that they entered the town, Brady and Jeff were aware that Widow Snodgrass had paid a visit. Her handbills were attached to the walls, or displayed in windows, of the various business establishments.

  ‘I’m beginning to think I’d like to meet this here Widow Snodgrass,’ Brady drawled, studying the handbills. ‘She sure must be a mighty interesting lady.’

  ‘She’d be all right, maybe, happen you take to glory-chasers,’ Jeff replied disinterestedly.

  ‘Could be a right nice woman,’ Brady pointed out.

  ‘I’m betting she weighs over two hundred pounds, has a face like a thirty-year cavalry sergeant and that her Daughters of the Lord’re so ugly a man’d quit sinning just so’s he could stay far away from them.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Brady admitted. ‘But you could be ... ’

  ‘Those four horses standing outside the Golden Eagle look sort of familiar, Uncle Brady!’ Jeff interrupted, nodding to a big, two-storey saloon on the left side of the street.

  ‘Bay, blue roan, dun and brown,’ Brady drawled, studying the animals in question. ‘The bay’s got him a fancy Mex saddle. I didn’t pay them no mind as I went by in Rocksprings—’

  ‘I did,’ Jeff assured him. ‘Figure I’d best, in case they got away.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Brady praised, aware that his nephew had a remarkably good memory where horses were concerned and would be unlikely to make a mistake. ‘So we’ll play them careful.’

  ‘How do we handle it?’ Jeff wanted to know. ‘Ole Whip Staine’s likely still marshal. Trouble being his office’s way on the other edge of town.’

  ‘Yes. And while we’re going to get him, they could pull out.’

  ‘So we go in and make a citizen’s arrest on ’em?’

  ‘That’s our right under the Constitution, nephew,’ Brady drawled. ‘I’ll take the front door and you come in from the side.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jeff agreed. ‘They’ll be less likely to recognize you.’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ Brady admitted. ‘Don’t forget, we want them alive—unless there’s no way of getting them like it.’

  ‘I’ll mind it,’ Jeff promised.

  Guiding their horses to the hitching rail outside the Golden Eagle Saloon, Brady and Jeff dismounted. They looped their split-ended reins loosely over the rail, knowing that their horses would not attempt to pull free and stray.

  ‘They’re tied to the hitching rail,’ Jeff remarked, indicating the suspected animals.

  ‘Not every owlhoot’s smart enough to train his horse to stand with ’em hanging over,’ Brady pointed out. This bunch could be some who haven’t been.’

  They was smart in a heap of other ways,’ Jeff reminded him.

  ‘You’re sure it’s the right horses?’

  ‘Near enough. I’ll go ’round to the side door, Uncle Brady.’

  ‘Go to it, nephew.’

  Jeff did not offer the suggestion that his uncle should wait until he had had time to reach the side door and was ready to enter. Nor did Brady present his nephew with equally unnecessary advice. Having been together for a number of years, they had complete faith in one another. Brady had trained Jeff as a peace officer. So they could count upon each other to perform in smooth co-ordination and without needless discussion of what they should do.

  Watching Jeff stride away, to disappear down the alley at the right side of the building, Brady shoved back his planter’s hat a trifle. He did not attempt to look in the saloon’s windows. To have done so might have let him be seen and recognized by the owlhoots, putting them on their guard. He waited for over thirty seconds, then crossed the sidewalk to the batwing doors. Pushing them open, he stepped inside with apparent nonchalance and lack of concern.

  Pausing on the threshold, Brady looked quickly, yet thoroughly, around the big bar-room. Its furnishings and fittings suggested that it was the best place in the town. A large number of assorted customers were drinking, gambling, or talking to the garishly-attired pretty girls who wandered between, and occasionally sat at, the tables.

  Waiting until Jeff entered through the side door, Brady started to advance across the room. He glanced at the first floor’s interior balcony, from which a wide flight of stairs led downwards. Several customers and girls occupied the balcony and, beyond them, doors gave access to private rooms.

