Showdown at Gun Hill (16 page)

The man let out a breath, knowing he was dead regardless of how he answered. He'd gotten too close, seen too much trail in the direction of the hideout just across the border.

“Bo Anson,” he said. “I've been riding for the colonel and Curtis Siedell for peanuts. Anson and I have been keeping tabs on the reward money on you fellas. It's gotten high. You can't blame us.”

“What's your name?” Max asked.

“Mallard Trent,” the detective said.

“Mallard Trent, the tracker?” Max asked. “Used to ride for General Crook?”

“Yeah, that's me,” the man said. He let out a deep breath. “I was big hoss riding for Crook. Look where I'm ending up.” He shook his head. “Soon as we collected the railroad bounty, we were all set to start robbing Siedell's operations ourselves. I've got all kinds of information about his business, his comings and goings. Fat lot of good it's going to do me now.”

Bard leveled the rifle a little, but he looked at Cross and Worley and saw them give him a slight shrug.

“You gave us a hell of a run, Trent,” he said down to the detective. “Learned to ride like that fighting the Apache, I expect?”

Trent stared up at him, sensing a fine crack opening in what he'd considered his sealed fate.

“Yeah, I expect,” he said. He continued to stare, barely daring to breathe as he saw the wheels turning in Bard's mind.

“I heard the general's a son of a bitch to ride for,” Bard said. Checking him out, Trent decided.

“I never rode for a blue-leg general who wasn't,” Trent said.

“So you say?” Bard motioned him to his feet with his rifle barrel. Trent stood up, noting that Bard's finger was off the trigger. “Let me ask you something, Mallard Trent,” he said, eyeing him closely. “Was that blue-leg remark something you said just because you know us ol' boys are all guerrilla rebels? You figured maybe saying it might save your life?” His stare hardened. But it seemed not to bother Trent. The detective reached a hand back and dusted the seat of his trousers.

“I don't know,” he said. He paused for a moment, then said, “If it was . . . did it work?”

Max looked at Cross and Worley and gave a short little chuckle. Seeing their approval, he turned back to Trent and lowered the rifle and said, “Yeah, why the hell not?”

The men gave a short round of laughter; Bard uncocked the rifle and laid it back across his lap.

“Ride up front with me, Trent,” he said. “Let's talk about Curtis Siedell some.”

Trent looked all around.

“I'd like to oblige, but I'm without a horse,” he said.

“Help Rudy get that chain off his ankle. He'll likely double up with you until we get somewhere.”

Bowlinger eased his horse over, dropped the anvil off his lap and watched the length of chain play out. He climbed down behind the anvil as soon as it hit the ground.

“I'm glad to be getting shed of this heavy bastard,” he said.

As Max Bard backed his horse away and sat watching, Cross and Worley sidled to him.

“If we're taking Trent into our fold, I figure we're never going back to our old hideout again?” Cross said.

“That's right,” said Bard. “It was time to give that place up anyway.” He watched as Bowlinger handed Trent a rifle. Trent laid Bowlinger's chain out across a rock, stood back a couple of feet and took aim.

A shot rang out and the chain jumped up from the rock, landing in two pieces.

“Where are we headed now?” Cross asked, seeing Bowlinger grab up the shorter piece of chain still attached to his ankle. The freed outlaw danced all around on the ground.

“We're headed back to Gun Hill, robbing King Curtis's railroad like we set out to do.” Bard added, “We're going to kill Bo Anson before he gets any bigger, and we're going to have to kill this Ranger before he gets any closer.” He looked at Cross and Worley and gave a thin, flat smile. “Always somebody that needs killing,” he said.

“Don't forget King Curtis himself,” said Worley, eyeing the colonel's stallion Bard was mounted on.

“I haven't forgot him, Kid,” Bard said. “We're just biding our time, waiting for him to stick his head up.” He turned his horse toward the trail and nudged it forward. “That's where Bo might be able to help us out a little. He's after Siedell and nothing will stop him.” He smiled. “We'll let him flush him out for us.”

