by Elmer Kelton
Heart in his throat, Mark spurred hard, bringing up the rear and keeping the fire going, holding the Rankin bunch off as much as he could from the rest of the men up front. Once again he caught sight of Edsel Rankin, but he couldn’t get a clear shot at him. He looked for Floyd Rankin. He saw him nowhere in this group of riders.
With Will Tony in front, the possemen reached a break in the arroyo wall and put their horses up out of it. Claude Nichols’s horse stumbled on the treacherous footing and went down on its knees. Nichols spurred anxiously, giving the animal its head.
From out of the dust, Edsel Rankin shoved up on the far bank of the arroyo. He shouted Nichols’s name and fired. Nichols slumped over his horse’s neck. Mark triggered another shot at Edsel, and the outlaw pulled back. Nichols’s horse got its footing and went up out of the arroyo. Harley Mills grabbed Nichols in time to keep him from sliding out of the saddle.
Mark came out of the arroyo last, turning back to fire once more as he reached the level ground on top. He heard wild bullets whine out into the brush. Will Tony was down on the ground, kneeling with his saddlegun in his hand, ignoring the fire around him to take slow and careful aim. Every time he pulled the trigger, a man or a horse went down on the opposite side.
“Come on, Will,” Mark shouted. But Will seemed transfixed. He kept on firing.
Mark pulled his horse up beside him, leaned down and grabbed Will’s arm. “Come on, Will,” he shouted again. “We’ve got to find better cover. They’ll be over in a minute.”
They pulled back into deeper brush, with Harley holding the wounded Nichols in the saddle. The Rankin crew had found a place where they could jump their horses over the arroyo. They continued swapping fire with the possemen, but they kept a respectful distance. Neither side’s fire was effective.
“The only thing we can do now is wait for dark, so we can slip out of here,” Mark said.
He turned to see how badly hurt Joe Franks was, and found Homer Brill already wrapping Franks’ arm. Tight-lipped, but forcing a grin, Joe said, “A dog bit me worse than this, once.”
“How long did he live?” Homer asked.
Claude Nichols was hard hit. Blood oozed from a hole high in his left shoulder. They had a hard time stopping the bleeding. Nichols lay groaning, his face the color of paste, cold sweat standing on his forehead.
“They smashed his shoulder,” Harley said. He had sure and gentle fingers when it came to a thing like this. He was wrapping the wound. “He’ll die, just lying here.”
“Let him,” Will Tony growled. “He’s one of them.”
“No.” Mark shook his head. “We can’t just let him die without a chance. You’ve got to admit he kept his end of the bargain.”
“Did he? They were waiting for us, weren’t they? He must’ve gotten word to them somehow.”
Luke Merchant spoke up. “They got their word all the way from Lofton, Will. Didn’t anybody see him but me?”
“See who?” Mark demanded.
“Jase Duncan. He was with Edsel Rankin a while ago.”
“Then Krisman’s tied up with the Rankin boys,” Will said bitterly.
“Maybe,” Mark Truitt replied. “But more likely they’ve been using him, and he just didn’t have sense enough to see it.”
He bent over Nichols. “Nichols, can you hear me?”
Nichols nodded weakly. “I hear you.” His voice was raspy.
“We’ve got to get you out of here. We’ll help you, but you’ve got to ride. Can you make it?”
Nichols nodded again.
Mark said, “Where’s the closest place we can take you where you can get some care?”
“A little town called Rosita. I have a girl there. She’ll help me.”
“Where is it?”
“Ten miles west.”
“Do you have enough strength to help us find it in the dark?”
“I’ll try.”
Darkness was not long in coming. Under its cover, and before the moon could rise, the seven men moved out as quietly as they could, making a wide circle to avoid the Rankin bunch. When Mark thought they were in the clear, he struck a straight line west, guided by the stars.
They finally came across a pair of ruts worn by wagon and cart wheels. Nichols indicated that these would take them into Rosita. It was well they did, for he lapsed into unconsciousness and was useless from then on. They took turns holding him in the saddle—all but Will Tony. He made it plain that he thought they ought to leave Nichols right there in the road.
