by Jerry Buck
A number of times I had seen Dusty Morgan chewing on his lower lip and blinking eyes reddened from crying. Several times he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Each of us was wrapped in his private grief, and no one took notice. Angus had not wanted to bring a boy as young as Dusty, but the lad would not be left behind. He had a schoolboy crush on Abby, and I suspected he would have dispatched her killers with less remorse than any of us.
Even Ed Crayler’s conduct had been beyond reproach, for once. He had not uttered a word of ridicule to Dusty, and he kept his peace with Chago. He proved to be a valuable man in helping me track. Nevertheless I could not suppress the feeling that like all bullies he was anxious to tangle with the desperadoes only in a one-sided fight.
I put a match to the cheroot. It was a habit I had picked up during long, lonely nights of vigil while a lawman. I smoked the strong cigar in silence, lost in my thoughts and grief.
Presently Angus said, “There’s a line shack about four, five miles from here.”
“We be there by the time the moon ees up,” Chago added.
“East of here?” I asked.
“They keep on steady they can’t miss it,” Angus said.
“I have spent many a winter night in eet,” said Chago. “A weary traveler find eet hard to pass by. Especially eef such an hombre ees burdened by the additional weight of your bullet.”
“You ever decide which one you hit?” Angus asked.
“No,” I said, snuffing out the cigar in the dirt. “But I aim to find out right soon. If it’s not the Arkie, I’ve got a bullet for him, too. His life ain’t worth a plugged nickel.”
I stood up and put my hat on. Even in the dark I knew Angus’s eyes were fixed on me.
“I want Bayliss in my gun sights,” I said angrily. “I’ll give him the same chance he gave Abby. No, I’ll do better’n that. I’ll give him an even chance, which is more’n he gave Abby. He shot her down in cold blood. I’m going to kill him, Angus. I’m going to make it real personal. And then I’m going to take care of Smoot and Montana and the tinhorn. As far as I’m concerned, they all had a hand in it, too.”
It was the first time I had expressed the terrible thoughts that had been smoldering within me since morning. I wanted revenge! I knew it wouldn’t bring Abby back. I knew it wouldn’t even make me feel better. Still, I was driven to it. I knew Angus would counsel against it. I knew Moses would, too, if he were still alive. And I knew Abby would—I broke off the thought and said more harshly than I intended, “Let’s find that line shack of yours, Angus! We got unfinished business!”
Chapter Eleven
The air was clear and cool. I was grateful for the sheepskin coat Angus had brought for me. I had left town only in my shirtsleeves.
I searched the cloudless sky and quickly located the North Star. To the west and slightly above it, the Big Dipper hung downward. I placed the time approximately at ten o’clock.
“The moon she’s coming up,” Chago said in a low voice behind me.
The moon was only a sliver on the horizon ahead of us. As it climbed into the night sky, the silver grew larger until it became a luminous pewter plate with a nick out of one side. It cast a dim glow over the land. The riders behind me were gray and shadowy.
For the last hour we had been climbing a rise. Now it gave way to country broken by shallow arroyos and an occasional stand of cottonwood trees clinging to the water’s edge. Some areas were thick with creosote bush and yucca.
Angus spurred his horse to catch up with me. We hadn’t spoken since sundown. He had spent most of the time riding at the rear. I guess we were both mulling over what I had said.
“We’re almost there,” he said as he drew beside me. “The shack’s on the other side of the next arroyo. I built it up above the flood waters, yet close enough so a man’s got fresh water at his doorstep. ”
“How far you reckon to the arroyo?”
“Hundred yards. Maybe two. Pray it’s the next arroyo, ’cause I’ve already said as much and the boy’ll think I’m losing me touch if it ain’t.”
“Too bad you’re not a betting man, Angus.”
I had thought Angus was brooding over my vow of vengeance, but if he was, he didn’t show it now. Angus was a hard man, and if he got his back up he could be as righteous as a biblical patriarch. Yet I doubted that Angus had the heart to track a man down and shoot him.
