“Did you kill them?”
“I wish,” Hob said fervently. “We burned a heap o’ powder, but ever’ last one o’ the sons o’ bitches got away.” He glanced at the door, as if worried that Eden might be standing there and hear his profanity. The door was empty, though.
“Well, at least you got the cattle back.”
“Yeah, but losin’ that time cost us some money. Another herd that started from Texas after we did got to Dodge before us.”
Bill understood. The price per head dropped a little with each herd that reached the railroad.
“But we got the herd there and sold it,” Hob went on, “so I got your wages for you. Full share, too.”
Bill shook his head. “That’s not right. I didn’t make the whole drive.”
“Now don’t argue with me, boy,” said Hob with a glare. “The whole crew voted on this and decided you was to have a full share, and that’s the way it’s gonna be, you hear?”
Bill had to chuckle. “Sure, sure. I don’t want to start a riot.” A thought occurred to him. “Who was that with you when you rode in? I wasn’t seeing too good by then.”
“Too much gun smoke in your eyes, I expect. That was Dorsey and Santo. The rest of the boys have already headed back to Texas. They went a-stragglin’ out of Dodge as soon as I’d paid ’em off and they blew out most o’ their dinero.” Hob grinned. “Lord, I don’t know what me and all the other trail bosses’d do if cowboys ever got the good sense to save some o’ their money. Nobody’d sign on for a hellacious job like herdin’ cows from Texas to Kansas if they wasn’t poor.”
“I plan on saving my wages,” said Bill.
“I know that, and I’m proud of you for it, son. Reckon it might’ve been a blessin’ in disguise that ol’ brindle steer got you like he did. Kept you from goin’ to Dodge and bein’ tempted to waste your wages on heathen pursuits.”
Bill was curious. He asked, “Are you sure it was the same bunch of rustlers who hit the herd the second time?”
“Damn sure,” Hob replied with an emphatic nod. “Durin’ the raid, Dorsey caught a glimpse of that fella with the long blond hair, the one who started the stampede the first time.”
Bill frowned. “I told you about that? I don’t recall.”
“That’s ’cause you was outta your head at the time, before we got you here to Redemption. You talked a heap, mostly cussin’ that long-haired fella who shot at you. Wish I could’ve ventilated the son of a buck for you. From what I heard in Dodge, he’s the leader of that bunch. They been raisin’ hell around here ever since the herds started comin’ north this year. They’ve hit half a dozen other herds, killed some good Texas cowboys, and made off with several thousand head o’ beef.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard anything about it while I was here.”
“No, I don’t reckon you would. All the herds go around this settlement now. All the drovers know they ain’t wanted here.” Hob’s mouth twisted a little. “This is a town full o’ farmers and storekeepers.”
Bill wanted to explain that it wasn’t exactly like that in Redemption. There were a few small ranches in the vicinity, along with the farms, and there was the freight wagon traffic, too.
But for the most part Hob was right, and Bill understood why the trail boss felt a mite scornful of the folks who’d settled here. It was sure different from Texas. Not bad, necessarily, just . . . different.
“Anyway, from what I heard, those rustlers have been cleanin’ up,” Hob went on. “We ain’t far from the Colorado border. They drive the stolen cows over there and sell ’em to buyers who don’t care where they come from. There’s a good steady market for beef in Colorado, what with all the minin’ goin’ on over there.”
That made sense, thought Bill. Miners got hungry, too, just like everybody else.
Hob turned his hat in his hands. “Dorsey and Santo and me figured we’d try to trail that Norris hombre, come mornin’. A hydrophobia skunk like that hadn’t ought to be runnin’ around loose. Fella can’t try to kill one o’ our boys and get away with it.”
“I appreciate that, Hob,” said Bill, “but it’s not really your responsibility.”
“Is it yours? I saw the way you walked out in the street to meet us a while ago. You didn’t know who was ridin’ in. Could’ve been anybody. But you marched right out there like it was your job to protect this town.”
“Well . . . they took care of me when I was hurt. They still are.”
