Die with the Outlaws

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “That ain’t quite enough,” Shardeen said. “You ain’t goin’ to bother her no more.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to bother her no more,” Philpot responded in a quiet, weak voice.

  Shardeen shook his head. “Uh-uh, that ain’t enough. You got to say it out loud. You ain’t goin’ to be botherin’ Ramona no more.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to bother Ramona no more.” As Shardeen had ordered, Philpot’s words could be heard throughout the saloon.

  “That’s more like it,” Shardeen said as he put his pistol back in the holster.

  “Shardeen, why are you doin’ this? I’m tellin’ you, he ain’t been botherin’ me,” Ramona said. “Me ’n you ain’t never been nothin’ special, ’n he’s only doin’ what all the men who come in here do.”

  Shardeen turned toward Ramona. “Don’t you understand? That don’t matter none. I told ’im not to, ’n that’s all that really matters.”

  While Shardeen was talking to Ramona, Philpot watched through fear-crazed, hate-filled eyes. Then, the most perceptive among the saloon patrons saw a gradual shift in the young rancher’s demeanor. The wild hysteria left his eyes and they became flat and void, as if he had accepted the fact that he was already a dead man. He had one emotion left, and one emotion only—absolute blind rage. Taking advantage of what he thought was Shardeen’s distraction, Philpot made a mad grab for the gun, managing to pull it from his holster and bring it up to bear.

  Shardeen turned back toward the man he had been tormenting and watched, allowing a slow smile to play across his face.

  “What are you going to do now, you ornery cuss?” Philpot called out in a triumphant yell.

  Shardeen made no move until Philpot actually had the gun cocked. Not until that time did Shardeen pull his own gun in a draw that was incredibly fast. He pulled the trigger, and his bullet caught Philpot in the neck. Surprised by the suddenness of it, Philpot dropped his gun, unfired, and clutched his throat. He fell back against the bar, then slid down, dead before he reached the floor.

  “Damn! I’ll bet there ain’t nobody that’s ever seen shootin’ like that!” Carter called out in a triumphant yell.

  Shardeen, who was an ugly little man, looked around the saloon, the broad smile on his face showing his yellowed, crooked teeth. Everyone studied their glass or bottle, avoiding Shardeen’s eyes.

  “Is there anybody in here a-plannin’ on sayin’ how this was anything other than a fair fight?” Shardeen challenged.

  “I’m a witness,” Asa Carter said. “I seen ever’thin’, ’n I’m sayin’ it was a fair fight, just like Shardeen is a-sayin’. Anybody in here plannin’ on disputin’ my testimony?”

  Carter and Shardeen looked around, studying the others in the Wild Hog. Saloon.

  “Fancy, what you got to say about it?” Carter asked.

  Fancy was an attractive young black girl, dressed as provocatively as any of the other bar girls. “I ain’t got nothin’ a-tall to say about it, honey,” she replied, consciously keeping her voice as devoid of all expression as she could.

  The sound of the gunshots had brought two or three outsiders into the saloon, including Sheriff Clark. He saw Philpot on the floor, but in the sitting position leaning back against the bar. His eyes were open and sightless, his hand clenched tightly around the unfired pistol.

  Sheriff Clark looked over at Shardeen. “You did this, I reckon?”

  “Look in his hand, Sheriff,” Carter said. “It was self-defense, pure ’n simple. Why, if Shardeen hadn’t shot him, he woulda shot Shardeen.”

  “You ’n Shardeen both bein’ Regulators ’n all, I wouldn’t expect you to say nothin’ different,” Sheriff Clark said.

  Nobody else volunteered any information.

  Sheriff Davey Clark looked again at the dead man. “That’s Harmon Philpot. He’s a small rancher, ain’t he? I don’t expect Kennedy or O’Neil is goin’ to be all upset about a small rancher gettin’ hisself kilt.”

  “He warn’t a real rancher,” Shardeen said. “He was a cattle rustler is what he was. Hell, more ’n half his herd was mavericks he rounded up, mavericks that belonged to the Straight Arrow.”

  “So what if they are? Until the maverick law was passed, any unbranded cow or calf found wandering around on the free range belonged to anyone who rounded them up. So any of his cattle that were mavericks before the law was passed belong to him.”