“The shack’s close,” Angus said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
We had been riding slow, and now we reined in.
“We’d better go the rest of the way by foot,” I said, stepping down from my horse.
Chago moved close behind me and said into my ear, “Señor, my nose has never lied to me. Do you not smell smoke?”
I sniffed the air. It was very faint, but I caught a whiff of it. Like the smell of a dying fire. Then a fresh waft of air brought another odor and my mouth watered involuntarily. Bacon! “Somebody’s been frying bacon,” I said.
Angus alighted from his big bay and said in a low voice, “Somebody’s in the line shack—that’s for sure. I don’t have to ask who that somebody is.”
All the riders dismounted, and Angus drew them into a tight circle so that we could discuss our tactics. We still couldn’t see the shack, even with the three-quarter moon high in the sky. There was a slight rise before the edge of the arroyo, which kept the shack from view.
“Keep your voices low and keep the horses quiet,” I said.
“If you got spurs or anything else that’s likely to jingle, take ’em off,” Angus added.
“The desperadoes are sure to have a guard posted,” I said. “I don’t want to take any chance of scaring them off. We’re going to go in nice ’n’ quiet.”
Angus said, “Most of you men know this area. I built that shack with my own two hands in ’fifty-seven. It’s just one room, a fireplace, a couple of bunks, and not enough furniture to spit at. I built it out of limestone, except the roof, so you can pepper away at it till doomsday and you ain’t gonna put a dent in it. It’s a little fortress. On the south side’s a lean-to for the horses.
“There’s a door and two windows facing the creek. That’s where she’s vulnerable. That’s where we’ll have to hit ’em. Them two’s the only windows. They got wooden shutters covering ’em, but that won’t stop a bullet. If we catch ’em in the shack from the front, there ain’t no way on God’s green earth they can get out unless they start digging.’’
“What’s the layout around the shack?’’ I asked. In all the time I had ridden for Angus, I had never been here.
Angus pointed toward the east. “The arroyo’s about a hundred yards thataway. You can’t see it from here ’cause the ground rises a bit before the bluff. There’s a little creek runs through the arroyo. I ’spect this time of year it’s probably got no more’n a foot of water in it. When the skies open up, it can be a real gullywasher. The bluff on this side is about ten, twelve feet high. It’s pretty steep, so watch yourself going down. The other side of the arroyo is pretty well eroded. It’s no climb atall. More slope than bluff. Shack’s no more’n twenty feet from the top. On the north side’s a stand of cottonwood trees. They run in a straight line from the creek to well past the shack. Planted ’em myself as a windbreak.’’
I digested the information, then said, “The way I see it we gotta hit ’em hard and we gotta hit ’em fast. If you take ’em by surprise, they’ll be confused and scared.’’
“What you got in mind, Ben?’’ Angus asked.
“I think we should split into three groups and box ’em in. We’ll throw our main effort against the front, where the door and windows are. We got sixteen men. I say half hit the front. The rest we split evenly, four and four, and cover the flanks.’’
I looked around. Everyone nodded in agreement. “Sounds good to me,’’ said one man.
Chago smiled and said, “Benito Juarez himself would approve of such a plan.”
I looked at Angus. “Aye,” he agreed. “We’ll hav
e them in an enfilade. That’s the kind of tactic they teach at Sandhurst. That’s the way Hannibal nipped the Romans at Cannae. If only we had a few of the African’s elephants.”
“Okay,” I said, “Angus and I will lead the main force against the front of the shack.” I turned to Ed Crayler. “Ed, you take three men and set up the south flank.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna get by me,” Crayler bragged. He fingered the handle of the long-barreled Remington .44 in his worn holster. Crayler was a blustering bully, and in all the time I had known him I had never seen him pick on a man unless he was dead certain he could take him or cow him down. I was taking a chance, but now was the time to see if he could back up his words with action.
“I’m counting on that,” I said. “You better stay back from the shack. That’ll keep you out of our line of fire. Be a good idea, too, if you post the men in a line from the front of the shack to the—”
“I been in tight fixes before,” Crayler interrupted.