Luke Merchant pulled in beside Mark. “What do we do now, Mark—go back?”
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to figure anything out. It depends, I guess, on what you men want to do. But I’m not ready to give up without one more good try.”
It was near midnight when they suddenly came upon Rosita. Every dog in town seemed to notice them and run out to bark around the horses’ heels. The horses were too tired to pay much attention.
Rosita was a haphazard collection of adobe buildings and rude jacales, most of them long since dark. Only in one, far down the street, could Mark see light. He heard the listless plunking of a guitar from that one.
The barking of the dogs made Nichols stir. Mark shook him gently. “We’re in town,” he said. “Which house?”
Nichols groaned.
“Which house, Nichols?” Mark pressed him.
Nichols roused himself enough to point. It was an adobe, with most of the plaster gone and the mud blocks disintegrating from lack of care. Mark knocked on the rough wood door. There was no sound, so he knocked again. Presently a dim light glowed through cracks in the door. He heard a bar being lifted out of place. The door swung open and an old Mexican man stood there in nothing but his pants, holding a flickering candle.
“Que pasa?” he asked sleepily.
“Tenemos un amigo aqui,” said Mark. “We have a friend of yours here. He’s wounded.”
The Mexican held the candle to Nichols’s face, and then woke up abruptly. “Maria! Maria!”
Mark and Homer Brill carried the wounded man into the house and laid him down on a blanket on the dirt floor, where the old Mexican evidently had been sleeping. A girl came in from the other room of the small house, tugging at a loose cotton dress.
“Quien es, Papa?”
She recognized Nichols then, and her hand went up to her mouth. “Claudio!”
For a moment she swayed in shock. Then she got hold of herself and knelt by the man’s side. Mark helped her turn Nichols over on his stomach. She tore away the shirt and saw the wound. She shouted orders at the old man. He brought a bottle of tequila, and she began using it to clean the wound. Nichols was in the hands of a good nurse, Mark figured. There was no need of their remaining here any longer.
“One thing,” he told the girl. “He’s hiding from the Rankins. If they find out he’s here, they’ll come and kill him.”
The old Mexican’s eyes widened. “Rankin? But the rojo, the little Floyd, he is in town now. He drinks at the cantina.”
“Are you sure?” Mark demanded.
“Si, señor. All day he has been there, drinking tequila. He makes my son Pepe play the guitar for him. Pepe has not yet come home.”
Will Tony’s face clouded. “We don’t have to go home empty-handed, then. We can get one Rankin.”
Mark said, “That we can, Will. We might even get two Rankins before this is over. Let’s go.”
They remounted and moved up the street, if it might be called a street. It was a meandering trail, worn more by convenience than by plan. Only one building showed a light, and the lone guitar still strummed inside. Even without seeing the crude lettering on the front, Mark knew this had to be the cantina.
He saw two horses standing hipshot in front, hitched to a post. They were gaunt. They probably had stood there like that all day, without anyone’s bothering to feed or water them.
The cantina had an open window. Sometime in the past there had been a pane, but the glass was long sinc
e gone. Mark leaned low in the saddle for a glimpse inside.
He saw a man, an American, slumped asleep in a chair at a table, an overturned bottle lying in front of him. Another man, a Mexican, half asleep, listlessly fingered a guitar. And in a corner sat red-haired Floyd Rankin, holding a plumpish, dark-skinned girl on his lap. He was kissing her hungrily, his hand roving up and down her back.
He stopped once to drink from a bottle. It tipped over as he set it down on the dirt floor. He laughed foolishly, caught it, and set it up again. Then he went back to kissing the girl.
“Wake up that guitar, Pepe,” he shouted. “How can I make love without music?”
The guitar music livened up for a moment, then slowed again. Pepe was tired and sleepy and wanted to go home.
Mark pulled back and dismounted. The others followed suit. “Here, Joe,” he said. “You’d better hold the horses. The rest of you come in with me. No shooting unless we have to. I want Floyd Rankin alive.”
