Ralph Compton The Convict Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Kane shook his head.

  “Really? That’s a surprise. Evidently he’s quite a well-known Indian fighter.”

  Kane shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never fit Indians.”

  Mae St. John smiled. “Now, as to those mixed brands you alluded to—”

  “I what to?” Kane asked.

  “Mentioned, the brands you mentioned. As you know, Marshal, times are tough in Texas right now. With my last few dollars I bought those cattle cheap from ranchers who are already scraping the bottom of the last barrel. I intend to sell the herd at a good profit to Colonel Brennan.”

  Mae’s smile grew even more dazzling. Kane thought she looked like a young girl who had just walked into the brightly lit hall at her first cotillion. “Now you understand why there are so many different brands.”

  “It’s a long drive to Fort Smith,” Kane said. “Why not ship your beef in the boxcars?”

  The woman laughed, a good sound to Kane’s ear. “Marshal, the railroad quoted me a price of forty dollars a day and couldn’t guarantee the trip would take less than ten days. I don’t have that kind of money. As it is, my drovers are working for a percentage of the profits, so I can just about cut it.”

  As though she’d suddenly remembered something, Mae said, “Please don’t let Hyde Larson get to you, Marshal. He’s a top hand, but he can be a hothead by times.”

  Kane opened his mouth to speak, but the woman’s apologetic laugh stopped him. “Goodness gracious, what am I thinking? Where is my Texas hospitality? Light and set, Marshal, and pull your wagon in beside ours. Please join us for supper. We don’t have much, but what we have we’re willing to share.” Her eyes moved to the wagon again. “Are those men all prisoners?”

  Kane had stepped out of the saddle and now he stood near the woman, the sorrel’s reins in his hand. “Apart from Sam Shaver up on the box, they’re condemned criminals, ma’am. I’m taking them to Fort Smith to be hung at Judge Parker’s convenience.”

  May’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, how perfectly horrible!”

  Kane nodded. “A hangin’ ain’t purdy, ma’am, that’s fer certain.” He turned. “Sam, bring ’em in. Lay alongside the other wagon, but where I can see ’em, mind.”

  The old man slapped the reins and the mule team lurched into motion. When he got closer he stopped, measuring distances for a turn.

  “Good to see you, Mae. It’s been a long time.”

  Startled, Kane swiveled his head and glanced at the wagon. Stringfellow’s face was pressed against the bars and he was grinning hugely.

  It took the woman a moment; then her eyes widened in surprise. “Buff, is that you?”

  “As ever was.”

  Mae stepped to the wagon and Kane said, “I wouldn’t get too close, ma’am.”

  She ignored him and said, her eyes wandering over the cage and the ragged men inside, “I see you’re prospering, Buff.”

  “They’re planning to hang me, Mae.”

  “So I heard.” The woman turned to Kane. “What are the charges, Marshal?”

  “Murder, rape and robbery.”

  “Rape? Still can’t keep your hands off women, Buff, huh?”

  “Right now I wish my hands were on you.”

  “Damn you, Buff, get in line,” Amos Albright said. His lips were wet and his eyes were hot on the woman.

  Stringfellow’s backhand was vicious. His hard, scarred knuckles smashed into Albright’s nose and Kane heard bone break. The man let out a bubbling, piercing scream and fell to the bottom of the wagon, his mustache and beard red with blood.

  Stringfellow looked down at Albright. “You keep your dirty mouth shut. This woman ain’t anybody’s whore.”

  Albright groaned but made no reply.

  Sam leaned from his seat. “You all through, ma’am?” he asked.

  Mae nodded and took a step back.

  The wagon rolled past, Stringfellow never taking his eyes off the woman. For his part Kane was troubled. Stringfellow and Mae St. John had been friends once, probably a lot more than that. If she was a respectable rancher as she claimed, why would she be on first-name terms with an outlaw and vicious killer like Buff Stringfellow?

  The implications were not pleasant to contemplate and Kane looked at the sky as though to find the answer to his question there. He saw only the hollow moon herding a gathering of dark storm clouds.

  Chapter 9

  “I cain’t expect you to feed the prisoners, ma’am,” Sam said to Mae. “There’s a passel o’ them.”

