Justice at Red River

by John Glasby

Slim’s eyelids crept nearer, accentuating his shrewd expression. ‘Who was he, Frank?’ he inquired softly.

  The answer was a long time in coming, so long that Slim began to think he would never get a reply. Then Frank said huskily: ‘He was my brother, Slim.’

  The older man stolidly accepted this information. He nodded his head. ‘I can understand your feelings, but it’s no good runnin’ away. There are times when a man reaches the crossroads and has to take one turnin’ or the other. I don’t reckon it’ll do any good for me to tell you I figure you did the only thing you could.’

  ‘You think I haven’t tried to tell myself that all this time?’ Condor’s voice still had the hard edge to it. ‘What made him go that way and me go mine? He knew evil and I had sworn to fight it.’

  ‘Life’s a brutal thing,’ Slim told him soberly. ‘Full of torment for all of us. You’ve thought about this long enough. It’s time to put it out of your mind for good. You can’t go on carryin’ this burden with you.’ He jerked a thumb towards the door of the shack. ‘I’ve got coffee on the stove, Frank. Come inside.’

  Condor followed the other into the shack. There was a pot of coffee on the back edge of the iron range. Slim lifted a couple of cups down from the hooks, poured some out and pointed to the condensed milk and sugar. He continued to watch the other, puzzled and a little uncertain. ‘I wish I’d known what was ridin’ you all this time. Frank.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have helped, believe me.’

  ‘Mebbe not’ The other gulped his coffee. ‘But with this trouble beatin’ up all the time, it might have made you change your mind about a few things. Most of the folk around here are good, honest men. They don’t have much truck with gunhawks like those ridin’ for Foran. All they ask is to live and let live. Now Foran is threatenin’ their very existence. If they don’t fight, they’ll all go under. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘Sure, I can see it. I’ve seen it one time too many for my likin’. That’s why I don’t want any more of it.’

  Slim’s face was grim. ‘You can’t run away from it this time, no matter how hard you try. You’re part of this town whether you like it or not. You think that Witney Foran is goin’ to leave you alone, just because you walk around without any guns? He’s not that type. Just because a man isn’t armed, it won’t stop him havin’ him gunned down if it suits his purpose.’

  ‘Meanin’ what, Slim?’

  ‘Just this. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got a reputation as a fast gun. Foran knows that, so does Frisco. And there’s been talk of more gunhawks ridin’ in to join Foran. Sooner or later, one of these hombres is goin’ to get it into his head that he’ll be a real big man if he guns down Frank Condor, Texas Marshal.’

  ‘And you think I ought not to tempt ’em?’

  ‘I think if you wore your guns you might make ’em think twice about it.’

  ‘Like I told Judge Fentry last night, I’ll bear that in mind, Slim. He wanted me to lead the ranchers against Foran.’ He finished the coffee, moved across the room doorward. Lifting the latch, he hesitated for only a second, then passed out of the shack.

  *

  By the time the sun was lifting towards its zenith, Frank Condor was approaching the rising rimrocks of the western plateau that bordered the Badlands on the edge of the Double Circle spread. After riding out of Benton, he had pushed his mount swiftly, hurrying along the final ridge of the steep drop-off. Reaching the rim, he paused, seeking the trail that led directly down towards the dense jack pine and manzanita. From this vantage point, he was able to look out over the vast stretch of country that lay in a great rolling plain below him. On either side of him, shimmering in the noon heat, there were razor-backed slopes that dropped away precipitously, where one miss-step on the part of horse or rider would mean instant and certain death.

  Although his talk with Slim was urgent enough to make him restless and uneasy, it had not been enough to make him able to rid his mind of doubt. Far back in Freemount, after he had killed his brother, he had felt haste. A deep and urgent haste to get away from that town with all of its memories, to ride out on to a trail, any trail, and keep on riding, in an attempt to get so far away that he would be able to forget what he had done, would be able to sleep easy at night and wake to a new day without a care in the world. But so far, that had proved impossible. His past was for ever rising up and haunting him, riding him, driving him deeper and deeper into a morass from which there was no escape.

