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

by J. T. Edson

  When the gun bellowed out its first load, it had been fired without its user attempting to take careful aim. At a table some feet to Jeff’s left, a customer yelled and tripped over his chair as the bottle of whisky he had just purchased was shattered by the wildly-flung lead.

  Adopting the gun fighter’s crouch, without any need for conscious thought, Jeff thrust forward his Peacemaker at waist level. It had been his intention to carry up the weapon to where he could sight along the barrel and try merely to disable the owlhoot. Seeing the way in which the other was acting, he knew that he did not dare take such a chance. The ‘rancher’ was shooting recklessly and might easily kill some innocent occupant of the room.

  So Jeff cut loose, not trying to hit the shoulder and wound, but at the largest target offered by the ‘rancher’.

  Caught in the centre of the chest by the .44.40, flat-nosed bullet, the owlhoot reeled backwards. Catching against the bottom of the stairs with his heels, he sat down. However, he still did not release his hold on the revolver..

  While aware of what he should do under the circumstances, Jeff refrained from shooting at the stricken man. Recollecting that three members of the gang had escaped from the posse, the red-head made a rapid mental calculation and came up with a disturbing answer. Uncle Brady had downed the ‘undertaker’, the ‘rancher’ slumped limply at the foot of the stairs, which left one more owlhoot to be accounted for.

  Even now, the ‘drummer’ could be lining his sights on either Jeff or Uncle Brady!

  Or the man might be escaping!

  ‘Up here, Jeff!’ called a feminine voice from the balcony.

  Looking upwards, the red-head saw a pretty blonde girl staring in his direction and pointing across the balcony.

  Although Jeff knew that he should disarm the wounded ‘rancher’, he also realized that the situation regarding the ‘drummer’ was urgent. Certainly the ‘rancher’ did not look in any way dangerous, despite the fact that he was still grasping the butt of his weapon. Concentrating on the head of the stairs, Jeff ran by the owlhoot and started to ascend in rapid bounds.

  Having watched his chance, the ‘rancher’ sat up and twisted around slowly. He was badly wounded and knew that he could not hope to escape. So he intended to take his revenge upon the man whose bullet had caused his downfall.

  Satisfied that he need waste no more time and effort upon the ‘undertaker’, whose lifeless body was sliding down the wall until it sat on the floor, Brady turned to discover what was happening to his nephew. He decided that Jeff was behaving in a typically impulsive manner.

  ‘Behind you, Jeff!’ Winnie screeched, as the owlhoot brought up the revolver in the red-head’s direction.

  Being uncertain as to whether his nephew could react quickly enough, Brady thrust up the Thunderer. At that distance, shooting from waist level would not be sure enough for him to use it. Instead, he raised his right hand to cup under the left. Taking aim fast, with the iron knife-blade front sight centered in the ‘V notch milled into the top of the frame as a back sight, he squeezed the trigger. That set the double-action mechanism into motion. Twice the stubby .41 revolver cracked, the sounds merging into the single, deeper bark of Jeff’s Peacemaker.

  Hearing Winnie’s warning, Jeff had swung on his heel and cut loose with deadly speed.

  All three bullets found their intended marks.

  Any one of them would have been fatal.

  Jerked savagely by the combined impacts, the ‘rancher’ flung away his weapon. He pitched sideways from the stairs, sprawling face down on the floor.

  ‘The other one’s up here, Uncle Brady!’ Jeff called, swinging back towards the top of the stairs and resuming his interrupted ascent.

  ‘Sorry to bust up your game, gents,’ Brady told the players.

  “That’s all right,’ answered the burly townsman, to Brady’s departing back. ‘He’d lost all his money.’

  On the point of following Jeff, Brady remembered the layout of the saloon’s upper floor. If the last of the gang had entered one of the private rooms, he could leave by a window and reach the front of the building.

  Pivoting around, Brady darted across the room. Its occupants were on their feet, or rising from the places of concealment into which they had ducked when the shooting started. None of them offered to interfere with him. Before he had reached the front door, he knew that he was going to be too late. Hooves drummed on the street as a horse moved away and built up speed.

