Bounty Guns (15 page)

“You reckon I ought to raid the jail?”

“You know a better way?”

“Shoot him,” Murray Seth said. Immediately he was sorry he said it, because of the way Cam Shields looked at him. It was plain that Murray's two words had started Cam Shields to thinking, and Murray knew he was thinking of Hagen.

“You'll still have Ben in jail,” Cam pointed out.

Jeff acknowledged that with a nod, and Cam went on. “There's Woodring and Ball and Buck that's in this,” Cam said. “Woodring and Ball will be at the jail, and you'll get them and free Ben. Buck won't be no more trouble than he's always been, which is none.”

“How do you know they'll be at the jail?”

Cam said, smiling, “That's where I come in. I don't expect you to do all the work, Bolling. I want in this myself.” He paused. “Me, I'll just walk in there and give myself up, say, at a quarter to nine. That'll give Ball time to get Woodring there, or the other way around. They'll be sure to come and rawhide me. At nine o'clock, you walk in with your crew, and that's all there is to it.”

Jeff considered this a moment, and Cam went on. “If I was you,” he said carefully, “I'd have every man I could muster on hand. Start sendin' 'em in right now. Have 'em drift in in pairs, so nobody'll notice 'em. They'll be comin' in after dark and have 'em take up positions across from the jail. After I walk in and you see both Ball and Woodring there, then's the time to strike.”

Jeff nodded thoughtfully.

“Every man you got,” Cam said slowly, carefully. “This Woodring is a wild man. He took Ben right away from the whole lot of you. And if he's shootin', he'll be purely hell.”

Jeff said slowly, “I think that'll do it.”

“Whatever you do,” Cam said, “get Woodring.”

“We'll be there at nine.”

“And I'll be there at quarter to,” Cam said. He backed off into the brush and disappeared. Jeff, his arms folded on the saddle horn, regarded the timber in thoughtful silence. “Don't it seem funny to you,” he said slowly, “that Cam Shields is willin' to help a Bolling?”

“I dunno,” Murray scratched his head. “He hates Woodring worse than he does us, I reckon.”

Jeff turned to him. “Suppose he has a bunch of gunnies planted up there in the cell block? What if he's just tryin' to toll us in to the payoff?”

Murray considered this a moment, then shook his head. “Hunh-unh. Even supposin' he had this framed with Woodring and Ball, who else could he get besides Buck and that kid? Nobody. Five agin' the lot of us.”

“I don't trust him.”

“Hell, neither do I. But we can't lose, Jeff—not if he tolls Woodring and Ball in there.”

Jeff nodded and they rode on, presently coming out into the park in front of the house.

Cam took up his position back in the timber, where he could see the Three B. When, twenty minutes later he saw the first pair of riders cross the park and take the road to Hagen, he relaxed. It had worked, all right. He counted seven riders in all until, just before dusk, Murray Seth and Jeff Bolling rode out. Cam hunkered down, waiting, watching the house. At dark he saw a lamp being lighted in the cookshack. That, he reflected, would be the cook, and the cook alone, for according to his count every hand on the Three B and its owners were either in town or on the way.

He put his horse onto the grass of the park and made his slow way to the corrals. Dismounting there, he walked carefully toward the kitchen. The Chinese cook was standing over the stove, humming in a singsong voice that sounded weird in the night. Cam listened and could hear no other sounds.

He stepped through the doorway, his gun leveled, and the cook glanced up. His face remained inscrutable as he looked at the gun.

“Come over here, cookie,” Cam drawled. The cook slowly padded over. When he was close, Cam slashed at him with the gun. The cook's arm was too slow in rising; Cam's gun barrel rapped him over the head, and he melted to the floor. Cam went across the kitchen, looking in cupboards until he found a can of kerosene.

Then he dragged the cook out into the yard, put the kerosene down beside him, and went inside again. By considerable effort, he managed to overturn the stove. Its coals spilled out on the floor, and Cam left it. Dragging the cook over to the post where the triangle hung, he took his lariat and tied him there.

Afterward, he carried the kerosene into the main house. Walking through its rooms, he sloshed the coal oil on the floor and walls, and then, in the kitchen, touched a match to the kindling which he had laid in a kerosene-soaked clothes closet.