“No chance we might be able to trust Bo a little?” Worley asked.

“No way, Kid,” said Bard. “Bo is stone crazy. He gets on a mad tangent and decides he wants everything—the only thing can stop him is a bullet in his
head.”

It was midafternoon when the Ranger heard two rifle shots from up in the hills above the sand flats. He'd been riding the flats for the past hour, following the hoofprints of three horses that lay stretched out before him leading right up in the direction of the shots. The sheriff's battered sombrero hung from his saddle horn by its repaired string.

“Let's go, Copper,” Sam said down to the dun, raising its pace to a gallop at the touch of his boots to its sides. The dun closed the last half mile quickly, the sand flats billowing behind them, only tapering its pace back down when the flats sloped upward onto the rocky hillside. The Ranger touched back on the reins and slowed the horse even more, searching the ground beneath them for the hoofprints that were now going to be more difficult to follow.

With the dun climbing upward on a stone path, Sam reined the animal back and forth, leaning down its side, searching for the hoofprints, for scrapes and markings on an unyielding surface. Nothing. But as he straightened in his saddle and nudged the dun forward, he
saw rock and dust kick up from the ground a few yards off the path to his right. Behind the kick of dust came the sound of a rifle far up on the hillside. Jerking the dun to a halt, he leaped down from his saddle, rifle in hand, and pulled the dun to safety behind a tall cactus. High on the hillside he saw the glint of a rifle being turned deliberately back and forth in the afternoon sunlight. Then he saw and heard another shot come from the same position. This time the kick of dirt was farther away to his right than the first shot.

Again he saw the repeated back-and-forth glint of metal in the sunlight.

All right, I get it.

He took off his sombrero, held it out to the side and waved it up and down. A moment passed and he saw the signal again. “Here goes,” he said to the dun. Leaving the animal in the cover of the cactus, he stepped out into full view of the high ridgeline from where the shots had come. After a tense second the glint of metal came again. This time the signaling didn't stop even as he pulled the dun from behind cover and led it up to the right of the rocky path toward the flashing signal.

“All right, I'm coming,” he said under his breath.

*   *   *

“He's coming,” Sheriff Colleen Deluna said over her shoulder, as if having heard the Ranger from her position high atop the ridge. Near exhaustion, she lowered the scoped rifle from her eye and leaned back in relief against the stand of rock behind her. She looked over at Sheriff Stone, who lay leaning back against a rock in the sandy clearing.

Sheriff Deluna could tell he was still trembling, yet not as badly as he had been earlier in the day. The dusty striped poncho he wore was dark with sweat. His bare foot was scarred and bruised from traveling through brush and rock.

“Did you hear me, Stone?” she said. “The Ranger caught my signal. He's on his way up.” Her voice sounded strained and weary, from the heat, the lack of water.

“G-good,” Stone stammered in spite of his tremors having waned considerably. “I—I hate for h-him to see me like this. I'm going to catch hell for wh-what I done, letting everybody down.” He sat up and hugged himself tight with both arms. A near-empty canteen lay in the dirt beside him. They had been under pursuit, rationing the last of their water to a short sip every now and then throughout the long day.

Sheriff Deluna looked from Stone over to the body of their pursuer, one of Bo Anson's men, Hugh Kirchdorf, who lay sprawled in a dark pool of dried blood. He had followed them and shot at them repeatedly from afar. Stone had taken a chance. He'd put himself in the open, waited for the right near miss, then fallen to the ground and waited. When the rifleman checked on his marksmanship, Stone rose and killed him before Deluna got a shot off.

“I wouldn't say that, Sheriff. I'm grateful you killed this long shooter before he could kill us,” she said, sounding hard-edged even as tired as she was. She turned the big rifle back and forth in her hands as she spoke, inspecting the long-distance brass scope. Then she stood, walked to Stone and reached her hand down
to help him to his feet. But Stone ignored her offer, feeling ashamed. Instead he struggled and pushed himself up, bringing the canteen with him. Handing Deluna the last drink of water, he dusted his bare legs and smoothed the poncho down his front.

