Marauders' Moon

by Short, Luke;

  They took over the Chain Link before dawn. By sunup, the spread looked deserted. Not a horse in the corrals, not a man, except Mose, who was peeling potatoes in the open door of the cook shack, in sight. There was no sound, no hum of quiet talk. The place looked empty, except for the thin wreath of smoke that curled out of the cookshack chimney.

  In the bunk house, men slept or played quietly at cards, their guns beside them. In the office, Webb and the others sat around the room and tried to be patient. Hasker lay in bed, a cold pipe in his mouth, his eyes dancing with excitement. Occasionally he would look at Webb, this man who had his own red hair and freckles, almost his own build, and was the same age as he was. Hasker knew he had succeeded in his own line, but looking at Webb, that success did not count for so much. Here was a man who had twice his daring, at least his own love of a good fight, and a man who bore an indefinable stamp of leadership about him. He liked him, liked the quick smile, the hard, pleasantly ugly face of him, and the way he acted. He wished he knew more about him.

  They could all hear the cook banging around the kitchen, chopping wood, whistling. Morning passed and most of the men were asleep. For lunch they ate jerky and water and sat around and waited. As the afternoon dragged on, Webb felt their tension slack. Bannister would not come today. He thought that himself.

  In later afternoon, almost at dusk, he got up and opened the door a little, to let some fresh air in. He was about to turn away when he paused, listening.

  Slowly, then, he turned to face the others.

  “It’s here,” he said quietly. “I hear horsemen.”

  Buck Tolleston leaped for the door of the bunk house. His appearance quieted the hum of talk and, noticing it, the men in the bunks raised up.

  “They’re here,” Buck said. “Get your gun beside you. Keep quiet. Don’t make a move until I signal from this doorway.”

  He closed the door behind him and sat down in his chair.

  Webb remained at the crack in the door. The sound of approaching horsemen grew louder until it was directly in the yard.

  Webb heard Wake Bannister call, “Black boy, is this place locked up?”

  “That’s right, boss,” the cook said. “You Mistuh Bogardus’s men?”

  “Where are the keys?” Bannister demanded.

  “In the office. That’s right down this here porch, right on the end. On ’at table, boss.”

  Slowly Webb closed the door and tiptoed softly to the foot of the bed and faced the door. Tolleston shifted faintly in his seat and quieted again as the sound of approaching footsteps came to them.

  They heard the footsteps pause outside, heard the knob turned. The door opened and Wake Bannister walked in.

  Webb watched his face. Not until he was a full step inside the dark room did Wake Bannister notice that there were people in here.

  He stopped abruptly and looked around him, and slowly, by a hardening of his jaw line, he betrayed that he knew them. Meeker was behind him, also inside the door now, and his face did not change in the slightest when he looked around the room. A cigarette was pasted to his lower lip. He lounged against the door, thumbs hooked in belt, and smiled arrogantly.

  Webb heard Buck rise. Saw him out of the corner of his eye. But Buck didn’t speak.

  It was Hasker, from the bed, who drawled. “Look at this. What in hell are you doin’ here, Bannister? Lookin’ for little chickens to kick?”

  Bannister ignored him. His gaze settled on Buck.

  “A reception committee, eh, Buck?”

  “You might call it that,” Buck said gently. “But answer the question.”

  Meeker started to straighten up, and Webb said swiftly, “Don’t go out there, Meeker. Just relax.”

  Bannister arrogantly stepped farther into, the room. Now he looked at Hasker. “What am I doin’ here on the Chain Link?” he asked firmly. “I might ask you that question.” He slowly reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a paper. “You see, I own it.”

  “I didn’t know I sold it,” Hasker said.

  Wake extended the paper and Hasker took it.

  Wake said, “That, gentlemen, is a bluff that won’t work. I have fifty men out here to enforce what I say—and I say ‘Get out!’”

  No one moved. Only the rustling of the paper was in the room.

  Hasker said, “Made out to Clay Bogardus.” He looked over the paper at Webb.

  “Isn’t that the gent that was out here yesterday, Cousins?”

  “I think so.”

