by Lyle Brandt
Gallagher knew Judge Denison by reputation, though they’d never actually met in person. What he’d learned by word of mouth convinced him that the judge would never rest in his pursuit of anyone who harmed a marshal under his command, and nothing in the military code of justice shielded any officer from prosecution for unlawful homicide. The payoff from his deal with Rafferty would not save Gallagher from dancing at the short end of a rope if anything went wrong.
So nothing must go wrong.
It was, he thought, just as simple as that.
Percy Fawcett knew he should be running for his life, but where was he to go? It was a minor miracle that he’d survived the night, and now, with fresh blood on his hands, he feared that he was running out of time. When Grady Sullivan discovered what he’d done…
The escorts Sullivan had picked to sneak him out of Stateline hadn’t said a word to Fawcett until they were nearly two miles out of town. At that point, he had asked where they were taking him and one of them—Dooley, the buggy’s driver—told him they were headed for a cabin in the Blue Stem Hills where he could lie low for a bit, while Sullivan and Rafferty planned their next moves. It sounded fair enough, but Fawcett was suspicious, noticing a kind of smirk on Dooley’s face before he glanced at Jeb, riding a brindle mare beside the carriage.
And from that alone, Fawcett decided that they meant to kill him. How better to silence him for good and leave the marshals back in Stateline searching for a link they’d never find, between Flynn Rafferty and their dead colleague?
They had never reached the cabin last night, if there was a cabin. Fawcett had grown deadly nervous, trembling on his wagon seat from fear and chill winds on the prairie, easing one hand underneath his jacket to retrieve the Colt M1889 he’d hidden there. If Dooley noticed, he’d betrayed no sign of it, but when they were a good two hours out of town, he’d reined the buggy to an unexpected stop.
“I need ta piss,” he’d said and turned as if to give Fawcett the reins, left-handed, while his right hand shifted toward his holstered pistol. Fawcett saw the move and jammed his .38 against the driver’s ribs, triggering a shot that toppled Dooley from the driver’s seat and set his shirt on fire.
Beyond the falling gunman, startled Jeb was clawing for his own pistol, cursing a blue streak as his mare shied from the gunshot’s echo. Squealing in his own right, Fawcett fired three times and somehow found his mark despite the spastic tremor rippling down his arm. Jeb tumbled from his saddle, hit the ground hard, but he wasn’t finished yet. Fawcett was forced to climb down from the buggy and approach him, putting one more shot into his head at point-blank range, before the gunman ceased his thrashing.
Dooley, thank the Lord, was dead before he hit the dirt.
Panic had overtaken Fawcett as he stood beside the bodies of his would-be executioners. He was a killer now, with nothing but his word to prove that he had fired in self-defense, if he was apprehended, charged, and held for trial. His more immediate concern was Grady Sullivan, his gunmen, and the man behind them all. Tomorrow or the next day, when the men he’d killed had not returned to Stateline, someone would come looking for them. They would find the bodies—or whatever still remained, after the buzzards and the coyotes ate their fill—and know that he had tricked them. That he had escaped.
From that point onward, he would be a hunted man. The fact that he’d been lucky once was meaningless. Rafferty’s men would ultimately find him and eliminate him, likely in the slowest way they could imagine, to repay him for the slaying of their friends.
Where could he hide?
After a cold night sleeping in the wagon, on the open plains, Fawcett awoke to hunger and the knowledge that he likely couldn’t find his way to any other town without a guide. The only place that he could locate for a certainty was Stateline, which meant going to his certain death.
Unless…
A plan took shape in Fawcett’s fevered mind, and awkwardly, he turned the buggy southward.
Warren Jain was nervous as he stepped into the Sunflower Saloon. He’d let the deputies bamboozle him, intimidate him into saying things he shouldn’t have, and now he had to make a clean breast of it. Throw himself upon the big man’s mercy while he still had time, before the lawmen came around with questions, maybe mentioning his name.
Surprised as always by the group of breakfast-hour drinkers in the saloon, Jain held himself erect as he approached the bar, hoping the slender thug who doubled as the joint’s bartender and his master’s gatekeeper wouldn’t observe that he was trembling.
“Mornin’, Mayor,” the barkeep said.
“I need to see him,” Jain announced.
“In his office. Don’t forget to knock.”
In other circumstances, Jain imagined that he might have lanced the barkeep with a glare, or maybe that was wishful thinking. As it was, he bobbed a nod and moved past two determined drinkers caked in trail dust, wondering why alcohol took precedence over a nice hot bath. Reaching the PRIVATE door, he knocked, an almost timid sound. Ten or fifteen seconds passed and he was about to try again, when he heard “Come!”
Jain entered, closed the door behind him, and stood facing Rafferty across the big man’s desk. The Sunflower’s proprietor was counting cash—his favorite pastime, as far as Jain could tell—but paused to flash a toothy smile.
“Good morning, Mayor. What can I do for you?”
“Well, um, I thought you ought to know,” Jain said, then felt the flow of words dry up.
“Know what, pray tell?”
“I ran into those marshals, over at the Borderline Café.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Trying to find out what they’d learned so far about…you know.”
