Showdown at Gun Hill (5 page)

Cross shook his head and gave a shrug.

“I'm not saying anything,” he said to Bard.

“What should I do?” Bard said. “Turn this fella loose? Let the wolves have at him?” He watched the stallion raise his head and belch, water running from his lips. “The colonel ought to be grateful I'm keeping him instead of leaving him out here for feed.” The big stallion tossed his head and took a step back from the water. Bard rubbed his wet muzzle.

“He might
ought to be
grateful, but he won't be, I'll wager you,” Cross said. “Anyway, this one looks capable of fending off wolves for himself.”

“I'm keeping him,” Bard said with finality. “The colonel wants to kill us anyway. I might as well ride in style.”

“Suit yourself,” said Cross. Dismissing the matter, he turned to Worley, who stood with fresh blood running from under the bandanna on his forehead. “Let's look at that graze, Kid. Might be I'll have to sew it closed for you once we're out of here.” He raised a hand to lift the bandanna for a look. But Worley stepped back from him.

“
Might be
you can keep your hands to yourself, Crosscut,” he said. “It'll heal up on its own.”

“All right, but we still need to bandage it nice and tight for now,” said Cross.

“I don't think so,” said Worley. “It'll stop soon enough.”

“You got it, hombre,” Cross said. “Don't bellyache to me when you've got your eyes full of blood again.”

“I don't bellyache,” Worley said.

“If it heals bad you'll have a scar makes you look like you were smacked with an ax,” Cross warned.

“Let him bandage it, Kid,” said Bard. “If you don't you'll be bleeding like a stuck pig the rest of the day. Nothing bleeds worse than a head graze.”

Worley considered it, then let out a breath and touched the wet, bloody bandanna.

“All right,” he said to Cross, “Bandage it up. But don't go saying it needs sewing if it don't.”

“Would I do a thing like that?” Cross said. He pointed at a rock and said, “Sit down. Let's get it taken care of.”

As the two spoke, Bard took the stallion's dangling reins, inspected the frayed ends and led the animal away from the water so he could look him over. The other horses stood blowing and resting.

“I saw Lucas and Gant getting away,” he said as he continued examining the stallion, raising each of his hooves in turn.

“I saw them too,” said Cross. Turning from Worley, he walked to his horse and took a flat leather medical kit from inside his saddlebags. “Figure we'll meet up on the trail?” He opened the kit on his way back to Worley and pulled out a package of gauze bandaging.

“Yep, that's what I figure,” Bard said. A moment of silence ensued. Then he said, “I didn't see nobody else.”

“Neither did I,” Cross said solemnly. He paused, then said, “The colonel and his detectives will be on
our trail as soon as they get horses under them. Are we going to circle back and take a look?”

“I am,” Bard said.

“I figure if one goes back, we all three go back,” said Cross, lifting the wet bandanna from Worley's bullet graze.

“You figured wrong,” said Bard. “It's easier if one of us slips in and out of there.”

Cross knew better than to argue.

“All right, then, where's the two of us going to be waiting for you?” he said.

“I don't want you out on the open flats,” said Bard. “We'll find a spot along the way in. I want you in the rocks where you can give me some good cover fire if I need it.”

“Understood,” said Cross. “I wish we'd get closer to town, though, in case somebody spots you before you get—”

“And that's the plan,” Bard said matter-of-factly, cutting him off. “Nobody's going to
spot
me. . . . They'll all be out here trying to trail us—more apt to spot you two than me.”

Cross nodded, busily finishing with Worley's bloody forehead.

“We will need to sew this up first chance we get,” he said to the wounded young gunman.

Bard cut in, saying in a stern tone, “Crosscut, are you with me on this?”

Cross looked around at him as if surprised they were still talking about it.

“I'm with you, Max.” He looked down at Worley.
“What about you, Kid? You've lost enough blood to make you weak. Are you up to all this?”

“That's a hell of a thing to ask me,” said the younger gunman. He half rose as if to show that he was strong enough to do whatever he needed to. But Cross held him down with a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, Kid. Just checking is all,” he said. “A graze like this can take some men off their feet for a day or two.”