  “Isn’t he the man you sold the Chain Link to?”

  Webb nodded. Hasker folded up the paper and handed it back to Bannister.

  “Sorry, Bannister. You see, I didn’t sell the Chain Link. The redheaded, freckle-faced man of about twenty-six with the gray eyes and the wide mouth that Bogardus bought the Chain Link from yesterday is that man over there—Webb Cousins.”

  Bannister just stared at him, and then slowly lifted his gaze to Webb, who was lounging against the wall.

  “I happened to be in bed here,” Webb drawled quietly. “I just sold him the place, signed the deed, took his money—your money, I mean.” He smiled unpleasantly.

  “What I’m trying to tell you, you big curly wolf, is that I pretended I was Hasker. The deed you’ve got to the Chain Link isn’t legal, so your heirs will never collect. You don’t own it. You and your gunnies out there are trespassin’. It wouldn’t make any difference if you weren’t. You’re in San Patricio County, which is excuse enough for us. Tell him, Wardecker.”

  Wardecker said quietly, “You’re arrested, Bannister, for the murder of twenty-odd men, for the murder of Mitch Budrow, and for robbing the U. S. mail. You’d better come along peaceful.”

  Hugo Meeker slowly turned his head and looked out the door, then looked back and yawned.

  Wake Bannister smiled slightly.

  “Gentlemen, the day when six of you can take me away from fifty men and arrest me hasn’t dawned yet.”

  “Not six of us, Wake,” Buck said in ominous gentleness. “This bunk house is packed with men. We’re just giving you a chance.”

  They faced each other now, these enemies of more than two decades. Buck, a head shorter than Bannister, stood straight as a ramrod, his hands at his sides, his blue eyes alight with fire. Bannister met his glance with one as hard and cold as agate.

  Buck said slowly, without smiling, “This is payday, Wake. Give up or fight out of it.”

  Bannister looked over Buck’s head to Hugo. There was no signal in that look that Webb could read, but Hugo understood it. Intuitively, Webb did, too.

  Meeker started to twist out of the door, his hand already streaking to his gun, when Webb shot. The slug caught Hugo in the side, high in the chest, and spun him around so that he pitched flat on the porch, his gun clattering to the floor.

  And in the same split second, Wake Bannister made his choice, too. Hasker saw his hand blur to the gun on his hip. Under the covers, Hasker held a Colt in his own hand, but he did not whip it out. This was Buck Tolleston’s fight.

  Buck understood that. He dived at Bannister, his hand clenching Bannister’s wrist in a grip of iron as Bannister’s hand closed on the butt of his gun.

  Wake slashed out viciously with his other hand, the brute strength of his blow sending Buck kiting into the wall. But Buck was smiling when he thudded into the adobe wall, for he had a gun in his hand.

  He shot it empty, laughing, watching Bannister try with nerveless fingers to claw his gun out of its holster, and, failing that, turn in strangled fury to lunge at him. He took one heavy step before his knees folded, and he toppled face down on the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Webb was in the doorway, a hand raised to the horsemen outside in the dusk who, to a man, had turned in frozen surprise at the sound of the gunfire.

  “Bannister and Meeker are dead, you men!” Webb shouted. “We have fifty men here in this bunk house! Will you surrender, or fight and die?”

  For an
swer, a shot from the wing of the circling horsemen smashed into the door sill, and Webb dodged back, but not before he saw the smoke of Britt Bannister’s raised gun. Then a mighty fusillade of shots smashed through the doorway.

  Buck crashed open the door to the bunk house, but he had no time to speak. The men were piling out of the two doors and the crescendo of gunfire rose until it seemed to rock the earth.

  The Bannister riders were at a disadvantage. They were bunched, some still mounted, and the stampede that resulted was a fury of horseflesh and gunshots.

  Some tried to break through and turn back, and rode over men in their frantic haste. Others forted down behind shot horses. Still others ran through the deepening dusk for the shelter of the burned house.

  Webb flung open the door and dodged to the corner of the house. He picked out the gaudy shirt of Britt Bannister, afoot in that tangle of rearing horses and shooting men.