  Brady flung himself through the batwing doors. Landing on the sidewalk, he sprang across it to the street. Much to Brady’s annoyance, there was considerable movement along the main thoroughfare, with people walking or riding in either direction. They would be a serious hazard for him, if he started throwing lead after the fleeing owlhoot.

  Urging his brown onwards, the ‘drummer’ was equally aware of his advantage in the matter. While the people stared at him, they did not offer to try and bring him to a halt. In fact, they started to take the sensible course of scattering before him. Looking ahead, he saw a shortish, white-haired figure in range clothing running from a building. There was a lawman’s badge on the wiry old timer’s vest and he carried a double-barreled shotgun.

  That would be Marshal Whip Staines, the ‘drummer’ decided. He had a reputation as being a tough, salty peace officer with a penchant for using his ten gauge scattergun as a means of enforcing the law. Trying to ride by him, while holding a gun and fleeing from the scene of a shooting, would be dangerous in the extreme. It could also prove to be fatal.

  So the ‘drummer’ started to swing his horse towards the mouth of an alley. By passing through it, he hoped to evade the marshal’s attentions. Just too late, he discovered that the way he had chosen was occupied.

  A tall, wide-shouldered man in the dress of a brush-country cowhand, had been watching the ‘drummer’s’ flight. Seeing the other drawing near, he had drawn the ivory handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker from the tied-down holster of his buscadero gun belt. As if guessing the other’s intentions, he had moved into the mouth of the alley.

  Everything about the tall man—who wore a low crowned, wide brimmed, tan colored Stetson, dark blue shirt, multi-hued bandanna, calfskin vest, Levi’s pants, leather chaps and high heeled boots—implied that he was a competent and efficient pistolero. Sufficiently so for the ‘drummer’ to be disinclined to engage him in conflict at such a moment.

  Dragging sharply on his left hand rein, the owlhoot attempted to change direction once more. Squealing a protest at the rough treatment, the brown gelding reared on its hind legs, arched its neck and fought against the bit in a way that made it difficult to handle. Certainly its rider was in no position to offer resistance, or pose a threat to the brush-popper’s safety.

  For all that, the tall cowhand did not hesitate. Carrying his gun to waist level, he fanned its hammer twice with his left hand. Unlike the ‘rancher’, he possessed the necessary skill to turn ‘fanning’ into a reliable fighting method. Both bullets found their way into the right side of the ‘drummer’s’ chest, ranging across and through his heart to emerge at the rear in an eruption of torn flesh, spraying blood and flying slivers of bone. Thrown from his saddle, he smashed to the ground and his horse went buck-jumping along the street.

  Holstering his Colt with a twirling flourish, the brush-popper swung on his heel. Oblivious of the shouts which arose and sounds of people converging on his victim, he strode rapidly along the alley. He had disappeared around the end of the right hand building before the first of the people arrived.

  Running forward, still holding his Thunderer, Brady dead-heated with the wiry old town marshal in reaching the dying owlhoot. Already a number of citizens had gathered, but they parted to allow the two armed men unrestricted passage.

  ‘Howdy, Brady,’ drawled Marshal Staines, eyeing the stocky man in a quizzical, wary manner. Then he glanced into the alley, started to look back and stared harder. ‘Where’s ye nephew?’

  ‘Back in the s
aloon,’ Brady answered, having followed the direction of the other’s gaze. ‘I don’t know who dropped this jasper, but it couldn’t have been young Jeff.’

  ‘Best take a look and see who it was then,’ Staines suggested. ‘He ain’t going no place’s I can see.’

  Walking along the alley at Staines’ side, Brady returned the Thunderer to its holster. They looked in both directions on reaching the rear end, without seeing the man who had shot the ‘drummer’ from his saddle.

  ‘Kind of a shy sort of cuss,’ Staines commented dryly. ‘I reckon he don’t want anybody to thank him for stopping that feller.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Brady agreed.

  ‘Let’s go back and take a look at that miserable sinner, shall us?’ the marshal suggested.

  ‘Sure,’ Brady drawled, throwing a last look around in the hope of discovering where the mysterious man had gone.

  ‘You wouldn’t know who this feller in the alley might have been?’ Staines inquired, allowing Brady to precede him towards the main street. ‘Would ye?’

