by Ralph Cotton
“Who, Chicago?” said Winston Milo, also turning and looking back. No sooner had the two looked around than Chicago and Russell walked out of the tent fly into the changing morning light.
“Here he comes now,” said Candles. He stopped and looked all around, waiting for Russell and Chicago to catch up to him. On either side of the street stood townsfolk, each staring wide-eyed at the gunmen, drunk and surly, filing past them.
“You people go on about your business,” Chicago called. “Everything is under control here.”
“Are you a lawman?” an elderly bearded man called out from a boardwalk.
“No, I’m no damn lawman,” Chicago shouted, yanking his Colt from his waist sash and waving it for all to see. “But you can bet your ass I am the law while I’m here!”
The townsfolk backed a step but continued to stare, not so much in fear as in contempt. A few feet away an old Mexican, hat in hand, gathered what appeared to have once been his rooster. He held a pale yellow rooster’s foot in one hand, a limp piece of the rooster’s feathered back in his other.
“It’ll be a long time before that crowing sumbitch bothers anybody else,” Thatcher said proudly, walking on, shotgun in hand.
“Crazy sumbitch, shoots a chicken,” said Winston Milo, walking at the head of the gunmen along the empty street.
Farther back along the street, only half hearing Milo, Thatcher called out, “What’d he say to me?”
“He called you a crazy sumbitch,” Oak chuckled, his rifle swinging loosely in his hand.
Without looking back, Milo called out to Thatcher in a spirited tone, “If you don’t like being called a sumbitch, don’t act like one—”
Milo’s words stopped abruptly as a bullet ripped through his chest and splattered warm blood all over Oak’s face behind him. Following the bullet came the sound of its explosion catching up to it from far up on the hillside south of town. Looking ahead and seeing Milo fly backward, almost into Oak’s arms, Russell shouted, “Jesus, Thatcher, he was only joking.”
“Damn!” Thatcher looked bewildered. “I didn’t shoot him—”
“Posse!” shouted Candles, cutting him off, seeing a thin rise of rifle smoke on the distant hillside.
“Take cover!” shouted Chicago, already running to the shelter of a low, thick adobe wall where a small herd of goats scattered to make way for him. As he leaped to the ground, a chunk of dried adobe was gouged from the top of the wall, followed by another explosion from the hillside.
“Somebody get the horses before they start shooting them!” Candles shouted from behind the cover of a horseless buckboard sitting out in front of a mercantile store.
“What about breakfast?” Russell shouted from a few yards away, pressed against the wall of a small plank shack.
Breakfast . . . ? Chicago stared at him in disbelief from a few yards away, his Walker Colt out, in hand, even though it was useless from such a distance.
“To hell with breakfast,” shouted Candles. “Get the damn horses!”
From the cover of the adobe wall, Chicago stared with a slight smile and a look of scrutiny on his face, listening to Candles shout orders like some cavalry officer.
“I’ll get them!” shouted Oak. He leaped to his feet and started across the dirt street at a straight, fast run. But his straight run turned into a sidelong stagger as a bullet ripped through his left upper arm, streaked across his chest and thumped into a boardwalk plank fifteen feet away. Again the following explosion resounded from a spot on the hillside where gray smoke had gathered and begun to billow on the morning air.
Chicago chuckled to himself, seeing Candles rise, run out to Oak, help the wounded man take cover, then run on to the horses and hurriedly gather their reins. Turning to where Russell stood pressed against the wall, Chicago said in a guarded tone, “See that, Bart?” He wagged his Walker Colt toward Bobby Candles and grinned. “It’s always good to see a leader want to get himself involved.”
Across the street, Candles fanned the last of the horses into a small adobe through a doorway he kicked open and off its leather hinges. As the horses ran inside in a flurry of dust and hooves, the two elderly inhabitants of the adobe fled out the rear door and disappeared down a narrow alleyway.
While the horses settled, Candles ran back to the front door, rifle in hand, and shouted out to Chicago and the others, “Over here! The horses are safe.”
“Obliged,” Chicago called out, keeping his voice serious, but giving Russell a grin. “There’s only one man up there, Bobby. I’ve been watching.”
