The Outlaws 2

by Brian Garfield

  ‘Go ahead, then.’

  A crafty light came into Pierce’s beady eyes. ‘Not so fast. What do I get out of it?’

  McCracken’s head came around bleakly.

  Pierce said, ‘I’ll tell you what, McCracken. I’ll trust you. You listen to what I’ve got to say, and if you think it’s worth it, turn me loose. I’ll clear out of the country and never bother you again.’ McCracken just looked at him. Pierce said, ‘Hell, man—what have you got to lose? For Pete’s sake, I didn’t shoot anybody. I ain’t a killer. It ain’t as though you’d be letting a murderer loose.’

  ‘All right,’ McCracken said, reining in so abruptly that Pierce had to yank back the reins to keep from being jerked off his horse by the rope. McCracken watched him un-blinkingly.

  Nervous under that level gaze, Pierce looked around vaguely. ‘Let me have a drink, will you? That gag really roughed up my throat.’

  McCracken untied his canteen and handed it over. ‘Don’t stall,’ he warned.

  Pierce drank and handed it back. ‘I ain’t stalling,’ he said. ‘Here’s what I’ve got to say: There’s a gent behind Chet Six, a man who gives orders. He’s a respected big shot down our way—what none of you people knows is that this fellow is all set to have Six starve you all out, so he can take over the mountain graze. Six doesn’t think I know about it, but I saw this fellow palavering with him last night at Dragoon Pass. He pulls the strings and Six jumps.’

  McCracken said nothing. He sat still, mulling it over. Impatiently, Pierce went on: ‘You don’t believe Six would have planned that raid last night, do you? He never did anything like that before. No. It was this other fellow who planned that deal. He’s greedy and he wants to bring things to a head.’

  It rang true. Last night’s incident did not fit in with Chet Six’s normally cautious, tolerant character. Heretofore, Six had always walked the tight, careful line, making sure he never irritated any of the victims of his rustling to the point where they would hit back at him. Caution had been Six’s watchword. Nobody ever caught him with stolen beef on his hands. But McCracken remembered the meadow full of stolen cattle he had come across in the early morning and the brand-blotched hide that now rested in his saddlebag. He was inclined to believe Pierce.

  He said, ‘All right. Who is this ranny?’

  ‘No,’ Pierce said. ‘Cut me loose, and I’ll tell you. That’s our deal.’

  McCracken considered it. After a moment, he said, ‘When I turn you loose, you head straight for the county line, Pierce. I don’t want to catch you at Dragoon Pass. If I see you again in this country, I’ll cut you down like a mad dog—there won’t be any question of hauling you off to jail next time. Understand me?’

  ‘I get you,’ Pierce said, and held out his hands. McCracken untied the rope from his own saddle horn, coiled it up and undid the knots that bound Pierce’s hands together. Pierce rubbed his wrists. McCracken’s hand rested on his gun butt.

  Pierce said, ‘The man you want is Scott Kramer.’ And, nodding as if to agree with his own statement, he lifted the reins, gave McCracken an irresolute, questioning look, and gigged his horse tentatively. McCracken did nothing to stop him. Pierce lifted the horse to a lope, and McCracken was still sitting his saddle, frowning, when Pierce disappeared into the mountains to the west.

  If what Pierce had said was true—and McCracken had a hunch it was—then it might explain a good many things, such as Kramer’s odd behavior yesterday, and the sudden savage raid on Wagon Wheel. And it also brought a grim little smile to McCracken’s lips, a sardonic reply to the duplicity of Kramer, a man who claimed to stand for his own rough and independent brand of justice and who, after all, was proved a fraud.

  Kramer could wait. It was Waco who had killed Felix Ochoa, and Calabasas who had beaten San Saba senseless. These two men stood at the head of McCracken’s list.

  With the last indigo twilight draining out of the sky, he put his horse along the ridges toward Dragoon Pass.

  At the same hour, at scattered points throughout the county, a number of seemingly unrelated happenings occurred.

  In Arroyo Seco, Ada Stewart lay across the coverlet of her bed with moist eyes and clenched fists, fighting the boiling currents of conflict in her. Down below, Sheriff Tom Mossgrove left his office with determined stride and walked stiff-legged to the stable, where he saddled his horse and stepped up into the stirrups. He headed toward the Arrowheads, planning to pick up posse members at the various timberline ranches.