The rest of it was easy. The blacksmith shop, the barn, the wagon shed, and finally the corrals, after he had driven the horses out. Nothing that was made of wood was spared—and everything was timber.

Toward the last he hurried a bit, for time was pressing. Finished, he rode north across the park. Looking back, he could see the flames through the lower-floor windows of the big house. The sheds, of course, and the barn were already burning nicely, while the cookshack and bunkhouse was a little slow. But it would catch.

Turning his horse into the timber, he took the trail, a short-cut to town. According to his calculation, Jeff Bolling and Murray Seth, the last of the Three B crew, would be far over the ridge and in deep timber, both of which would screen the fire from them. As for the rest, they would be too far away to see it.

CHAPTER 10

Tip came out of the Oriental Café and turned upstreet toward the sheriff's office. Passing Baylor's Dry Goods and Grocery store, he paused to let a clerk, bowed under two sacks of flour, stagger down the steps to a buckboard at the tie rail. A girl, carrying an armful of groceries and sacks piled high enough to hide her face, followed him. The bundles were stacked so high that she missed the last step, tripped, caught herself, but recovered too late to save the bundles. They tumbled to the boardwalk, revealing Lucy Shields, an expression of exasperation on her face. She saw Tip and laughed, and Tip grinned back.

“What are you doin' in town now?” Tip demanded.

“Shopping.” Lucy brushed the black wisps of hair from her face. She seemed a little pale, and her face was tense. She looked at the bundles and laughed again. “I guess I was bragging.”

Tip kneeled on the boardwalk and picked up the sacks. He took hold of one and it seemed heavy to him. He fingered it and then looked up at Lucy. She was biting her lip. Carefully Tip opened the paper sack. Inside was Buck's six-gun.

Tip rose, the gun in his hand, eyeing Lucy accusingly, and Lucy laughed uneasily. “Well, I couldn't walk into a store with it in my hand. So I put it under my coat and asked for a paper sack.”

Tip said, “Did Buck give this to you?”

“Yes.”

Tip scowled. “You shouldn't be out this late, Lucy.”

Lucy shrugged. “It's—it's Cam,” she said. “Buck doesn't like to leave the place, now—and we've got to eat. Buck won't leave for long in the daytime, and not at all at night. He thinks maybe Cam will come back at night, and I'd be there alone, or with Pate.”

“So he sends you to town?”

“He didn't send me to town,” Lucy said loyally. “I went over to Dockstaders' this afternoon, and I figured since I was so close to town, I'd better get my shopping done. It—it was a little later than I thought.”

“And you're going home now?”

“Why not? The horses know the way home.”

Tip looked at her and he knew she was afraid. He felt a sudden pity for this girl, and at the same time was a little angry at her foolishness.

“You can't do it,” he said firmly.

“But I've got to. They're expecting me.”

“Let 'em expect. They can get their own breakfast. You'll stay in town.”

“Is that an order?”

Tip nodded. “From the sheriff's office.” He thought he saw Lucy relax with relief, and he said quickly, positive he was right, “I think you're glad this happened.”

“I am,” Lucy said quietly, looking uncertainly at Tip. “I was afraid. I—I've seen some of the Bolling crew around town, and I don't like them.”

“Three B men?”

Lucy nodded. Tip said half angrily, “Then you were foolish to try and make it home.”

Lucy smiled faintly. “I know it. Still, Buck and Pate run more risk than that every time they ride out.”

Tip only grunted. He pointed downstreet. “You go to the hotel and stay there.”

“No such thing. I'm going to see Lynn, now that I have to stay in town.”

“I'll take the team down to the feed stable.”

“Thanks,” Lucy said. There was more color in her cheeks now, and she was pretty. She crossed the street, and Tip stood there watching her. She was a cool customer, Tip thought, the kind of a girl who sets herself a task and does it, come hell or high water. She was pretty, too; dark and warm and fresh-looking. He heard a voice say at his shoulder, “Wasn't that Lucy, Tip?”

He turned to face Lynn, and for a reason that he couldn't fathom his face felt hot. “Yes. She's headed for your place.”

Lynn looked at him curiously. “Why, Tip, what have you been stealing? You're blushing.”