“All right,” said Candles. “We’re going to get ready to make a move.” He levered a round into his rifle chamber and stared up along the hillside. “One man is not going to hold up our show.”
“Damn right he’s not,” Chicago said, liking the way things were going so far. Whoever was up there had killed one of Candles’ riflemen, maybe two, he thought, looking over to where Oak lay behind a pile of wooden crates beside a freight office. It served him right, the son of a bitch, bringing a posse up here . . . , Chicago said to himself. He called out to Candles, “You and Garr ride up around him and flush him down to us. We’ll be waiting to kill him at the bottom of the trail.”
Candles thought about that, realizing that Chicago was pushing the hardest part of the job onto him and his last standing rifleman.
From ten yards away Delbert Garr ran in through the open door and threw himself up against the thick adobe wall. “It looked to me like Big Chicago was laughing about Milo and Oak getting shot.”
“Oh?” said Candles, gritting his teeth. “Like he thinks it was funny, us out here scrambling with the horses while he’s holed up over there safe and sound?”
“It sure looked that way to me,” said Garr.
“Can you believe that bastard?” Candles growled under his breath. “He wants us to go after whoever that is shooting at us?”
“Yeah, I can believe it,” Garr said, giving him a look. “I’ll get our horses.”
“Get one for Oak,” said Candles. “If he’s still alive, he’s going with us.” He looked up along the high ridges and scanned back and forth for any sign of the rifleman. “If it’s that damn deputy, I’m going to cut his heart out. . . .”
Beside a large embedded boulder high up on the rocky hillside, Deputy Eddie Lane levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber, raised it to his shoulder and looked down its raised sights onto the wide dirt street running the length of Rimrock. “There’s two for you, Sheriff,” he said quietly, speaking to the fallen sheriff, his idol, his mentor, as if the man were there beside him.
Good shooting, Deputy . . . , he imagined Sheriff Morgan saying in reply. He pictured Lewis Morgan there somewhere nearby, although he couldn’t point out exactly where, he thought, as his eyes moved warily from one spot to the next on the distant street below. Clearing the street . . . , Sheriff Morgan would have called it.
Lane lowered the rifle after seeing that no one was going to step into his gun sights. Now that he’d seen Candles—the man who had called himself John Newton—rush over and get all their horses out of sight, he expected the outlaw’s next move would be to get out of town.
That’s right—they’ll ride out now . . . , he could imagine the old sheriff saying, but in which direction . . . ?
He considered it. By now they’d have realized from his rifle smoke that there was only one man up here. They wouldn’t run from one man, he decided. Not these murdering thieves. If there was only one man dogging them, their first move would be to ride up here and kill him, if they could get to him without putting themselves in his line of fire.
What do you think, Deputy . . . ? He pictured the sheriff watching him, checking out his decisions, making sure he knew that his next move would be the right one. There’s no second guesses. There’s only getting it right. . . .
Okay. He knew what to do, he thought, stilling the voices inside himself. He looked at the trail leading up in a wide circle from the town below. Then he looked above him
, knowing that the trail would circle around up there through a maze of rock, leaving him in a blind spot while they took higher ground above him. Uh-uh, he wouldn’t let that happen, he told himself.
He backed away, stood up in a crouch and ran over to where he’d left his big smoke-colored barb hitched to a rock spur. “Time to go,” he said aloud, unhitching the restless animal. Swinging up into the saddle, rifle in hand, he batted his heels to the horse’s sides and sent it bolting off along the rocky trail.
Chapter 10
Bobby Candles, Delbert Garr and the wounded Dayton Oak had ridden halfway up the high switchback trail when a bullet thumped into the dirt only inches from Candles’ horse’s hooves. The big claybank dun reared, twisted, whinnied and tried to bolt away. But Candles got the animal in check quickly. When the spooked horse’s hooves touched the ground, Candles sent the animal racing off the trail. Garr and Oak raced along beside him.
