The Outlaws 2

by Brian Garfield

  ‘Hell—what is this? A one-man lynching party?’

  McCracken waved the gun muzzle. Fearfully, Pierce turned and started to climb. McCracken stayed close to him. Fifty feet up into the thickness of that growth he called a halt and said, ‘Sit down with your back to that tree.’

  Pierce sat. McCracken went around behind the tree, drew both Pierce’s arms backward and tied the wrists together behind the tree. Then, with the unused length of the rope, he wrapped Pierce firmly to the tree. Finished, he stepped around in front of Pierce and looked down. The job of tying satisfied him—Pierce would never get loose without help.

  ‘How long you going to leave me here?’

  ‘Until I have time to come back and pick you up. You’re going down to Arroyo Seco with me, Pierce, to see the sheriff.’

  Sudden bravado came upon Pierce. He obviously knew that now that he was tied up, McCracken would not harm him. He said gruffly, ‘You won’t get away with his, bucko. Your bones will rot in these hills.’

  ‘Then so will yours,’ McCracken said easily. ‘You’d better hope I don’t get hurt, Pierce—because I’m the only man alive who knows you’re here. I’m the only one who can cut you loose. If I don’t make it back here, you’ll die in those ropes.’

  Pierce’s flesh turned pallid. Fear was a flame that quickly consumed all the bluff in him.

  To prevent the man from crying out for help in case someone rode near, McCracken used Pierce’s own bandanna to gag the man. He made sure it was loose enough not to strangle, yet tight enough so that Pierce could not work it loose. Beads of sweat burst out on Pierce’s brow. McCracken said, ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll be back sometime this afternoon with a couple of your sidekicks in tow.’

  He turned and walked down the hillside to the two horses. In Pierce’s saddlebags he found strips of jerky. These he gnawed on hungrily while he unsaddled Pierce’s roan, hid the saddle in the brush, and rope-hobbled the horse to keep it from straying far. He knew there was a chance of some rider coming by, spotting the horse and recognizing it and hunting for Pierce. But the chance was slim enough to make him willing to take it. Biting off a chunk of jerky, he mounted his horse and turned out of the canyon, heading toward Dragoon Pass.

  Fourteen

  In mid-afternoon, lids drooping from lack of sleep but eyes glittering determinedly, Chet Six drew rein in front of Sheriff Mossgrove’s office, dismounted heavily and tramped across the porch into the office.

  Footsore and irritated, Mossgrove was sitting behind his desk with his bare feet up on the desk. His jaw clamped shut when he recognized Six and he said, ‘You’ve got your gall, coming down here, Chet.’

  ‘I got some business with the law,’ Six muttered.

  ‘That’s a switch.’

  Six said, ‘I figured you’d be up in the Arrowheads with a posse by now.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ Mossgrove said. ‘What happened to McCracken?’

  ‘He’s prowlin’ around somewhere up there. That’s what I came to see you about.’

  Wearing a look of ill-concealed amazement, Mossgrove shook his head wonderingly. ‘You beat all, Chet. In my desk I’ve got a murder warrant for Waco and complicity warrants for Calabasas and Channing Pierce and half a dozen John Does—and you come down here claiming you’ve got business. Where the hell do you think you get off?’

  ‘You can tear up those warrants,’ Six said.

  Mossgrove shook his head. ‘Not this time. I’ve got witnesses. Elena Ochoa saw the whole thing. So did San Saba.’

  ‘My,’ Six said in his guttural growl. ‘My, my. What vivid imaginations some folks have. None of my boys were out of Dragoon Pass last night, Tom. I’ll swear to that and so will half a dozen other witnesses. Waco and Pierce and Calabasas were playin’ poker with me all night. Never even so much as went out to the outback.’

  ‘We’ll see who the jury believes.’

  Six grinned amiably through the short brush of his beard. ‘You do that, Tom. But meanwhile, I want to swear out a complaint.’

  ‘What?’

  Six chuckled. ‘That’s right. I want you to arrest Ben McCracken for the cold blooded murder of one Cody Longwell.’

  Mossgrove’s feet dropped off the desk and he leaned forward, eyes narrowed. ‘You skunk!’

