“I’m in charge of this detail,” Clyburne sternly reminded him. But he sounded very young again, as he added, ‘‘However—uh—I’ll always listen to suggestions.”
“It’s a smart officer,” drawled the corporal, “that knows when to heed the advice of a sergeant.”
“This sawn-off sidekick of mine gets nervous in a shootout,” said Jim, jerking a thumb at Benito, “so he’ll be staying behind with your men—and the payroll.”
“My men?” blinked Clyburne. “And—the payroll?”
“Unload it,” said Jim, bluntly. “Cache it somewhere in back of the rocks—and squat on it. That way, you’ll be sure it’s safe.”
“But …!”
“I’ll take the wagon on to Warsmoke Pass. The corporal can drive. I’m not afraid he’ll stop a bullet, because he’ll have plenty of time to take cover. Morrow’s going to alert us. The first shot we hear will be fired by Morrow as a warning.”
“That’s quite clear,” nodded Clyburne. “And don’t think I’m unappreciative of your desire to help, but …”
“There’s no time for ‘buts’,” chided Jim.
“The safe custody of this payroll is my primary responsibility,” said Clyburne. “At the same time, the apprehension of a band of thieves—three desperadoes who intended shooting us down—is a matter of equal importance.” He gestured to the mounted soldiers. “I have the utmost confidence in these men, selected them personally. They’re trustworthy and more than capable of guarding the money. But I, Mr. Rand, will insist on accompanying you to Warsmoke Pass to apprehend those blackguards who—”
“All right, all right!” Jim gestured impatiently. “We can’t waste any more time arguing about it.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Get the dinero unloaded and cached.” And he thought to add, “You’d better keep close watch on my little Mex friend. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of temptation.”
~*~
The atmosphere within the silent, rock-walled pass was dry and hot. By high noon, the temperature had risen another ten degrees, yet Clay Morrow was chilled to the marrow; apprehension had captured him in its icy grip. This situation would be very different to the crisis he had faced on the porch of a Durrance rooming house, those few hectic seconds during which an irate gambler had tried to kill him with a derringer. More lives would be involved this time, he reminded himself. Big Jim was depending on him. Without his warning, the tide of this emergency could be turned in Trantor’s favor.
They were staked out some fifty yards from the northern gateway of the pass. Trantor and Yuill, both hefting rifles, were crouched behind rocks above the west side of the trail, the better to fire downward when the wagon rolled into view. Larkin was sprawled behind a flat rock a few yards ahead of the boulder behind which Clay crouched, a boulder that seemed hopelessly inadequate—or was that only his shattered nerves playing tricks?
Quietly, Trantor called to them, “Everybody set?”
Clay swallowed a lump in his throat before answering, “Right.”
“How about the horses?” demanded Yuill. “If they hear the nicker of a horse …”
“They won’t hear our horses,” Larkin assured him. He had taken charge of the animals upon their arrival at the pass. “I hid them far back along the south end.”
They were silent for ten more minutes. And then, “They’re comin’!” Yuill tensely announced.
“A mite later than I calculated,” muttered Trantor, “but better late than never.” He called orders to Clay and Larkin. “Remember—nobody opens fire till I give the word.”
Clay emptied his holster, thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and covertly checked the positioning of the three would-be thieves. All their attention was riveted on the north end of the pass. At any moment now he would have to trigger the warning shot. When that happened, one or all of his companions might sense treachery and turn their guns on him. Was this cover adequate?
The plodding teamers appeared, followed by the lumbering vehicle, with Corporal Judd hunched on the seat and the smartly uniformed lieutenant riding to the left, his high-stepping pony moving level with the wagon’s rear wheels.
“Hey …” Larkin called to Trantor, “where’s that five-man escort?”
“They’re gettin’ careless,” Yuill suggested, “figure one rider and the driver is all they need.”
“Hold it a minute,” cautioned Trantor, as Yuill raised his rifle. “The escort could be close behind them.”
But no other horsemen tagged the wagon into the pass, and Yuill was impatient now, eager to proceed with the more lethal side of this project.