“Do I?”
“Thing is, they started asking questions about Stateline Storage.”
“Ah.”
“They squeezed me pretty hard. I may have let it slip who owns the place.”
“May have?”
“Well, did.”
“That’s not exactly what I’d call discreet,” said Rafferty.
“No, sir. And I apologize for that. But they were going after deeds and records anyway.”
“And you just thought you’d make it easy for them. Being neighborly and all.”
Jain bit his tongue to keep from saying anything that might rebound against him, make things worse than they already were. He stuffed his trembling hands into his trouser pockets, then removed them, worried that the pose might seem belligerent.
Rafferty left him sweating for another moment, then told Jain, “It just so happens that I know about their interest in the warehouse. They were seen snooping around the place last night.”
“So, then…I didn’t ruin anything?” asked Jain.
Rafferty frowned at him and said, “It’s true I would’ve liked to keep the ownership a secret from them for at least a little while. But I’ll forgive you this time, knowing what a worrier you are.”
“I never meant to—”
“Let it go now, Warren, will you? And take extra care to keep your lip buttoned around those fellows in the future, while they’re here.”
“I will. Yes, sir.”
“You still enjoy your job, I take it?”
“Absolutely. Yes.”
“And want to keep it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, be circumspect. Don’t volunteer a goddamned thing from here on out. You understand?”
“I do.”
“And if they ask you about Percy Fawcett—”
“Fawcett? What about him?”
“Anything about him,” Rafferty continued. “You just say he had to go and deal with family business back home.”
“Where’s home?” Jain asked.
“Somewhere back East. That’s all you know, because he never shared the details.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Just stick to that,” said Rafferty, “and I suspect you’ll be all right.”
The Rocking R, Slade learned from St
ateline’s barber, was located six or seven miles northwest of Stateline, covering twelve hundred acres more or less, and most of it in corn. That ought to keep a good-sized still in business, but the supposition wasn’t evidence. So far, Slade knew Flynn Rafferty was storing untaxed whiskey in his warehouse, but he couldn’t use the evidence of his own eyes in court. And it was still a leap from stashing liquor to distilling it. There was a chance, however slim, that Rafferty was just a middleman.
But either way, regardless of his status in the operation, he was still a suspect in Bill Tanner’s death. Slade now supposed that Tanner must have followed the same leads as he and Naylor had, then wired his vague report back to Judge Dennison and thereby sealed his fate.
They checked the Western Union office on their way down to the livery, but found it closed, no sign of the telegrapher. “Look for him when we get back, then,” Naylor suggested, and they passed on to the stable for their animals.
Passing down Border Boulevard, they got the same looks they’d received on Friday riding into town. A few townsfolk seemed curious, but most took pains to keep their faces blank, some seeking refuge from eye contact with a sudden interest in the windows of whatever shop was handy.
“Not exactly what I’d call a warm town,” Naylor said. “You think they’re in on it?”
“The ’shine? I doubt it,” Slade replied. “Least not directly. Sharing profits with a whole town makes no sense. Whether they know about it is another question.”
“Or about Bill Tanner.”
“That’s a harder thing to live with,” Slade suggested, “but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
“I hate to think about a whole town helping killers,” Naylor said.
“Fear might be part of it.”
“Still no excuse. A town this size, how many people would it take to scare them?”
“All depends,” Slade said.
“On what?”
“How much they stand to lose by speaking out.”
“I guess. You need to have some self-respect, though. Am I right?”
“No telling what they went through, coming out here,” Slade replied. “Or what they’ve sacrificed to stay.”
“Maybe. But anyone that I can prove is covering for Tanner’s killers, I intend to take them in.”
“Let’s find the killers first and deal with them,” Slade said. “The rest may take care of itself.”
“You don’t shy from a fight, the way I hear it,” Naylor said.
“Not so far.”
“Then you’re with me if we need to charge a mess of people with obstructing justice?”
“If it comes to that,” Slade said. “And if it fits the facts.”
“About this Rocking R,” said Naylor. “What is it you hope to find besides a lot of corn?”
“A cooker maybe,” Slade replied. “Something that we can use, connecting Rafferty to that stockpile of whiskey.”
“And to Tanner.”
“First and foremost on my mind,” Slade said.
“He’ll likely have some guns around the place.”
“I’d say it’s more than likely.”
“And we’re trespassin’ again,” Naylor reminded him.
“Having a look around,” Slade said. “Going to see the man in charge.”
“Who’s back in town right now.”
“Nobody told me that. The only thing I’ve heard this morning,” Slade replied, “is that he’s got a spread outside of Stateline. Where else would we go to find a fellow, but at home?”
“You think the judge will buy that?”
“Maybe wrapped up with a ribbon on it,” Slade suggested. “If we find a nice, big still.”
11
A decent wagon road led north from Stateline over flat, clear land, aimed more or less toward Garnett, Kansas City, and the border with Missouri. Naylor and Slade weren’t traveling that far, however. When they reached a Y fork in the road, about four miles from town, they veered off to the west and slowed their pace. Another half mile on, they stopped and Slade took out his spyglass, peering farther down the track. He saw the kind of gate some ranchers liked to put up at the entrance to their property, even without a fence or wall attached to it. Tall timbers with a crossbar at the top, and standing proud atop that bar, a rocking R.
