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

by J. T. Edson

Chapter Sixteen – There’ll Be More With That Idea

  Sitting his appaloosa with his hands tied behind his back, Jefferson Trade looked across the four hundred or so yards which separated him from the Two Miles To The Border Mission and Sanctuary. Close by, leering viciously, Joe Brolley kept his Remington revolver trained on the redhead. Off to the other side a short distance, Staff and Dwight Brolley nursed their Winchesters and studied the building. All of them stiffened slightly as the main doors opened and two figures emerged.

  Walking dejectedly, yet conveying an impression of frustrated fury, the Widow Snodgrass had her hands elevated in an attitude of surrender and her blonde head was bowed. She wore the garments in which she always appeared when delivering her sermons. Keeping the muzzle of a Colt Cavalry Peacemaker jammed into her spine, the man partially concealed behind her was dressed—with the addition of a white ‘planter’s’ hat—as Brady Anchor had been the previous night when he had yielded to Staff Brolley’s demands.

  ‘Looks like your uncle’s fixing to save your life, you broken-nosed bastard,’ Joe mocked, studying the stocky figure of the man beyond the Widow Snodgrass.

  ‘That’s just what it looks like,’ Jeff agreed.

  Settling his weight more evenly on the saddle, Jeff darted a glance at the other brothers. They were tensing and gripping their rifles a mite tighter. Unless he missed his guess, they had no intention of upholding their end of the agreement Staff had made with his uncle the previous night.

  Cold anger ate at Jeff, but he strove to keep it in control. It was, he told himself bitterly, his own fault that he had placed Uncle Brady in such a precarious predicament.

  While riding back through the wooded country, after concluding an abortive scout of the area, Jeff had been thinking about Sybil Cravern and not concentrating on watching his surroundings. So he had run into a trap which he ought to have located and avoided. The Brolley brothers were mean, but should not have been slick enough to take him.

  Jeff had still been wondering how Sybil had located the Mission and what she hoped to achieve, when Joe Brolley’s rope had come hissing through the air. Thrown from a place of concealment amongst some bushes, the loop had dropped and tightened around the red-head’s shoulders. Before he could resist, he had been snatched from his saddle. Rushing forward, Staff and Dwight had overpowered him and rendered him helpless.

  When Joe had suggested that he taught Jeff a lesson, Staff had refused to permit it. There was, the oldest brother had insisted, a better way of making use of their captive than taking an idle revenge. Despite all One-Eyed Sam had told them, they were not sure of how many men the widow had backing her at the house. When succumbing to their torture, after being captured a mile or so from the Tavern, the old man had insisted that there were at least half-a-dozen gun-hands on the counterfeiters’ pay roll. From what Staff had seen of the building, an undetected approach would be impossible, even in the dark. Without a doubt, the widow would have guards posted to prevent such things happening.

  So Staff had concluded that they must use trickery. Ordering his brothers not to harm Jeff, unless the red-head gave them trouble, Staff had ridden alone to the house. On his return, he had been highly delighted and satisfied. He had told Jeff that Brady was going to help. However, the redhead’s uncle had insisted on taking precautions.

  There had been no hope of making a move that night, Brady had insisted. Widow Snodgrass’s hired guns were all still awake and alert. So he had promised that he would deal with them before morning. Then, an hour after sun-up, he would wave a white cloth from an upstairs front window. On seeing the signal, Staff and his brothers were to bring Jeff into the open. Satisfied that his nephew was alive and uninjured, Brady would fetch the widow out as a prisoner; if he had managed to take her alive. To prevent treachery on either side, the two parties would stay about a quarter of a mile apart. After the exchange had been carried out, Brady and Jeff were to be allowed to ride away and would not return.

  While the arrangements had appeared to be satisfactory and straightforward, Jeff did not for one moment believe that Staff Brolley and his brothers intended to uphold their end of them. Nor had he felt that his uncle would have conceded defeat so easily.

  With that in mind, Jeff had studied the man and woman when they had come from the house. He nudged his appaloosa gently with his heels. Feeling its muscles bunch, he knew that it was awaiting his next instructions.

  ‘He got her all right!’ Staff Brolley hissed. ‘Let them come out a ways—’

  One of the upstairs windows had been thrown open by a girl. It was Sarah, hair still matted and disheveled and face unwashed. She wore nothing but her robe and held her Colt Cloverleaf revolver.