  The convicts were sitting, lined up, at the base of a cottonwood. “Only five of us, old man,” Stringfellow said, grinning. “Amos seems to have lost his appetite.”

  Albright had his face in his hands, his shattered nose bubbling blood. Beside him, Hick Dietz nursed his ruined hand, looking at Kane, hate in his eyes.

  “Sorry-looking bunch, ain’t they, ma’am,” the marshal said. “If I get them to the gallows in one piece, I reckon it will be a miracle.”

  Joe Foster lifted his head, his pale blue eyes blazing. “Kane, I’m asking. Give me an even break with you. Put a gun in my hand and see what happens.”

  “Some men make big reputations gunning drunks an’ greenhorns, kid. I don’t think Marshal Kane cares to risk his in a fair fight.” Hyde Larson sat his horse at the rim of the firelight. He was smiling, but he was still and cold as ice.

  Quickly, Sam tried to salvage it. “The only place other folks make a name for themselves is on a tombstone, young feller. Them’s words of wisdom and maybe you should back off a ways an’ study on them for a spell.”

  But Kane was not annoyed and his smile was genuine, if thin. “Larson, you’re up on a hoss. If it comes down to it, how fast do you think can you skin them Remingtons from there?”

  “Fast enough. For somebody like you, anyways.”

  “I’ll give you some advice,” Kane said evenly. “Backin’ up hard words with gunplay is dangerous business, unless you’re a top hand at it. Miz St. John says you’re a top hand with cattle—she didn’t say nothing about guns.”

  “Enough!” Mae said. She left Kane and Sam standing at the fire and stepped beside Larson. “Hyde, Buck says the grub is nearly ready. Come to the fire and eat.” She laid the tips of her fingers on the young man’s knee. “There will be no gunplay. I’m depending on you to get the herd to Fort Smith.”

  The woman could have read uncertainty in Larson’s eyes, because her voice suddenly hardened. “Do as I say!”

  Larson made no answer, but he touched his hat to Mae and rode into the blue darkness beyond the circle of firelight.

  Mae stepped back to Kane and the old man. “I’ll feed your prisoners tonight, Sam,” she said. “And you and the marshal. What have you been giving them? They look kind of sharp set.”

  “Salt pork, ma’am, an’ pan bread. An’ coffee of course, though I just bile up the grounds fer them.”

  Mae turned to the man called Buck who was standing over the fire, stirring a blackened pot. “What’s for supper?”

  “Bacon an’ beans,” answered Buck, a sour-looking man in his mid-forties. “Like always.”

  “I’d say it’s a step up from salt pork,” Mae said.

  Kane thought she looked too eager to please, like a woman who was not by nature or inclination friendly but was going out of her way to be pleasant.

  Sam missed that, or appeared to. “Haven’t had bacon in a coon’s age, ma’am.” He grinned. “Thankee fer the invite.”

  Kane sat with his back against a tree where he could keep an eye on the prisoners. When Sam brought him a plate, he propped his rifle upright beside him.

  “Fixin’ to storm again, Logan,” the old man said. “Looks like.”

  “An’ it smells like. Sure as shootin’ there’s sulfur in the air.”

  But Kane was only half listening. His gaze was on Mae St. John. Sam had fed the prisoners, including Albright, who had apparently decided he could sit up and take nourishment, but the woman had i
nsisted on fixing Stringfellow’s plate.

  “Only for old time’s sake, you understand,” she’d said.

  Now the marshal watched Mae as she carried food to the outlaw. Stringfellow was at the end of the line and the woman sat beside him. She handed the man the plate and for a moment Kane saw their fingertips touch, like furtive lovers.

  Stringfellow began to eat. Then he bent his head close to Mae and whispered something in her ear. The woman listened intently, but her expression did not change. She looked across at Kane and smiled.

  Whatever she was, or had been, the marshal decided that Mae St. John was a woman who would play her cards close to her chest. What had Stringfellow just said to her? Kane had no way of knowing and the woman would not tell him.

  The sky flashed with blue electricity and a wind was rising, setting the cottonwoods to whispering. Something big plopped in the creek, and out on the high plains the coyotes were talking back and forth.

