Marauders' Moon

by Short, Luke;

  “I hope you’re right. But I aim to keep a watch on him till tomorrow.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Hugo shook his head. “We shouldn’t have waited this long.”

  Bannister didn’t answer him for a moment. He was staring out the window, his keen and predatory face in repose. Presently he sighed. “Perhaps not. But I haven’t got a taste for having a man killed while he sleeps. Nor one for killing him on the place where I live.” And he added, “Not killing him that way, anyhow.”

  “Sure,” Hugo said. He lighted his cigarette now. “You goin’ to talk to them Montana men or am I?”

  “I’ll talk to them. Send them in. And after supper tonight, send Mitch in for his orders.”

  “His last,” Hugo said grimly.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hugo opened the jail door. “The boss wants to see you,” he said, from around his cigarette. All of them got up, including Webb.

  Hugo said, “Not you, Red. Go back to sleep.”

  Webb lay back in his bunk and rolled a smoke as the others filed out and the door was shut. If he had had any doubts as to Bannister planning some new sort of trouble, he was sure of it now.

  Warren and the others were gone half an hour. When they returned, they were smiling. Hugo locked them in again.

  Webb looked at them curiously, scowling. “Goin’ to another party, boys?”

  “Sure,” Warren said.

  Webb cursed mildly. “I dunno what’s the matter with me that I ain’t asked to these things. Don’t I take enough baths?”

  “Even a shave didn’t help you none,” Warren said good-naturedly, his crooked grin wolfish and amused. He sat down at the table and pulled out a handful of gold coins, which he proceeded to count into three equal piles. He took one, Les and Manny the remaining two. Then Warren tipped his chair back against the wall and looked at Webb. Webb knew he was in for a rawhiding, and he covered up his impatience to know what this was all about by thumbing his nose at Warren.

  “Hell, you’re just sore,” Warren said.

  “Sure. Who wouldn’t be?”

  Warren winked at one of his companions. “You always got to remember two things, fella. Never go anywhere you ain’t asked. Never do anything you ain’t paid for.”

  “A swell chance I had of bein’ asked here,” Webb growled. “Even if I did want to work for Bannister, he wouldn’t have me.”

  “Maybe you got a weak stomach,” Warren suggested.

  Webb looked up at him. “It ain’t showed up yet if I have.”

  “Could you shoot a man in the back for money?” Warren drawled.

  “Easy, Perry,” Les warned. “You recollect what the old man said.”

  “Hell with him,” Warren said arrogantly. “We got half our money. He can’t keep a thing like this quiet, anyway.”

  “All right. I’m just tellin’ you,” Les said, earnestly, his game of solitaire interrupted.

  Dan Warren said, “The thing I can’t figure out is this: How does Bannister stand to make any money by having a thirty-a-month puncher killed. Is it worth what he’s paying us?”

  Webb’s pulse quickened, but he allowed only an expression of faint curiosity to show on his face. He glanced over at Les and said, “He’s talking to you, Les. I don’t know what this is all about.”

  “He’s talking too much,” Les said grimly.

  “But what does this puncher know?” Warren insisted. “He don’t even work around here.”

  “A stranger?” Webb asked idly.

  “Seems so. Leastways, Bannister said he was givin’ us the same instructions to get to Ted Bannister’s as he was givin’ this fella he wants shot. Sounds like he didn’t know the country as good as us.”

  Les slammed down his cards. “There you go, Perry, shootin’ off your mouth!”

  “What about?” Perry asked innocently.

  “Tellin’ him where this job is goin’ to be pulled off!”

  “What if I did?” Warren said, with rising temper. “Who the hell is he? He’s in jail. Who could he tell?”

  “That’s all right,” Webb cut in soothingly. “I don’t give a damn about knowin’. I’m not askin’ you to tell me.”

  “Go ahead and ask,” Warren said sharply, glaring at Les. “It’ll take more’n an old woman to make me keep my mouth shut.”

  Les growled. “Old woman or not, keep your mouth shut, Perry.”

  Warren slowly rose out of his chair and stalked stiff-legged over to the card table. “And who’s goin’ to make me?” he asked gently. “You, Les? Or Manny?”