  ‘It’s a trap!’ she screeched. ‘That’s not Bra ... ’

  ‘Sarah!’ shouted another feminine voice from inside the room.

  Swinging around, the red-haired girl saw Sybil standing in the doorway. Cleaned up, hair tidied, the blonde wore her riding habit and grasped a Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver.

  Spitting out a frightened curse, Sarah tried to turn her weapon on the other girl. Adopting a gun-fighter’s crouch with swift and deadly facility, Sybil cut loose with a shot. Her bullet took Sarah in the left breast. Jolting backwards, the red-head dropped her Colt and tumbled out of the window.

  ‘Joe, get that … !’ Staff bellowed, starting to raise his Winchester.

  A rifle crashed at another of the upstairs windows, the one from which Brady Anchor had waved his signal. Even as Joe Brolley prepared to carry out his older brother’s uncompleted command, a heavy caliber bullet smashed into his skull and distributed his brains in a flying spray. Slammed out of his saddle by the impact, he fired once without coming anywhere near his intended mark.

  The moment Jeff had seen the stocky figure behind Elvira, he had realized that it was not his uncle. So he had guessed what Brady must be planning to do.

  Letting out a yell, the red-head slammed his spurs sharply against the appaloosa’s ribs. Alert for such a signal, the horse sprang eagerly into motion. It lunged forward with such a powerful thrust that it would have unseated a less skilful rider. Only by clamping the saddle hard with his knees and digging his feet more firmly into the stirrups did Jeff remain in the saddle. He knew that he was still far from being out of danger.

  Concentrating on staying afork the horse as it built up its gait to a gallop, Jeff heard Staff yelling for Dwight to blow hell out of the woman and her escort. That meant, as the redhead well knew, the oldest brother was meaning to take care of him personally.

  Standing at the window of Elvira’s bedroom, clad in his working clothes, Brady Anchor threw the lever of his Winchester Centennial rifle through its reloading cycle. The long case of the spent cartridge rose into the air, being replaced by a loaded round from the magazine tube.

  The commotion from the room at the other end of the passage had startled him, but not seriously enough for his aim to be affected. Apparently Sarah had attempted to betray their deception, but from the other sounds she had paid the supreme penalty for her treachery. Satisfying as that might be, she had succeeded in putting young Jeff’s life in deadly peril.

  On hearing Staff Brolley’s ultimatum, Brady had thought fast. By a stroke of good fortune, Alf Ludlaw had been delayed in his appearance with the whiskey. So Brolley had not known that there was another man with a physique that resembled Brady’s middle-sized, stocky build on the premises. Realizing that the owlhoot could not be trusted, Brady had formed a plan and made suggestions which would at least present Jeff with an opportunity to escape from the brothers’ clutches. Assuming, of course, that Elvira Snodgrass would go along with it.

  When the widow had been told of Brady’s plan, she had started by acting hesitant. However, she had come around to his way of thinking when he had pointed out the danger to her business arrangements if they did not strike back in a hard, uncompromising manner at the brothers.

  ‘They’re figuring on taking over the whole dam
ned notion,’ Brady had warned. ‘There’ll be more with that idea, unless we can show them it’s dangerous to try such games on with us.’

  Having accepted Brady’s summation, Elvira had given her complete agreement. The remainder of the night had been spent in a state of alert readiness, but the brothers had apparently been content to wait until daylight before making their play.

  That morning while Elvira and Brady had been eating their breakfasts, a bruised, limping, obviously stiff and sore Sybil had arrived at the table. Looking contrite and at her most innocent, despite a swollen, discolored left eye and cut top lip, she had asked if her behavior the previous evening would prevent her from becoming a Daughter of the Lord. Elvira had said that it would not and delivered a warning.

  If Sybil ever played poker with her, the widow had said, she had better avoid tricks like arranging the order of the cards with that clumsy-looking overhand stack. Nor would she get away with nullifying the cut, after diverting attention by knocking money from the table, so as to ensure that the sequence of the cards remained unchanged. The girl had replied that, as her opponents had been cheating, she had thought it was permissible under their rules of play.