  The door of one of the upstairs rooms opened. Before Brady could discover who was coming out, his attention was diverted elsewhere.

  ‘Quit chawing on that tobacco and make your play!’ demanded an irate voice. ‘We’re wanting to get on with the game.’

  ‘I’ll do it when I’m good and ready,’ came an equally annoyed reply.

  The tones of the second speaker struck Brady as being familiar.

  Looking around, Brady saw a poker game in progress. It was evidently for high stakes, as’ it was taking place in a partially curtained alcove at the left side of the room. All the players he could see were well-dressed, prosperous-looking men. Their attention appeared to be centered upon one of their number who was hidden from Brady’s sight by the curtains.

  Glancing in Jeff’s direction, Brady saw that he was still standing by the door. Their eyes met briefly. A quick nod towards the card game was all the information his nephew would require. So Brady gave it. Then he strolled in a leisurely fashion towards the alcove.

  Moving around, so that he could observe the area which had previously been concealed by the curtain, Brady had his suspicions confirmed. Although clad in range clothes and unshaven since his departure from Rocksprings, or so it seemed from the stubble on his face, the player was the gaunt ‘undertaker’ who had led the gang. His left cheek bulged in an unnatural manner as he scowled from his cards to a small stack of chips, then at the sizeable pot in the centre of the table.

  ‘Hello, Jeff-honey!’ said a delighted voice. ‘It’s great to see you back.’

  ‘Hey there, Winnie,’ Jeff replied to the pretty brunette who had confronted him and was smiling a welcome that seemed sincere.

  ‘Come and buy a gal a drink,’ Winnie suggested hopefully. ‘This town’s sure been quiet, after you and Uncle Brady left.’

  ‘Later maybe,’ the red-head countered, returning his gaze to Brady.

  ‘You forget her, whoever she is!’ Winnie advised, misinterpreting his action. ‘I’m all the gal you can handle.’

  ‘And more,’ Jeff drawled, and Winnie moved to take his right arm.

  ‘Come and buy me a drink,’ the girl insisted.

  From Jeff’s position, he could not see the upper part of the stairs. If he had been able to, he would have felt considerable concern for his uncle’s welfare. The ‘rancher’ and the ‘drummer’—the latter now attired in the fashion of a cowhand—had emerged from one of the private rooms accompanied by two girls. On leaving, the girls had detached themselves from their escorts and wandered away. The ‘rancher’ scowled after them, then made as if to follow.

  ‘Leave ’em go,’ the ‘drummer’ advised, easing his companion to the front of the balcony. ‘You should’ve expected them to pull out when they found we was getting broke.’

  ‘Let’s hope Spit’s having better luck,’ the ‘rancher’ growled, swinging his eyes in the direction of the alcove. ‘I need some more mon ... Hey, Rupe!’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked the ‘drummer’, swinging his attention from the departing girls.

 
‘Look at that feller going to the game!’ the ‘rancher’ requested.

  ‘What about hi... ?’ the ‘drummer’ began, then stiffened. ‘Hell, yes! It’s the chubby cuss we robbed in Rocksprings.’

  ‘He’s after Spit!’ the ‘rancher’ ejaculated, right hand going to his gun.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied the ‘drummer’, blocking the other’s draw. ‘Only that’s no answer. Come on. Let’s get going downstairs. If he is after us, we’d best be ready to get the hell out of here.’

  Halting on the opposite side of the table to where the ‘undertaker’ was sitting in brooding contemplation of the cards, Brady stood still. He was too much of a gentleman to interfere before the end of the pot. So he waited, watchfully alert but silent and—as far as he could tell—unobserved by the leader of the owlhoots. If the ‘undertaker’s’ attitude was anything to go by, he was too engrossed to bother looking at the kibitzers; or anything other than the five cards in his hands.

  ‘All right,’ the ‘undertaker’ growled, munching savagely at his wad of tobacco. There was a spittoon placed conveniently for his use, but he ignored it. Shoving forward the remainder of his chips, he laid three kings, a jack and a four face up on the green baize. ‘I’ll see you.’