Hob shook his head. “Looks to me like it’s Miss Monroe and her pa who’re doin’ that. Any o’ these other sodbusters and broom pushers back your play when you went up against them crooked lawmen?”
Bill had to sigh. “Not really. But they helped put out the fire Norris started in the saloon.”
“Hell, anybody’ll fight a fire when it’s threatenin’ to burn down his home. Anybody but a worthless polecat, that is. Way I see it, you don’t owe these folks anything.”
“Neither do you,” Bill pointed out. “You owe them a whole lot less than I do. But yet you’re talking about going after Norris.”
“Because of what he did to you, and outta sheer common decency. Somethin’ these folks in Redemption don’t seem to have a whole passel of.”
“You’re wrong about them,” said Bill. “They’re not like us, but it takes all kinds, I reckon.”
Hob didn’t look convinced, and Bill knew there was no point in arguing with him.
Besides, he was mighty tired, and as that thought crossed his mind, Eden appeared in the doorway as if she knew what he was thinking.
“Bill needs to rest now, Mr. Sanders,” she told Hob.
He got up right away and nodded. “Yes’m. You’ve been doin’ such a good job of takin’ care of him, I’m sure not gonna argue with you.”
She smiled. “A good job? Look at him! He was nearly killed half a dozen times tonight.”
“Yeah . . . but he wasn’t. He’s still alive and kickin’. Leastways he will be once that bad leg gets a mite stronger. Seems to me like he’s growed up a lot since we left him here. He ain’t a wild young cowboy no more.”
“Then what am I?” asked Bill in a sleepy voice as he struggled to keep his eyes open.
“I don’t rightly know yet,” said Hob. “I ain’t sure you do, either. But when you figure it out, you’ll let us know.”
Chapter 21
West of Redemption, the flat plains of Kansas gradually gave way to a range of low, sandy hills stretching north almost all the way to the Arkansas River. Between the sand hills and the Colorado border, the terrain consisted of rocky ridges and shallow gullies that weren’t good for much of anything. The dirt was too poor for farming, and the grass was too sparse for grazing cattle.
The only real use for these badlands was to shelter men who were on the run from the law.
The camp was dark and quiet, but guards were posted on the ridge overlooking it in case anybody came along. The rustlers had been holed up here for a while, licking their wounds and lying low after the battle with the Texans. The men were disgusted by the fact that those cowboys had caught up to them before they could push the stolen stock across the Colorado line and sell it. Another day would have seen the job done successfully.
The only good thing to come out of the debacle was that none of the gang had been killed. Some of the men were shot up pretty bad, but they were recovering and expected to live.
Dock Rakestraw sat with his back against a rock and smoked a quirley, cupping it in his hand so the orange glow of the coal couldn’t be seen. He was called Dock not because he had any medical training, but because his real first name was Dockery. He was the leader of the bunch, but he took his turn standing guard along with everybody else. The men respected him because of that.
They also feared him because he was the toughest, meanest son of a bitch among them, and he liked it that way.
His long blond hair fell past his shoulders, but nobody made sport of it because none of them were as fast on the draw as he
was. Tall, lanky, with long arms and big hands, he was built to kill with a gun. It came natural to him.
He frowned and pinched out the quirley as he suddenly leaned forward. A faint sound drifted to his ears. He couldn’t make it out at first, but after a moment he realized he was hearing the hoofbeats of a slow-moving horse. Somebody was riding toward the outlaw camp, but whoever it was, they weren’t getting in any hurry about it.
Rakestraw picked up the Winchester lying beside him and stood up. He made the sound of an owl hooting to alert the other two guards on the ridge.
The camp lay just beyond the point where two of those hogbacks pinched together. It was easily defended against attack from the east, the direction from which those hoofbeats came. Rakestraw went down the slope, sliding a little, and hurried over to a slab of rock that loomed near the opening between the ridges.
With the rifle held ready to bring to his shoulder and fire if need be, Rakestraw waited until he could see the man on horseback. Of course, he couldn’t make out many details. Even though the moon was up, floating high in the sky, not much of the silvery illumination penetrated into the shadows cloaking the gap. The rider and his horse were just an irregular patch of deeper darkness drawing slowly closer to the camp.