“Not this man, though,” Bard put in. “Right, Kid Domino?”

“Damn right,” Worley said confidently. He gave an upward look at Cross standing over him and added, “With all that blood out of my eyes, I'm right as rain.”

“Let's see if you are,” said Holbert Lee. He held his left hand up, his bloody fingers spread wide. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Worley's jaw tightened in defiance.

“Seventeen,” he said flatly.

“Yep, he's doing fine,” Cross said with a wry grin. “Let's get riding.”

Three days had passed since the Ranger and Sheriff Stone met the Cady brothers and sent them away, Ignacio with a fracture up his shin from the hard butt of the Ranger's Winchester. Staying up above the desert sand flats, Sam had kept watch on their back trail, but he'd seen no sign of the two brothers, although he was certain they would return once they got their courage back. But so far so good, he told himself as he and the sheriff rode toward Gun Hill, the next in a string of mining towns along the badland border.

They had spent the night outside the small town of Ripley and started early and ridden all day. The ride seemed to do the sheriff some good. His hands appeared steadier, his eyes clearing some, his attention more focused, the Ranger noted. He had talked a lot about the bribery money and the situation of Edsel Centrila and his son, Harper. The Ranger had heard as much about it as he cared to. As far as he was concerned, it was between the sheriff and the judge. But Stone, still nervous, still fighting off the whiskey heaves and tremors, seemed unable to talk about much else.

When they first heard the sound of distant gunfire coming from the direction of Gun Hill, they'd quickened their horses' pace and ridden nonstop until they spotted a group of riders appear on the flatlands below them.

“Any of them look familiar?” Stone asked, watching him observe the riders through his battered telescope.

“I've seen them before,” Sam replied sidelong. “I'm sure you have too. It's the railroad detectives who've been patrolling the new rail spurs.”

“The colonel and his men . . . ,” Stone said, squinting out with his naked eyes but seeing only rising dust and tiny figures loping along in front of it. “They were coming to Big Silver a lot, but lately I haven't been seeing them sneaking around much.”

Sam heard a suspicious tone.

“You figure they're up to something?” Sam asked. He lowered the lens and looked at Stone.

“They always are,” Stone said. “They protect those new rail spurs like the tracks are made of gold.” He paused, then added, “I don't mind telling you I have a low opinion of the rail barons and the kind of people they hire to protect their interests.” He stared at Sam. “What about you?”

“I'm used to them,” Sam said quietly. “The rail guards are all right—just workingmen. But if you're talking about the detectives, Curtis Siedell in particular, I agree.”

“Siedell is a snake,” said Stone, “and so are his detectives.”

Sam raised the lens back up to his eye.

Stone gave a little chuckle.

“I see you don't like name-calling, Ranger,” said Stone. He gave a shrug. “Ordinarily I don't either. But
snake
is one of the better names I can think of for Siedell. I've heard many stories of how he's robbed and cheated people—”

“Stories don't count. Unless a court finds him guilty of something, my job is to—
Whoa
,” Sam said, cutting himself off. “They've stopped. One of them just knocked a man from his saddle.”

Stone stared out, still unable to see anything with his naked eye.

“Looks like the man on the ground is wearing handcuffs,” Sam said, watching closely. He scanned the other riders and saw one of them with a bloody chest, swaying back and forth in his saddle. As he watched, Sam saw the man get shoved from his saddle by a rider who'd sidled up to him. Watching, Sam noted two coiled ropes hanging from the shover's saddle horn. Each rope had a noose dangling from its end.

“What's going on now?” Stone asked, still squinting, still seeing nothing clearly.

“I think we've got a hanging getting ready to take place,” Sam said, lowering the lens again.

“A hanging?” said Stone. He looked all around the wide desert flatlands. Far to the east he spotted a hillside strewn with up-reaching saguaro. “I'm out of my jurisdiction or I'd be given to know why.”