  “You mean belonged, don’t you, Sheriff?” Carter said with a mirthless laugh. “They don’t nothin’ belong to him now, seein’ as the lowdown scum is dead.”

  Sheriff Clark looked directly at the bartender, who had been quiet from the moment the sheriff entered the saloon.

  “Buster, do you agree with Carter? Is it what he was sayin’? Was it self-defense?”

  Buster Kendig looked at the others in the bar but, as before, none of them would return his gaze. No one seemed willing to make a comment.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “It was self-defense.”

  Sheriff Clark stared at Shardeen for a moment, then he turned and left the saloon.

  Shardeen called out, “Hey, Buster, what was Philpot drinkin’?”

  The bartender pointed. “That’s what’s left of his beer.”

  Shardeen stepped over to it, lifted the mug, and finished the beer. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he set the empty mug down on the bar, ran the back of his hand across his mouth, then left.

  Straight Arrow Ranch

  “Are you sure that was the best way to handle Philpot?” O’Neil asked DuPont.

  “What do you mean? You wanted his ranch, didn’t you? Now you can take over his ranch.”

  “Yes, but to have been killed in such a way, witnessed by so many people.”

  “This way there ain’t no question ’bout what happened ’cause all the witnesses who seen it say it was in self-defense. And Shardeen made it out to be that he was mad at Philpot for bein’ with his woman. There won’t nobody be thinkin’ it had anythin’ to do with his ranch ’n cows, which is all yours now, ain’t it?”

  O’Neil smiled. “He hasn’t paid taxes on his property. We’ll pay the taxes, and his section will be absorbed by the Straight Arrow. Give Mr. Shardeen our appreciation.”

  “He’ll be expectin’ a little more than appreciation,” DuPont said.

  “Yes, two hundred dollars I believe was the agreed-upon sum. If you and he will come to the ranch office this afternoon, we’ll have the funds available for you.”

  “We’ll be there,” DuPont promised.

  Chapter Six

  Matt Jensen arrived in Bitter Creek by train then made the hundred-mile ride to Rongis in two days.

  Typical of towns that had sprung up all over the West in the last fifty years, it had one main street that was crossed at least four times during its length. The main street was anchored at each end with a church, Our Lady of the Mountains Catholic Church at the south end and Church of Salvation, a nondenominational protestant church, at the north end. The street was lined with business establishments—two general stores, a drugstore, a leather goods shop, two cafés, a gunsmith, feed store, a bank, a livery, the Rongis Hotel, a newspaper, sheriff’s office and jail, a post office, a land office, a freight office, a stagecoach depot, a blacksmith shop, and two saloons.

  The boardwalks on either side of the street were busy with pedestrians, and the street had traffic from small buckboards to large freight wagons.

  Of the two saloons, the Pair O’ Dice looked the most inviting. The two-day ride had built a thirst for more than tepid canteen water, so Matt dismounted, pushed through the batwing doors, and stepped inside.

  Though it was still midafternoon, the saloon was already crowded and noisy with the sounds of idle men and painted women having fun. Near the piano three men and a couple of women filled the air with their idea of a song, the lyrics a bit more ribald than the composer intended.

  Matt stepped up to the bar.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” the bartende
r asked. He was wearing a stained apron and carrying a towel he used to alternately wipe off the bar and wipe out the glasses.

  “What’s your whiskey?” Matt asked.

  “Got some Old Overholt. Cost you two dollars the bottle, or ten cents the drink.”

  “I’ll take a glass of whiskey and a beer chaser,” Matt said, slapping the necessary silver on the bar.

  The bartender poured a shot of whiskey, then drew a mug of beer and put both before him. “You just passin’ through?”

  Matt chuckled. “You get a lot of people passing through Rongis, do you? If you do, where are they on their way to?”

  The bartender laughed. “Well now, there you have me, mister. No sir, we don’t get a lot of folks passin’ through town on account of, like you just said, they ain’t really got no place to go to that makes you have to come this way.”

  “I have to say, it does look like a pretty lively little town, though, especially being as remote as it is,” Matt said.

  “You don’t have no idea how lively it is. Why we just had us a killin’ here, yesterday.”