“I've been standing on my head trying to pick up these packages.”

And then Lynn, with quick intuition, understood, and she blushed, too, and turned away, saying, “Good night, Tip.”

As he had done with Lucy, Tip watched Lynn cross the street. There was a difference between those two girls, he thought idly; Lynn had a grace, a swing to her walk, and the way her hair came up over her collar, leaving a few wild strands of hair curling there, was a nice thing to look at. He caught himself then, and looked guiltily around him. The clerk was picking up the sacks that had rolled into the road.

Tip took the buckboard and team down to the feed stable, his thoughts troubled. None of this was right, here. Lucy shouldn't have to carry a gun, as if she were afraid for her life. And Lynn. He realized suddenly that Lynn didn't belong here, Lynn, who had Rig Holman's money and did not have to live in this wild and savage town. Both those girls carried a burden that they couldn't share, and shouldn't be carrying. Lucy's talk drifted back through his mind. She had seen Three B men here in town, she said. For some reason that seemed curious to Tip, and he wondered what was up.

He asked the hostler, “Any Three B riders in town tonight?”

“Ain't seen any.”

Upstreet, Tip dropped into the Mountain saloon. This was the dead hour, but a few men were playing cards. The bartender said he hadn't seen any of Bolling's crew. Tip went into the lobby, and it was deserted. He tried Morgan's blacksmith shop and found it closed. There weren't many places to loaf in Hagen, perhaps because Hagen had never been allowed to get in the habit of loafing. He tried the Mexican cantina down off the main street and found only a couple of transients drinking there.

Suddenly he remembered that Ball was still waiting to go to supper and he went back to the office. By the time he reached it, he had concluded that whatever Three B men were in town had ridden out by now. Still, he felt an uneasiness that would not go.

The south mail was in today, and there was a stack of newspapers on Ball's desk. Tip first went upstairs, set up his cot in the corridor, spread his blankets on it, and came down.

After that, he took off his coat, put his feet on the desk, and started looking through the newspapers. He didn't know how long he had been reading them when he heard the door open and looked up. Cam Shields, his eyes as shifty as ever, walked into the room.

“I heard you were lookin' for me,” he said flatly.

Tip laid down his paper. “Who told you?”

“A rider.”

Tip slowly came to his feet. “Yeah, we want you,” he said. “About a hundred dollars' worth.”

“What for?”

“Attempted murder.”

“It's a lie, and I can prove it. Where's Ball?”

“I dunno. He'll be back, though. You can wait for him upstairs.”

“Hunh-unh. I don't roost in any jail till I see Ball.”

Tip smiled thinly. “That's where you're wrong, mister.” He pointed to the stair doorway. “Get up them stairs.”

Cam shook his head. Tip reached out to grab him, and Cam lashed out with a blow that caught Tip on the jaw and sent him back into the desk. He came off with a low growl in his throat, feinted with his right hand, then drove his left into Cam's face. Cam crashed into the table and carried it down with him.

Over the racket Tip made out the sound of many men running. He kicked the door shut, just as a shot drummed into its wood. Remembering that Cam had worn no gun, Tip forgot him. He locked the door, then picked the chair up and threw it at the lamp. It went out and crashed to the floor. Tip got a glimpse of Cam clawing to his feet. Tip flattened against the wall, palming up his gun, trying to see in that pitch-dark.

He heard men shouting outside, and it puzzled him. Who were they? They were kicking at the door now, and Tip placed a couple of shots through it. Suddenly the side window crashed out, and Tip shot in that direction. He heard a man curse softly and then back away and yell, “Give me a hand here!”

Tip thought he understood it now. These were Three B men and they had been waiting for Cam to come in, so as to get him. But how did they know he was coming? Tip whispered, “Cam, get upstairs!”

There was no answer.

Tip raced for the desk now, swung it out and against the window, then crouched in the corner as somebody systematically shot the lock off the door. Tip emptied his gun at the door, and in the ensuing silence called, “Cam!”

A sudden racket of gunfire poured in through the window, booming into the desk behind which Tip was crouched. Somebody outside was crashing at the door, battering it open. In a few seconds, Tip knew, the door would go, and then the whole lot of them would pour in on him.