  Wilson Stewart was closing his store for the evening. Lamps winked on, splashing pale sheets of illumination onto the street and boardwalks, and the saloon did a thriving business, men gathering around tables to discuss last night’s attack on Wagon Wheel. The incident was already infamous.

  Up in the mountains, Knox Bannerman stood on his brother’s bear rug with a gun strapped about his hips, holding a glass of whisky but disregarding it.

  At Turkey Track, Scott Kramer sat at his desk with his account books open. His grin was grim and vaguely satisfied.

  And in the Wagon Wheel bunkhouse, three men stood in apprehensive silence while Elena knelt over the blanketed form of old San Saba.

  Nate Shattuck said uncertainly, ‘You want me to ride for the doctor, Lena?’

  She shook her head slowly. The black hat hung by its throat-string at her back. Her boots were spurred and she wore her .38-40 revolver belted tight. She said, ‘There isn’t time, Nate.’ She pressed a damp cloth against the old man’s dry forehead and, with her back turned to the others, she allowed herself tears.

  When she stood up ten minutes later, San Saba was dead of his injuries. She gave a level, blank look to Shattuck. ‘Take care of him,’ she said, and swung outside with a bitter expression on her features that no one could miss.

  The sun was down, the moon wouldn’t come up yet for quite a while, and the yard lay plunged in gloom. Lamplight from the bunkhouse window fell out along the ground. Young Will Garrison came out behind her and stood hatless, looking miserable. She said, ‘Saddle up for me, Will.’

  ‘Yes’m.’ He turned off toward the barn. Elena crossed the yard, her spurs dragging the dust, and went up into the parlor. Striking a match, she lit a table lamp and went across to her father’s gun rack. After a moment’s bleak consideration, she took down his twelve-gauge shotgun and broke it open to make sure both barrels were loaded. She stuffed half a dozen shells into her pocket and dropped the shotgun across the crook of her elbow, blew out the lamp, and went outside.

  Will Garrison presently appeared leading her horse, and said, ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘What is it, Will?’

  He was considering his boot toes. ‘You’re headed up for Dragoon Pass, ain’t you?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Miss Lena.’

  She picked up the reins from his hand. The horse bobbed its head nervously, as if struck by the same apprehension that troubled them all.

  Young Will said, ‘You’re likely to get yourself hurt.’

  ‘Thanks for thinking of me,’ she said gently, and turned to mount.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  She paused. Will said, ‘I guess there ain’t nobody can stop you.’

  ‘That’s right, Will.’

  He nodded. ‘Maybe you’d let me ride along, then?’

  She considered him kindly, and shook her head. Stepping into the saddle, she said, ‘No, Will. Thanks.’ It wasn’t the boy’s fight. She thrust the shotgun awkwardly into the saddle’s rifle-boot; it didn’t fit very well, and most of it stuck out. ‘You stick here until you get orders, Will. Tell Nate and Obregon to do the same.’ She lifted the hat and put it on, and gigged the horse. In the yard behind her, Will stood frowning, and presently turned toward the barn.

  Riding up the mountain road at a steady clip, Elena felt the blindfolding darkness of the night. Her jaw crept forward to lie in a long, grim line. The skittish horse fought the bit and she had a bad few moments combing the kinks out of it. T
hen she spurred it to a canter and rode with her hand on the stock of the shotgun.

  Sixteen

  McCracken left his horse in the trees above the Dragoon Pass buildings and slipped down through the black shelter of timber, walking soundlessly on the carpet of pine needles. He had left his rifle behind on the saddle. Whatever gunplay would be called for tonight would be close work, and he carried not only his own holstered revolver but also Channing Pierce’s, rammed into his belt.

  The crescent moon was coming up when he reached the rim of the trees and put his careful glance on the back of the saloon-store. Yellow light fell through the windows. He dug in his heels and made a dash for the building, flattening his back against the wall. When his breathing settled, he turned toward the same kitchen window through which he had come and gone last night. No light came through it. He assumed the door was closed between the kitchen and saloon. The window was still open. Probably nobody had thought to close it after last night. He put his leg over the sill, ducked his head and slipped inside the dark room, and stood a moment trying to recollect the layout there—he didn’t want to be barging into tables and dishpans.