  ‘Nope,’ the stocky man replied.

  ‘Seems a mite peculiar, him gunning down that feller. Almost like he knowed he was an owl hoot on the run,’ the marshal went on mildly. ‘It wouldn’t’ve been Mr. Barnstaple, you reckon?’

  Looking back over his shoulder, Brady saw that Staines cradled the shotgun with its yawning muzzles aimed directly at him. A man with the marshal’s knowledge of firearms did not do such a thing by accident.

  ‘What do you know about Mr. Barnstaple?’ Brady asked, turning slowly and holding his hands well clear of his sides.

  ‘Not much,’ Staines admitted. ‘There’s a warrant out for you, young Jeff and this Barnstaple jasper. Sent by the sheriff of Edwards County. He wants you for breaking out of jail, assaulting a duly appointed officer of the law and being part and party to the robbing of the bank. Sounds tolerable keen to have you catched. The telegraph message he’s been sending ’round says Edwards County’ll pay a thousand dollars on each of you... dead or alive.’

  Chapter Eleven – A Feller Called Thinking Fernelley

  ‘Going to church,’ Marshal Whip Staines said pensively, removing the spectacles from the end of his nose—they had been positioned so that he could look over rather than through them—and poking the two sheets of paper with a gnarled forefinger. ‘Two miles to the border?’

  ‘That’s what the Mex said,’ Brady Anchor confirmed. ‘I was wondering if it meant anything to you?’

  ‘Can’t say’s it does,’ the peace officer declared sorrowfully. ‘When you get to my age, you don’t know much at all.’

  ‘I thought it might mean something,’ Brady said. ‘They kept making remarks about putting the money on the collection plate and being church-going folks.’

  ‘Longbach had that handbill about Widow Snodgrass in his pocket,’ Jeff reminded his uncle. ‘Could be they was hoorawing him for trying to get glory.’

  ‘Only, what your Uncle Brady said, he wasn’t in the bank,’ Staines pointed out. ‘Still, it could’ve been a private joke ’tween ’em. Anyways, it don’t mean a thing to me.’

  ‘What about the rest I’ve told you?’ Brady challenged.

  ‘You’ve got to admit it’s a mighty peculiar story,’ Staines replied.

  ‘Unlikely or not,’ Jefferson Trade protested, ‘it’s the living truth.’

  ‘I ain’t gainsaying that, young Jeff,’ the marshal countered, with the air of the aged being tolerant in the face of impulsive youth. ‘Knowing your Uncle Brady, there’s three good reasons why I believe ham.’

  ‘What’d they be?’ Brady inquired, showing his interest.

  ‘First ’n’,’ Staines replied, holding up his left forefinger. ‘Happen you’d been lying, you’d’ve come up with something a whole heap more likely than that tale you’ve just told me.’ He elevated the next finger. ‘Secondly, you come along with me too easy to have any guilty badness on your minds.’ The third finger rose and all three waggled solemnly. ‘Last ’n’ and most important, I reckon I can count on you not to take advantage by lying to a poor, wored-out old cuss like me.’

  ‘Gracias, Whip,’ Brady said sincerely, for the third of the marshal’s points had been most complimentary in that it implied he and his nephew were trusted.

  That was what Brady had expected to happen, but he still felt pleased to see his confidence justified.

  When Jeff had joined his uncle on the street, bringing the news that the ‘undertaker’ and the ‘rancher’ were both dead, Staines had requested that they should accompany him to his office. Noting the significant, if apparently casual, manner in which the marshal had held his shotgun, Jeff had sensed that something special was in the air. However, having caught his uncle’s quick nod of agreement, the red-head had not raised any objections.

  Brady had been satisfied that they would receive fair treatment from the marshal and be permitted to tell their story; but had been equally aware of the very real danger if they should have refused to co-operate. A lawman of long standing, Whip Staines would not have hesitated to use his shotgun as a means of ensuring obedience to his commands. The fact that he and Brady had been on excellent terms during previous visits—or that the stocky man had on one occasion saved the marshal’s life—would not have influenced him against doing what he regarded as his duty.

