by Ralph Cotton
CAUGHT OFF-GUARD
“Something doesn’t feel right,” Summers said, staring down the slope after the old man.
“What do you mean?” asked Webb.
“I’m not sure….” Summers looked back at the rest of the men riding toward them. He looked forward along the trail to where it disappeared into a turn. He looked up along the high rocky line above them, then down at the old man just in time to see him break into a run toward the cover of taller rocks, shooing the goats out of his way.
“Oh no,” cried Summers, realization setting in and causing him to sit bolt upright in his saddle. “It’s a trap.”
WEBB’S
POSSE
Ralph Cotton
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, July 2003
10 9 8
Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2003
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-1-101-59441-4
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this
ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
For Mary Lynn…of course.
And for Curt and Malissa Beatty—
kinfolk, friends.
Table of Contents
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 2
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part 3
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
PART 1
Chapter 1
“What the hell was that, Virgil?” Will Summers asked the bartender. Summers had started to take a sip of whiskey, but his shot glass stopped near his lips, suspended there as he recognized the sound of heavy gunfire coming from the far end of the street outside the Ace High Saloon.
Virgil Wilkes’ face turned ashen. He shook his head slowly; his eyes widened in disbelief. “Lord God, I don’t know, Will!” he whispered.
“Is that shotgun still beneath the bar?” Will Summers asked, already reaching a hand out across the polished bar top.
Virgil pulled up the sawed-off double-barrel and handed it over, swallowing a gulp of air. “What are you going to do, Will?”
“Beats me,” Summers said, quickly tossing back his shot of whiskey. He broke the shotgun open, checked it, then snapped it shut. “But whatever it is, I feel better with one hand choked around a shotgun stock.”
“What about me?” Virgil asked. “That’s the only weapon in the place!”
“Are you going out there, Virgil?” Summers asked pointedly.
“No…. Are you?” Virgil countered.
“I intend to see what’s going on out there,” Summers said. He turned and headed for the batwing doors.
When the Peltry Gang had swooped up over the green hillside and onto the dirt street of Rileyville, launching a sudden and merciless attack, the townsmen had had no chance to react. Before anyone knew what had hit them, an old teamster named Roy Krill lay dead in the street. Then even the few townsmen wearing pistols made no attempt to draw their weapons. Like the rest of the citizenry, they bolted away from the oncoming barrage of rifle and sidearm fire and took shelter behind or beneath whatever cover they could find. The sound of pounding hooves and blazing gunfire lasted only a few short seconds.
In the wake of the attack, a woman screamed at the sight of the body in the street. From beneath a buckboard wagon, a baby cried. A large red hound appeared from an alley and barked fiercely at the armed horsemen as they circled and settled in their own cloud of dust.
“Shut that dog up!” yelled Goose Peltry, rearing his horse a bit with his big Lemat pistol cocked and raised for the benefit of the cowering townsfolk. A single rifle shot exploded; the barking stopped with an abrupt yelp. Silence loomed for a moment above the dirt street.
In the Ace High Saloon, the sound of the rifle shot caused Will Summers to stop in his tracks for a second. Then he stepped forward cautiously the rest of the way to the saloon doors and peeped out above them. Looking down the length of the street, Summers saw the horsemen spread out with their weapons aimed and ready. He jerked his head back inside the saloon. “Jesus,” he whispered.
“What is it, Will?” Virgil asked, slipping around
from behind the bar with a billy bat raised in his right hand.
“It’s a raid,” Will Summers said, stepping to one side of the doors and slumping back against the wall. “It looks like Goose and Devil Moses Peltry.”
“The Peltry Gang!” Virgil’s billy bat drooped to his side. “What are we going to do now?”
“If you’re smart, Virgil, you’ll do like everybody else does. Keep your hands up and your mouth shut…hope they take whatever they want and ride out.” Will Summers straightened up from the wall and started toward the rear door. “I’ll bring your shotgun back directly.”
“Wait, Will! Where you going?” asked Virgil, his voice shaky, the billy bat trembling in his hand. “You ain’t going to try to fight them, are you?”
“Fight them?” Will Summers stopped at the back door long enough to look around at Virgil with a bemused expression. “No way in the world,” he
said. “But I brought in a string of new horses from Bently yesterday. Damned if I’m handing them over to that bunch.”
On the street, Goose Peltry stepped his big bay stallion closer to the boardwalk. “All right, file out here, you bunch of flat-headed peckerwoods…. Anybody don’t want to die, raise your hands.” He cackled aloud at his little joke, shooting a glance around at his men for their approval. Goose Peltry ran a finger across his pencil-thin mustache, then along the strip of a thin goatee running down the center of his chin and coming to a two-inch point. The men chuckled respectfully, except for Moses Peltry. Moses spit a stream of tobacco juice and stared at his brother in disgust.