“Only two of ’em,” he growled. "And I claim the soldier boy on the fancy-steppin’ calico.”
He was squinting along the barrel of his rifle. Trantor, too, was raising his weapon, and Clay’s moment had come. With the muzzle of his Colt pointed skyward, he squeezed the trigger. The Colt roared and, for a few seconds thereafter, all was confusion. Judd hurled himself backward from his seat to disappear within the wagon. The lieutenant drew his pistol and cut loose, sending two slugs whining and smacking about the rocks that shielded the ambushers. He did not, however, heed the advice offered him earlier by the ex-sergeant of the 11th. He remained mounted, a clear target for Rollo Yuill’s barking Winchester. One of the gambler’s fast-triggered slugs creased his left shoulder and the impact sent him lurching sideways. His mount reared. His boots parted company with the stirrups and, moments later, he was sprawled on his back in the dust.
Larkin had whirled to glower at Clay.
“You meant to do that!” he snarled.
“It was an accident …” began Clay.
He didn’t finish the denial. The expression on Larkin’s florid visage was a warning signal; the horse dealer was about to do something rash. His gun muzzle was suddenly aimed at Clay, despite the shouted protests of Trantor. Clay threw himself sideways with his own gun booming again, but Larkin’s weapon roared first. Something hot and metallic buffeted Clay’s left side with all the force of a mule’s kick. He fell heavily, his head striking a boulder. Stars danced before his eyes, but only briefly. After that came the blackness, the oblivion.
In the bed of the wagon, crouched between sacks of vegetables and boxes of canned goods, Big Jim and the ageing corporal traded frowns.
“Sassy young whippersnapper,” growled Judd, referring to the lieutenant, “should’ve hustled his horse around back of the rig—just as soon as he heard that warnin’ shot. He’s down now, flat on his back and gettin’ his purty new uniform all dusty.”
A bullet tore a hole in the canvas above their heads. They crouched lower. Jim dryly remarked, “They’re always a problem to us, aren’t they, Corporal? These brand new officers, fresh out of West Point, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
“If I had a dollar for every one I’ve broke to harness …” leered Judd.
“Me too,” grinned Jim.
With a spanging, whining sound, a bullet gouged a chunk out of the wagon seat and ricocheted upward, tearing an even larger hole in the canopy. Now, before Jim could restrain him, the veteran cocked his Colt and began rising.
“Time for me to get tricky,” he grunted. “This’ll be risky, but it near always works.”
“Wait …!” began Jim.
The veteran wasn’t listening. Nudging the flap aside, he thrust himself half-way up to the seat. His Colt roared and he added a yell of defiance. Trantor got off a fast shot from his Winchester and, although the slug missed him by a whole twenty-four inches, the corporal gave vent to an agonized yell, dropped his pistol and clasped both hands to his face. The watching ambushers saw him flop back out of sight behind the seat.
Huddled in the wagonbed, he removed his hands from his face, leered up at Jim and said, “We’ll soon know if they fell for it.”
“You nervy old sonofagun,” breathed Jim.
“What the hell?” challenged Judd. “Nobody lives forever.” He glanced at the ivory handled, long-barreled Colt hefted by the big man
. “How’s your shootin’ eye, Sarge?”
“A mite better than average,” muttered Jim.
And this was a modest, conservative description of his gun talent; he had won every pistol shoot ever organized by the 11th Cavalry.
“They’ve quit shootin’,” said the corporal, cocking an ear. “Well, I reckon you can guess what that means.”
“Damn right,” nodded Jim. “They’ll break cover and come a’running—to loot the wagon.”
“I had to drop my iron—to make it look like I’d been hit,” Judd pointed out.
“That’s all right, Corporal,” frowned Jim. “You stay here and keep your head down.”
“If you’re goin’ out to take care of those drygulchers,” suggested Judd, “you ought to go now. They’re apt to take a couple more shots at the lieutenant.”
“No,” said Jim, coldly. “They won’t be shooting at the lieutenant.”