  ‘McCracken busted in last night without so much as a by-your-leave. He said somethin’ about Longwell double-crossing him and then shot him down. Longwell didn’t have a chance—McCracken had the drop on him the whole time.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Mossgrove said tightly, ‘that you’ve got six or seven witnesses to back up that story.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Six said imperturbably. He took the old crusted pipe out of his pocket and put a match to it. ‘McCracken’s still up in the Arrowheads raisin’ hell, trying to fight my whole crew single-handed. He might do it, too. I haven’t seen a man that tough in many a year. But the chances are against him, Tom. And if I have to bring in his dead body, I want it on the record in advance that we was justified in cutting him down. It’s dead-or-alive for wanted killers, ain’t it?’

  ‘For a crook you know a lot of law, don’t you?’

  ‘It behooves a man to know who—and what—he’s going to have to fight. Write me up a complaint, Tom, and I’ll sign it.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Mossgrove said bluntly.

  Six grinned lazily. ‘You know better than that, Tom, and so do I. I’m not wanted for any crimes. My record’s clean. I’ve got the same right as any citizen to sign a complaint—and you’ve got no right to stop me. It’s the letter of the law.’

  ‘You skunk,’ Mossgrove said again.

  ‘To you, I may be. But that don’t change nothing.’ Grinning amiably, Six put another match to his pipe.

  Mossgrove, glaring at him with livid hatred, slowly pulled open a desk drawer and took out a blank form. Filling it in, he turned it around on the desk and handed his pen to Six. Six scrawled his signature with a flourish and said, ‘I always knew someday knowing how to write would come in handy.’ He read the complaint over and handed it back. ‘Obliged,’ he muttered, and turned toward the door.

  ‘Hold it, Chet.’

  Six stopped and swung his ponderous weight around expectantly.

  Mossgrove said, ‘Your time’s getting near the limit, fat man. I wouldn’t give a dime for your chances of living out the next month. That raid last night carried you over the line, as far as people around here are concerned. If I don’t bring you down pretty soon, you can bet there’ll be a night-riding group started up in jig time. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll get on your horse and head straight out of this county and keep right on going.’

  ‘Tom, you sound like a prophet of doom. I ain’t just ready to be knocked down—not yet. I got a few things to do first.’

  ‘That’s your hard luck, then. Next time I see you it will likely be over the sights of a gun.’

  ‘Well,’ Six observed thoughtfully, ‘we’ve known each other a long spell, Tom. I ain’t saying we ever liked each other, but we sure respect hell out of one another.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘It’s been a barrel of fun, ain’t it?’ And turned heavily through the door.

  Up in the second-story window of the mercantile, standing in her bedroom, Ada Stewart saw Chet Six waddle out of the sheriff’s office and cross the street toward the saloon. Sight of the fat outlaw roaming the streets unchallenged, so close after news of last night’s disaster, sent a sudden chill down her back. It served as a catalyst to mix together all the conflicting emotions that had continued to torture her over the past hours and now she was dominated by a rising concern.

  She was about to turn from the window when she caught sight of a slow procession coming down the street. It was Elena Ochoa and several cowhands, some of them Wagon Wheel men and a few from other high-country outfits. On the buckboard was a simple hand-hewn wooden casket. The dark-haired girl, wearing a black dress and shawl and riding side-saddle, rode beside the jouncing buckboard with her
face lowered. Ada saw Knox Bannerman and his wife in the procession; and the owners of two or three other ranches. Scott Kramer’s absence from the group was conspicuous.

  A sudden impulse turned Ada from the window and sent her rummaging through the drawers of the commode until she found a long, dark shawl. This she put over her head and wrapped about her shoulders in the Mexican fashion, much like Elenas. Then she left the room, went back through the darkened parlor, and descended the stairs into the store.

  Her father was already hanging the closed sign on the door. He was dressed in his black broadcloth suit and wore a derby hat. His gray beard was carefully combed. He turned and saw her and nodded. ‘Glad you decided to come. Felix was an old customer and an old friend.’

  She made no reply. Stopping by the door, she saw Mrs. Mossgrove coming down the opposite side of the street and meeting her husband, who came out of the office putting on his hat. He limped a little when he walked. ‘We’d better go, too,’ her father said, and opened the door.