  Over by the fire, Hyde Larson was drinking whiskey steadily, a bad omen that set Kane on edge.

  After scraping up the last of his beans the marshal set the plate aside and began to build a smoke. But he stopped when Mae left Stringfellow’s side, walked past the fire and sat beside him. Up close she was a handsome woman. Her hazel eyes were large and lustrous and her auburn hair was thick, hanging over her shoulders in glossy curls. The woman’s mouth was too wide for true beauty and little arcs formed at the corners of her lips when she smiled.

  Mae looked askance at the untidy makings in Kane’s fingers. “Here, let me do that,” she said. “I’ve yet to meet the man who could roll a cigarette properly.”

  She finished building the smoke with deft, sure fingers, then sealed it shut with the tip of her tongue. Mae put the cigarette between Kane’s lips. “There, see how easy it is?”

  Kane thumbed a match into flame, lit his smoke and inhaled deeply. “I’m obliged to you,” he said. He turned his head to the woman. “Tell me about it.”

  “About Buff, you mean?”

  The marshal nodded.

  “I first met him about three years ago. I’d just inherited the ranch after my pa died. The range was overgrazed and the herd was in poor shape, and I was having a hard time making ends meet. Then, one evening just before supper, Buff rode in.”

  Mae pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around them. Her eyes were shining with memories.

  “Oh, you should have seen him then, Marshal, mounted on a tall, black American stud, more silver on his saddle and gun belt than I’d ever seen in one place at one time. He wore a red shirt and black pants and had a big, white sombrero on his head with a silver band.” Mae laughed. “My, but he was a grand sight to see.”

  Nothing about the woman’s speech pleased Kane, but he let it go. “Did you know he was an outlaw?”

  “No. But back then I wouldn’t have cared. I asked him to step down and he did. He lived for three months with me and helped me put the ranch in shape. Well, him and Buck that is. Buck was my only hand back then.”

  “And one day he just rode out.”

  “I woke one morning and Buff was gone. I never saw him again until today.”

  “So he never told you why.”

  Mae shrugged. “A man like Buff can’t stay long in one place. It would be easier to try to fence the wind.” Her gaze moved to Kane’s eyes and held there. “Marshal, I don’t believe what they say about Buff. A woman can’t share her life and her bed with a man for months and not get to know him. He’s capable of many things, but he would never harm a woman. That’s—that’s just too hard to believe.”

  “Hard to believe, all right,” Kane commented, his face emotionless.

  “Logan!”

  Sam Shaver’s voice, sharp with warning, cut through the night. He’d been picking up the prisoners’ plates and now he was standing still, watching Larson, who was now on his feet, swaying slightly. His eyes were intent on Kane.

  Sam took it on himself to provide commentary to go along with the young man’s actions. “Kid’s on the prod, Marshal.”

  Kane’s awareness sharpened as it always did before a scrape. He was aware that the prisoners were leaning forward, their tense faces hungry. Stringfellow was grinning like a wolf. Beside him, Kane was aware of Mae’s sharp intake of breath. She rose slowly to her feet, her eyes on Larson.

  The marshal stayed where he was, prepared to play out whatever hand was dealt to him.

  Larson adjusted his gun belts on his lean hips and stepped away from the firelight. He stopped when he was a few yards from Kane, but his eyes went to Mae. “I’m ordering that man out,” he said, nodding to the marshal. “I don’t want him around here no more.”

  “That’s the ticket, kid,” a prisoner laughed.

  “Hey, Larson, what about us?” said Stringfellow.

  “You can stay.” The man’s eyes dropped to Kane. “He goes.”

  The marshal smiled. “Don’t like lawmen much, huh?”

  “I hate the breed, especially you. I heard about you, about your big rep. Well, now I’m going to take it all away from you. Get to your feet.”

  His voice even, Kane said, “Kid, if I stand up, I’ll kill you. Don’t make me do that.”

  Mae St. John took a step toward Larson. “Hyde, you’ve been drinking. Go sleep it off. Now!”

  “I’m not backing down, not this time, lady. Kane has a choice—drop his guns and ride out of here with his tail between his legs or die where he lays. The proposition ain’t real complicated.”