  Bringing the conversation to the more pressing business of rescuing Jeff, Brady had told Sybil of their plans. The girl had listened with an air reminiscent of a perplexed elf, but had made comments which showed that she fully comprehended the situation. Then she had asked how she could help and was told to stand by in her room. If the ruse failed, she would be in a good position to take part in defending the house from the brothers’ attack.

  At that moment, a slight sound had drawn their attentions to the door. Sarah had entered, claiming that she had just come downstairs. So she too had been informed of what was to happen and had agreed to take her part in defending the Mission. She had thrown a hate-filled glare at Sybil, but had not spoken to the blonde or made any reference to the events of the previous evening.

  Ludlaw had donned the clothes which Brady had been wearing when he had been interviewed by Staff Brolley, but carried a Colt Cavalry Peacemaker which Elvira had produced for him. If Staff had come close enough to detect the discrepancy in weapons, he would also have been able to see that the man was not Jeff’s uncle. So there would have been no point in Ludlaw toting the Thunderer.

  Obviously Sarah had been determined to avenge herself on Sybil. Or she may have realized that the blonde girl would ruin any hopes she had had of overthrowing the widow and taking control of the counterfeiting operation. Whatever her motives, the sounds Brady had heard implied that she had paid a stiff price for attempting to win the brothers’ support by warning them of the trap.

  Not that Brady devoted much thought to the red-haired girl’s fate. Right at that moment, his whole attention was centered upon preventing his nephew from being killed.

  The situation was desperate and difficult. Each of the remaining brothers held a rifle in the shooting position. Of the two, Staff was posing the more immediate threat to Jeff’s existence. He was taking his aim at the fast-riding red-head. From the angle at which Dwight’s rifle was pointing, he intended to make either Ludlaw or Elvira his mark. So Brady had to decide—and quickly—which man was to be his target. There would not be sufficient time for him to take both of them out of the game.

  Looking at the octagonal, twenty-eight inch long barrel, Brady diverted his gaze briefly downwards. He saw that Ludlaw had offered the Colt Cavalry Peacemaker to Elvira. Snatching it from his grasp, she raised it to shoulder level in both hands. Observing the extremely competent manner in which the widow was acting, Brady concluded that he could leave her to take care of the younger brother.

  Lining his sights at Staff’s head, Brady squeezed the trigger. Riding the hefty recoil kick caused by ninety-five grains of prime du Pont black powder turning to gas and ejecting the .50 Express caliber bullet from the Winchester’s muzzle, Brady felt sure that he had held true. Through the sudden swirl of white smoke, he saw that his shooter’s instincts had not played him false. Staff’s head jolted as if struck by an invisible fist. Tilting upwards spasmodically, the owlhoot’s rifle blasted its charge into the air. Then he pitched lifeless from his saddle.

  The Colt in Elvira’s hands boomed in echo to the bark of Brady’s heavy Centennial. Just an instant later, Dwight’s Winchester churned loose a bullet. Stiffening jerkily, the youngest of the brothers released the weapon and toppled flaccidly from his horse’s back.

  ‘Brady!’ Ludlaw bellowed. ‘Elvira’s been hit!’

  Reloading his Winchester automatically, Brady directed his gaze downwards. The widow was sprawled on her face. As yet, the blood had not soaked through her bonnet and on to the ground.

  Spinning from the window, Brady darted out of the room. Along the passage, Sybil stood covering the two remaining Daughters of the Lord with her Merwin & Hulbert. Rosita and Bernadette looked scared, but showed relief at the sight of the stocky man.

  ‘Tell her not to hurt us, Mr. An ...!’ Rosita began.

  ‘We didn’t know what Sarah was fix ... !’ Bernadette stated at the same instant.

  ‘Elvira’s been shot!’ Brady interrupted, running to the head of the stairs and starting down without a backwards glance.

  ‘Come on!’ Sybil barked, lowering the revolver and following Brady.

  Outside the house, Brady found the Ludlaw s kneeling alongside the widow’s motionless body. They had covered her head with Mrs. Ludlaw’s apron, hiding the gory details from view. While moving towards them, Brady did not forget to take the basic precautions. So he scanned the surrounding terrain carefully. All the brothers were down and none showed any signs of life, but one or more could be playing possum. From them, Brady turned his gaze to his nephew. Controlling the appaloosa with his knees, Jeff was guiding it through the gate and towards the house. The sooner he was released, the quicker he could help to deal with the situation.