  Recklessly Webb ran for that moil. Britt had fought his way out now and was running for the shelter of the ruined house.

  A man shot at Webb from horseback, and Webb smashed his gun across the nose of the horse, which reared back into more milling riders. Now he was in this throng of men who were snarling and cursing and trying to free themselves. He did not shoot. He kept Britt Bannister in sight until he disappeared into the deep shadows of what was left of the burned-out house.

  Webb followed him, diving through a door.

  “Where’s young Bannister?” he asked a man who was firing a rifle through a window.

  The man turned. It was Perry Warren. Even as he recognized Webb, he nosed up his rifle and fired blindly. Webb shot and saw him go down, but he did not stop. He dashed into the next room, where a man was scrambling frantically through a window. And on into the next, which was a hall.

  Down its dark length he saw someone move.

  “Bannister!” Webb called. A racket of shots ripped orange in that darkness, and Webb felt something slam into his leg. He fell, his gun swinging up and exploding twice.

  “Come and get me, damn you!” a man snarled. It was Bannister’s voice.

  Webb loaded his gun, lying there trying not to move more than was necessary. He had this house figured out now. This was the corridor where the stairs climbed to the second story.

  The stairs were burned now, a heap of rubbish lying where they had once stood. The corridor, Bannister had obviously discovered, was a dead-end one.

  Webb said quietly, “Come out of there with your hands up and you won’t get shot, you fool!”

  There was no answer. Webb called, “Bannister!”

  A shot ripped out and the slug splintered into the rubble beside Webb’s head.

  “Come out of there!” Webb said. “You won’t get shot.”

  “Did that killer’s gal put you up to that?” Bannister taunted.

  Webb cursed him, a blind rage boiling up in him. He did not hear the gunfire outside, though it was swelling mightily in the lowering darkness. He called out, “She did, and I don’t know why! But I won’t shoot you! But if you don’t come out of there, I’ll come in and take you!”

  There was no answer, only a slow moving back in the dark. Suddenly Bannister said, “All right, I’ll surrender.”

  Webb called, “Throw down those guns. Throw ’em loud, so I can hear ’em!”

  He counted two distinct crashes of metal on dirt and rock and then he called, from where he lay, “Come out! With your hands up!”

  He heard Bannister walking toward him. He could make out an indistinct bulk in the dark, two hands held over the head. Then the footsteps paused, not ten feet ahead of him.

  “Where are you?” Bannister asked plaintively.

  Webb rose. “Here. Come out and—”

  A blast of gunfire cut off his words. He fell to the floor, rolling against the wall. Despairingly he remembered his promise to Martha that Britt would not be killed. There was only one thing to do then and that was to pretend that Britt’s treachery had worked. Rolling over on his face, he groaned softly and lay still.

  Now he could hear Britt’s first tentative step toward him. There were two more steps, and then Britt halted as if uncertain. There was a long silence, and then more confidently Britt moved toward him. Webb heard him halt above him, and now he felt Britt’s boot in his side, trying to toe him over. Webb relaxed, giving slackly against the pressure of Britt’s boot. It was dark here and Webb knew that Britt would strike a match to make sure he was dead. The only question was, would he shoot a second time before he struck the match?

  The following seconds seemed endless as Webb waited. Now he heard Britt fumbling around in his pockets. There was a pause and Webb gathered himself. He knew that in the first flash of light Britt would be momentarily blinded and that would be the time to act.

  Now he listened, and suddenly the rasp of a match being struck came to him. Webb rolled over, lunging for the gun that Britt held slackly at his side. Webb’s big hand settled over the cylinder, and then the match died and Britt pulled savagely at his gun.

  Webb knew only that he must keep his hand around the cylinder so that the hammer could not fall. He was on his knees now when Britt’s savage kick caught him in the side. Webb grunted and now grasped the gun with his other hand. Britt was kicking furiously at him, but in the darkness his kicks were deflected off Webb’s thigh.

  Kneeling now, both hands on the gun, Webb gathered all his strength and twisted with both hands, at the same time falling to the floor. His weight, combined with the twisting motion, wrenched the gun out of Britt’s hands.