  “Here, in the saloon?”

  “Well, no sir, not ’n this saloon, but across the street ’n just down a ways it was. It happened in the Wild Hog, which is the other saloon in town. Ain’t as nice as this one is,” he added, taking the opportunity for self-promotion.

  Matt lifted his whiskey and held it out in a toast. “Well, when I rode into town, this is the saloon I picked.”

  “Shardeen, it was,” the bartender said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Angus Shardeen. He’s the one that done the killin’. You ever heard of ’im?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “I’ve heard of ’im.”

  “I figured maybe you have, him havin’ hisself quite a reputation ’n all.”

  “If you got somethin’ stickin’ in your craw, cowboy, I think maybe you’d better just spit it out,” someone said in a cold, challenging voice.

  The loud voice interrupted all other conversation, and like everyone else in the saloon, Matt turned his attention toward the disturbance. The one who had issued the challenge was a hard-eyed man with a hawklike nose. He was wearing a pistol, the black, silver-studded holster low and kicked out for a fast draw.

  The man he was yelling at was obviously a working cowboy with worn jeans and a frayed shirt. He wasn’t armed.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ stickin’ there on account of I already said it,” the cowboy said. “’N if you didn’t hear it, I’ll say it again. What I said was, you ’n that feller standin’ beside you that’s wearin’ a ten-dollar Stetson on a ten-cent head, act as if you’re a-chasin’ rustlers. But all you’re actual doin’ is tryin’ to run the little ranchers outta business. It wouldn’t surprise me none if Shardeen didn’t kill Philpot yesterday on account of ’cause he was a small rancher.

  “And the rustlin’ is goin’ on all along, like the horses that’s been stoled from the Spur and Latigo Ranch. I wouldn’t be none surprised if it warn’t you a-doin’ it, ’n if it ain’t you, it’ll be some other no-account Regulator.”

  “Are you callin’ us no-accounts?” the loudmouthed one said.

  The cowboy’s smile was disdainful. “Well, maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look, seein’ as you figured out what I was sayin’ after all.”

  “You ain’t goin’ to let ’im get away with callin’ us no-accounts, are you, Toone?” said the man in the Stetson.

  “Who is that cowboy?” Matt asked the bartender quietly.

  “The cowboy is a feller named Sanders.”

  “He mentioned the Spur and Latigo. He works for Hugh Conway, does he?”

  “Yes, he’s the foreman there. Conway’s a good man. Do you know ’im?”

  “Not really, but he is the brother-in-law of a friend of mine. Who’s the loudmouth?”

  “His name is Toone, Walter Toone. He’s a real hardcase. The one standin’ there beside ’im, eggin’ ’im on, is Moe Greene. Both of ’em rides for Tyrone DuPont ’n his Regulators, which is the same outfit that Shardeen rides for.”

  “Regulators?”

  “Yeah, they’s a bunch of ’em claim to be a posse of volunteers to keep the rustlers away from the Sweetwater Valley.”

  “Yeah, only they don’t really keep the rustlers away,” Sanders said, having overheard the bartender’s remark. “Seein’ as how it’s more ’n likely they’re the ones doin’ the rustlin’.”

  “Tell me, Sanders. You wouldn’t be callin’ us horse thiefs, would you?” Toone’s tone was as belligerent as before, and his question recaptured Matt’s attention.

  “Nah, I’m sure you ain’t doin’ no horse stealin’. It’s more ’n likely that them horses is just followin’ you around on account of ’cause you smell so good,” Sanders said, and a few of the others in the saloon laughed nervously.

  “You think you’re funny, do you? Well let’s just see how funny you really are. Me ’n you is about to have us a fight.”

  A broad grin spread across Sanders’s face. “A fight? Yeah. Yeah, there’s two of you and only one of me, but I’d say that makes the odds about even. Come on. I think I’m goin’ to enjoy this.” Sanders made his hands into fists then held them out in front of his face, moving his right hand in tiny circles. “Come on. I’m goin’ to put the lights out for both of you.”

  “Uh-uh,” Toone said. “That ain’t the kind of fight I’m talkin’ about. I plan to make this permanent.”

  “You mean a gunfight? No, I ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with the likes of you,” Sanders said. “Anyway, there’s two of you ’n only one of me.”