Angus said sharply, “You’ll be in another if you don’t listen to Ben and take heed!”
Crayler, momentarily taken aback, fell silent.
I continued. “If they’ve got a guard, it’s a pretty good bet he’s going to be in the lean-to stable. Keep a close watch. The other thing you gotta look for is that they don’t make a break for their horses.”
“Where you want ’em shot, head, chest, or legs?” said Crayler. Obviously his bravado had returned. Several men laughed.
I turned to Chago. “Chago, you take the north flank. Take your horses and walk them about two hundred yards upstream. Cross over and come in behind the windbreak. Stay hidden behind the cottonwoods. I don’t want you to do any shooting. Just be ready to ride in case they somehow get away.”
Chago’s marksmanship would be handy at my side, but I needed his horsemanship more in case everything fell apart.
I prayed that it wouldn’t.
Chapter Twelve
We lay on our bellies, overlooking the rise at the edge of the arroyo. The moon was almost directly overhead. It was still unobscured, but heavy, dark clouds were building on the northern horizon. The shack lay before us across the divide, bathed in a soft, eerie glow.
“Awful quiet,” said Angus.
“No light in the shack,” I added. “Maybe they bedded down.”
“Maybe so, but if I was a betting man I’d say they got a pair of eyes keeping watch.”
The roof overhang cast a deep shadow, especially in the lean-to stable area. Where the moonlight reached the sides of the shack each individual stone was visible. If they were in there, four men could put up a hell of a fight. The stone walls were at least a foot thick. The only sign of life was an occasional spark that escaped from the chimney.
We slid back from the rise to move to a spot downstream where Angus said horses and cattle had beaten down the steep wall of the arroyo.
Suddenly, to our right, came a heavy fluttering sound. The sound grew louder as wings beat against the air to gain altitude.
“Damn!” I swore.
“Looks like we scared up a covey of quail in the grass,” said Angus.
“They heard that for sure. Thank God no one got nervous enough to fire a round.”
We slid down the crumbly, dusty side of the arroyo, breaking with our heels. The creek was not deep enough to wash over the tops of our boots.
The other side was like a ramp. We climbed just far enough up the slope so that we could rest our guns on the crest. The eight of us lined up along the edge. Close enough together so that we could concentrate our fire on the windows and doors. Far enough apart so that we didn’t present a solid target.
Angus and I peered over the top. The shack was near enough to spit at.
There was no movement. Not a sound.
The door was shut and the solid wooden shutters on the two windows were buttoned up tight.
In our nostrils were the smells of smoke, grass, the cottonwoods, our own sweat, and the pungent, grassy odor of fresh horse manure.
After looking things over, I said to Angus, “You notice anything funny about the stable?”
Angus turned his attention to the shadowed lean-to along the south side of the shack. He squinted at it for the longest time. “Aye,” he said finally. “I don’t think they got any horses in there. I sure can’t see any, and I sure can’t hear any.”
“They could have them staked out a piece for grazing.” I suggested.
“Maybe so,” he said, not fully convinced. “I hope they didn’t hear them quail and fly the coop. Them birds set up a frightful racket.” He sighed. ‘“The best laid schemes of mice and men.’ Well, it’s now or never. Are we ready? Is everyone in position yet?”
“I saw Crayler and his men creep in downstream a few minutes ago. I haven’t caught sight of Chago yet.”
“You know Chago as well as I do, Ben. You’re not going to see him, but he’s there. I think it’s time to let our friends know we’re here.”
I raised myself slightly, and at the top of my voice I shouted, “You in the house! This is a posse from San Miguel! Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up!”
I slunk back and waited.
I was answered by silence from the shack. The only sound was the rush of the wind across the rippling grass and swaying cottonwood trees. The breeze had stiffened as the storm clouds rolled in from the north.
“Give ’em another minute,” Angus said. “Maybe they’re talking it over.”
After a minute, I repeated the warning.
We waited another few minutes, but there was still no response. Suddenly a townsman to my right rose up and started to scale the bank. “Hell,” he said, “they done skedaddled.”