Rakestraw socketed the rifle butt against his shoulder, leveled the sights on the stranger, and called out, “That’s far enough, mister! Speak your piece! Who are you, and what’re you doin’ here?”
The voice that replied was drawn thin and tight with strain. “D-Dock? Is . . . is that you?”
Rakestraw had to think for a second before he realized who the voice belonged to. He said, “Zach?”
“Y-yeah. Can you . . . gimme a hand? I’m damn near . . . shot to pieces.”
Rakestraw lowered the rifle and rushed out from behind the rock. He reached the horse just as the man who was hunched over and swaying in the saddle started to topple. Rakestraw hurriedly set the Winchester down and reached up to grab Zach Norris in time to keep the crooked deputy from crashing to the ground.
Turning his head, Rakestraw called into the camp, “Somebody come help me! It’s Norris!”
Several members of the gang came running. Rakestraw handed Norris over to them and ordered, “Careful with him. He’s wounded. Find a place where you can make him comfortable.”
Leading Norris’s horse, Rakestraw followed the men into camp. Somebody stirred up the embers of the fire, which had been built in a circle of good-sized rocks so the flames couldn’t be seen. Once it was burning again, it cast a faint, flickering glow over the bedroll where the men lowered Norris’s body.
Rakestraw turned the horse over to one of the other men and hunkered next to his friend and fellow outlaw. Several years earlier, both of them had ridden with the same bunch, holding up trains and stagecoaches over in Missouri. Then they’d drifted apart, and the next thing Rakestraw had heard about Norris, his old partner was wearing a badge.
That hadn’t sounded right to Rakestraw, and sure enough, it wasn’t. Norris had gotten word to him through the grapevine that stretched across all the dark trails ridden by men outside the law, and the story told by Norris’s message was a good one. It seemed Norris had lucked onto a sweet deal, partnering up with a veteran lawman who had slowly but surely abandoned the law and become just as crooked as Norris himself was. They had cleaned up a town called Redemption and for all practical purposes had established themselves as rulers of the community. The settlement was near the main cattle trail from Texas, and if Rakestraw and his men wanted a free hand to raid the herds with a guarantee of no interference from the local law, Norris and Porter could provide it . . . for a small share of the profits, of course.
The arrangement had worked out well for everyone involved, for several months now. But obviously, something had happened, because even in the dim firelight, Rakestraw could see the dark bloodstains blotched on Norris’s clothes.
Norris’s pain-wracked eyes fluttered open. Rakestraw leaned over him and asked, “What the hell happened to you, Zach?”
“A damn . . . Texas cowboy . . . happened to me.” Norris forced out the words with great effort. “Hombre from . . . the herd you hit . . . a few weeks ago.”
Rakestraw’s mouth tightened in his beard at the memory of that night. He had reacted too quickly, firing at one of the damn cowboys who had ridden up on him and setting off the stampede before all of his men were in position. Norris didn’t know they had raided the herd again, more successfully this time, only to have that effort backfire on them when the blasted Texans caught up to them.
One of the other men said, “Dock, we better get those clothes off him and see how bad he’s hurt. Maybe we can patch him up.”
Rakestraw doubted Norris would live much longer, no matter what they did. The deputy had lost a lot of blood.
But it wouldn’t hurt to try, he supposed.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Somebody give him a drink of whiskey, too. I reckon he needs it.”
One of the men brought out a bottle and handed it to Rakestraw. He used his teeth to pull the cork and spat it on the ground. He slipped his other hand behind Norris’s head and raised it a little as he brought the bottle to the deputy’s lips. Norris choked a little on the fiery liquor as Rakestraw tipped some into his mouth, but he swallowed most of it greedily.
A violent life lived outside the bounds of normal society had taught most of these men how to patch up bullet wounds in themselves and others. A grizzled old-timer known as Ozark Joe moved in and used a bowie knife to cut away some of Norris’s clothes. Dried blood caused the fabric to stick to the wounds, and Norris made hissing sounds of pain as Joe worked them free.
