The sun was burning hot, and the sand felt like an oven beneath Laramie. His canteen was slung to his saddle, and his horse was out of his reach, drooping under a scrubby mesquite. The other fellow would eventually work around to a point where his rifle would out-range Laramie’s six-gun — or he might shoot the horse and leave Buck afoot in the desert.
The instant his attacker’s next shot sang past his refuge, he was up and away in a stooping, weaving run to the next sand hill, to the right and slightly forward of his original position. He wanted to get in close quarters with his unknown enemy.
He wriggled from cover to cover, and sprinted in short dashes over narrow strips of open ground, taking advantage of every rock, cactus-bed and sand- bank, with lead hissing and spitting at him all the way. The hidden gunman had guessed his purpose, and obviously had no desire for a close-range fight. He was slinging lead every time Laramie showed an inch of flesh, cloth or leather, and Buck counted the shots. He was within striking distance of the sand rim when he believed the fellow’s rifle was empty.
Springing recklessly to his feet he charged straight at his hidden enemy, his six-gun blazing. He had miscalculated about the rifle, for a bullet tore through the slack of his shirt. But then the Winchester was silent, and Laramie was raking the rim with such a barrage of lead that the gunman evidently dared not lift himself high enough to line the sights of a six-gun.
But a pistol was something that must be reckoned with, and as he spent his last bullet, Laramie dove behind a rise of sand and began desperately to jam cartridges into his empty gun. He had failed to cross the sand rim in that rush, but another try would gain it — unless hot lead cut him down on the way. Drum of hoofs reached his ears suddenly and glaring over his shelter he saw a pinto pony beyond the sand rim heading in the direction of San Leon. Its rider wore a white sombrero.
“Damn!” Laramie slammed the cylinder in place and sent a slug winging after the rapidly receding horseman. But he did not repeat the shot. The fellow was already out of range.
“Reckon the work was gettin’ too close for him,” he ruminated as he trudged back to his horse. “Hell, maybe he didn’t want me to get a good look at him. But why? Nobody in these parts would be shy about shootin’ at a Laramie, if they knew him as such. But who’d know I was a Laramie?”
He swung up into the saddle, then absently slapped his saddle bags and the faint clinking that resulted soothed him. Those bags were loaded with fifty thousand dollars in gold eagles, and every penny was meant for the people of San Leon.
“It’ll help pay the debt the Laramies owe for the money the boys stole,” he confided to the uninterested sorrel. “How I’m goin’ to pay back for the men they killed is more’n I can figure out. But I’ll try.”
The money represented all he had accumulated from the sale of the Laramie stock and holdings in Mexico — holdings bought with money stolen from San Leon. It was his by right of inheritance, for he was the last of the Laramies. Big Jim, Tom, Hank, Luke, all had found trail’s end in that lawless country south of the Border. As they had lived, so had they died, facing their killers, with smoking guns in their hands. They had tried to live straight in Mexico, but the wild blood was still there. Fate had dealt their hands, and Buck looked upon it all as a slate wiped clean, a record closed — with the exception of Luke’s fate.
That memory vaguely troubled him now, as he rode toward San Leon to pay the debts his brothers contracted.
“Folks said Luke drawed first,” he muttered. “But it wasn’t like him to pick a barroom fight. Funny the fellow that killed him cleared out so quick, if it was a fair fight.”
He dismissed the old problem and reviewed the recent attack upon himself.
“If he knowed I was a Laramie, it might have been anybody. But how could he know? Joel Waters wouldn’t talk.”
No, Joel Waters wouldn’t talk; and, Joel Waters, old time friend of Laramie’s father, long ago, and owner of the Boxed W ranch, was the only man who knew Buck Laramie was returning to San Leon.
“San Leon at last, cayuse,” he murmured as he topped the last desert sand hill that sloped down to the town. “Last time I seen it was under circumstances most — what the devil!”
He started and stiffened as a rattle of gunfire burst on his ears. Battle in San Leon? He urged his weary steed down the hill. Two minutes later history was repeating itself.