“That’s it,” he said. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Naylor replied.
They had talked about the best approach, deciding they should play a stealthy hand. Approach Rafferty’s spread as unobtrusively as possible and have a look around. If they were intercepted on the way, it was a simple matter to explain that they’d come out to see the boss and might have wandered off the beaten track by accident. It might be thin, and Naylor had expressed concern over the possibility they’d both be shot for trespassing, but the alternative—riding direct to Rafferty’s front door—promised to yield nothing.
Hedging his bets, Slade had prepared his two long guns for rapid action, each one with a live round in its chamber and the hammers down, requiring only pressure from his thumb to cock them. Any challenge from a distance, he could answer with his rifle. Closer in, he had the shotgun and his Colt.
Assuming that the first shots didn’t take him down.
They turned off-road and passed the gate, two hundred yards northward. Slade could track the road from that distance, ride parallel and watch for any traffic heading back toward Stateline, hopefully in time to keep from being spotted. It was risky here, with so much open land. The nearest halfway decent cover Slade could see lay north and farther west, a wooded rise at least three-quarters of a mile away.
Then, there was corn.
A sea of it, it seemed, stretching away to the horizon, leafy stalks approaching seven feet in height, marching in rows that stood about three feet apart. Slade paused with Naylor at the edge of it, imagining how early pioneers had felt upon encountering a trackless forest, but the maze before them was man-made.
“Seems like the rows run more or less in the direction of the road,” Naylor observed.
“Let’s hope so,” Slade replied.
“We doing it?”
Slade nodded, said, “We’re doing it,” and nudged his roan into the rustling vastness of the field.
They followed two parallel rows, green stalks with good-sized tasseled ears of corn brushing against their legs and horses’ flanks. The field smelled dusty, making Slade’s nose twitch. He tried to watch the road, past Naylor riding to his right, imagining what they might look like to a passerby, their disembodied heads bobbing along above the stalks. The very opposite of headless horsemen, something that a drunk might see and blather to his friends about.
Or something a sniper might decide to fire at for the hell of it.
And if they met somebody coming through the corn on foot? What then?
See what he does, Slade thought, and go from there.
A long, slow hour later he picked out a smudge of wood smoke rising from what had to be a chimney, then the roofline of a house. Naylor had seen it, too, glancing at Slade across the stalks that separated them, reining his Appaloosa to an even slower walk. Before they reached the last fringe of the cornfield, Slade could see a barn and other outbuildings arrayed to either side of Flynn Rafferty’s home.
“I’m walking in from here,” he said, keeping his voice low-pitched despite their distance from the buildings and the muffling effect of all that corn.
“Sounds good,” Naylor replied. Not quite a whisper.
They dismounted, led their horses by the reins, and tied them loosely to a pair of corn stalks fifty feet or so inside the field, before they reached clear ground. From there, the lawmen walked on, hats removed and shoulders hunched to keep from letting anybody in the barnyard spot them. It was shady in among the rows, which also helped.
“Now what?” asked Naylor when they’d found a vantage point.
“Now,” Slade replied, “we wait and see what we can see.”
• • •
> Percy Fawcett entered Stateline from the north, on foot, avoiding Border Boulevard. He’d stopped the buggy two miles out from town, released its horse to run at liberty, and walked the final distance with his portmanteau, leaving the trunk behind. It would, he thought, present a mystery for Sullivan and Rafferty to solve. And if his luck held, it might buy Fawcett himself some breathing room.
For what?
First thing, a hasty meal, something to drink, before a washup and a change of clothes. When all of that was done, he planned to wait for nightfall, then sneak out and find the U.S. marshals who’d been sent to follow up the last one’s murder. In the meantime, he would keep his door locked and his pistol handy, making no unnecessary noise to let the neighbors know he was at home.
If Grady Sullivan came looking for him…well, Fawcett would deal with that threat if and when it happened. He’d become a killer overnight, relieved and sickened in approximately equal measure by the double slaying, and he thought he’d have no trouble shooting Sullivan or anyone whom Rafferty dispatched to find him.
Not unless they saw him first.
But Fawcett hoped that wouldn’t happen. First, he thought, Rafferty’s men would go off northward, looking for the pair who hadn’t made it home last night. Whether they found the buggy first or missed it altogether, riding on until a flock of buzzards led them to the bodies, that would take some time. They’d likely search for Fawcett then, unwilling to believe he’d turn around and run back toward the lion’s den in Stateline. Every hour wasted brought him closer to the night, when he could move about more safely, seeking help.
What could the marshals do for him?
They already suspected his involvement in the slaying of their friend. He’d be confessing to complicity once he admitted showing Sullivan the other lawman’s telegram, which might mean prison time, but that still beat the death sentence imposed on him by Rafferty. If he agreed to testify in court, they would be duty bound to keep him safe. And if that meant a cell in Enid while he waited for the trial, so be it.