  Because of this, he had been forced to sit by and watch the dark shadow of defeat and ruin settle over Benton and the people who lived there. It had not been easy to stand by and watch it happen, to know that he might have been able to stop it. Yet always, that memory had been strong enough to hold him back. Even now, he doubted his ability to go back to the old ways of violence, to living by the gun, even if it meant upholding the law in this town.

  Touching spurs to the horse’s flanks, he set it on the downward path which wound in and out through great boulders, now scarcely able to see his mount’s head out in front of him, the slope was so steep. But the bay was surefooted and he felt little concern about getting down safely. Half an hour later, he reached the lower ground where the trees grew thick about him. Here, he was out of sight of the main valley trail and he had progressed for almost half a mile before he heard the unmistakable tattoo of another rider close by. Reining up sharply, he eased the bay into the thick undergrowth and waited, listening to the other horse coming on. There was something about that sound which warned him instinctively of trouble. Whoever the rider was, he was pushing his mount hard at a punishing pace.

  The drumming of hoofbeats drew level with him, still some distance away, so that he was unable to make out the rider, then began to draw away once more. Gigging his mount forward, he came out of the trees just in time to catch a glimpse of the rider. He felt a distinct shock of surprise when he saw that it was Atalanta Carson. For a moment, he stared after her, then swung in the saddle, and looked in the opposite direction. From where he was, he now had an unbroken view of the entire sweep of the wide valley and his eyes drew down into slits as he saw, on a far ridge, the small cloud of dust, no bigger than a man’s hand, which betokened the presence of other riders, heading quickly in his direction.

  So that was it. He could not make out the identity of those other riders, but he had little doubt they were some of Witney Foran’s men. Without waiting, he spurred his bay down on to the wide trail and headed after the girl. By now, she was more than a mile ahead of him, riding fast, but it was soon evident that her mount was tiring rapidly. Clearly she knew that she was being closely pursued and it must have also been obvious to her that she had little chance of reaching her own spread before those men behind caught up with her. Savagely, he touched rowels to his horse’s flanks, got some response from it as the bay gamely increased its speed. Slowly, the distance between the girl and himself narrowed but a quick glance over his shoulder showed him that the tightly-knit bunch of men were also gaining fast.

  He had got to within a couple of hundred yards of the girl before she became aware of his presence. She must have caught the beat of his mount’s hoofs above that of her own, for she turned her head quickly, caught a swift glimpse of him, then kicked desperately at her horse’s flanks, forcing her deadbeat mount to expend the last of its rapidly failing energy in one wild dash, evidently believing him to be one of her pursuers.

  Ahead of the girl was a narrow fringe of trees towards which she suddenly swung her mount. As she did so, he saw her make a grab for the rifle in the scabbard beside her. Whether it was this unwise move, or an unsuspected hole which threw the horse, he did not know; but the next second, her mount went down on to its forelegs, throwing her from the saddle. She fell heavily and Frank slid apprehensively from the saddle and ran towards her, afraid that the blow had stunned her, had possibly caused her far worse injury. But as he came up to her, she made a grab for the rifle which had fallen beside her, swung it and tried to line up
the barrel on his chest as he bent over her. There was both fear and fury showing on her face.

  Grasping the barrel, he slowly forced the rifle aside, twisting it from her grasp. She sank back on to the ground, heavily. Then her eyes widened a little as she recognized who it was.

  ‘Frank! Oh God, I nearly shot you.’

  He grinned at the look of discomfiture on her features. ‘Forget it, Atalanta. Guess it tells me you aren’t too badly hurt.’

  ‘Just shook up. I think.’ She eased herself to her knees, then threw a swift look back along the trail. ‘Foran’s men!’ she said in a hoarse whisper. There was a faint tremor in her voice. ‘They jumped me on the edge of the spread. Frisco is with them. He —’

  ‘No time for explanations now, Atalanta. We’ve got to figure a way out of here.’

  ‘My horse is finished.’ She pointed. ‘And yours doesn’t look as though it could carry both of us. Those killers can’t be more than a mile away now. They’d overhaul us before we could travel another mile.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to stand them off here.’ He helped her to her feet, hustled her into the brush. ‘You got any shells for this rifle?’