* * *
2. OWL-HOOT GHOSTS
AS Buck Laramie galloped into San Leon, a sight met his eyes which jerked him back to a day six years gone. For tearing down the street came six wild riders, yelling and shooting. In the lead rode one, who, with his huge frame and careless ease, might have been Big Jim Laramie come back to life again. Behind them the crowd at the Red Lode, roused to befuddled life, was shooting just as wildly and ineffectively as on that other day when hot lead raked San Leon. There was but one man to bar the bandits’ path — one man who stood, legs braced wide, guns drawn, in the roadway before the last house in San Leon. So old Pop Anders had stood, that other day, and there was something about this man to remind Laramie of the old sheriff, though he was much younger. In a flash of recognition Laramie knew him — Bob Anders, son of Luke’s victim. He, too, wore a silver star.
This time Laramie did not stand helplessly by to see a sheriff slaughtered. With the swiftness born of six hard years below the border, he made his decision and acted. Gravel spurted as the sorrel threw back his head against the sawing bit and came to a sliding stop, and all in one motion Laramie was out of the saddle and on his feet beside the sheriff — half crouching and his six-gun cocked and pointed. This time two would meet the charge, not one.
Laramie saw that masks hid the faces of the riders as they swept down, and contempt stabbed through him. No Laramie ever wore a mask. His Colt vibrated as he thumbed the hammer. Beside him the young sheriff’s guns were spitting smoke and lead.
The clumped group split apart at that blast. One man, who wore a Mexican sash instead of a belt, slumped in his saddle clawing for the horn. Another with his right arm flopping broken at his side was fighting his pain-maddened beast which had stopped a slug intended for its rider.
The big man who had led the charge grabbed the fellow with the sash as he started to slide limply from his saddle, and dragged him across his own bow. He bolted across the roadside and plunged into a dry wash. The others followed him. The man with the broken arm abandoned his own crazed mount and grabbed the reins of the riderless horse. Beasts and men, they slid over the rim and out of sight in a cloud of dust.
Anders yelled and started across the road on the run, but Laramie jerked him back.
“They’re covered,” he grunted, sending his sorrel galloping to a safe place with a slap on the rump. “We got to get out of sight, pronto!”
The sheriff’s good judgment overcame his excitement then, and he wheeled and darted for the house, yelping: “Follow me, stranger!”
Bullets whined after them from the gulch as the outlaws began their stand. The door opened inward before Anders’ outstretched hand touched it, and he plunged through without checking his stride. Lead smacked the jambs and splinters flew as Laramie ducked after Anders. He collided with something soft and yielding that gasped and tumbled to the floor under the impact. Glaring wildly down Laramie found himself face to face with a vision of feminine loveliness that took his breath away, even in that instant. With a horrified gasp he plunged to his feet and lifted the girl after him. His all-embracing gaze took her in from tousled blond hair to whipcord breeches and high-heeled riding boots. She seemed too bewildered to speak.
“Sorry, miss,” he stuttered. “I hope y’ain’t hurt. I was — I was—” The smash of a window pane and the whine of a bullet cut short his floundering apologies. He snatched the girl out of line of the window and in an instant was crouching beside it himself, throwing lead across the road toward the smoke wisps.
Anders had barred the door and grabbed a Winchester from a rack on the wall.
“Duck into a back room, Judy,” he ordered, kneeling at the window on the other side of the door. “Partner, I don’t know you—” he punctuated his remarks with rapid shots, “ — but I’m plenty grateful.”
“Hilton’s the name,” mumbled Laramie, squinting along, his six-gun barrel. “Friends call me Buck — damn!”
His bullet had harmlessly knocked dust on the gulch rim, and his pistol was empty. As he groped for cartridges he felt a Winchester pushed into his hand, and, startled, turned his head to stare full into the disturbingly beautiful face of Judy Anders. She had not obeyed her brother’s order, but had taken a loaded rifle from the rack and brought it to Laramie, crossing the room on hands and knees to keep below the line of fire. Laramie almost forgot the men across the road as he stared into her deep clear eyes, now glowing with excitement. In dizzy fascination he admired the peach-bloom of her cheeks, her red, parted lips.