  On his face now, Webb threw the gun out of the way and then rose to his knees, diving at Britt’s legs. Wrapping his arms around Britt’s thighs, he drove his body forward, legs pumping. Suddenly he felt Britt smash into the wall. Britt had been slugging blindly, furiously, at his back, but at the impact the blows ceased. With leverage now, Webb lifted and with a mighty heave dumped Britt head first over his shoulder. Webb was half turned when he heard Britt grunt as he hit the floor. Webb dived then and found he was astride Britt’s body, and he began slugging wildly.

  He could not remember the number of blows he took or gave. All he knew was that Britt bucked him off, that he clung to Britt, that they both rose and were finally erect, facing each other, striking blindly in the dark.

  Maneuvering to his right, Webb suddenly saw Britt’s form before him framed through a broken window against the lighter sky.

  Savagely Webb drove his fist at Britt’s head. The blow connected so solidly that the jolt traveled up to Webb’s shoulder. Britt took two steps backward and the window sill caught him at the knee. Webb’s lunge at him was almost too late, for Britt fell back through the window, Webb on top of him. Once on the ground, Britt did not move. Slowly Webb rose. He was aware now that the firing had ceased and that men were shouting to each other over by the bunk house, which now held a light. Suddenly a running form appeared out of the night in front of him, and he heard a girl’s voice call, “Webb! Webb Cousins!”

  Webb halted, his heart still thumping wildly. This would be Martha Tolleston, and he knew what her first question would be.

  “Here,” Webb said. He saw her turn and before he could say more she had run into his arms. She held him tightly, burying her face in his chest, and Webb waited for the question. Say it, he thought. Ask about him.

  “Are you hurt?” Martha asked.

  “No,” Webb answered coldly. “Neither is he.”

  Martha raised her head. “Who?”

  “Britt. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  There was a stirring at Webb’s feet, and he looked down. Slowly Britt Bannister pulled himself to a sitting position, shaking his head. Gently Webb broke away from Martha, then reached down and hauled Bannister to his feet. He could not see the expression on Martha’s face, but he said roughly, “There he is. I saved him for you.”

  Martha was silent, and now Webb turned to Bannister. “Everyone pays up but you,” he said bitterly. “T
here she is and she wants you.”

  “Do I?” Martha asked, a strange coldness in her voice.

  Britt said grimly, “She may want me, but she hasn’t got me.”

  Martha said sharply, “Webb, what are you trying to do?”

  “Just what you wanted me to,” Webb said bitterly. “Here he is all in one package, a little mussed, but still pretty.” He wheeled to walk away.

  “Webb,” Martha’s voice was more imploring than sharp. “Come back here!”

  Webb halted and retraced his steps. “This is for you to hear,” Martha said. Now she half turned to Bannister. “Tell me something, Britt,” she demanded. “What turned you against me so suddenly?”

  “You’re a Tolleston,” Britt said.

  “But I always was. You knew that.”

  “I knew it,” Britt said thinly. “Trouble is I didn’t know that your father helped kill my mother. I didn’t know what trash you were.”

  “Thank you, Britt,” Martha said softly. “For a while I thought we were the only two sane people in both our families. Now I know that I’m the only sane one. At least I’m sane enough that I can’t hate you.”

  “Sure,” Britt said derisively. “When do you plan to shoot me?”

  At that moment Wardecker’s voice called from the house, “Any Montana men left?”

  Someone answered, “Two.”

  “Tell ’em to hit the trail north now.”

  “You’d better join them, Britt,” Martha said. “There’s no place for you here. There never will be.”

  Britt said thinly, “Suits me. The farther away I am from you the better I’ll like it.” He wheeled and tramped off toward the bunk house and a horse.

  Martha turned now to Webb. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Did I ever ask one?”

  “Yes. Not in words, but it was in your eyes. You wondered if I still loved Britt. Now do you know?”

  “I reckon,” Webb said slowly. “Was that the only question you saw that I didn’t ask?”

  “If you want an honest answer, no. I saw another,” Martha said.

  “Like to answer it?”