Judd moved aside for him. He parted the flaps of the canvas and stared along the floor of the pass. What had become of the Ellistown storekeeper? He recognized the three men now breaking cover, descending to the trail from the rock formations behind which they had concealed themselves a short time before. Trantor and two of his cronies. The fat rogue lawman was home in Durrance, of course, waiting to provide them with an alibi if needs be. And Clay Morrow? He could only hope that the storekeeper had survived that first outbreak of shooting.
He glanced away to his left and saw the wounded lieutenant. Young Clyburne was rolling over, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wound and, on hands and knees, beginning a search for his fallen pistol. At any moment his movements would be noted by the oncoming trio of ambushers. Trantor and his cronies were running now in their eagerness to loot the stalled wagon.
It was Larkin who first sighted the big man climbing across the wagon seat, dropping to the ground. He gasped a warning to Trantor, who came to an abrupt halt, gaping incredulously.
“That’s Rand!” The saloonkeeper’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“I don’t like the looks of it,” mumbled Larkin. “There could be a half-dozen more of ’em hidden in the wagon. Didn’t you ever think of that?”
“Shuddup!” breathed Trantor.
Standing at ease some three yards clear of the team, the big man called his challenge. The long-barreled Colt was held steady in his right fist; he couldn’t be intimidated by the rifles brandished by Trantor and Yuill, the sixgun hefted by Larkin. At this range, he considered the odds against him to be somewhat less than overpowering.
“Drop the hardware!” he roared.
“I’m saying the same to you, Rand!” retorted Trantor. “Move away from that wagon and get rid of your gun—and maybe you’ll get out alive. I’ve come too far to turn back!”
“Much too far, Trantor.” Jim nodded in grim agreement. “And all for nothing.”
“He’s bluffin’!” gasped Yuill.
“The payroll for the Fourth Infantry is stashed safe,” declared Jim, “but not in this wagon.”
“He’s got to be bluffin’!” insisted Yuill.
With that, he opened fire, shooting rapidly and not waiting to raise his rifle to his shoulder. He fired from the hip, while Larkin turned and began a dash for the nearest rock, and Trantor dropped to one knee.
Corporal Judd parted the flaps of the canopy to watch the brief and bloody battle, regardless of the danger of a wild bullet speeding his way. Simultaneously, the young lieutenant raised himself to a sitting posture and stared aghast; from his angle it appeared that the big man had no hope of survival.
Jim triggered his first slug while turning side on to his attackers. His target was Larkin, who yelled an oath, stumbled and sprawled flat on his face with his right leg bloody. From his half-kneeling position, Trantor fired twice, but too quickly. The big man was still on his feet, and the long-barreled Colt was roaring again, this time at Yuill. With a gasp of pain and a groan of anguish, the gambler dropped his rifle and followed it to the dust, a crumpled, lifeless heap. Trantor’s scalp crawled. He sighted on Jim again and, as his finger tightened on the trigger, Jim sidestepped with his Colt booming for the third time. The bullet struck Trantor’s chest dead center, knocking him over backwards, and the rifle discharged to the sky. Larkin, who had not lost his grip of his .45, rolled over and swung his gun arm towards Jim. Again the big man became a moving target, darting to one side, then barging forward with his gun belching fire, booming. Larkin howled like a banshee, bedeviled by the agony of a bullet creasing his right forearm from wrist bone to elbow. His gun dropped. He yelled again, lifting his left hand in a gesture of surrender.
The big man was still standing there, patiently ejecting his spent shells and reloading, when Judd descended from the rig to assist the wounded lieutenant. And all Clyburne could say, at this stage was:
“Hell’s bells!”
“Corporal,” frowned Jim, “I’d guess you’re a fair hand when it comes to doctoring.”
“Patched more’n my share of bullet holes, and that’s a fact,” Judd assured him, as he began examining the lieutenant’s wound.
“Start on the lieutenant,” ordered Jim. “Then do what you can for this one.” He nodded to the groaning Larkin, as he began striding along the trail. “There’s a fourth man. I’ll probably have to take care of him.”
He found Clay lurching to his feet, gingerly caressing a bump on his brow and seemingly oblivious to the fact that his shirt was wet with blood.
