“He hires hisself out for mischief,” Chaw said. “And he’s been on both sides o’ the law. Trouble with Walt Deacon is that he’s tempted by money. He’d guard your cattle till death did him part unless another feller offered him a cut for helping to rustle ’em.”
A call came from the lookout to the west. “Riders a-coming in!”
The group waited while two^ horsemen approached slowly and carefully with their hands in view. The pair rode directly toward the cattle camp. After a few minutes they could easily be recognized as Big Ed MacWilliams and Sheriff Dan Sims.
“Wonder what brings them two away from the comforts of Duncan,” Chaw remarked.
“Big Ed prob’ly misses our business,” Doak Timmons said. “We ain’t exactly been bellying up to that Deep River Saloon bar like we did in the past.”
“He’d better not have brung no liquor out here with him,” Doak Timmons said. “I got a no-drinking rule out here on the drive.”
“There ain’t nothing wrong with a nip, is there?” Chaw asked licking his lips. “It helps to cut the dust in a feller’s throat.”
“The rule is no drinking out here,” Tim Hawkins said. “And that goes special for you boys from my Circle H Bar.”
A couple of cowboys from the other outfits laughed out loud. It was common knowledge that the young man spent most evenings in Big Ed’s place while his drovers stuck to their jobs out at the arroyo.
When Sheriff Sims spotted the body, he kicked his horse’s flanks and cantered up to it. Dismounting, he knelt down and looked the man over. “Who done it?”
“A little bird,” Chaw said. “A little bird with a big shooting iron.”
Sims gave the old man a cold stare. “When I ask a question, I expect to be treated with respect like a law officer should be.”
“I packed a star or two in my day,” Chaw said. “And I’d never be pushy enough—or dumb enough—to ask much about a shot feller in a crowd o’ cowboys out on the prairie.”
“Well, you ain’t me, are you?” Sims said. “Who shot this man?”
“I did,” Rawley said. “Self-defense.” He indicated his bandaged shoulder and the sling.
Sims shrugged. “I reckon I got to take your word on that, Pierson.”
“I reckon you do,” Rawley said.
“Does anybody know him?” Sims asked.
“Sure,” Rawley said. “His name’s Walt Deacon. I had some run-ins with him before. Fact o’ the matter, I was the one who brung him in on a charge that got him five years in the state prison.”
“So he come out here for a showdown, huh?” the sheriff said. “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
“What do you mean?” Rawley asked coldly. “Maybe it was you that got a shaved head and striped suit,” Sims said.
“You ain’t calling me a liar, are you, Sheriff?” Sims said nothing for a moment. He stared straight into Rawley’s eyes before saying, “No, I ain’t.”
“He shot me from a distance with his Henry rifle,” Rawley said.
“From a distance?” Sims asked. He looked again at the body. “He looks like he was hit close-up. His clothes is all powder-burnt. How’d that come about?”
“Like Chaw said—don’t be pushy or dumb,” Rawley said. “I say it’s self-defense and that’s what it is.”
“Did he beat the shit out of you too?” Sims asked, looking at Rawley’s face.
“Nope.”
Sims, an observant man, had already seen how Tim Hawkins looked. “I reckon it was just a cowboy argument, huh?”
“I reckon,” Rawley said.
Big Ed MacWilliams now noticed Tim’s battered and swollen features. Surprised, he smiled and motioned to the young man to follow him away from the crowd a bit. When they were out of hearing, he said, “Looks like you and Pierson had a disagreement.”
“We did,” Tim said sullenly. “I got mad about him over Nancy.”
Big Ed’s expression darkened. “Has Pierson been bothering her?”
“No,” Tim said, shaking his head. “They’re declaring.”
“What?” Big Ed clenched his teeth in a rage that he could barely keep a clamp on.
“That sonofabitch is prob’ly gonna be my brother-in-law,” Tim said. “Nancy told me so herself. I come out here and jumped him about it.”
Big Ed calmed down some. “Now, now, Tim. Don’t you worry none. Ain’t you and me been friends for a long time now? I’ll help you outta this one.”