In the cover of rock and scrub juniper, the three leaped down from their saddles. They snatched their rifles, took cover and began firing repeatedly up along the high ridgeline where the sound of the rifle shot had come from. Dayton Oak could only fire one-handed, as his wounded upper left arm was unable to give him assistance in either holding or firing his Winchester.
After the three fired a heavy barrage up along the ridgeline, Candles called out, “Hold your damn fire! Do you see him up there?”
“I don’t see a damn thing up there,” Oak said, his face pained, his wounded arm hanging limp at his side. The three continued to search the ridge and hillsides until Carr shouted, “There he goes, Bobby! I see him!” He pointed up toward the trail above them.
Above them, Eddie Lane saw that he’d played out his position. His foot had slipped on the rocky ground and caused him to miss his shot. It was time to move on again. There would be plenty of hiding places along the trail ahead. He’d have to be patient and bide his time, until he killed every one of them.
“It’s that damn deputy,” said Candles, catching a glimpse of the deputy’s tan oversized riding duster and tall Montana-crowned hat as Lane hurried out of sight, his rifle in his hand.
The three gunmen saw that firing now would only be wasting bullets. They stared intently for a moment, and then Garr asked confidently, “Do you want me to ride up and nail him?”
Candles just looked at him for a moment. “No, Delbert. He’ll be long gone by the time you can ride up there. These high switchback trails are all to his advantage. He was only going for one of us just then, the one riding in front. He knew he’d be out of sight before we could fire back at him. Lucky for me, something caused him to miss.” He looked all around the rocky terrain. “We’re wasting our time up here now. He’s going to get to the flats ahead of us and pick another spot to hit us from. He’s taking his time.”
“You have to give him some credit for having patience,” Garr said quietly, also surveying the high ridge-lines.
“Patience, hell,” said Candles. “This boy is just too scared to fight us any other way.”
“I don’t think he’s scared,” said Garr. “If he’s as slow-witted as you say he is, he’s not smart enough to be afraid of us.”
Candles just looked at him.
In a pained voice, Oak said to Candles, “Scared or not scared, it looks like this stable boy ain’t nearly as slow or stupid as you thought he was.”
“How’s the arm, Dayton?” Candles asked Oak in an even tone of voice, changing the subject. He looked Oak up and down, noting the fresh wet blood seeping to the surface of the bandana tied around his upper arm.
Instead of answering, Oak repeated, “I said, it looks like that stable boy ain’t near as slow or stupi—”
“I heard you, Oak, damn it!” Candles shouted, his rage and frustration finally boiling out of control.
“He killed poor Milo,” Garr cut in. “Oak here will be lucky if he don’t die from the fever, the shape his arm is in—”
“I know all this, Garr!” Candles shouted. “Both of yas let up off me! Maybe I misjudged the son of a bitch a little, all right?” He glared angrily back and forth between them. “I figure the sheriff must’ve died and this ol’ boy has gone wild in his sorrow. Slow-witted fellows do that. They get something like that pressing on their minds and they go wild as a buck for a while.”
Seeing Candles reaching his boiling point, Oak withdrew and said, “Hell, you rode up from Cottonwood with him, you know him better than we do.”
“That’s right, thank you, Oak,” said Candles. He let out a tense breath.
“Was him and that sheriff kin or something?” Garr asked.
“Not that I know of,” said Candles. “But being kin doesn’t matter to folks like this stable hand. He acted like the old sheriff was his pa. Said Sheriff Morgan made him a lawman, and he’d never let him down.” He shook his head. “See? That’s the kind of mind he’s walking around with.” He looked back and forth between the two.
“Hmm,” said Garr, considering it.
“Just how far do you figure he’s willing to take this thing?” Oak asked, his face looking drawn and pained.
“I don’t know,” Candles said with a troubled look on his face as he scanned along the higher trail, seeing the drift of dust the deputy’s horse left in the air. “I never figured he’d be the kind to come riding on alone, that’s for sure.”
“Hell, don’t worry about it, Bobby,” said Garr in a consoling tone of voice. “Sooner or later, he’ll slip up and we’ll get him.”