“Which one of them shot you?” he demanded. “Not that it matters a damn.”
“Larkin fired at me,” frowned Clay. “I didn’t—realize I was hit …”
“Peel off the shirt,” ordered Jim, “and I’ll tell you how badly.” After only a brief examination of the shallow wound, he decided, “You got off light. The flesh is torn, but there’s no bone damage. What matters now is to get that gash cleaned and bandaged.”
Clay, soberly studying the stalled wagon and the sprawled figures of the would-be thieves, quietly observed:
“You had to shoot it out with them.”
“Trantor and Yuill are dead,” muttered Jim. “Larkin will survive to stand trial.”
“But not in Durrance,” opined Clay. “With a marshal as crooked as Lundy, there’d be no point—”
“I plan on delivering Lundy and Larkin to the nearest U.S. Marshal’s office,” Jim informed him, “and I don’t care if that means taking them clear across Kansas, because there's nothing smells as bad to me as a crooked lawman.”
As it happened, Corporal Judd was able to offer Jim some useful information regarding the whereabouts of a Federal law officer. He had finished doctoring the lieutenant and was now administering to Larkin.
“There’s a deputy U.S. Marshal in Brent City. His name’s Atwater, The way I hear it, he has to testify against some gunslick. They’ll be tryin’ him in the Brent County courthouse a few days from now—just as soon as the circuit judge arrives.”
“I have a suggestion,” said Clyburne, who had listened with interest to Jim’s description of the situation in Durrance. “Why don’t you accompany us to Fort Gearey? Our signals officer would be only too pleased to co-operate with you. You could wire Deputy Atwater to meet you in Durrance.”
“I reckon that would be best,” agreed Jim. “As soon as Atwater has replied, I’ll head on back to Durrance, grab Lundy and lock him in his own jail.”
“Man, oh man,” chuckled the corporal. “I kinda wish I could be there to see that.”
“Mr. Rand,” said Clyburne, “the Fourth Infantry is heavily in your debt. If ever—at some future time—you are in need of our assistance …”
“Thanks for the offer, Lieutenant,” Jim acknowledged.
Mid-afternoon of that day, seated beside the telegrapher at Fort Gearey, Jim listened to a reply to his query.
“Short and sweet,” the operator told him. “Deputy Marshal Atwater says go ahead and he’ll meet you in Durrance late tomorrow.”
“Bueno,” grunted the big man. “That’s all I need to know.”
It was after midnight when the three riders reached the crossroads. The trail leading southwest would take Jim and Benito to Durrance; if they moved along steadily they would make it shortly after sunrise. The trail leading due south would take Clay Morrow back to that narrow strip of the Oklahoma Territory wedged between Northwest Texas and Southwest Kansas—home to Ellistown.
“You’re welcome to ride along with us to Durrance,” Jim assured him, “but I’ll be surprised if you’d want to. In your shoes, friend, I know what I’d be doing.”
“And that’s exactly what I will do,” said Clay.
“By way of Reagan City,” prodded Jim, “to buy new stock for the store?”
“No. I can visit Reagan City later,” said Clay. “First, I want to see my wife and son and daughter again. You’ll maybe think I’m a damn fool, but I’ve decided to tell Nell the whole story—all of it—from start to finish.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool,” drawled Jim. “Matter of fact, telling her the whole story could do a heap of good. You’ve learned to appreciate Ellistown—and your family— because you almost got yourself killed. Well, maybe she’ll appreciate you—more than before—when you’ve told her the score.”
“I want to thank you for everything,” said Clay, offering his hand.
At a quarter of nine the following morning, when Marshal Gus Lundy arrived to open his office, Durrance’s main street was slowly coming alive. The massive badge toter was in ill humor this morning; he had expected that Trantor and his co-conspirators would return long before now.
He unlocked the street door and waddled into the office in the same moment that Jim and Benito emerged from the side alley and climbed to the porch. Standing beside his desk, Lundy nodded to them and mumbled a greeting.
“Howdy. What brings you by so early?”
“Official business,” drawled Jim. He ambled closer to the desk, nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’d say official business is the right term.”
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