  On top of those considerations, Brady had known that he would benefit from going along with Staines’ instructions. After he had explained the situation and had displayed his documentary proof, he was sure that the marshal would be of the greatest assistance. It was claimed—and Brady did not doubt it—that what Whip Staines did not know about law-breakers in the south-west of Texas was hardly worth knowing.

  At the marshal’s office, after the bodies had been removed to the undertaker’s shop and searched, Brady had told the full story of the Rocksprings bank robbery and its aftermath. Although Staines liked to pretend that he was in his dotage, he had listened attentively and had displayed a keen appreciation of every point made by Brady. The mystery of the visit to the hollow tree had been solved. On being searched, the ‘rancher’s’ pockets had yielded a somewhat faded wanted poster, its top edge marred by a ‘V shaped notch where it had been torn free from its securing thumbtack. The poster was offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of the Spit Merton gang.

  ‘Why’d you reckon the sheriff sent out this feller Barnstaple’s name?’ the marshal asked, studying the two letters without replacing his spectacles. He could see much better without the artificial aids.

  ‘He must’ve asked them to,’ Jeff guessed.

  ‘Why’d he do that?’ Staines wanted to know. ‘When you gets to my age, you grow all suspicious ’n’ ornery’s why I asked. I thought he’d hired you two to hunt down them counterfeiters.’

  ‘Could be he’s trying to save the Association from having to pay us the reward,’ Brady replied. ‘Or he could be running down something he hasn’t mentioned to us.’

  ‘That could be it,’ Staines admitted. ‘Come’s a real surprise to see you two’s names on that telegraph message. Wouldn’t’ve believed it, but for the descriptions fitting. I’d allus figured you was on my side of the law. Wondered if maybe it was that somebody pretending to be you. Then, I swan, there you was and mixed up in a shooting.’

  ‘We was mixed up in that Rocksprings robbery, too,’ Brady drawled. ‘But as victims. They lit out with our five thousand dollars.’

  ‘They sure don’t have it no more,’ the marshal answered. ‘Which figures’s I’d noticed ’em sitting in on that big stake game. Wasn’t none of them what I’d call big stake game players.’

  ‘So they got took, huh?’ Jeff growled, bristling indignation.

  ‘Those fellers they was playing against don’t need to take anybody, young feller,’ Staines replied, the last two words carrying a warning. ‘They could give your Uncle Brady a stiff game—’

  ‘And did, last time we was in here,’ Brady finish
ed. ‘It’d have to be a straight game in your town, Whip.’

  ‘Obliged, Brady,’ the marshal said, showing that he was pleased with the compliment.

  ‘And they lost our money in it,’ Jeff complained.

  ‘That’s the way the stick floats,’ Staines admitted. ‘Gambling’s legal in Sanderson, so there’s no way you can get your money from the fellers who won it. Not ‘less they handed it over willing-like.’

  ‘We’ll just have to stand the loss,’ Brady declared and, after a moment’s thought, Jeff shrugged his assent to the decision.

  ‘That wanted dodger we found makes it look like it was Spit Merton and his gang,’ Staines commented, bringing the conversation back to more important matters. ‘They took it so’s there wouldn’t be anything around pointing to them.’

  That’s how I saw it,’ Brady agreed.

  ‘Never knowed Spit Merton had that much good sense, or enough brains to pull a smart robbery,’ Staines said thoughtfully. ‘’Course, he wasn’t smart all the way along.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jeff inquired.

  ‘Got the big things right,’ the marshal explained. ‘But they slipped up on the small ’n’s. Like speaking each other’s names, which’d help identify ’em. Then bunching up when they left. If they’d been real smart, they’d’ve rid off separate and quiet-like in different directions. Could’ve been an hour or so afore anybody knowed what they’d done.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what they was intended to do,’ Jeff suggested. ‘Only they didn’t trust one another enough to be parted from the money—’

  ‘With a haul that big, that’s maybe be how they’d figure,’ Staines conceded. ‘Merton’s bunch had never took anywheres close to fifty thousand simoleons in their lives.’

  ‘They sure looked to be talking heated when Miss Cravern cut loose and scared ’em off,’ Jeff confirmed.

  ‘Pity she didn’t shoot straighter,’ Staines complained. ‘Or go and get help instead of trying to do it herself.’