  ‘She’s done for, Brady!’ Mrs. Ludlaw declared, looking up with tears running over her cheeks. ‘He must’ve got her as she shot him.’

  ‘It was quick, thank God!’ Ludlaw went on, turning with grief showing on his leathery face. ‘Hit her over the temple. She must’ve been dead afore she reached the ground.’

  ‘God damn those bastards!’ Brady raged, glaring at the brothers. ‘If any of them are alive, I’ll...’

  Then the inference of the old man’s words struck Brady and he looked at the body. Due to the apron, he could not see the wound, nor even any blood from it. However, there were more important matters calling for his attention and he felt disinclined to make a closer examination. A bullet through the temple would have caused instantaneous death, so Elvira would not have suffered.

  There was only one thing wrong....

  Scowling, Brady turned towards the house. His eyes roamed along the front of it before coming to a halt and staring hard at a point over the open door. Coming out, with Rosita and Bernadette on her heels, Sybil halted. The blonde gazed around, looking like an elf that had received a shock.

  ‘Is she … ?’ Rosita commenced, but did not finish the question.

  ‘Sure,’ Brady confirmed hoarsely, dropping his gaze to the three girls. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Sybil inquired, walking forward and tucking the revolver into her waistband.

  ‘Go and help Jeff to get loose,’ Brady replied, nodding to where his nephew had contrived to halt the horse. ‘And you other two’d best see to Mrs. Ludlaw. Us men’ll do all the rest.’

  About to walk away, Sybil glanced at the widow’s body. Then she stared harder at the apron that covered the wound and swung her gaze towards Brady. He was looking at the fringe of woods that topped the slope in front of the house. Doing the same, Sybil frowned. However, she made no comment. Instead, she hurried to where Jeff had tossed his right leg forward over the saddle horn and was dropping to the ground.

  ‘What happened to you?’ the red-head demanded, staring at the girl’s battle-marked features.


  ‘Sarah and I had a fight,’ Sybil piped primly, sounding as if such things were commonplace in her daily life. ‘I won.’

  ‘I’ll bet you did,’ Jeff grinned, glancing at the red-haired girl’s body. ‘Looks like she lost that one as well.’

  ‘I knew she couldn’t be trusted,’ Sybil answered. ‘I’d seen her listening at the door for almost a minute before she came in. So I.... Look!’

  Obeying the last word’s urgent advice, Jeff looked in the direction she was indicating. Four men appeared on the rim of the valley and were riding at a gallop down the trail towards the house.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ Jeff growled. ‘It’s your boss!’

  ‘So it is,’ Sybil agreed quietly. ‘What did they do with your gun, Jeff?’

  ‘Staff Brolley’s got it in his saddlebag,’ the red-head replied. ‘Did you know Barnstaple was hereabouts?’

  ‘I thought he might be around,’ the blonde answered, trying to free the rope which secured Jeff’s wrists.

  Riding through the gate at the head of his companions, Barnstaple wore the dress of a brush-country cowhand and carried an ivory-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in a fast-draw holster. Two of the men behind him wore range clothes and the third had on the attire much favored by professional gamblers. All sported low-tied revolvers and looked as if the weapons would form the major source of their respective incomes.

  ‘It seems we’ve got here too late to prevent a tragedy, Mr. Anchor,’ Barnstaple greeted, swinging from his saddle.

  ‘Just a mite,’ Brady admitted, picking up Elvira’s Colt and looking at the newcomers’ mounts. Three of them carried Winchesters in their saddle boots, but the taller of the ‘cowhands’ had a long Remington Creedmoor rifle instead of a repeater. ‘You sure turn up in some peculiar places, Mr. Barnstaple.’

  ‘The Association ordered me to carry out an independent inquiry,’ replied the distinguished-looking man. ‘So I asked for Special Investigators Tolbow,’ he indicated the gambler, ‘Hoydan,’ he pointed at the shorter ‘cowhand’, then to the owner of the Remington, ‘and Morley. Our investigations brought us here. Hello, Sybil. I see that you’ve had trouble.’