  ‘That’s a good hand,’ admitted a burly man in expensive town clothes, his tones mock congratulatory. He watched the other reaching eagerly towards the pot and exposed his, own cards. ‘Only it’s not quite good enough. Not against three eights and two lil deuces.’

  Anger flushed across the ‘undertaker’s’ face. He seemed to be making an effort to control his temper as he watched the other raking in the pot. Yet a third player was gathering the cards.

  ‘Seeing’s how it’s dealer’s choice, gents,’ the player remarked, ‘I’m going to deal us a game of stud.’

  ‘I’m cleaned out!’ the ‘undertaker’ said bitterly.

  ‘I shouldn’t let a lil thing like that bother you,’ Brady drawled. ‘You can always steal some more.’

  All talk and motion ended abruptly at the table. Every player’s eyes swung to the speaker. A couple of them could remember Brady from his previous visits and were not fooled by his cherubic appearance. Those less well informed wondered why such a harmless-looking cuss had made a remark calculated to cause real bad trouble.

  The ‘undertaker’s’ head snapped up and, for a moment, he scowled in a puzzled, irritated manner. Then recognition crept across his gaunt features. It was partially replaced by a blank, but menacing-eyed glare.

  ‘I can’t say’s I think that’s funny,’ the ‘undertaker’ warned and started to come to his feet. His right hand dropped closer to the butt of the Colt Peacemaker in its tied-down holster.

  ‘It wasn’t aimed to be,’ Brady replied. ‘No funnier, anyways, than the way you and your boys robbed the bank at Rocksprings.’

  Throwing a quick glance at the stairs, the ‘undertaker’ saw his two companions just starting to descend. From their attitudes, they had identified the stocky man and were ready to take cards. Tensing slightly, the ‘undertaker’ gathered the tobacco juice which had accumulated whilst he was mulling over whether to call or pass. He had been on the point of ejecting it into the spittoon, but had found a better use for it.

  With a casual-seeming motion, the ‘undertaker’ spat out the stream of brownish liquid. At the same instant, his right hand dipped to and closed about the butt of the Colt.

  The juice was flying straight towards Brady Anchor’s eyes.

  Chapter Ten – There’s A Warrant Out For You

  Although the Texas Rangers did not have the facilities which would be available to their jet-age counterparts, vii their ‘Bible Two’—the annually published list of wanted men and fugitives from justice, so called because it was said that peace officers read it far more than the original Bible—offered much useful information. It gave the descriptions and, as far as they were known, habits of the men who found their way on to its pages.

  The entry regarding Orville Damon ‘Spit’ Merton had mentioned his habit of chewing tobacco. It had also given a warning of how he made use of the juice in times of emergency.

  While Brady was still undecided whether the gaunt man was Spit Merton—who had been instructed in how to carry out a bank robbery in a very efficient manner—or not, he had thought back upon all he had read about the particular member of the owlhoot fraternity. Seeing the wad of tobacco bulging the man’s cheek had implied that he really was Merton.

  So Brady had not been unaware of his danger.

  Alert for the first warning motions of the gaunt face, Brady had been ready to respond. When the jet of juice left the man’s mouth, ejected with the speed and force of long practice, Brady took effective evasive action.

  Bending his torso rapidly to the left, like a fist-fighter weaving to dodge a punch, Brady allowed the brown liquid to pass without touching him. As he did so, aware that the other was drawing on him, he flashed his left hand across and under the right side of his jacket. Grasping the butt of the Thunderer, he tugged sharply at it. The press-stud separated into its two segments, allowing the revolver to slip free.

  Watching the ‘undertaker’, Brady knew that he was both fast and dangerous.

  Only a fool would take chances at such a moment.

  Brady Anchor was no fool.

  Chairs pitched over as the occupants of the table rose and flung themselves hurriedly out of the line of fire.