“I'm not out of my jurisdiction,” Sam said. “It's my
duty to ask what it's about.” He lowered the lens and closed the telescope between his palms. Looking Stone up and down, he asked, “Are you up for a hard ride?”

The sheriff, feeling better, straightened in his saddle and gathered his reins.

“You bet I'm up for it,” he said.

Before he turned his dun to the trail, Sam reached out a closed gloved hand and said, “Here, in case you need them.”

Stone held his open hand out; Sam dropped six bullets into his palm.

“Obliged, Ranger,” he said, a little surprised.

“I figured if you're going to be pointing that shooter, you need something in the chamber,” Sam said. “Let's hope you don't have to draw it.”

He spun his dun away from Stone and batted it forward into a gallop across the loose sand. Stone drew his horse in alongside him and loaded his Colt as they rode.

*   *   *

On the desert flatlands halfway up the tall saguaro-clad hillside, Colonel Hinler, his black-suited detectives and the lesser dressed rail guards stood circled around the two wounded, handcuffed prisoners lying in the sand.

Hinler and Duke Patterson stood crouched over the two. When one of the wounded prisoners moaned and gripped his bloody chest, Patterson punched both him and the other man in the face. Blood flew.

“Shut up and pay attention here, outlaws,” he said. “You don't want to miss your own hanging.”

One prisoner defiantly spat blood at Patterson. The second prisoner clawed a bloody hand up at him. Patterson ran a forearm across his blood-splattered face and cursed. He drew back his fist, but before he could punch either of the men again, Hinler leaned in and nudged him aside.

“Have yourself a smoke, Duke,” he said to Patterson. “I want to speak to these fellas one last time. Maybe they've changed their minds.” He patted the burly detective's shoulder as he ushered him out of his way.

“Yes, sir, Colonel,” Patterson said, wiping his face again.

“Let me explain what's going to happen here,” Hinler said, leaning down closer to the two prisoners. He gave the two a cruel grin as he studied their black swollen eyes. “You're going to die here, what we call a horizontal hanging. Meaning we tie your neck to this cactus”—he nodded at a tall saguaro cactus standing beside them—“and your feet to your horses' saddle horns. Can you see how that works?” He grinned and looked closer at them for any sign of fear or regret, but he saw none.

The two only stared, ready for whatever fate had planned.

“If you want to die really slow, feel your bones pull apart as we draw these horses away,” the colonel continued, “we can see to it that's the way you go.” He studied each one's eyes in turn. “Or, if you want to clear the slate before you leave here, tell me where your pards hide out these days, we can smack these horses with a quirt and make them dig in quick.” His grin
widened. “Pop your heads off. You'll be dead before God gets his boots on, so to speak.”

One of the prisoners, an older outlaw named Parker Fish, who had spat blood in Patterson's face, gestured the colonel down closer.

“Watch him, Colonel. He's a spitter,” Patterson cautioned.

“Speak up, Fish,” the colonel said, leaning only inches from the bloody swollen face.

Fish coughed and gathered the breath to speak.

“We been . . . hiding out . . . ,” he said haltingly, “down in . . . your aunt Lucy's undergarments. . . .”

A muffled laugh rippled across the rail guards. The black-suited detectives gave them a hard, sharp stare.

“Oh, that's
real funny
, Fish,” said Hinler, straightening, adjusting his dusty vest over his stomach paunch. “Be sure and tell it to the devil when he's got you both turning on the spit.” He ended his words with a kick to Fish's shoulder. Fish only grunted and rolled onto his side.

“Get the nooses around their necks!” Hinler shouted. “Get their horses ready. Let's see what these game birds look like when their bellies burst open.” He kicked at Parker Fish again, but missed, almost fell. Then he stepped back angrily as two detectives stepped forward and twisted the nooses around the men's necks.

“I've been
sugary
-
kind
up until now,” Hinler said down to the prisoners. “Now you'll see my
dark-ugly
side.” As he spoke, two rail guards tied the other ends of the ropes to the saddle horns on the outlaws' horses. He turned to the two guards as they stepped forward
and took the horses by their reins. “Remember, men, slow and steady, like mules pulling cedar stumps.”