“I’d be obliged, Big Ed,” Tim said. “I don’t like him one damn bit. And I particular don’t want my sister marrying up with one o’ the hands.”
“I’ll give you some help, just like I do with money,” Big Ed said in a kindly tone.
“I’m obliged, Big Ed,” Tim said gratefully.
The two walked back to the crowd. The Lazy S’s Slim Watkins looked at Big Ed. “What brings you and the sheriff all the way out here? I know you didn’t hear about this shooting.”
Big Ed shrugged. “We don’t see you fellers much and I didn’t have nothing to do. Me and Dan was just flapping our jaws, so we decided to ride out and find out what’s been going on.”
“We been shooting no-good bushwhacking sonofabitches,” Chaw Stevens said.
“That’s easy to see,” Big Ed remarked.
“Can you fellers spare us a cup of hot, strong coffee?” Sims asked.
“There’s some over to the chuck wagon,” Slim said. “Help yourself.”
“By the way,” the sheriff remarked. “Are you gonna bury Deacon or just let him rot?”
“We’re gonna let the buzzards and coyotes have him,” Chaw said.
“No. We’ll stick him in the ground,” Rawley said. “Not so much for respect as for keeping him from stinking up the range out here.”
“It don’t matter one way or the other to me,” Sims said. “We got no undertaker in town anyhow.” He tapped Big Ed’s shoulder. “Let’s get some o’ that brew.”
Both Big Ed and Sheriff Dan Sims enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee. They chatted a bit with the ranchers while the cowboys went back to watching the cattle and guarding the camp. After an hour, the two remounted and rode back across the prairie toward town.
As soon as they were out of sight of the drovers, Sims chuckled and glanced over at Big Ed. “Well, so much for hiring Walt Deacon. I think that’s what the feller meant when he talked about throwing good money after bad.”
“That ain’t funny,” Big Ed snapped.
“I’ve heard of Rawley Pierson before,” Sims said. “Him and that bow-legged sidekick kept things under control in a coupla towns that had got wild and woolly.”
“If you know so much about ’em, how come you never mentioned that before?” Big Ed asked.
“Hell! It seemed to me that you could figger that out yourself after they kicked hell out of a coupla your boys. Or at least you should have had an inkling they was good in about any kind o’ fight that come their way.”
Big Ed clammed up. He rode the rest of the way into town seething inside. Hearing of Nancy Hawkins and Rawley Pierson had increased his hatred to an extent that he could barely think of the romance without trembling with rage.
When they reached the Deep River Saloon they found Calvin Witherspoon pacing back and forth on the porch. He watched them intently as they left their horses tied to the hitching rail and joined him.
“Well?” Witherspoon asked.
“Your boy got his ass shot,” Sheriff Sims said. “He’s dead as dead can be. The feller he tried to dry-gulch turned the game around on him.”
“It seems our sheriff here knew more about Rawley Pierson than he told us,” Big Ed said. “He’s a hell of a hard man to take.”
“Goddamn it!” Witherspoon cursed. “Deacon was supposed to shoot him from a distance!”
“He did,” Big Ed said. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but he hit Rawley in the shoulder from long range and Rawley shot him almost point-blank.”
“That’s impos
sible!” Witherspoon snapped.
Sims shrugged. “I kinda figger that when Pierson was hit, he went down into deep grass and prob’ly laid waiting for whoever shot him to show up.”
“That makes sense,” Big Ed said. “So when that dumb bastard walks to where he thinks he is, Pierson hauls off and puts a coupla slugs in him.”
Witherspoon shook his head. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t be in complete control of this situation. Yet things are happening that keep putting us behind schedule.”
“Cattlemen ain’t predictable when they’re riled,” Sims observed. “You ain’t buying railroad stock here, Witherspoon. You’re trying to run a bunch of tough sonofabitches offn their ranches!”
“We got to get Pierson,” Big Ed insisted. “With him gone, we can handle the rest.”
“What the hell do you want to do?” Witherspoon asked. “Spend a small fortune sending hired guns after him until one finally gets lucky to put in a killing shot?”
“Maybe we ought to use our brains and put some thoughts to this,” Big Ed said.
