Lawless Trail (6 page)

“It's for sure he's going to need some help for a few days,” he said. “But if you think he's able to mount a horse and ride away from here today, you're dead wrong. Riding will kill him.”

“Doctor,” said Wes, “those detectives are forming a posse, biding their time right now. In an hour we'll see them coming this way. We've got no choice but to keep moving.”

“That will be your decision, not mine,” the young doctor said firmly. “I can only tell you what will happen. He's lost lots of blood, and he's still losing it. I'll sew up what I can, but there's a lot of flesh lost here. Stick him on a horse, he'll bleed the rest of the way out before nightfall.”

“You heard him, brother Ty,” Wes said down to his brother's lowered head. “Are you able to ride or not?”

“Hell . . . yes, I am,” Ty murmured, half-conscious.

But Wes judged his brother's weakened voice and looked back at the doctor.

The doctor said quickly, “I know a place where you can hide him, for overnight anyway.”

Wes gave him a look. The others stepped in closer.

“It'll be risky,” the doctor warned them. “But if you'll trust me to take you there, it's a place where the posse will never look for you.”

Wes looked from face to face.

Rubens held the open bottle of rye in his right hand. Corking the bottle, he grinned, rye trickling down his stubble, and handed the fiery liquor to Claypool.

“Hell,
risky
never bothered me,” he said. “I'm riskier than a wolf in a meat house.”

Wes looked at Claypool, who had to tip his head to look back at him through his swollen purple eyes.

“I've never been in a
risky
situation,” he said. “But I'm willing to give it a try.” He jerked the cork from the bottle, sloshed the rye around and took a drink.

Quiet laughter rippled across the men.

Bugs took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I'll go along with whatever you decide, Wes,” he said. Then turning to the doctor, he said, “If you try to jackpot us, Doc, you best understand we'll every one of us kill you.”

“I believe that goes without saying,” the young doctor said calmly. Then he turned his eyes and his bloody fingers back to Ty Traybo.

“It's settled, then,” Wes said to the others. “Soon as the doc is ready, he's leading us out of here.”

It was turning dark evening when Wes Traybo and Dr. Bernard had led the riders around the long hill trail, keeping the town of Maley to their left across the wide stretch of flatlands. Before taking the trail they were on, the group had made their tracks hard to follow by riding west a half mile across a bare rock shelf. When the doctor and Wes both felt they had gone far enough to throw off the detective posse, they circled back through thick brush and rock and picked up the trail the doctor would have them follow.

Dr. Bernard rode bareback on the wagon horse they'd unhitched from the buckboard once they'd driven the rig a long ways on their false trail and left it sitting in plain sight. With their tracks covered, difficult to find in the coming night, Wes and the rest of the men had followed the doctor's lead without question. Yet, after two hours of backtracking, the riders began to grow suspicious of how close they'd traveled back toward town.

No one mentioned it until Wes himself saw the glow of torchlight appear, bobbing toward them across the flatlands floor. Still, the outlaw leader held his peace until he saw that the trail lying before them only wound down to the flatlands.

“Hold it, Doc,” he said to Bernard, drawing his horse to a halt on a ridge at the top of the winding trail. “It looks like we're headed right smack back to Maley.” He raised his Colt from across his lap and cocked it. “You better tell me I'm wrong,” he warned, waiting for the doctor's reply.

“You're not wrong,” the young doctor said firmly, stopping his horse beside him, not the least put off by the cocked gun pointed at him. “This trail is the quickest way down to the flatlands, back to Maley.”

Hearing him, the men drew their horses closer in around him and Wes.

“What the hell's he talking about ‘back to Maley'?” Rubens asked Wes.

The doctor sat braced, tense, like a man anticipating an oncoming storm.

“Yeah, Doc,” said Wes, “what are you talking about?”

“Maley is the safest place to spend the night,” the doctor said firmly. “That's where I'm taking us.”

“Like hell you are!” Bugs said, kicking his horse forward toward the doctor.

“Shut up, Bugs,” said Wes, grabbing his horse by its bridle and holding the young gunman back. Wes turned his eyes and gun back to the doctor. “Start talking, Doc,” said Wes, already making sense of the doctor's words.

Dr. Bernard nodded at the row of torchlights bobbing across the darkened flatlands below.

“Look at them,” he said. “Every able-bodied man in Maley is riding with Garand's detectives tonight. They're coming to kill all of you and save me. My house is sitting empty. Inside, I have all the instruments and medicine and bandaging I need to prepare your brother for the trip to Mexico.” He paused, then added, “Which, I can assure you, will be much easier once the posse has given up and pulled back off your trail.”