He pushed the door open and moved well inside, gun in hand. The possemen fanned out on either side of him. Floyd Rankin’s gun belt hung from a chair by his corner table. He jumped to his feet, dumping the plump girl unceremoniously on the floor. He reached for the gun.
“Don’t do it, Rankin. We’ll kill you!”
Too drunk to reason, Rankin hesitated. Mark took two quick steps forward and grabbed the gun belt. At the last second Floyd Rankin lunged for it, and sprawled out drunkenly on the dirt floor. Mark pitched the gun belt back to Harley Mills.
He took a quick glance over the room. There had been only three men in it besides Rankin—the guitar player, a nodding old man behind the plank bar, and the sleeping American at the table. All of them were awake now.
The American was slow in coming around. When at last he perceived what was taking place, he made a grab at his hip. But Homer Brill had already relieved him of his gun.
“Just sit there and keep still,” Mark said roughly. “We’re not interested in you.”
To Rankin he said, “Come on, Floyd. You’re riding with us.”
Rankin was sobering quickly. “That badge doesn’t mean a thing down here, Truitt. Besides, they tell me you were going to lose that election. You’re not the sheriff any more anyhow. You have no right to take me back to jail.”
“Correct,” Mark said coldly. “I have no right, so I’m not taking you to jail. I’m going to take you back and turn you over to the ranchers. They’ll know what to do with you.”
It was a lie, but it served the purpose. Folks said the Rankins were fearless, but there was fear in Floyd Rankin’s eyes now. Even the coldest of them was likely to feel sick at the thought of rough hemp drawing tight around his neck.
“The ranchers? That’ll be a lynch mob, Truitt. There won’t even be a trial.”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t imagine there will. You’ve never given anybody a trial before you killed him. Let’s move out.”
Will Tony protested, nodding toward the other American at the table. “What about this one? He’s part of the bunch.”
Mark replied, “We probably couldn’t prove it. We’ve got a Rankin, and one prisoner is enough. Let that one go.”
Will Tony hesitated, looking for a moment as if he might shoot the outlaw anyway.
“I said let him go,” Mark gritted.
The outlaw swallowed hard, his face gone pale. He was suddenly cold sober. The plump girl began shaking her fist and cursing the possemen. She scooped up an empty tequila bottle from the floor and hurled it at them. She rushed at Will Tony, her sharp fingernails reaching for his eyes. Will slapped her so hard she fell to the floor.
They hustled Floyd Rankin out the door and slammed it behind them.
“Which horse is yours, Floyd?”
Instead of replying, Rankin tried to make a run for it. Mark stuck out his foot and tripped him. He pounced on him, dropping his knee on the man’s stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
“You can just get that kind of business out of your head.”
He took out the handcuffs he had used on Nichols and clamped them on Rankin’s wrists.
“Which horse, Floyd?”
Rankin gasped for breath. When he got it back, he said weakly, “The dun.”
They put him on it and rode out, heading due north. They crossed the big river before they stopped to rest the horses, and then only because Mark was afraid the animals couldn’t make the remainder of the trip unless they halted awhile. The riders dismounted stiff and weary and hungry, and most of them flopped down upon the ground.
But Will Tony sat upright, a lingering resentment in his face. He hadn’t spoken since they left Rosita. Now he glared at Floyd Rankin. Mark knew Will was half hoping Rankin would try to run again, so he could have an excuse to shoot him.
“What’s eating you, Will? You’ve been in a black mood ever since we left that town.”
“It’s that other one, the one we let go. We ought to’ve shot him like a snake. We oughtn’t let a single one of them get away.”
“I didn’t just let him go, Will. I turned him loose for a reason.”
“What reason could there be?”
“To tell Edsel Rankin what happened. To put him on our trail. If he thinks we’re going to turn Floyd over to the ranchers for a hanging, he won’t waste any time coming after us.”
“And what do we do when he does?”
“We’ll just try to be ready.”