Witherspoon barked a sarcastic laugh. “Now that’d be a big change, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t see how there’s much of a choice,” Sims said. “That gang that was kept on a payroll has melted away mostly. Right now, we couldn’t get a good raid on the cattle camp going if we wanted to.”
“Now isn’t this just great?” Witherspoon said aloud. He paced back and forth on the porch waving his arms up and down. “One cowboy and his broken-down pal have brought a million-dollar operation to a complete standstill.”
“Calm down,” Big Ed said. “And I wasn’t joshing when I said it was time we tried something a hell of a lot smarter.”
Sims looked over at the saloon owner. “You’re beginning to sound like you might have something in mind, Big Ed.”
Witherspoon suddenly felt hopeful. “Yeah. Has an idea sprung into your mind?”
“Not a complete one yet,” Big Ed said. “But there’s one way to get both Pierson and Chaw Stevens into a spot bad for ’em. We got a real ace in the hole for that.”
“What are you talking about?” Witherspoon demanded.
Big Ed smiled. “Tim Hawkins.”
“Anything in particular on your mind?” Sims asked. “Well, first thing we got to do is throw some more hot lead Pierson’s way,” Big Ed said. “I want him nervous and mean as hell.”
“That means more money!” Witherspoon complained.
“Look at it this way,” Big Ed said in a soothing tone. “If one of ’em happens to get lucky, we’ll finally be ahead o’ that damn schedule you keep talking about.”
Fifteen
The sky was overcast, making the weather a lot cooler than it had been for more than a week. The clouds, though high, did much to keep the sun off the Diablos. But Rawley Pierson wasn’t enjoying the improvement much. Between boredom and his aching shoulder, he felt restless.
Shifting his arm in the sling from time to time, Rawley rode slowly along the arroyo rim keeping an eye on the milling cattle. He felt absolutely useless. There were enough men around to keep an eye out on things, and such pointless activity always made him edgy and nervous. As far as he was concerned, it was like the worst part of being a sheriff—the long tedious hours of waiting with nothing to do while the town was quiet and peaceful. Even if there was a raid on the camp, there was little he could do but fire at the attackers. He was in no shape to chase after the spoilers.
Finally, after his fifth circuit of the area, Rawley pulled on the reins of his horse and rode slowly outward toward the guards watching out on the Diablos for any unexpected visitors. He went past the limits of the camp and rode farther, moving slowly.
“Ho, Rawley!” Chaw Stevens’s voice drifted across the prairie.
Rawley turned in his saddle and saw his friend a hundred yards away. He waved at him with his good arm. “Ho, Chaw!”
Chaw kicked his mount into a canter and crossed the flat terrain, drawing up close. “Where’re you off to?”
“I just got tired, o’ riding around and around that damn arroyo,” Rawley said. “There’s five fellers and the cook there anyhow.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” Chaw said. “Where’re you off to?”
“I’m going over to where I gunned Walt Deacon,” Rawley said. “There might be something there worth finding.”
Chaw looked at the sling. “It don’t appear like Deacon was onliest one that got gunned.”
Rawley grinned weakly. “I reckon not. But I’ll allow that between him and me, I’m the onliest one that can ride over there.”
“And I’ll allow how you’re right. And speaking of getting shot, how’s the shoulder?” Chaw inquired.
“Kinda paining me, but it makes me feel more mad than hurt,” Rawley answered.
“You’d best be careful,” Chaw warned him. “If that thing gets all pusy and puffed up, you’re gonna be in a lotta trouble. There ain’t no doctor in Duncan, y’know.” He eyed Rawley suspiciously. “Are you planning on doing something real dumb?”
“Nope.”
“You do a lotta dumb things, Rawley,” Chaw reminded him. “Like when you went into the saloon in Benton after them three Mexicans without waiting for me.
Rawley nodded. “That was dumb,” he agreed. “And then there was the time you went out to the Claxton ranch to serve them papers,” Chaw said. “That was dumb.”
“That was dumb,” Rawley repeated.
“And then—”
“Do I gotta hear ever’ dumb thing I did in my whole life?” Rawley asked.