  With his Colt clearing leather, the ‘undertaker’ watched the short-barreled gun appear in Brady’s left fist. The owl-hoot felt surprised at the remarkable speed and ability the other man was displaying. It was almost as if a stone cherub had come to life and attacked him. For all that, the sight did not impede the way his own hand was moving.

  Flame blossomed from Brady’s Thunderer an instant before the ‘undertaker’ was ready to cut loose. The smoke and red glow was the owlhoot’s last living sight. Brady had shot to kill and the .41 bullet passed into the centre of the ‘undertaker’s’ forehead, rendering him a candidate for the services of a genuine member of that profession.

  At the sight of Brady confronting their leader, the ‘rancher’ had once more reached towards his gun. Again his companion did not allow him to complete his draw.

  ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ the ‘drummer’ had advised, having noticed the absence of chips in front of the ‘undertaker’. ‘I’d say Spit’s lost all the money.’

  ‘Could’ve put it away,’ objected the ‘rancher’, being more loyal and possessing a greater faith in their leader. ‘Anyways, ole Spit’ll take him easy. I’ve never knowed it to fail when he let’s go into the other feller’s fa...’

  At that moment, the ‘undertaker’ had made his double play—and failed to justify his follower’s faith.

  ‘Run for it, Benny!’ snarled the ‘drummer’, as the ‘undertaker’ took lead and sprawled backwards. He gave the ‘rancher’ a gentle shove to emphasize his meaning. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

  Snatching out his Colt, the ‘rancher’ went bounding down the stairs. He expected his companion to follow. If he had looked around, he would have received a surprise.

  Instead of accompanying the ‘rancher’, the ‘drummer’ retreated in the direction from which he had come. Crossing the balcony, he entered the room in which they had been entertaining the two saloon girls. It was empty and presented a far safer avenue of escape than the descent of the stairs and crossing of the bar-room offered.

  Quicker witted than the ‘rancher’, the ‘drummer’ had sensed danger; and not merely from the fast-moving, yet harmless-seeming man who had shot their leader. There were likely to be other enemies present, especially if the posse from Rocksprings had ignored the various counties’ boundaries and continued with the pursuit. So he was taking steps to divert the peril from himself.

  Shots crashed from the ground floor as the ‘drummer’ unfastened and raised the sash of the window, intermingling with startled yells and feminine screams. He swung himse
lf swiftly on to the outside balcony and darted along it to the front corner. Climbing over the wooden guard rail, he paused and then leaped to the ground. Stumbling as he landed, he picked himself up to run to the waiting horses. He tore free the brown’s reins and vaulted into the saddle. Drawing his revolver, he started to guide the animal around ready for his departure.

  ‘Aw, come on, Jeff,’ the saloon girl was prompting when Brady’s Thunderer bellowed. ‘Let’s whoop her...’

  ‘She’s whooped!’ Jeff stated and, ever polite to the opposite sex, went on. ‘’Scuse me, Winnie-gal!’

  Saying the latter words, the red-head plucked free his right arm in such a manner that he sent the girl staggering. Taking no notice of her startled and furious squawk, he fanged his right hand under the flap of his jacket. Out came his Peacemaker, the hammer clicking back to full cock. He was moving forward when he heard the clatter of hurrying feet.

  Bounding downstairs as fast as he could, the ‘rancher’ came into Jeff’s range of vision and was identified. However, he clearly was unaware of the new menace to his safety. In fact, he appeared to have eyes only for Brady and the way in which he was handling his gun warned of his intentions regarding the stocky man. ‘Hold it, mister!’ Jeff ordered.

  At the sound of the challenging words, the ‘rancher’ realized that he had acted impulsively and without due attention to the basic precautions. Hurtling down the last of the stairs, he contrived to alight facing Jeff. Instantly his left hand started to fan the Colt’s hammer, its heel catching and forcing the spur rearwards to cock and operate the mechanism while the right forefinger held back the trigger. Fanning was a very fast method of firing a single action revolver; but, except when performed by a man of greater ability than the ‘rancher’, it was not an accurate way of shooting.