  He picked a careful path across the room and put his ear to the door. A shaft of lamplight showed beneath the door, a thin yellow band. He picked up the sound of voices, but they were murmuring in low tones and he couldn’t make out what they said, or how many there were. Frowning, he stood a moment to think. Then, revising his plans, he went softly back through the room and was near the window when his foot struck something loose that rattled faintly. He froze. His hand lifted, carrying his cocked gun, and he crouched facing the door. But nothing happened; no one had heard him. He stooped and felt for the object that had almost betrayed him—and found a pair of spurs. His own spurs; he recalled removing them here last night. He picked them up and put them into his hip pocket, and slipped outside through the window. After looking both ways, he crept along the outside of the building, rounding the corner and cat-footing up to the front of the saloon. He removed his hat and looked around the corner.

  Six’s rocking chair was empty. No one was about. Someone laughed within the saloon and there was the clink of bottle against glass, the scrape of a chair. Windows illuminated the porch, and he saw four horses tethered to the hitch rail. He stopped to ponder this. Six’s own horse would probably be in the barn, unless Six planned on riding somewhere tonight. But McCracken recalled that Six generally rode a very big horse—as he remembered it was a sorrel gelding about sixteen and a half hands high—and no horse of any such description appeared before the building. Thus he assumed that, including Six, there must be five men altogether inside the saloon.

  Palming his gun, he stepped up onto the porch and slid along the wall until he could peer in through one window. There was the chink of poker chips, the slap of cards. He looked into the big room.

  Six was playing cards at a table with two other men. One was unfamiliar; the other was Waco, a thin, dark man with a three-day black stubble on his flat cheeks. And at the bar, nursing a bottle, stood big, ox-like Calabasas.

  That made four, including Chet Six. Where was the man who belonged to the other horse? McCracken was reluctant to show his hand when there was an unknown fifth party prowling nearby. He waited, frowning—and presently the side door opened and a man walked into the saloon from the outback. One of Six’s toughs, an anonymous stocky man with two guns cross-belted at his hips. That man pulled a chair into the poker game and now, satisfied that he had them all placed, McCracken ducked low to clear the window sill and passed under it, rising to his feet at the door.

  Drawing both guns and cocking them, he softly depressed the latch, drew back, and yanked the door open, and stood flat-footed in the opening.

  Waco, facing him at the round table, lifted his eyes incuriously to see who had entered. Then his eyes grew round and his hands dropped off the edge of the table.

  ‘Sit still,’ McCracken said, stepping forward.

  ‘Well,’ Chet Six said. As his head turned, the flesh of his neck bunched up. He showed no fear in the face of McCracken’s guns. ‘If anybody’d told me, I’d never have believed it.’

  ‘Channing Pierce is out of the way,’ McCracken said, and watched that news drop among them. He added, ‘I came back to clear up some business with you boys.’

  ‘Judas,’ Six said. ‘This is getting to be a bad habit. You lead a cat’s lives, McCracken.’

  McCracken jerked out one gun. ‘Waco, drop your gun and come over here. You too, Calabasas.’

  Both men looked at Six. Six said, ‘McCracken, maybe you ought to know. There’s a warrant out for you, for murdering Cody Longwell. You’re wanted dead or alive.’ His teeth showed in a fat-jowled grin.

  McCracken met his glance bleakly. ‘Tell your boys to do what I say. I don’t want to shoot anybody.’

  ‘You won’t get the chance.’ It was a voice behind him, an unfamiliar voice. He whipped his head around, and saw a tall scar faced man with a Mexican sombrero and a cocked revolver, trained on his back.

  ‘All right,’ Chet Six said unhurriedly, standing up. ‘Drop your irons, McCracken.’

  It flashed momentarily through McCracken’s head, the thought of making a try against the gun behind him. But a glance at those calm deadly eyes warned him against it. He remembered last night, and Cody Longwell who had tried to beat the drop. Longwell was dead. McCracken uncocked his guns and let them fall. When they hit the floor they clattered hollowly.

  ‘Smart,’ Six said. ‘For a minute there I thought you might try it. It wouldn’t work, McCracken. Andrews is the fastest gun on my crew.’

  Andrews, the scar faced man in the sombrero, came around McCracken and stooped to pick up his gun. Then he waved McCracken forward.

  McCracken’s bleak, even glance met Six’s. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Dead or alive—that was it, wasn’t it? Get it over with, Six.’

  Six chuckled. ‘Not that quick, McCracken. I don’t work that way. Sit down—pour yourself a drink.’