Wes considered it. His gun lowered an inch.

“Who says we're going to Mexico?” he asked.

“Everything about you says you're going to Mexico,” the doctor replied. “You need to get your brother in better shape first. Otherwise, he's dead already.”

Behind the doctor, Ty sat slumped in his saddle, Rosetta riding double with him resting back on her bosom. She led the spare wagon horse behind her, managing Ty's horse with skill. She looked at Wes and nodded slowly, agreeing with the doctor.

“Doc, you misled us. You should have told me to begin with we were headed back to Maley,” said Wes. “Not wait until we're at a spot like this.”

The doctor gave a slight shrug.

“Had I told you where I was taking you, you wouldn't have come, now, would you?” he reasoned.

Wes and the men looked at each other.

“That's what I thought,” the doctor said. “As it is, you've got from here down to the flatlands to think it over. If you don't agree with what I'm saying, you can ride straight west to the border. You will still have thrown off the posse.” He paused to let it sink in, then said, “If you're wise, you'll follow me across the flatlands to my house.” He sat staring at Wes. “What say you?”

Wes chuffed and shook his head.

“Doc, I bet you keep all the poker players in Maley ragged and broke,” he said.

“I don't gamble,” Dr. Bernard said. “I never seem to find the time.”

Wes looked at the other faces for comment. Rubens took a deep breath and let it out. He looked back along the trail they'd ridden thus far.

“I figure if we started back now, we'd run into that posse head-on, about where we started from,” he said. “I've got a feeling the doc here timed everything—worked it all out in his head.”

Wes looked at the doctor.

“Is that true, Doc?” he asked.

The doctor only stared at him blankly.

Taking the doctor's silence to be an admission, Wes looked away from him, at Carter Claypool. The battered outlaw sat with his wrists crossed on his saddle horn, the blood dried back on his shoulder, his swollen purple face looking shadowy and sinister in the failing evening light.

“He warned us it would be
risky
,” Claypool said on Dr. Bernard's behalf.

“But he never said it would be plumb
loco
,” Bugs Trent cut in, still staring coldly at the doctor.

Wes uncocked his Colt and lowered it down across his lap. He took the conversation back.

“What's loco is sitting here wondering which way to go on a trail that only goes one way,” he said. He turned to the doctor. “You'll need light to change Ty's bandages. What will the town make of a light being on in your house?”

“I have a convalescent room in the middle of the house,” the doctor said. “We'll close the doors around it. Nobody will have to see a light burning.” He raised his reins and gathered the bareback horse beneath him. “It's the safest place for your brother to spend the night, you'll see.”

“It better be, Doc,” Wes warned him. He motioned the doctor forward with a gesture of his hand. “I hope you've got something to eat in your cupboard.”

“I'm certain we'll find something there,” the doctor said, riding his horse forward.

“Carter,” Wes said over his shoulder, “lag behind us, keep this trail open. If we need it in a hurry, I don't want those torches bobbing right down on us.”

“You got it, Wes,” said Claypool. “I'll give you warning shots if they come this way.” He pulled his horse back, turned it off the edge of the trail and rode back the way they had come through brush and rocky ground.

On the horse in front of Rosetta, Ty sat leaning back, his face lolling back on her bosom.

“What's . . . the holdup?” he murmured in a weak, mindless voice.

“Shh, you must sit still,
mi querido
.” She smoothed his hair back with her hand, reached her face down and kissed his forehead. “I have you taken care of,” she whispered.

“That . . . you do,” Ty whispered, trailing back to sleep. “I'm right as rain here. . . .”

•   •   •

It had been a four-day ride out of Mexico, back across the rocky badlands hills. When the Ranger spotted the half-fallen adobe and plank shack standing on a cliff at an abandoned mining project, he and Fatch Hardaway rode to the spot and stepped down from their saddles as the sun sank below the horizon.

“How much farther to Cottonwood from here, Ranger?” Hardaway asked, his voice sounding aching and tight from the long day in the saddle.

“That depends,” Sam replied. He loosened the black-speckled barb's saddle, pulling it off the horse's sweaty back onto his tired shoulder.

“Depends on what?” said Hardaway. He slumped onto a hitch rail as he tied his horse's reins to an iron loop.

“On how far we are from Cottonwood when you show me where the Traybos holed up,” Sam said patiently. “Have you already forgotten our deal
again
?”