  “Oh, don’t let that bother you,” Toone said.

  “Greene, here, won’t have nothin’ to do with it. It’ll just be me ’n you. Right, Greene?

  “Yeah,” Greene said, smiling evilly. “Yeah, this is just between you ’n Sanders. All I’m goin’ to do is just watch.”

  Toone let his arm hang down alongside his pistol, and he looked at the cowboy through cold, ruthless eyes. “Just to show you how nice I am, I’m goin’ to let you draw first.”

  “How am I goin’ to draw, you ignorant fool?” Sanders asked. “Hell, I ain’t even packin’, which you could see if you’d just take a look.”

  Matt couldn’t help but have a sense of respect for Sanders for speaking to Toone in such a way even though Toone was armed and Sanders wasn’t.

  He doubled up his fists again. “But if you’d like to come over here and take your beatin’ like a man, I’d be glad to oblige you. ’N there ain’t no need for you to be a-feared o’ me, I mean, bein’ as there’s two of you like I said. Come on ’n take your medicine.”

  “You ain’t listenin’ to me, are you, cowboy? I tole you that I plan to make this here fight permanent. Now, draw your gun, like I told you to,” Toone repeated in a cold, flat voice.

  The others in the saloon knew that the cowboy had carried things too far. Knowing there was about to be gunplay, they began, quietly but deliberately, to get out of the way of any flying lead.

  It wasn’t until that moment, seeing the others move out of the way, that Sanders began to worry that he might actually be losing control of the situation. He lowered his fists and then stared at Toone incredulously. “Are you blind, Toone? I told you I ain’t armed. Ain’t you even noticed that I’m not wearin’ a gun? If you’re figurin’ on forcin’ me into a gunfight, you can just figure again, ’cause I ain’t a-goin’ to do it.”

  “If you ain’t goin’ to fight, then you can just apologize to me ’n my friend, then get out of here. Get out of this saloon, out of this town, and out of this valley.”

  “No, I ain’t a-goin’ to apologize for tellin’ the truth,” Sanders said.

  “Sanders, you walk through that door right now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand, whether you got a gun or not,” Toone said.

  “Mr. Sanders,” Matt said, speaking for the first time, “I wonder if you would mind if I came down there to have a few
words with you. Mr. Bartender, set up another drink for my friend there.”

  “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but if you got any sense, you’ll butt out of this,” Toone said in as sinister a voice as he could muster.

  “Now why should I do that? I’ve just arrived in town and I’m anxious to make new friends, so I thought I might start with Mr. Sanders.”

  “Don’t you see what’s goin’ on here? If you’re a-standin’ next to him when the shootin’ starts, you’re liable to wind up gettin’ yourself kilt,” Toone said in a low, growling voice. “’N to tell the truth, the way you’ve butted in like you’ve done, it don’t really make me no never mind whether you get kilt or not.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll be all right,” Matt said. “I think—” He interrupted himself in midcomment and pointed to Moe Greene, whose hand had started to move toward his holster. “Friend, if you move your hand one inch closer toward that gun I’ll kill you and this loudmouth both.”

  “You’ll what?” Toone asked incredulously. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen. And I’ve come out here looking for a job with Hugh Conway. Since that means Mr. Sanders and I will be working together, I thought it might be a good idea for me to get acquainted with him.”

  “Jensen? Matt Jensen?” one of the saloon patrons said. “Damn, I’ve heard of him.”

  “How do I know you’re Matt Jensen?” Toone asked. “You could just be some drifter decidin’ to run a bluff by usin’ his name.”

  “You know what? You could be right,” Matt agreed. “I might just be running a bluff.”

  Toone forced a smile. “Then I’ve got me an idea, mister. Why don’t I just call your bluff?”

  “I suppose you could call it if you wanted to. But then, you would never find out whether I was bluffing or not.”

  “What do you mean, I would never find out? Why won’t I?”

  “Oh, because you will be dead,” Matt said as if explaining something to a child. “You and—” He glanced over toward Greene. “What is it my new friend called you? A ten-gallon Stetson on a ten-cent head?” Matt chuckled. “That’s a good one. Anyway, as I was saying, you’ll both be dead.”