  McCracken stood where he was. Six shrugged his massive round shoulders. ‘Suit yourself. Rest easy, anyway. I ain’t going to have you shot unless you do something rash.’

  ‘Touch of conscience, Six?’

  Six shook his head. ‘I got no call to shoot you,’ he said. ‘I never yet shot an unarmed man. No reason to start now—the law will take care of you.’

  McCracken uttered a brittle laugh. ‘That’s a new one, coming from you.’

  Waco was frowning at Six. ‘You must be kidding, boss. No jury in this country would ever convict McCracken. Not on our say-so.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Six said flatly. His head turned and he took out his pipe, methodically packing it, thrusting the stem into his beard and locking it between his teeth. ‘Listen to me and I’ll tell you something, you cheap hairpin.’

  Waco winced. Six went on: ‘Look at McCracken, Waco. Go on. Look at him.’

  Waco looked up. McCracken stared back at him. Six said, ‘That’s a man you re lookin’ at, Waco. Maybe the biggest man you ever saw walk into these hills. You want to shoot him down like a dog? Hell—a man deserves something better than that.’

  Waco shook his head insistently. ‘You turn him over to the law, and he’ll go scot free.’

  ‘By the time he gets loose, our business here will be done,’ Six said. ‘We’ll be driving the biggest herd this country ever saw across the line into Mexico by then. What McCracken does after that is his own affair.’

  McCracken said tonelessly, ‘Maybe you’d better listen to your boy, Six. If I get out of this alive, I’ll be coming after you.’

  Six glared at him from under lowered lids. He pushed his ponderous bulk away from the table and stood facing McCracken, and did a strange thing: he unbelted his gun and set it on the table.

  ‘Back off,’ he said mildly, and Andrews, his gun still covering McCracken, stepped back as far as the bar, where he stopped beside Calabasas and stood watching unblinkingly.

  Six sai
d, ‘I see now I’m going to have to take care of you, McCracken. But I’ll give you a man’s chance. Hand to hand, you and me. Andrews, put up your gun.’

  McCracken smiled bleakly. He knew it was only Six’s pride talking. If by some miracle he should get the upper hand over the giant Six, there were guns a-plenty in the room to stop him. It was no more than the choice between hanging and a firing squad.

  Six lumbered forward, arms wide, open-handed. McCracken, a big man, was dwarfed by his bulk. He had the advantage of speed and agility, but the massive strength of Six was a looming danger.

  He backed off and braced his legs and waited for Six to come at him. Six wiped his hands dry against his pants and crouched, slowly circling his arms, beckoning with his open meaty hands. A tight grin was pasted across the ham of his face. McCracken let him get within two paces, then lunged forward and shot his fist against Six’s unguarded face.

  With amazing deftness, Six tilted his head to let the blow ride harmlessly over his shoulder, and shot his arms forward in an attempt to lock McCracken within them. McCracken smelled the man’s heavy breath. He wheeled barely in time to escape the clutching grip of Six’s huge arms; he pounded his fist against Six’s belly as he turned, and felt it sink six inches into soft flesh. Six grunted and stood still momentarily, frowning. McCracken feinted to the left and curled around the man’s right side, aiming one blow into his ribs and another against the jaw; Six lifted his shoulder just in time and took the fist on that side. McCracken’s fist pounded his ribs again and when Six’s guard dropped, McCracken chopped the edge of his open hand into the hollow of Six’s bull-neck.

  The blow put Six off balance, dizzying him for an instant, and McCracken pressed his advantage by swinging forward, driving his fists against the lowered face. His blows sounded like the flat of a cleaver pounding a side of beef. But he stayed in a moment too long. The big arms circled around him, wrapped him in a lock, squeezed him with inhuman pressure. He had one arm free but he was pinned so close to the big man that he could not get an angle at any vulnerable spot. Six shifted his knees sideways to protect his groin and McCracken felt his ribs strain against the tremendous pressure of the hug. He tried to pry Six’s head back by hooking a thumb in his eye, but Six shook him off, and a red haze lifted before McCracken’s eyes. He could not get breath into his lungs; he felt himself quickly weakening. He tried to stamp on Six’s instep, but Six began to move, dancing around with him. He kicked Six’s shin; Six howled but maintained the awful grip. Finally, almost blacking out, in desperation he remembered the spurs in his hip pocket, and reached for them with his free hand.