“Yeah, I know we will,” Candles said, still scanning the higher trail above them as the dust drifted out of sight. “I’m just hoping we’re all alive and kicking by the time he does.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing of it,” said Garr. “Who’s going to be the next one in his rifle sights?”
“Enough about this stable hand. What about this lousy prick we’ve taken up with?” Oak asked. “I was lying there shot, and I swear I saw him grinning—that son of a bitch.”
“I saw him doing the same thing,” Garr said to the wounded gunman.
“Right now Big Chicago thinks he’s the cock of the walk,” said Candles. “But I’ll take care of him when the time comes.”
“Yeah, if he doesn’t get us all three killed first,” said Garr. “He’s down there taking it easy right now, while we’re up here getting shot at.”
“He’ll get his,” said Candles. “I give you my word on it. But for now, I’m going along with him.”
“I see you going along with him,” said Oak, “but what I can’t see is why.”
“Never mind why,” said Candles. “There’ll be others joining us before long. When the time comes for me to take over, everybody will know that I’m really the one who’s been running things.”
Garr and Oak looked at each other. “If that’s the way you want to play it, we’re both behind you.”
“Good,” said Candles. He reached for the dangling reins to his horse and said, “Let’s get back down there and see what this bastard wants us to do next.”
“What about this deputy?” Garr asked. “I can go kill him real quick and get back here.”
Candles doubted it. But he didn’t say so. Instead he said, “Forget him for now. He got lucky on us while we were drunk and not expecting him. It won’t happen again. Next time he pops back up, he’s dead.” He swung atop his horse and jerked it back toward the trail.
In Rimrock, at the edge of town, from behind a fortress of embedded rock, Chicago and his two men awaited the return of Candles and his men. Chicago was sitting sipping water from a canteen when Russell said, “Riders coming,” and the three grabbed their rifles and gazed off along the trail. “It’s not Candles and his men,” Russell added.
Watching three riders come up into sight along the trail, Chicago said, “Easy, boys. I know who this is. Lower your guns.”
“Who is it, then?” Russell asked as he and Thatcher lowered their shotguns and cradled them in their arms.
Chicago gave him
a look, remembering how the gunman had harped about taking in newcomers. “It’s Buddy Short, his brother Epps and a cross-eyed Texas killer named Baldhead Paul Crane. Satisfied?” he added with a growl.
Russell didn’t reply. He only stared at the three riders as they drew closer and stopped when Chicago stepped out of cover and waved them down. “Damn, Buddy,” said Chicago. “I figured you’d be the first to come looking for me once word got out.”
“You mean I’m not?” the tall, broad-shouldered gunman asked, reining his horse to a halt a few feet from Big Chicago. As he spoke he looked all around as if to see who had beaten him in joining Chicago.
“Bobby Candles and his men got here last night,” said Chicago. “You know Candles. If there’s something on the wind, his nose is right in it.”
“It’s been over a month,” said Buddy Short. “I didn’t expect we’d be the first ones to find you. Fact is, we were headed down to look for you in Cottonwood. We heard so much shooting from this direction, we thought we best come take a look-see.”
Epps and Baldhead Paul nudged their horses up beside Buddy. “And, by damn, here you are,” said Baldhead Paul, his crossed eyes making it hard to tell whom he was talking to.
“Howdy, Baldhead, howdy, Epps,” said Chicago, touching his derby hat brim respectfully. “You all know Bart Russell and Little Morris Thatcher here?”
“He just added the Little part,” said Thatcher with a peevish look on his face. “Nobody ever called me that until just now.”
“Howdy, Bart. Howdy, Morris,” the two gunmen said almost in unison, overlooking Thatcher’s complaint. Buddy only touched his hat brim in greeting them.
“It’s a good thing we met you before you rode on to Cottonwood,” said Chicago. “I’m afraid you would have been met with ill tidings.” He grinned. “That whole town has a mad-on at me and anybody who knows me.”
“Yeah?” Buddy returned the grin. “How much did you get?”
“Not near enough,” Russell cut in.
Chicago shot him a hard stare, then said to Buddy Short, “A little over fourteen hundred.”