Hardaway let out a breath and turned back to his horse.

“It's not so much that I forgot as it is that it's not the foremost thing on my mind,” he said. He loosened his horse's saddle and pulled it off onto the shoulder. “The foremost thing on my mind is how bad Wes Traybo is going to want to kill me stone dead when he finds out I led you there.”

“I don't believe you, Hardaway,” Sam said, walking past him to the remaining two standing walls of the adobe shack.

“Don't believe me
how
?” Hardaway said, walking along beside him.

“I don't believe you spook this easily.” As he spoke, Sam stooped and gathered some dried brush for kindling and some broken, weathered boards for a fire. Hardaway did the same.

“Oh?” said Hardaway. “What makes you say so?”

“You've been a rounder and a tough gunman all your life,” Sam said, walking through a low tangle of brush surrounding the shack. “This is not the first time you've done something to make somebody come looking to kill you.” He stepped across a short stone foundation, looked all around and dropped his saddle and an armload of firewood on the dirt floor. “I don't think you fear the Traybos as much as you're letting on.”

“Well,” said Hardaway, dropping his saddle and more broken boards and dried brush on the ground. “I expect you're right. I fear no man that much. I've had my scrapes and spills, same as any man who set out to do his own bidding. But fearwise, I'd spit in the devil's eye.”

“What is it about the Traybos, then?” Sam asked, turning, facing him.

Hardaway stooped and piled some wood and brush inside a circle of soot-smudged rocks surrounding an old and blackened campfire site.

“To be honest, Ranger,” he said, taking out matches from his shirt pocket, “I hate letting the Traybos down. I kind of admire them ol' boys. Not just the Traybo brothers. Hell, everybody that rides with them.”

“
Admire
them?” Sam said to keep him talking.

“Maybe that's not the right word,” said Hardaway. “Maybe I mean I respect them?” He looked up from the ground, a match burning between his fingers, fire starting to dance among the brittle brush and kindling.

“All right, you respect them,” Sam said.

“Damn it, I hate to say it,” Hardaway said. “I know we're every one of us a bunch of no-good sons a' bitches out here, top to bottom. But the Traybos are . . . well, they're different. They're the kind of hombres you want to ride with—old Baylor Rubens . . . Carter Claypool. You don't find those kinds of men long-riding these days.”

“Then why'd you stop riding with them?” Sam asked quietly. He stooped and took a canteen of tepid water from his saddle, uncapped it and took a sip. A small fire began to flicker and glow.

“Hell if I know,” said Hardaway, reaching around, taking his own canteen from his saddle horn, opening it, sloshing it around. He contemplated the matter further for a moment, watching the fire grow, then said, “For some reason I expect I knew I wasn't good enough to ride with them . . . the truth be told.”

Sam wiped a hand across his lips and just looked at Hardaway for a moment.

“All right, I know that sounds crazy,” Hardaway said, under the Ranger's gaze. “There's a lot of no-good bastards you wouldn't have to pay me a Mexican peso to jackpot. I'd give them to you, just to watch them die over a foaming mug of beer.” He paused; his voice lowered, softened. He tipped his canteen almost in a toast. “I'm just saying, the Traybos and their men? They
ain't them
.”

Sam watched him toss back a drink of canteen water. When Hardaway had wiped his mouth, he continued.

“I remember once when we robbed a bank in Texas—” He caught himself and stopped with a wary look on his face. “I didn't mean to say
we
. I meant to say
they
,” he corrected himself quickly. “I heard
they
robbed a bank in Texas and on the way outta town, Wes stopped and helped an elderly woman who had fallen in the street in front of us—in front of
them
,
that is,” he corrected himself again.

“Wait a minute,” Sam said, stopping him. “Don't try telling me this story if you have to keep stopping to cover your tracks,” he said. “It's hard enough to believe you without you stopping—”

“Old habits don't die easy, Ranger,” Hardaway said, cutting him off. “But the thing is, Wes was always doing stuff like that—giving outlawry a classy turn, if you know what I mean.”

“And that favorably impressed you,” Sam said flatly.

“Yes, it did,” said Hardaway. “Leastwise, enough to make me feel bad about jackpotting them this way. All the time I rode with them, they never hurt anybody—maybe cracked a head or two. They only steal from banks and railroads. Let's face it, banks and railroads are the worst thieves in the world. The Traybos haven't killed innocent people. Just the railroad dogs out to kill them.”