Using each other for support, the two walked to the place where they had tied their horses and led the animals by their reins down the steep rocky path. A half hour later, they met the Ranger leading his dun up the path toward them.

Upon seeing him, the two sheriffs sank down onto the rocks along the edge of the trail. Sam, noting their condition, hurried to them with two full canteens in his hands. He uncapped the canteens and helped them both drink until they'd sated their thirst. Then the two leaned forward. Stone removed his flop hat and the Ranger poured a stream of the tepid water over their heads.

“Thank God, we . . . saw you from up there, Ranger,” Sheriff Deluna said, catching her breath as she washed her face with both hands. “Bo Anson held us prisoner. . . . We got loose. But he sent a long shooter. We've been run ragged all day and night . . . couldn't get to any water holes.” She gave a tired nod up the trail where the body lay. “Sheriff Stone killed him . . . earlier today. We were resting up, walking out of here tonight.”

Sam looked at Stone. His wet head, his poncho, his loincloth, missing a boot. Seeing the Ranger's eyes on him, Stone lowered the flop hat back onto his head and looked away. His hands trembled. He clamped them together.

“I expect you heard what happened to me,” he said.

“Yes, I heard,” Sam said. “I heard you got drunk and wandered off with an old Indian who sells cocaine and whiskey.”

“A medicine man,” Stone said, half-sullen.

Sam wasn't letting him off the hook all the way, not yet.

“A medicine man?” he said. “What kind of medicine was he—?”

“There's something for you to see, Ranger,” Sheriff Deluna said to Sam, changing the subject. She gestured toward her horse where she had stuck the scoped rifle under her bedroll. “It's a rifle with a brass scope on it.”

Sam stood and walked to her horse, pulled the rifle out and looked it over.

“Looks the same,” he said. “There's not that many of these scopes in use. Think this was the man who ambushed us?”

“No, it wasn't,” said Deluna. “This man was in Bexnar at the time. He wasn't riding with Anson until afterward.”

Sam gave her a questioning look.

“I recognized him from his wanted poster,” Deluna said. His name is—
was
Hugh Kirchdorf.” She nodded at the scoped rifle in Sam's hands and said, “You can keep that for evidence.”

“Obliged,” said Sam. He walked back to the two sheriffs with the rifle in his hands and said to Deluna, “I left a wounded prisoner with your temporary deputy, Silas Radler. He and another gunman had a string of a dozen horses they'd gathered across the border. He said the number of Anson's men is always changing.”
He gazed at Sheriff Deluna knowingly. But it was Sheriff Stone who replied.

“Sounds like he's . . . putting something big together,” he said in a weak voice. “I know a little about Bo Anson. He's the kind who hates riding small.”

Deluna and Sam looked at each other, a little surprised to hear from Stone.

“What do you suppose it could be?” Sam asked, encouraging the sheriff to take part.

Stone fell silent for a moment.

“I'm telling you both right now . . . I'm sorry. Sorry I let you down, sorry I've acted like a fool, sorry I let you down—”

“You already said that,” Sam corrected him.

But Stone continued. “That I've been drunk, acting loco—”

“Let's get away from all that, Stone,” Sam said, wanting him to know they were out for the same thing, to uphold the law. “Stay with Bo Anson. What do you figure he's up to?”

Stone appeared to have a hard time considering the matter. Finally he let out a breath, giving up.

“That's anybody's guess,” he said. “But he's at the center of everything going on, whatever it is.” He looked away again.

Sam stood looking at Stone for a moment, deciding whether or not to trust him again.

“What are you going to do, Ranger?” Sheriff Deluna asked, raising the canteen for another drink.

Sam hefted the rifle in his hands.

“I want the long shooter,” he said. “I want the men
you're holding posters on. I'm riding to Gun Hill, soon as I get the two of you back to town.”

Deluna shook her head as she lowered the canteen.