  To go to the cemetery they had to pass in front of the saloon, and Chet Six was standing just within the doorway, looking out, a beer in hand. She recoiled from the sight of that immense animal-like man. They skirted the hotel and stage depot and climbed the hill to the graveyard which was shaded by a few forlorn trees. The parson was already there, hat in hand, greeting people as they arrived in low, professional tones. Six cowboys took the coffin off the buckboard and carried it forward. The somber crowd gathered and Ada found herself looking across the grave into Elena’s dry eyes. Elena’s face was wholly expressionless except for the vivid fire in her glance. She seemed out of place in feminine clothes. She rested on Nate Shattuck’s arm; Shattuck, stocky and ruddy, looked uncomfortable and bleak in a creased wool suit. The Bannermans and Mossgroves flanked Elena, and other ranchers and business people were clustered around the grave. The parson stepped forward at the head of the grave and began to speak in sonorous tones. The eulogy, Ada felt half-resentfully, was adequate but uninspired. Afterward, the parson sprinkled dirt on the coffin and Elena dropped a handful of earth on it, her face revealing no emotion. Faces turned away and the gravediggers stepped forward with their shovels to cover the coffin.

  It had been short, subdued, and unemotional. The parson put his long, pale hand on Elena’s arm and spoke soft words, and went away, his consumptive wife at his side. Others drifted downhill toward town, toward the resumption of business and of life. In this country there was precious little time to devote to the dead. The sheriff and his wife went back toward town, followed by the Bannermans. Florence Bannerman’s glance touched Ada momentarily and Ada marked the lines of premature age in her face. Shattuck and the cowboys came past and her father said, ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘I’ll be along in a little while,’ she said, and watched his shape diminish as he followed the crowd off the hillside. Presently she found herself alone on the slope, with Elena standing not far away and the gravediggers methodically tossing dirt into the grave. Ada stepped toward Elena, but was halted by something that appeared in Elena’s eyes when she looked up. If the dark girl was sorrowing, she did not show it.

  Ada said, ‘I was hoping I might find Ben here.’

  ‘He didn’t come.’

  ‘I can see that,’ she said, trying not to let Elena irritate her. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Up in the Arrowheads,’ Elena said in a husky voice, ‘doing the job that belongs to every man on this side of the mountains.’

  ‘You mean he’s still up in Chet Six’s country? Why, I just saw Six himself in the saloon.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Elena murmured tonelessly.

  Ada found her self-assurance shaken. Never until now had she felt the least respect for Elena Ochoa—Elena had always been no more than a tomboy and a rustic. But now, seeing for the first time the brown-skinned beauty of the girl, Ada found herself resenting her. She tried to tell herself it was not jealousy—it was, rather, a resentment against the cold, unemotional face that Elena put on in this time of legitimate grief.

  She let the shawl down about her shoulders, revealing her neatly combed tawny hair. ‘I’d like to see Ben when he comes back,’ she said coolly. ‘Will you give him that message?’

  ‘If he comes back,’ Elena droned, and tilted her head a little. ‘Aren’t you concerned at all for him? Doesn’t it bother you at all to know he’s up there in the middle of a den of poison snakes? I thought you were his girl.’

  I was, Ada was about to say, but then she corrected herself. ‘I am.’ She wanted to add that it was none of Elena’s business whether she displayed concern for the world to see, but she thought better of it; this was not the time to quarrel with the girl.

  ‘I’ll give him the message,’ Elena said dully, and turned away.

  Left alone on Boot Hill, Ada looked up and out across the yellow desert flats. Mica particles in the ground glittered painfully against her eyes. There was a blue liquid mirage in the distance, hanging steady over the desert. The sun was very hot, a pulsing brass globe in the western half of the sky over the Arrowheads. Somewhere up there Ben was riding into danger—or perhaps he had been killed, wounded, or trapped. But what could she do?