“The Good Lord ain’t give this earth enough time for that,” Chaw said. “Anyhow, what’re you gonna do over there where you shot ol’ Deacon?”
“I already told you. I’m just gonna look around,” Rawley said.
“For what?”
“For whatever I can find, goddamn it!” Rawley snapped.
“I’ll go with you,” Chaw said, ignoring his friend’s testiness.
“You’ll get your damn butt bit bad by the boss if you leave here,” Rawley said. “He really don’t give a hoot what I do on account o’ my wing got bent.”
Chaw was thoughtful for a few moments. “I reckon you’re right.”
“See you later.”
“See you later. And don’t do nothing dumb.” Chaw turned and rode back to his position on the perimeter of the cattle camp.
Rawley pulled on the reins and his horse took the hint, clomping out farther onto the Diablos. Man and animal traveled slowly for more than an hour. Although it remained overcast and cloudy, the afternoon gave no hint of rain. From time to time Rawley peered toward the horizon to see if distant showers could be seen streaming out of the clouds, and he sniffed to see if any dampness rode the wind. But it was only a cloud cover, promising no moisture for the great plains country.
Finally he reached the place where he and Walt Deacon had each made the choice to fight to the death. The mashed buffalo grass hadn’t recovered much. A rust-colored expanse on the thick growth showed where Deacon gave up the ghost. The wounds in his skull and chest had been massive.
Rawley carefully held his slung arm outward as he slowly swung out of the saddle. He walked around studiously, then noticed some gray gook on the ground. Rawley squatted down to look at it, then quickly stood up when he realized it was pieces of Deacon’s brain.
Carefully remounting, he traced the crushed grass back to Deacon’s ambush site. When he reached it, he looked over to where he’d been shot. No doubt about it, Deacon had done some fancy shooting. If the strike of the bullet had been two inches to the left, it would have hit Rawley just to the side of the base of his neck. If that hadn’t killed him, then he’d have lain there while Deacon came over and finished him off at his leisure.
Rawley studied the ground some more, and could see where Deacon had ridden in from to reach the site. He rode around for a half hour in what seemed aimless circles until he realized that was the exact path
Deacon had taken when tracking him and moving into a position within killing range.
“The son of a bitch!” Rawley said to himself.
He was thoughtful for several moments, then decided to see how far he could backtrack the bushwhacker. This was a luxury that none of the ranchers had been able to enjoy in the past. If Rawley was lucky he might find where the raiders’ former camp was. If he was even luckier, he’d find it was still occupied. But if all his luck was bad, the raiders would discover him too—and a lone man stood no chance against an entire gang. Especially one with a shot-up shoulder who couldn’t fire back or ride well.
Once again Rawley dismounted. This time, leading his horse by the reins, he walked slowly along as he traced Deacon’s trail through the high, thick grass of the Diablos Range. It was slow going when the ground began to dip where some ancient river had once flowed across the land in days before even the Indians had come there. Deacon, wanting to keep out of sight as much as possible, had chosen the route for the cover it afforded.
Rawley’s shoulder began throbbing a bit as the extra physical effort of negotiating the rough terrain caused him to stumble a few times. He came out of the dry riverbed after a half hour and traced Deacon’s route up onto the flatlands. Rawley stood there, breathing a bit heavily after the effort, and surveyed the Diablos.
The range had a stark beauty. The vast emptiness and levelness were breathtaking with a sameness that depicted repetitive grandeur rather than monotony. Rawley felt dwarfed by the magnitude of that great land. He knew that the day was fast approaching when sodbusters and their wives would show up with wagon loads of kids, belongings, and barbed wire to fence off the unrestrained beauty and ruin it for cattlemen forever. At that moment, he hated them for it.
And he then truly knew how the Indians must have felt when the first ranchers moved onto the great central plains.
Rawley got back to the job at hand, once again following the matted trail through the grass. Another half hour went by, and he came to an abrupt halt. The trail led to a spot where two other horses had shown up. By walking around the area, Rawley deduced that Deacon had met somebody there. Remnants of a cook fire were off to one side. Deacon had scraped away the grass down to bare ground in order to build it there. That meant he’d probably spent the night waiting for whoever it was that had shown up.
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