  ‘In the saddle-bags.’ She nodded towards the fallen horse. Ducking low, Frank ran to the horse, grabbed the bags and raced back. Already, the sounds of the approaching horses could be heard quite clearly. Crouching down in the thick brush, he opened the saddle-bags and took out the spare shells, laying them close beside him.

  ‘Maybe they’ll ride on by,’ suggested the girl in a whisper. He shook his head emphatically.

  ‘They’ll spot that horse of yours even if he doesn’t make a sound and give us away.’ He tightened his lips into a thin, hard tine as he lifted the rifle, squinting along the sights. ‘Besides, it’s too late now. They’re here.’

  He saw the bunch of men ride around a tall knoll, then pause as Frisco, riding in the lead, suddenly spotted the injured horse and held up his hand. He could almost see the grin on the lean gunhawk’s face as the other pushed his horse forward a little way.

  ‘Better come on out of there, Atalanta,’ Frisco called loudly. ‘Or do you want me to have to come in and get you?’

  ‘Come ahead if you like, Frisco,’ Frank called sharply. ‘But I’ll put a bullet between your eyes if you do.’

  The effect of his voice was instantaneous. Frisco leapt from his saddle and crouched down beside his horse, the rest of the Double Circle men doing likewise. There was a long pause, then Frisco’s voice came back. ‘That you, Condor?’

  ‘That’s right. Now saddle up and ride on out of here.’

  Frisco’s harsh, sneering laugh cut through the taut stillness. ‘Hear that, boys. That tinhorn marshal wants us to leave.’ He shouted scornfully. ‘I’ve been hearing all about you, Condor — what a big man you are, and fast with a gun. I ain’t seen you wearin’ shootin’ irons yet. Could be that all those stories were nothin’ but a lot of hot air. You’re just plain yeller, Condor.’

  ‘Why don’t you make your play and find out?’ Raising himself a little on one elbow, Frank watched the scene carefully, ready for Frisco’s first move. He knew the gunslinger was not the sort of man to waste time with talk, particularly since he must already know that there were only the two of them there, himself and the girl. That fact alone, must make Frisco pretty brave. Besides, he figured, Frisco would have been doing a lot of talking in the past and he now had to back that talk up with play in front of his own men.

  The other made his move a few seconds later. A volley of shots crashed into the brush, tearing leaves and twigs down on to their heads. Under cover of the fire, Frisco jumped for the shelter of the nearby rocks, hurling himself out of sight among them, loosing off a couple of shots as he did so. Frank fired one shot after him, saw it chew dust off the rock behind which Frisco crouched. The rest of the Double Circle crew scattered, racing for cover.

  Frank eased himself forward a little way and tensed. More shots erupted from among the rocks, but the dense brush shielded the girl and himself from view and he guessed the riders were aiming blind, hoping that if they pumped in sufficient shots, they were bound to hit something. Then Frisco yelled something in a high voice. The firing stopped. Pressing himself tightly against the ground, ignoring the sharp thorns which raked his exposed flesh, Frank wriggled towards the edge of the brush. There was not much sound now but that which filtered through to him was ominous. The slight noises were stealthy. The men were on foot and edging in from all sides, moving into the thicket from the sides and rear, ready for the kill.

  Lying quite still now, Frank found that he was the focus of attention of the tiny brown heel-flies which were swarming around the tangled brush, a buzzing cloud of them at his face, alighting hungrily on the mass of scratches caused by the chapparal. He motioned the girl to remain hidden in the brush, wriggled further to one side, squinting into the harsh sunglare, striving to make out any movement among the rocks and distant bushes. Now the rifle was a distinct disadvantage. As a long range weapon it was ideal, but with the Double Circle men so close, a Colt would have been a far better weapon. Backing out a little way into the open he edged along a narrow game trail, then froze as he made out the swish of branches being eased aside by a moving body. The sound was dangerously close, a little to his left. Holding his breath, moving his gaze swiftly from side to side, he picked out the snap of a twig, muted a little by the cushion of decayed leaves underfoot.