“Th-thank you, miss!” he stammered. “I needed that smoke-wagon right smart. And excuse my language. I didn’t know you was still in the room—”
He ducked convulsively as a bullet ripped across the sill, throwing splinters like a buzz-saw. Shoving the Winchester out of the window he set to work. But his mind was still addled. And he was remembering a pitifully still figure sprawled in the dust of that very road, and a pig-tailed child on her knees beside it. The child was no longer a child, but a beautiful woman; and he — he was still a Laramie, and the brother of the man who killed her father.
“Judy!” There was passion in Bob Anders’ voice. “Will you get out of here? There! Somebody’s callin’ at the back door. Go let ’em in. And stay back there, will you?”
This time she obeyed, and a few seconds later half a dozen pairs of boots clomped into the room, as some men from the Red Lode who had slipped around through a back route to the besieged cabin, entered.
“They was after the bank, of course,” announced one of them. “They didn’t git nothin’ though, dern ‘em. Ely Harrison started slingin’ lead the minute he seen them masks comin’ in the door. He didn’t hit nobody, and by good luck the lead they throwed at him didn’t connect, but they pulled out in a hurry. Harrison shore s’prised me. I never thought much of him before now, but he showed he was ready to fight for his money, and our’n.”
“Same outfit, of course,” grunted the sheriff, peering warily through the jagged shards of the splintered window-pane.
“Sure. The damn’ Laramies again. Big Jim leadin’, as usual.”
Buck Laramie jumped convulsively, doubting the evidence of his ears. He twisted his head to stare at the men.
“You think it’s the Laramies out there?” Buck’s brain felt a bit numb. These mental jolts were coming too fast for him.
“Sure,” grunted Anders. “Couldn’t be nobody else. They was gone for six year — where, nobody knowed. But a few weeks back they showed up again and started their old deviltry, worse than ever.”
“Killed his old man right out there in front of his house,” grunted one of the men, selecting a rifle from the rack. The others were firing carefully through the windows, and the men in the gulch were replying in kind. The room was full of drifting smoke.
“But I’ve heard of ‘em,” Laramie protested. “They was all killed down in Old Mexico.”
“Couldn’t be,” declared the sheriff, lining his sights. “These are the old gang all right. They’ve put up warnin’s signed with the Laramie name. Even been heard singin’ that old song they used to always sing about King Brady. Got a hide-out up in the Los Diablos, too, just like they did before. Same one, of course. I ain’t managed to find it yet, but—” His voice was drowned in the roar of his .45-70.
“Well, I’ll be a hammer-headed jackass,” muttered Laramie under his breath. “Of all the—”
His profane meditations were broken into suddenly as one of the men bawled: “Shootin’s slowed down over there! What you reckon it means?”
“Means they’re aimin’ to sneak out of that wash at the other end and high- tail it into the desert,” snapped Anders. “I ought to have thought about that before, but things has been happenin’ so fast. You hombres stay here and keep smokin’ the wash so they can’t bolt out on this side. I’m goin’ to circle around and block ’em from the desert.”
“I’m with you,” growled Laramie. “I want to see what’s behind them masks.”
They ducked out the back way and began to cut a wide circle which should bring them to the outer edge of the wash. It was difficult going and frequently they had to crawl on their hands and knees to take advantage of every clump of cactus and greasewood.
“Gettin’ purty close,” muttered Laramie, lifting his head. “What I’m wonderin’ is, why ain’t they already bolted for the desert? Nothin’ to stop ‘em.”
“I figger they wanted to get me if they could, before they lit out,” answered Anders. “I believe I been snoopin’ around in the Diablos too close to suit ‘em. Look out! They’ve seen us!”
Both men ducked as a steady line of flame spurts rimmed the edge of the wash. They flattened down behind their scanty cover and bullets cut up puffs of sand within inches of them.
“This is a pickle!” gritted Anders, vainly trying to locate a human head to shoot at. “If we back up, we back into sight, and if we go forward we’ll get perforated.”
“And if we stay here the result’s the same,” returned Laramie. “Greasewood don’t stop lead. We got to summon reinforcements.” And lifting his voice in a stentorian yell that carried far, he whooped: “Come on, boys! Rush ’em from that side! They can’t shoot two ways at once!”