  “Leave me out of this,” Manny said from his bunk. “I don’t care if you put it to music.”

  Warren glared at Les. “Well?”

  Les put both hands on the table and rose, facing Warren. “All right,” he said thickly. “I am! I got a third stake in this job and I’ll get it, if anything goes—”

  He never finished. Warren struck out viciously, his thudding fist catching Les square in the mouth. The blow sent Les against the chair, which tripped him and sent him sprawling on his back. Warren walked over to him and watched him drag himself to his feet and shake his head to clear it.

  “Go ahead,” Warren taunted.

  Les shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. It was obvious to Webb that Warren was the master here. Warren thought so, too, and wanted to prove it, and to prove that he was stepping into the place vacated by Lute.

  Les went over to the table and sat down. Warren followed him and went around to the other side of the table and leaned both hands on it, his ugly face close to Les.

  “Listen to this, Cousins,” Warren said slowly, looking at Les. “I think the name of the man we’re goin’ to shoot is Budrow, Mitch Budrow, if I recollect right. We’re goin’ to get turned out of here tonight and cache ourselves on the road to the Spade B, over east. This Budrow is comin’ along sometime early tomorrow mornin’. I don’t know why we’re goin’ to kill him. If I did, I’d tell you. We’re gettin’ three hundred apiece for it. Anything else you want to know?” He was watching Les, trying to rawhide him into making a play.

  Webb drawled, “I never even wanted to know that.”

  “O. K., Perry,” Les said, shrugging. “You’ll get it along with the rest of us.”

  “Get what?” Warren said truculently.

  Manny, from his bunk, said, “Lay off, Perry. Hell, you got no row, now.”

  Warren straightened up. “I just wanted to let you two tinhorns know who’s callin’ the turn here.”

  Les shrugged and went back to his solitaire. Warren grinned at Webb and they relaxed.

  Back in his bunk, Webb turned over in his mind what he had goaded Warren into admitting. At last he was sure of the part Mitch Budrow had played in this war. A traitor, and one who was getting his just deserts. And once Mitch was out of the way, only Hugo and Wake Bannister would know the whole story of how San Patricio had been defeated.

  Webb thought of the conference earlier in the afternoon, a conference attended by a stranger, Mitch, Hugo, and Bannister. Had they been plotting further trouble, another raid, perhaps, that would win all of San Patricio and its range for Bannister? Mitch Budrow would know, for he held the key to all the strange things that had happened here. And tomorrow morning, because he knew so much, Bannister was going to put him out of the way.

  Silently Webb cursed. If he were free, he might be able to prevent this killing, and to capture Mitch and take him back to Tolleston. Mitch might even be persuaded to talk if he knew that Bannister intended killing him. But Webb was not free. He was in jail, with enough knowledge in his mind to blow up this feud, but still helpless, worse than useless.

  He stared at the ceiling, disgusted with himself. Reluctantly he forced himself to talk now, because he did not want it to appear that he gave any value to what he had just learned.

  He said to Warren, “What’s goin’ to happen with this other job of yours, young Britt’s?”

  “He can go to hell,” Warren said shor
tly. “We’re not workin’ for him.”

  Les looked up. “I’ll take that job, Perry. You and Manny take the other.”

  “You will like hell,” Warren said curtly. “You’ll do what I tell you. If we tag Tolleston, we’ll have old man Bannister and all of San Patricio County on our necks. We’d have to jump the country. Now we got an easy job, and we’ll likely get more, accordin’ to what Bannister said. Huh-uh. I take orders from the old man, as long as the work keeps comin’. And you’ll take orders from me.”

  Les only glared at him. Manny didn’t seem interested.

  Webb moved restlessly. “I wish you could swing that job over to me, but I don’t reckon young Bannister would do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hit him the other day over what he said about Tolleston’s girl.”

  Warren asked curiously, “You like her?”

  Webb made a wry face. “No. I just like her better than I do young Bannister.”

  Warren chuckled. “That’s no way to make money.”