Mark had never seen a chained wolf act meaner than Floyd Rankin was acting now. “You won’t get away with this, Truitt,” Floyd said, snarling. “Edsel will eat you up alive.”
“We’ll see.” Truitt decided to try his luck getting a little information out of Floyd. “Edsel’s pretty smooth, having Jase Duncan in Lofton to spy for him.”
Floyd grinned gloatingly. “So you finally found out about Jase. It took you long enough.”
“You even had Dalton Krisman on your side.”
“Yeah, only he’s too dumb to know it. Edsel sent him campaign money to beat you, but he didn’t let Krisman know where it came from. Jase would give it to him and tell him he collected it among friends who wanted to see him put you out of office. He beat you, too, didn’t he?”
“He beat me,” Mark said.
“Edsel’s smart. He’ll fix your wagon. You just wait and see.”
They rested until well past sunup, then started out again. But the horses were still tired. The riders had to go slow to keep from wearing them out. Every so often they would get off and walk awhile, leading, saving the horses.
Mark Truitt kept watching the back trail for dust. He didn’t think Rankin could be on them this soon, but he couldn’t be sure. One thing a man had to admit about the Rankins, they would do just what you thought they wouldn’t. Rankin would have fresh horses, and the trail the posse was leaving was clear enough for a ten-year-old boy to follow.
The long, hot day sapped them of strength. They needed sleep, and the heavy hands of fatigue were on every man’s shoulder. Hot and miserable though he was, the grimy sweat working into his eyes and down his collar, Mark found himself dozing occasionally as he rode.
He had a rope around Floyd Rankin’s neck, the other end tied to his own horn, so Rankin could not run away. The sun was well into the brassy western sky when they caught the welcome sight of old George Frisco’s adobe ranch house. The horses were barely going to make it.
As before, the dogs met them, setting up an awful racket, but now it disturbed the horses not at all. George Frisco hobbled out from his open-front adobe barn and waved his hand.
Mark half fell off, he was so tired. George hurried to him and steadied him. The old man said with concern, “Don’t you fellers ever know when to quit? Get down, all of you, and rest yourselves. I’ll hustle you something to eat.”
He noticed Floyd Rankin then. His gray-bearded jaw dropped. “Looks as if you made you a haul. But where’s the other one?”
Mark said, “He’ll be along directly, I expect.�
�� He shook his head. “You may not like what we’re fixing to do to you, George. I’d have asked you first, if I could. There’s liable to be a mighty big fight here after a while. I think you’d better ride off out in the brush and wait till it’s over.”
George frowned. “You mean Edsel’s coming after this young heathen?”
Mark nodded. “He’s our bait.”
“How many men will Edsel be bringing?”
“There’s no way of telling.” The old man lifted a rifle off a pair of pegs on the wall, and opened the breech. “Then one more on your side won’t hurt you any. Hell no, I’m not going to ride off into the brush and hide.”
While George Frisco hurriedly prepared something for the hungry men to eat, Mark walked out to scout around the house, hunting places that would provide good cover. By the time they had all eaten, a pinpoint of dust was showing up to the south, along their back trail. “I’m going to stand here on the porch and draw them in,” Mark said. “I have places picked out for the rest of you. If Edsel Rankin can set a trap, so can we.”
Joe Franks, with the stiff arm, took a saddlegun and moved out behind an old wagon which lay upended, one wheel off. Homer Brill found a shovel and scooped himself a shallow hole behind a green clump of prickly pear. Harley Mills squatted beside a half dugout which once had been a home for somebody, before the adobe was built, and now was used for storage. Luke Merchant and old George Frisco took opposite ends of the barn.
“There’s a little ditch right over yonder, Will,” Mark said. “It’s got enough brush to hide you, and it’ll let you cover the front of the house.”
“You mean you’re going to stand out on the porch here, in the open, and let them ride right in on you, Mark?”
“Somebody’s got to decoy them, Will, so the rest of you can get a good shot.”
“And what if you don’t get time to duck back through that door when the shooting starts?”
Mark didn’t answer that. “Get on out yonder, Will, while there’s still time.”