The shutter of one window flew open with a bang. A ball of fire blossomed in the window.
CRACK!
The townsman grunted and stopped in his tracks. His arms flew up and he appeared to be carried backward by the impact. He tumbled down the slope and lay motionless at the bottom. We had no time to see who it was or go to his aid.
Every gun among us answered at once. The noise was deafening. The smell of gunpowder was choking. Bullets splintered the shutters and door. Chips of wood flew in all directions. Tiny dust clouds puffed up where lead struck the stone. Several shots ricocheted off with a whine.
Guns flashed to the right. Ed Crayler and his men fired furiously, although there was no target but the empty stable and the solid stone wall of the shack.
We kept up a steady fusillade, quickly emptying our guns, reloading and emptying them again.
Since that first shot from the cabin, not a bullet had been fired in our direction. My first thought was that we had driven them to cover. Then I began to wonder.
“Hold your fire!” I commanded. “Hold your fire!”
Several men popped off a few more rounds. Then there was silence.
Angus and I slid back down the slope to examine the man who had been shot. The initial shock of the bullet or the tumble down the bluff had apparently knocked him out. I had thought he was dead, but he was sitting up and pressing a handkerchief to his left shoulder. I saw that it was Dayton Pryor, the town’s carpenter.
Angus knelt by the fallen man to examine the wound. I dipped a bandanna into the creek and handed it to Angus to wash away the blood.
I helped him remove Pryor’s coat. Angus ripped away the left sleeve and looked at the wound in the bright moonlight. After a moment he said, “Leastways, we won’t have to dig for a bullet. Went clean through like a whistle.”
Pryor gasped in pain as Angus dabbed at the wound with the wet cloth. He wrapped the tom sleeve over Pryor’s shoulder and under his arm for a makeshift bandage. “You’re a lucky man, Dayton,” Angus said. “If that bullet had killed you, who would build your coffin?”
Now that I knew the bank robbers hadn’t claimed another victim, my mind was back on the shack. I suspected something was amiss, and I wanted to get it settled.
Dusty stood
beside me. “What do we do now, Mr. Wheeler?”
“I think what we do now is find out who’s in that shack.”
“You can count on me,” Dusty said eagerly. “This is just like them days when y’used to marshal, I’ll bet. They ever put you in a dime novel, Mr. Wheeler? I got lots of ’em, but I ain’t never seen none ’bout you.”
Dusty frequently declared that he was seventeen. But as I examined his boyish face and slim figure in the moonlight I doubted he would reach that age before the next snowfall.
I said, “Dusty, I know I can count on you. That’s why I want you to stay here and look after Mr. Pryor and make sure that no one escapes in this direction.”
“You bet, Mr. Wheeler!” He took out his gun and examined the cylinder to see that it was loaded with caps and balls. The Remington .44, which his daddy had carried through the Civil War, was so big I wondered if he needed both hands to hold it steady. The gun had an eight-inch octagonal barrel and weighed just under three pounds.
As I turned to leave, I said, “I don’t think you’re gonna find any books about me, Dusty. I never met up with Mr. Ned Buntline.”
I pulled Angus aside. “Something don’t set right with me about that shack. I think it’s time we went in and looked for ourselves.”
“I got that same feeling,” he said. “Somebody fires one shot, then nothing. Don’t seem right—lessen we got him.”
“Spread the word down the line. I want everybody to hold his fire. I’m going into the shack. You better send somebody up to let Chago know what’s going on.”
I climbed the embankment and ran in a low crouch toward Crayler. I sang out first before making the dash. I didn’t want any nasty surprises caused by an itchy trigger finger.
When I got to Crayler, I said, “I’m going into the shack. I could use a good man to back me up.”
He grinned. “You know I’m game.”
My worry was that Crayler was always game—until it got dangerous. I weighed the possibilities. If he bolted and ran, it could cost my life. I wished Alamo or Chago were nearby.
Unless I wanted to make an issue of it, it looked like I was stuck with Crayler.