“I'm riding to Gun Hill with you,” she said. “They burned my town, took Stone and me prisoner. I'm not letting it go.”

“Your town needs you there, Sheriff,” Sam reminded her.

“I know that,” Deluna said, capping the canteen, pushing up onto her feet. “We best get to Gun Hill and get this done right away.”

Seeing her stand, Stone pushed up beside her and stood looking at the Ranger.

“Count me in,” he said.

Sam looked him up and down, sizing him up.

“Gun Hill is well named,” Stone said, for no apparent reason.

“Yes, it is,” Sam said. He paused, then said, “Are you going to be able to do your job, Sheriff?”

“If I'm not, there's a graveyard in Gun Hill,” Stone said in a grim tone. “It's as good a place as any. . . .” He left his words unfinished.

Gun Hill

From the platform of his private Pullman car, Curtis Siedell stood up from a green canvas folding chair and looked out at the riders headed into town, leaving a cloud of roiling dust in their wake. On either side of him a bodyguard stood in suit, tie, derby hat and long
tan riding duster. They both stepped forward with repeating rifles at port arms, flanking him. On his right a Texan gunman named Virgil Pennick, on his left a younger man, Arnold Inman.

“Summon the men around us, Arnold,” Siedell said in a low, even tone. He stared straight ahead, evening sunlight landing on his right shoulder. “We'll want to make a fine show of strength for the colonel.” He raised a thick unlit cigar in his hand and put it in his mouth.

“Yes, sir,” said Inman. He stepped over to the side of the platform, leaned out and gave a hand signal, summoning one of Siedell's leaders who stood smoking a cigarette outside the car in front of the plush Pullman. The man, Jacob Bead, nodded and crushed out his cigarette under his boot; he leaned and called out into the car, “All right, men, form up out here. There's riders coming.”

On the platform of his Pullman car, Siedell turned to Pennick as boots pounded down the iron steps from the next car.

“Virgil, get the meat chopper set up on its stand,” he said, gesturing a nod upward toward the top of the car. “I think Colonel Hinler will appreciate seeing it.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” said Pennick. He turned, yet hesitated for a second. “But I need to say, sir, I don't see the colonel among these men.”

“Hmm . . . ,” said Siedell, studying the riders closely. “They are wearing our uniform dusters for the most part, are they not?”

“They are, sir,” said Pennick. “But I don't see the colonel. I don't even see any faces I recognize.”

“Puzzling,” said Siedell. “I'll have to see what the colonel's up to.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pennick, stepping down off the platform quickly and trotting back to where the shape of a Gatling gun and tripod sat on the ground covered by a canvas tarpaulin. Along the wide wooden dock, freight handlers stopped working and watched as the armed men spilled out of the private car and assembled around the rear of the Pullman. Bo Anson also watched the armed men as he and his men drew closer from the far end of the street.

He chuckled under his breath and spoke to Ape Boyd riding beside him.

“Feels good, don't it, having folks turn out when you ride into a town?” he said sidelong.

“I'd sooner ride in shooting,” Ape replied. “I don't take to warm receptions much—never did.”

“All in good time, Ape,” said Anson. “Just keep watching for my signal.”

Counting a few more of his men who had fallen in with him along the trail as they'd planned, their ranks had now grown to seventeen, gunmen and murderers all. Just the kind of men he needed, Anson told himself, drawing his horse down to a halt thirty feet from the rear Pullman platform. Ape Boyd stopped his horse beside him, leading a horse with the colonel's body tied down under a dusty blanket.

The rest of Anson's men drew their horses down and bunched up behind him and Boyd on either side. All of them wore tan riding dusters. Most of them wore derby hats. Rifles stood in their laps. Bandoliers hung from
their saddle horns. A large furry dog sprang out from under a boardwalk and ran forward barking and snapping at the horses' hooves. A sharp kick from a big sweaty bay sent the dog flipping, rolling and scrambling away, leaving a painful yelp lingering in the air behind it.