“Somebody get a torch burnin’,” said Joe. “I’m gonna need better light than this.”
“Gimme some more . . . whiskey,” pleaded Norris.
Rakestraw glanced at Joe. “Is it gonna hurt him?”
“Nope. Fact is, it’ll probably help when I go to diggin’ around to see if he’s still got any lead in him.”
Rakestraw lifted the bottle and poured more of the whiskey down Norris’s throat. Norris coughed and gasped, but his voice was stronger when he said, “You want to hear about it, Dock?”
“Yeah,” said Rakestraw, “go ahead and tell it, Zach.”
Norris did, using the story to distract himself from the pain while Ozark Joe cleaned the wounds and probed them for bullets. Rakestraw listened with interest as Norris told how the trail boss had brought Bill Harvey to Redemption and left him there to recuperate with the Monroes.
“You’ve seen Eden Monroe,” said Norris through lips tight with pain. “She’s enough to make any man forget about bein’ hurt.”
Rakestraw nodded. “Yeah, she’s a mighty pretty girl.”
The boss of the gang, along with several of the other outlaws, had visited Redemption from time to time for supplies and a chance to visit the saloon and the whorehouse. They went in one or two at a time, never more than three, and each man knew the signal—a tug on his left earlobe—that told the local lawmen he was part of Rakestraw’s bunch. That way, Porter and Norris had known to leave them alone. That was part of the arrangement, too.
“She nursed him right back to health,” Norris went on,
“and the better he felt, the proddier he started to get. Frank said he was afraid we’d have to do something about him, and sure enough, he tried to leave town tonight. Frank figured he was gonna try to find some help, maybe some real law, so I went after him to kill him.”
“But it didn’t work out that way,” Rakestraw guessed.
“Son of a bitch got lucky. He winged me and got away from me. Headed back to Redemption. I followed him but, uh, didn’t get there in time to stop him from killin’ Frank.”
Something about the slight hesitation in Norris’s voice made Rakestraw wonder if the deputy wasn’t quite telling him the full story of the night’s events. But the details didn’t matter, he supposed.
“Damn Texan had a shotgun,” c
ontinued Norris. “He peppered me with some buckshot. I barely managed to get away.”
Ozark Joe looked over at Rakestraw and said, “I coulda told you about the buckshot. I already dug half a dozen pellets outta him. Looks like the slug that hit him went clean through, though. That’s good.”
“You think he’ll make it?”
Before Joe could answer, Norris reached up and clamped a clawlike hand on Rakestraw’s arm. “Damn right I’ll make it,” he ground out. “I got to. I got a score to settle with that cowboy.”
Ozark Joe shrugged. “He lost a hell of a lot of blood, but it ain’t really as bad as it looked at first. If he don’t get blood poisonin’, he might pull through.”
“I’ll pull through,” said Norris. “Count on it. That’s why I came lookin’ for you, Dock. I had a pretty good idea where your camp was, and I knew I had to find you.”
“We’re glad to patch you up, Zach, but what else do you want from us?” asked Rakestraw, allowing a hint of a chill in his voice now. “Seems to me that under the circumstances, with Porter dead and you shot up, you can’t be of any help to us anymore. Why should we help you settle your score with that Texan?”
“Because there’s a whole town just sittin’ there waitin’ for you to help yourself to everything in it!” said Norris as his hand tightened on Rakestraw’s arm. “There’s no law in Redemption anymore, and the settlers are the biggest bunch of sheep you ever saw. You and your boys can ride in and loot the place, all the way down to the ground!”
“We could’ve done that anytime,” Rakestraw pointed out. “There was never any real law there.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Frank would’ve tried to stop you. He didn’t want anybody shearin’ those sheep but him and me. But he’s dead and I don’t care. I just want to kill Harvey. Wait until I’m on my feet again, and we’ll hit Redemption like Quantrill hit Lawrence!”
Redemption, Kansas Page 15