  “I know that,” Webb said sourly. “I wish I’d had sense enough to keep my head. Maybe I’d ’a’ been out of here, then.”

  “I’ll talk to young Bannister tonight and see what he thinks about it,” Warren told him.

  Webb let it ride that way. At supper time they all ate together, and afterward Warren and his companions were freed by Hugo. Webb was left alone in the jail.

  Webb couldn’t be sure that Warren would keep his word and talk with Britt; it was a thin chance and there was no reason why Britt should bother with it. On the other hand, he just might, and Webb had to be prepared for a possible visit. There was nothing he wanted to discuss with Britt. All he wanted was to get close enough to him to get his gun.

  Webb hunted the room over carefully for something he could use for a weapon. He found nothing. Every bit of loose metal had been removed. If he ripped the leg off a chair, it would be too bulky a weapon to hide.

  And thinking this, he had an idea. He walked over to a chair and turned it upside down. Then he looked around the room. The only other articles of furniture were a heavy table, the stand holding the water bucket, a big bench, a smaller bench, and a rickety chair.

  Webb set to work. He twisted the legs off the chair, pulling the wood away from the nails. Then he flattened the nails out and, after a difficult five minutes of balancing, had the chair so it would stand on its legs. He placed it near the table in a position where Britt would be unlikely to move it when he sat down. He did the same with the big bench. After fifteen minutes patient work he had all the seats, with the exception of the small bench, torn to pieces and reconstructed so that, while they looked natural enough, anyone trying to sit on them would be thrown to the floor.

  Webb took the small bench, pulled it up to the table, and laid out a game of solitaire. Hoping this would relieve the monotony of waiting, he played through several hands, but even a run-out did not serve to distract him. The minutes dragged, and he grew increasingly skeptical. Britt Bannister would probably laugh when Warren told him of Webb’s offer. Perhaps Warren would even forget it.

  He had almost resigned himself to Bannister’s not coming when he heard footsteps outside approaching the door. He dealt out a spread of solitaire and waited, cards in hand, as he heard the door being unlocked and unbolted.

  Britt Bannister stood in the doorway.

  “Howdy,” Webb said.

  Bannister closed the door and leaned against it. Webb noticed he was wearing a gun. Although he was dressed in a gaudy blue shirt and yellow neckerchief pearl-gray Stetson, and whipcord trousers, there was a look about Bannister’s face that belied his air of ease and elegance. A scowl creased his forehead and he looked tired, weary, and a bit suspicious.

  “Did you think I’d fall for that offer you made, Cousins?” he asked surlily.

  Webb just looked at him and did not get up. He went back to his cards. “You’re here, ain’t you?”

  “To tell you you’ll damn well stay in here for another week. And when you get out of here, it’ll be to step into the Wintering County jail.”

  Webb smiled thinly. “And from there to the pen at Yuma, if you can swing it. Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “The hell it is,” Webb drawled. “I don’t reckon so.”

  “No? You’ll see. Maybe you’d ’a’ been better off if you’d minded your business and not snooped around to find out what I was talkin’ to Warren about.”

  “Shut it,” Webb said indolently, playing his hand of solitaire. “You can’t keep four men locked in a room for days and not expect them to talk.”

  “You won’t get the chance again,” Britt said quickly. He put his hand on the door bolt.

  “That all you come to tell me?” Webb asked mildly.

  “That’ll be plenty.”

  “But that ain’t why I sent for you,” Webb went on casually. “I aim to buy my way out of here.”

  “You couldn’t steal enough money to do it,” Britt said.

  “Not with money. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  Britt paused, saying nothing, waiting.

  “What you aim to do,” Webb drawled, “and what you don’t want me or these other hardcases to know you aim to do, is to get even with Martha Tolleston, isn’t it?”

  Britt removed his hand from the door and walked slowly toward Webb. “Another crack like that and I don’t think I’ll even turn you over to the sheriff.”

  Webb shrugged. “All I’m tryin’ to do is tell you without you cuttin’ down on me that I know a way you can get even with her.”

  The expression on Britt’s face did not change, except perhaps that it showed a little more suspicion and a little more curiosity. “How?” he asked.