  The marshal’s gaze lifted to Larson’s face. “You’ve spelled it out clear enough.” Kane rose to his feet, death in his eyes. “All right, let’s see what you got, boy.”

  Larson’s hands dropped to his Remingtons. He never made it. A single shot, and his head exploded into a scarlet and white fan of blood, brain and bone. There was enough time remaining in the man’s life for a single, terrified scream. Then he staggered a few steps and crashed onto his back.

  “You killed him!” Mae shrieked.

  Stunned for a moment, Kane glanced down at the unfired Colt in his hand. His eyes darted to Sam, but the old man’s arms were dangling at his side and his face bore a shocked expression. Finally Sam recovered enough to point across the clearing where the rustling pines were lost in darkness. “It came from the trees, Logan. Rifle shot.”

  “Sam, put your scattergun on the prisoners!” Kane yelled. Without waiting for a reply, he sprinted across the clearing and pulled up when he reached the tree line.

  His Colt ready, the marshal stepped warily. There was little underbrush to slow him and he walked on a carpet of pine needles. Ahead he saw an impenetrable wall of blackness. Only when the soundless lightning flared did the trees momentarily come to life, their trunks shimmering with a ghostly sapphire light.

  Kane stopped, listening into the silence. His mouth was a thin, hard line and his ragged mustache drooped to cheeks that were drawn tight against the bone. He moved again, cursing under his breath when the crown of his hat scraped against a tree branch and was swept from his head. Kane took a knee and fumbled about in the darkness, found the hat and jammed it back on his head. He rose to his feet, then froze.

  Someone or something was running fast toward him. Ahead of him Kane caught a blur of motion and his Colt came up fast. A few small branches cracked and then whatever it was almost landed right on top of him.

  But the deer sensed danger and bounded to its right. The marshal had a fleeing impression of wide, frightened eyes and a flash of tan coat. Then the animal was past him, vanishing into the night.

  His heart hammering in his chest, Kane stood for a moment to regain his composure, then walked on, feeling his way around the tree trunks. A moment later, not far ahead of him, he heard the pounding of retreating hooves; then the echoing silence crowded around him again.

  Kane hurried his pace, helped by lightning that flashed more frequently now, shading the darkness among the pines from black to purple. Gradually the forest thinned and
he looked out on the plain that mocked him with its emptiness.

  On the way back to camp, Kane paced off the distance. He came up with eighty yards, maybe a little more. The bushwhacker, whoever he was, had made an excellent shot under difficult circumstances, hitting a small, moving target in poor light.

  The marshal was impressed—and more than a little troubled.

  But what if there was another possibility? Perhaps the marksman was not as good as Kane gave him credit for and the bullet had been aimed at him.

  That thought was not calculated to help a man sleep well o’ nights.

  When Kane returned to the campfire, Mae St. John and her two remaining hands were standing over Larson’s body. Sam was by the prisoners, his shotgun cradled in his arms.

  A huge chunk of Larson’s skull had been blown away and his open eyes still showed his fear and surprise at the time and manner of his dying.

  Mae’s eyes lifted to the tall marshal. “Did you see anything?”

  “Heard a hoss.”

  The woman looked at the man called Ed. “Get out to the herd. We’ll bury Hyde in the morning.”

  The man touched his hat. “Anything you say, ma’am.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “Leaves us shorthanded though, don’t it?”

  “Maybe I can pick up a drover along the way.”

  “Ain’t likely, ma’am,” Ed said. “Not in these parts.”

  All at once the horror of Larson’s death caught up with Mae, and her anger flashed. “Ed Brady, don’t tell me what I can’t do. For a change try telling me what I can do.”

  Chastened, the man touched his hat. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll study on that very thing.”

  A few moments later Brady rode out to be with the herd and Sam stepped beside Kane. He looked at Larson’s body and said, “That boy must’ve made a mighty powerful enemy.”

  Buck pointed at Kane. “Either that or he has a mighty powerful friend. I reckoned the kid was gonna gun him fer sure.” His old, red-rimmed eyes swept the marshal’s face. “Heaven’s lookin’ out fer you, boy.” He paused. “Or hell.”