From among the detectives and rail guards, Leon Foley looked away as the ropes drew tighter around the cactus, around the two men's necks. As the two men rose slightly off the ground, their hands still cuffed behind them, Foley closed his eyes tight.

“I can't watch this,” he said under his breath. “I ain't cut out for this kind of work.”

“Keep the horses moving slow, men,” Hinler called out to the two rail guards. “We don't want these thieving saddle tramps to miss a thing.”

The cactus made a creaking sound as the two ropes tightened.

The colonel stood with his feet spread, his hand clasped behind his back, as if at parade rest. He smiled with satisfaction as the horses took another slow, measured step. But then his smile vanished quickly as he heard the rifle shot behind him. He felt a blast of air streak between his knees from behind and saw a puff of dust rise in front of him. He spun toward the sound of the shot and grasped the ivory-handled butt of his shiny Remington. But he froze when he saw the Ranger and Sheriff Stone sitting atop their horses on a slope above him. The Ranger's Winchester was at his shoulder, cocked and ready. Aimed at the colonel's chest.

“Back those horses off
now
, Colonel,” he demanded, thirty feet away, “else the next bullet takes an eye out.”

The detectives and rail guards alike froze, seeing the rifle aimed at Hinler. The two guards stopped the outlaws' horses before the colonel told them to. Feeling the
tension on their saddle horns, the horses stepped back instinctively; the two stretched-out outlaws lowered to the dirt, gasping.

“How dare you even
threaten
me, let alone fire a weapon at me, Ranger!” the colonel shouted, enraged. His hand kept a tight grip on his shiny pistol butt, but he made no attempt to raise the big Remington from his holster. “I will have your hide for this, so help me, God!”

“Shut up, Hinler,” said Sheriff Stone. “Do like he says or I'll settle your hash myself.” He held his Colt leveled and cocked toward the colonel. “I've wanted to shoot you more than I've wanted goose for Christmas.”

The rail guards stood in rapt silence, but the detectives started to make the slightest move. Stone swung his Colt toward them. “I'll settle for a couple of you black-suit
plugs
, though,” he said. The detectives froze again and stared.

The bloody prisoners gagged and coughed and wrung their heads back and forth, trying to loosen the nooses around their necks.

“Get the nooses off those men, pronto,” Sam called out to the two rail guards.

Leading the horses around by their reins, the two guards hurriedly stooped and took the nooses off the prisoners and tossed the ropes aside. They loosened the other ends from the saddle horns and pitched them away.

Seeing the Ranger lower the cocked Winchester an inch from his shoulder, the enraged colonel took a step
toward him, shaking his finger in the air. His other hand still gripped his ivory-handled Remington.

“This is a justifiable hanging, Ranger,” he shouted. “You and this whiskey sop have no right interfering here!”

Before the Ranger could stop him, Stone swung his Colt around and fired two rapid shots. The first shot kicked up dirt and stopped the advancing colonel in his tracks. The second bullet hit the spot where the colonel's next step would have been had he not jerked his foot back a split second sooner.

Sam gave Stone a sidelong glance, holding his Winchester ready.

“Easy, Sheriff,” he whispered.

“Easy, my ass,” Stone whispered in reply. Then he called out, “Colonel, if you think I won't kill you pine-box dead, take another step. I dare you.”

The colonel stood where the two bullets marked the dirt in front of him. He raised his hands chest high; the detectives did the same, amazed at the sheriff's gun handling. “Raise that Remmy with two fingertips.” He shot the Ranger a knowing glance and said under his breath, “The way you're
supposed to—
and pitch it away,” he added, raising his voice again.

“I thought you couldn't remember anything,” Sam said between the two of them.

“It's coming back to me,” Stone said sidelong. Then he said to the detectives, “All of you do the same—pitch them away.”

“That's good to hear,” Sam said, swinging down
from his saddle, lowering the rifle as he drew his Colt and walked forward as the detectives raised their sidearms and did as Stone told them to.