  Webb reached in his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper which he held out to Britt. Britt walked across to the table and took it.

  “First,” Webb said, “that’s a reasonably accurate map of the Broken Arrow buildin’s, water holes, creeks and such, isn’t it?”

  Britt looked at it. “No.”

  Webb frowned. “No?”

  “Certainly not. If you got this anywhere near scale, the Roan forks is a good three miles farther west. And I never saw a spring where this is marked. And I—”

  “Wait,” Webb said, fumbling in his pocket for a pencil. “That’s important. Mark it down.”

  “What for?” Britt asked, but he reached for the pencil. He was interested as well as mystified, Webb could see.

  “You’ll find out. Mark it down.”

  Webb leaned down to mark the map. He was directly in the light of the overhead lamp, and his shadow made Webb’s faint drawing almost invisible. Instinctively Britt glanced around and saw a chair to the side of him, quartering the table.

  He sank into it, and at the same time Webb upended the table. Britt hit the chair and it fell away from him. He threw up his hand to pull at the table to catch himself. The table came over on top of him, and Webb in a dive right behind it.

  Britt had already sensed the trap and his hand was clawing at his gun, but before he could wrap his fingers around the butt, he crashed down on his side, pinning his hand under him. And then Webb lighted on him, a hundred and seventy pounds of explosive fury.

  Britt instinctively raised his arm to shield his face, and Webb drove a fist into his stomach. Gagging, Britt clinched with him, but Webb, spraddle-legged over him, was not to be tied up or thrown. He slugged again at Britt’s belly and followed up by leaning in with crooked elbow. Britt’s arm came down in a protective, automatic gesture. Webb, watching, seized his chance. As hard and quick as he could manage it, he drove a looping, knuckle-studded fist at Britt’s temple. Twice, three times he slugged before he realized that his first blow had done the work. Like a deflated balloon, Britt relaxed under him.

  Grinning, Webb rose and ripped the handkerchief from Britt’s neck. He gagged him, then with strips torn from the blanket on the bunk securely trussed his hands and fee
t and then hog-tied him. It was the work of only a few more moments for Webb to strap on the shell belt and gun, and to lift Britt into the bunk and turn his face to the wall. Then he righted the table, spread the cards out on it, picked up the chair and threw the pieces in one of the bunks, and surveyed the room. To the casual beholder it would appear that Webb was asleep in his bunk, having left the light on.

  At the door Webb paused and listened. No sound. He melted out the door into the welcome darkness, shutting and padlocking the door, and headed for the corrals. Boldly he walked into the saddle shed and by the light of a match found a good-looking saddle. Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed for the small corral behind the larger one. This was the corral where Bannister and Britt kept their ponies wanted for immediate use. It was not far from Gonzales’s quarters in the barn, but Webb went boldly ahead. There was a light in the barn, too.

  Webb singled out the horse that seemed the most gentle and saddled it. Midway through the task, he heard Gonzales call, “That you, Britt?”

  “Hell with you, fella,” Webb said carelessly, and he saw the door shut. Gonzales, used to being addressed in this way by Britt, had withdrawn from the door.

  Webb rode slowly out of the settlement toward the south, where there were no houses. Once free of the place, he headed southeast for Bull Foot. He had a horse and a gun and his freedom. All he needed now was a little information.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mitch Budrow was whistling. If he had stopped to realize it, he would have known that it was the first time he had done such a thing in two years. But now he was happy. Things were different. He was a valued man of Wake Bannister’s, and that meant protection against all law for years to come. Whenever Mitch had doubts about Bannister valuing him, all he had to do was think of what Wake Bannister had disclosed to him yesterday. Mitch was proud of that. Of course, he had done Bannister a great favor in telling him the details of the Bull Foot raid, but that was just a plain case of listening and reporting. No, it wasn’t that. Bannister had seen his loyalty, had seen that he used his head, and Bannister was a man who rewarded those faithful to him. Mitch’s reward was the sharing of this momentous secret. Why, even Ted Bannister over at the Spade B, where he was going this morning, hadn’t been told all of Wake’s plans. That’s why Mitch was going to see him.