  That, above all, was what she hated about this country. There was so little a woman could do. It was strictly a man’s land. In a little corner of herself, she felt a touch of regret that she was not of Elena’s stripe and had not been raised in such a fashion to make it possible for her to strap on a gun and go into the hills to defend her man. But it was not part of her to be that kind of woman; she did not believe it was right for any woman to act that way. Women were not made for the frontier. They were made for crinoline gowns, for city lights, for charming talk and places where there was time for idleness and for the small pleasures of life.

  It started up the whole chain of conflicts in her once more, and thus troubled, she turned and walked down through the dust into the single drab street of Arroyo Seco. Her feet stirred the silver powder; the sun baked the weather-beaten boards of the town.

  Fifteen

  A half hour before sundown, McCracken rode wearily into the small canyon, found Channing Pierce’s hobbled horse, and proceeded to saddle it. Afterward, he tethered it beside his own mount, and went on foot, carrying his canteen up through the trees to where he had left Pierce tied to the tree. His eyes ached tiredly.

  Pierce was still there, his glance red-rimmed. McCracken took the gag from the man’s mouth and Pierce coughed weakly, licking his lips with a swollen tongue. McCracken held his canteen to the man’s mouth, giving him a few short swallows of water and then removing the canteen and capping it.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he said.

  Pierce coughed again. A few drops of water dribbled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were bleak with an anger that had been building all afternoon. ‘Tough hombre,’ he said in a hoarse rasp. ‘Real tough. Where’s all the prisoners you was supposed to drag back here with you?’

  ‘They’re all forted up at Dragoon Pass. There wouldn’t be much sense in my bracing that whole bunch at once, would there?’

  ‘Judas,’ Pierce said huskily. ‘I figured you could do anything, big man. Anything at all. What happened—lose your guts?’

  McCracken let the remarks slide. Going around behind the tree, lie said, ‘You’ll do for a start,’ and proceeded to undo the lashings that bound Pierce to the tree.

  When he was done, Pierce lugged himself to his feet and stood swaying, stiff in all his joints. He said, ‘That was a mean thing to do to a man.’

  McCracken just grunted. He tied the man’s hands together again and held the end of the length of rope. ‘Downhill,’ he said, and followed Pierce down to the horses, keeping his grip on the rope all the while. ‘Mount up.’

  Out of habit, Pierce tested the cinch before he climbed to the saddle. ‘Where we going?’

  ‘I’m going to drop you off at Wagon Wheel. The boys can haul you down to the jail from there. I’ve got business to sett
le at Dragoon Pass.’

  ‘You never get enough, do you? Give me another drink.’

  McCracken mounted and handed the canteen to Pierce, who swallowed greedily, handed it back and wiped his lips with his sleeve. McCracken wrapped the end of the rope around his own saddle horn and indicated it with a vague gesture. ‘Try to make a break, and this will spill you right off the horse. It might make a bad fall. Stick close to me.’

  ‘Hell—what if my horse shies or something?’

  ‘You’ll just have to control him, that’s all.’ McCracken gave the man a grim smile and gigged his horse forward, almost jerking Pierce from the saddle.

  Startled, Pierce sank spurs in his pony’s flanks and caught up. ‘Take it easy, damn it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fret too much,’ McCracken said in a drone. ‘Your life’s all done, anyway. You’ll swing for what happened last night.’

  Fear, bright and wide, came into Pierce’s eyes. ‘Hold on a minute. I never shot nobody. Waco was going strictly against my orders when he plugged the old Mex.’

  ‘Too bad,’ McCracken murmured. ‘Maybe that will teach you to hang out with Waco’s breed.’

  Pierce cursed and tried to spit, but his mouth was dry with fear. They rode cross-country, headed for an intersection farther down with the main road. Pierce said, ‘Hey.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Listen—I’ll make a deal with you.’

  ‘Sure you will.’

  ‘No, wait a minute. I mean it.’

  ‘No deals,’ McCracken said flatly.

  Pierce chewed his lip. They rode ahead through tall stretches of timber; the forest was a cathedral, drilled through by dark, long-sounding corridors. The sun rushed forward over the lip of the world and shadows descended upon them. Westward the sky was a vast spray of lance-like clouds shooting forward, yellow and salmon and vermilion. Channing Pierce said, ‘Listen, McCracken. I can give you a piece of information that could mean a hell of a lot to you.’