  Then there came other sounds on his right, the stealthy sounds of men working to a close pattern to hem him in. There was no doubt that Frisco was feeling pretty confident he had the girl and himself trapped, and not without good reason. Wiping the sweat and buzzing flies from his face, eyes smarting and stinging where they had bitten into his flesh, he paused, made out the slight movement ahead of him along the game trail. Propping himself up on one elbow, he levelled the rifle. One of the men was moving out of the brush towards the trail. A second later, the man stepped into view, caught sight of him in the same instant and swung up his Colt. The rifle hammered in Frank’s grasp, spinning the man round. The lash of return fire came a split second later, but the other was already dead on his feet and the impact of lead in his body sent the slug whining off the rocks a couple of feet from Frank’s head.

  Another gun roared from behind, the slug head-high. Only the fact that he was crouched down saved Frank at that moment. He slammed a bullet in the direction of the hidden marksman, heard a faint yelp of pain as the lead found its mark.

  A man’s voice yelled: ‘He’s over here, Frisco. We’ve got him pinned down.’

  A murderous pattern of bullets poured into the narrow trail where Frank had dropped as low as the chapparal would allow. All about him, the undergrowth was alive with the crashing of men, the need for stalking their quarry was gone now that his whereabouts had been pinpointed. He half-rose to his feet, made a blind run into a thicket, hoping to lead the men away from the girl. He had no idea why they wanted her so badly, but guessed it could not mean any good for her. Seconds later, he emerged into a small clearing, blundered forward a couple of paces, then stopped in his tracks as Frisco moved out from behind one of the trees, his gun levelled on Frank’s chest.

  ‘Now just hold it right there, Condor,’ grinned the other viciously. ‘I don’t know why you had to horn in where you wasn’t wanted, but seein’ that you are here, I figure we’ll just have to finish you off. Nobody’ll find your body until the buzzards have picked it over.’

  Frank fingered the useless rifle helplessly, wondering if he might just have the chance to lift it and squeeze off one shot. Then he saw the other’s finger tighten on the trigger of the Colt, saw the knuckles whiten, and knew he didn’t even have that chance.

  A gun roared and he flinched instinctively, tightening the muscles of his stomach automatically, waiting for the leaden slam of the bullet striking in through flesh and bone. Through blurred vision, he saw Frisco spin, clutching at his right arm where blood was beginning to soak t
hrough the cloth of his shirt, the Colt dropping from nerveless fingers. For a moment, the killer stood motionless, then he whirled and plunged into the brush. Frank lifted the rifle, loosed off a single shot after the fleeing man, knew from the hurried sounds of retreat that the slug had missed its mark. Then he turned swiftly, saw Atalanta move out of the thicket behind him. There was a smoking Derringer in her hand. Thrusting it into her belt, she ran across to him.

  ‘Are you all right, Frank?’ she asked breathlessly.

  He nodded. ‘Just scratched by the thorns.’ he replied. He cast about him anxiously, listening for the sounds of the other men converging on the small clearing. Then, grasping the girl’s hand, he hustled her into the trees.

  ‘Hurry! We may be able to reach their horses before they catch up with us. If we can grab a couple for ourselves and spook the rest of them, we may get out of this mess with whole skins.’

  He rubbed at the maddening flies as he ran, peered through stinging eyes at the game trail which wound away in front of them. There was more rustling in the brush to their left and it decided their direction. Motioning the girl off the trail, they ran through dense brush where whiplike branches slapped at their faces, slammed the backs of their hands and arms as they held them up to their heads in an attempt to ward off the vicious blows. Bullets were chasing them all the way and in the intervals between the gunblasts, he heard the yells of the men as they closed in. Another open patch with a wider trail leading off to their right. His face felt a tight mask of drying blood and a thousand fly stings. Beside him, the girl still ran, her breath coming in hard, rasping gasps through trembling lips, but she made no complaint at the punishing pace.

  Their view through the branches and leaves was restricted and they were forced to rely more on sound than sight to estimate the position of the Double Circle riders and how many were still on their trail. Then, abruptly, the tangled undergrowth thinned. They were out in the open with the sunlight blinding in their eyes, the glare bouncing off the hard rocks, the heat striking at their bodies with an almost physical force where it was refracted off the rock in dizzying waves.