“Get on with it, damn it, Goose,” said Moses, wiping the back of his gloved hand across his mouth. A long black-gray beard hung almost to Moses Peltry’s belt line. His gloved hand squeezed around the middle of the long beard and rested there.
“All right, folks!” said Goose, sweeping his pistol barrel back and forth across the frightened faces venturing forward from cover, their hands high. “You heard him! Moses has spoken. Now hurry on out here and make a line. Since there’s no bank in this dirt hole, we’re here for your money, supplies, horses and what have you. Gather it all up and hand it over…. We’ll get of here quick as we can.” His eyes moved back and forth as the townsfolk formed an uneven line along the street in front of the boardwalk. “Have any of you men fit for the Union? Don’t deny it if you have! Step up and admit it…. Take what’s coming to you like the low, lousy dogs that you are!” His gaze turned more menacing. He scrutinized each townsman’s face in turn. “None of you, huh?”
As Goose spoke to the townsmen, Moses motioned to the horsemen closest to him. “Gilbert, you and Frank go get a wagon; start cleaning these stores out. Smitson, get over to that livery barn and bring back any horses that look good enough to ride. Horses are getting worth their weight in gold.”
As Moses issued orders to the men, Goose continued talking to the townsmen. “All right, none of you rode for the Union? That’s to your favor. I hate Yankees worse than I hate snakes!” He looked back and forth again. “Anybody here who fit for the Stars and Bars?”
“I did, sir,” said a shaky voice. “I fought for the Stars and Bars.” A drummer named Odell Keithly stepped forward and offered a weak smile.
“Then get over here closer, sir,” said Goose Peltry. He jumped down from his horse and hurried forward, extending his hand in a gesture of friendship. The man looked relieved as he stepped forward himself. But as soon as Goose Peltry’s hand closed down on his, Goose jerked him forward and swiped a hard blow from his pistol barrel across Keithly’s face. Keithly crumbled to his knees; a bloody welt appeared across his cheek. “You cowardly bastard!” Goose Peltry shouted, striking the hapless man over and over. “You never fit hard enough though, did you?” Each blow from the pistol barrel sent blood splattering to the ground.
“Stop please!” a woman screamed. “You’re killing him!”
“Oh, am I, sure enough?” Goose said, giving her a feigned look of concern. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I believe you might be right!” He drew back and slammed a crushing blow straight down onto Keithly’s head, the impact of the blow lifting Goose onto his tiptoes. When Goose let go of the man’s hand, Keithly fell limp to the ground. A long moan issued from his lips.
“If he ain’t dead now, he’ll live to be a hundred,” Goose shouted. “Come on everybody, dig real deep; come up with everything in your pockets. The Lord loves a cheerful giver, so pitch it out here. I catch anybody holding back…I’ll cleave their hand off and nail it to a hitch rail!” The townsfolk gasped; men’s wallets and women’s purses hit the ground at Goose Peltry’s feet. Goose stepped back as two of his men, Elmer Fitzhugh and Monk Dupre, scurried from their horses and began snatching up the booty.
In the livery barn, Will Summers had managed to slip back and forth from stall to stall until he had all six of his new horses strung to a lead rope and standing quietly in a line facing the rear door. When he heard the front door begin to creak open, he cursed under his breath and ducked down behind a stall door.
Bert Smitson stepped inside the livery barn with his pistol drawn and cocked, looking around in the semidarkness. “Well, well,” he whispered aloud, seeing the horses strung and waiting. “What have we here?”
He moved silently alongside the string of horses, running a hand along their sides, keeping a close eye and his big army Colt on the darkened corners of the barn. “You can come on out now,” Smitson said to the quiet barn. “I ain’t gonna shoot yas…. Hell, I appreciate you getting these hosses ready for the trail.” He stopped for a moment and waited for a reply. When none came, he moved back along the string of horses and chuckled under his breath. Letting down the hammer of his Colt, he blew out a tense breath, shook his head, and leaned back against the stall door.
“Sometimes, Bert,” he said aloud to himself, “you just have to accept the good things in life when they’re thrust upon you—”
His words cut short. Behind him, Will Summers rose up from the dark stall, gripping the shotgun by its short barrel, two-handed, and swinging it like a club. The whole string of horses flinched at the sound of the shotgun stock cracking across the side of Bert Smitson’s head.