They could not see the cabin from where they lay, but a burst of shouts and shots told them his yell had been heard. Guns began to bang up the wash and Laramie and Anders recklessly leaped to their feet and rushed down the slight slope that led to the edge of the gulch, shooting as they went.
They might have been riddled before they had gone a dozen steps, but the outlaws had recognized the truth of Laramie’s statement. They couldn’t shoot two ways at once, and they feared to be trapped in the gulch with attackers on each side. A few hurried shots buzzed about the ears of the charging men, and then outlaws burst into view at the end of the wash farthest from town, mounted and spurring hard, the big leader still carrying a limp figure across his saddle.
Cursing fervently, the sheriff ran after them, blazing away with both six- shooters, and Laramie followed him. The fleeing men were shooting backward as they rode, and the roar of six-guns and Winchesters was deafening. One of the men reeled in his saddle and caught at his shoulder, dyed suddenly red.
Laramie’s longer legs carried him past the sheriff, but he did not run far. As the outlaws pulled out of range, toward the desert and the Diablos, he slowed to a walk and began reloading his gun.
“Let’s round up the men, Bob,” he called. “We’ll follow ‘em. I know the water-holes—”
He stopped short with a gasp. Ten yards behind him Bob Anders, a crimson stream dyeing the side of his head, was sinking to the desert floor.
Laramie started back on a run just as the men from the cabin burst into view. In their lead rode a man on a pinto — and Buck Laramie knew that pinto.
“Git him!” howled the white-hatted rider. “He shot Bob Anders in the back! I seen him! He’s a Laramie!”
Laramie stopped dead in his tracks. The accusation was like a bomb-shell exploding in his face. That was the man who had tried to drygulch him an hour or so before — same pinto, same white sombrero — but he was a total stranger to Laramie. How in the devil did he know of Buck’s identity, and what was the reason for his enmity?
Laramie had no time to try to figure it out now. For the excited townsmen, too crazy with excitement to stop and think, seeing only their young sheriff stretched in his blood, and hearing the frantic accusation of one of their fellows, set up a roar and started blazing away at the man they believed was a murderer.
Out of the frying pan into the fire — the naked desert was
behind him, and his horse was still standing behind the Anders’ cabin — with that mob between him and that cabin.
But any attempt at explanation would be fatal. Nobody would listen. Laramie saw a break for him in the fact that only his accuser was mounted, and probably didn’t know he had a horse behind the cabin, and would try to reach it. The others were too excited to think anything. They were simply slinging lead, so befuddled with the mob impulse they were not even aiming — which is all that saved Laramie in the few seconds in which he stood bewildered and uncertain.
He ducked for the dry wash, running almost at a right angle with his attackers. The only man capable of intercepting him was White-Hat, who was bearing down on him, shooting from the saddle with a Winchester.
Laramie wheeled, and as he wheeled a bullet ripped through his Stetson and stirred his hair in passing. White-Hat was determined to have his life, he thought, as his own six-gun spat flame. White-Hat flinched sidewise and dropped his rifle. Laramie took the last few yards in his stride and dived out of sight in the wash.
He saw White-Hat spurring out of range too energetically to be badly wounded, and he believed his bullet had merely knocked the gun out of the fellow’s hands. The others had spread out and were coming down the slope at a run, burning powder as they came.
Laramie did not want to kill any of those men. They were law-abiding citizens acting under a misapprehension. So he emptied his gun over their heads and was gratified to see them precipitately take to cover. Then without pausing to reload, he ducked low and ran for the opposite end of the wash, which ran on an angle that would bring him near the cabin.
The men who had halted their charge broke cover and came on again, unaware of his flight, and hoping to get him while his gun was empty. They supposed he intended making a stand at their end of the wash.
By the time they had discovered their mistake and were pumping lead down the gully, Laramie was out at the other end and racing across the road toward the cabin. He ducked around the corner with lead nipping at his ears and vaulted into the saddle of the sorrel — and cursed his luck as Judy Anders ran out the rear door, her eyes wide with fright.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 251