“Easy, boys….” Will Summers settled the horses with a soothing whisper as he stepped from the stall and over Bert Smitson with the broken shotgun hanging in his hand. All that remained of the shattered walnut stock was a stub roughly the size and shape of a pistol butt. Summers hefted the shotgun, getting a feel for its newly modified design. Then he carried the gun pointed down as he walked to the rear door, leading the string of horses behind him.
On the street, Gilbert Metts and Frank Spragg came riding back to Moses Peltry in an open buckboard wagon. Between them sat Deputy Abner Webb, his hands cuffed behind his back, his dark hair disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned, his belt hanging loose around his waist. Sliding the buckboard to a halt, Frank Spragg threw Abner Webb to the ground. “Whooie, Goose!” he crowed. “Look what we brung ya! A real rootin’-tootin’, honest-to-God lawman!”
Abner Webb landed with a grunt and struggled up to his knees, spitting dust.
“Where the hell’s his boots?” Goose asked, looking Webb over, his cocked pistol turning from the townsfolk to loom above the lawman’s head. Abner Webb’s big bare feet looked pale and ridiculous in the glare of harsh sunlight. He tucked one foot over the other as if to hide them from sight.
“He weren’t wearing any boots. He was barely dressed at all when we found him slipping along an alley,” said Gilbert Metts. “He was hurrying to get his clothes on, trying to strap on his gimbelt.” As he spoke, Metts pitched a holstered Colt .45 to the ground. “I reckon he heard the shooting and came running.”
“I figure he was with a woman in this buckboard,” Frank Spragg cut in, laughing. “Then we all came riding in and busted up his party. Found a pair of women’s shoes and discarded unmentionables back there.” As he spoke, Spragg reached around, picked up a pair of women’s slippers and a pair of pantaloons and threw them to the ground. “She must’ve run off in hurry.”
“Is that the truth, lawdog?” said Goose Peltry, giving Abner Webb a cruel grin. “Was you back there chasing the cat this time of day? In broad daylight?”
Abner Webb didn’t answer. He kept his head bowed, avoiding the faces of the townsfolk.
“Answer me, Mr. Sheriff,” Goose Peltry demanded, reaching down with his pistol and raising Webb’s face with the tip of the barrel under his chin.
“I’m not the sheriff,” said Abner Webb in a weak voice, still keeping his eyes lowered as much as possible. “I’m the deputy.”
“Oh, I see,” said Goose. “Hear that boys? He ain’t the sheriff. He’s just a deputy…. So it’s all right, him taking time off for a little buckboard bouncing in the heat of the day!”
Goose Peltry reached with his pistol barrel, hooked the pair of pantaloons on it and raised them high in th
e air. With his free hand, he picked up one of the slippers from the dust and wagged it back and forth. “Any of you women missing these things, you best come on out here and claim ’em…else I’ll keep them for a souvenir.”
Among the townsfolk, Edmund Daniels’ face swelled red as he recognized the pantaloons and lunged forward. “Webb, you dirty, rotten snake! I’ll kill you!”
“Whoa, settle down!” shouted Goose. Two of his men grabbed Edmund Daniels and held him back. Goose and his men laughed aloud. Then he turned his attention back to Abner Webb. “I hope we ain’t gone and spilled the beans on something here,” he said.
Abner Webb hung his head and shook it back and forth, humiliated.
“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, Deputy?” Goose said, taunting Webb. “I bet this feller wouldn’t say a word if I was to blow your head all over the street.” He tightened his hand around the pistol butt.
“Cut it out, Goose!” Moses Peltry demanded, stepping forward and shoving his brother’s pistol away from Abner Webb’s head. “We ain’t got time for this foolishness! Where’s Smitson? What’s taking him so long in that barn?” He cut a glance toward the livery barn, then said to Frank Spragg and Gilbert Metts, “Y’all get over there…. See what’s the holdup. Has it occurred to any of yas that if this man is a deputy there might be a sheriff sneaking around here somewhere right now? You stupid bunch of cracker-neck peckerwoods!”
As Frank Spragg and Gilbert Metts hurried away on foot toward the livery barn, Goose Peltry reached back down and lifted Abner Webb’s chin on his pistol barrel again. “Is that true, Deputy? Is there a sheriff sneaking up on us right now? Ready to heap fire and damnation upon my dear brother Moses here?”
“Don’t you mock me, Goose. I’m warning you,” Moses Peltry hissed.
“He’s out of town today,” Abner Webb said in a defeated tone of voice.
“There. You hear that, Moses?” Goose beamed. “The sheriff ain’t here today. He’s gone out of town!” He looked back down at Abner Webb. “Pray tell, where is the sheriff off to?” he asked in a taunting voice.