Showdown at Gun Hill (4 page)

That's it, Dewey. Get the hell out of there,
Bard told himself, riding on.

Seeing their panicked horses running freely out across the desert floor, Detective Colonel Cooper Hinler, who was following the three bandits, stopped in the middle of the dirt street. Standing among the dead and wounded, smoking rifle in hand, he lifted a bandolier of ammunition from around his shoulder and slung it to the dirt at his feet.

“Damn it! Damn it all to hell!” he raged. “There go our horses! What fool left a loading ramp in the stock car door?”

“Leon Foley?” said Duke Patterson, one of his black-suited detectives, standing beside him. “Where's Foley?” he shouted over his shoulder at the rail guards following him and Hinler. The rail guards stopped and gathered and looked out at the fleeing bandits, the detectives' own personal mounts following their lead.

“He's supposed to be at the corral,” a rail guard said.

“Exactly,” said Patterson. He gave Hinler a look. “And that explains the ramp, Colonel. No doubt he put it there. Foley's an idiot. I should have said something.”

“But you didn't, did you, Duke?” Hinler said venomously.

“There's Foley,” said a guard, pointing toward a staggering man who walked out of a thick swirl of dust inside the empty corral. His hand clutched a bleeding shoulder wound. “He's shot!”

“It's a damn good thing he's shot,” Hinler said under his breath to Patterson. “I would wear out a gun barrel over his head.”

“We can anyway, Colonel,” Patterson offered.

“Somebody go help the fool,” Hinler called out, ignoring Patterson's remark. “Get him over here.” He looked around at the rail guards, all of them in everyday work clothes, distinguishing them from Hinler's detectives in their black dusty suits. “Some of you ride out and round up our horses. We're going to dog them all the way to hell if we have to.”

“Round them up on what?” a rail guard asked.

“
Jesus
,” Hinler growled, “what a mess.” He looked all around at the dead bandits on the ground, at the dead and dying horses, at wounded rail guards and freight handlers. “Get some of the wagon horses!” Across the street a dog and a rooster lay sprawled in blood. A block away an onlooker lay dead in the dust. Townsfolk had gathered around him. “Let's get organized here!” Some of the rail guards and detectives hurried toward three freight wagons sitting at the far end of the station, each with a team of horses hitched to it. As they unhitched the horses, three other detectives dragged two bandits to their feet, both of them wounded, one with a forearm bone sticking out through
his skin. The man with the broken arm cried out in pain. Hinler only gave him a sore look, then turned to the wounded Leon Foley, who'd arrived from the corral with the help of a young detective named Thurman Bain.

“Here he is, Colonel,” Bain said, steadying Foley.

Hinler glared fiercely at the wounded man.

“I'm—I'm bleeding
real
bad,” Foley said. He staggered in place; Bain steadied him.

“Not yet, you're not,” Duke Patterson cut in, stepping forward, his long-barreled Colt like a club. “But I'll see if I can—”

“Hold it, Duke,” shouted Hinler, stopping the enraged detective.

Patterson stepped back and took a deep breath. Hinler stared back at Foley.

“What in God's earth did you mean sticking that ramp in the car door, Foley?” he demanded. “Are you an idiot?”

Foley shook his lowered head.

“I don't know, Colonel,” he said. “I swear I don't know.”

“Don't know what, Foley?” Patterson cut in again. “Why you did it, or if
you're an idiot
?”

Foley raised his eyes and stared at Patterson.

“That's enough, Duke,” Hinler said to his angry detective. He looked back at Foley and said, “I want an answer.”

“I told you, Colonel, I don't know why I put the ramp there,” Foley said. “I expect I must've thought it would make it easier for you and the men to get to the
horses if any of these bandits tried to get away. I'm not cut out to be a detective. I wish I was still just a rail guard.”

Hinler glared at the man, as if at a loss for words.

“Get this pathetic fool out of my sight, Bain,” he finally said to the young detective standing beside Foley. “Get his shoulder patched up and don't let him out of
your
sight.”

“Righto, Colonel,” Bain said. “Come on, Foley.” He led the wounded guard away by his arm. Two recently hired gunmen, Bo Anson and Quinton Carlson, stood watching with amused looks on their faces. Anson carried a big rifle with a long brass scope along its barrel.

Duke Patterson stared at Bain as he and Foley walked.

“Did he just say ‘Righto,' Colonel?” Patterson asked.

“Yes, he did,” said Hinler. “I'll have to correct him,” he added, dismissing the matter for that moment.

Patterson shook his head. He and the colonel turned away and looked at the two wounded bandits his men had dragged to their feet.

“Get those two patched up and ready for a hanging,” Hinler ordered his men.

“Hang them like they are, if you ask me,” Patterson grumbled half-aloud.

“I didn't ask you, though, did I,
Duke
?” Hinler said sharply.

“No, you didn't, Colonel,” Patterson said. He braced himself upright as if called to attention.

“For your information, I want to question them both before we drop the earth from under them,” said
Hinler. He gave a smug little grin. “I want to know where Bard and his gang hide out. If we knew that we could stop waiting around, hat in hand, to see where they strike next—we could kill them in their sleep.”

Patterson nodded vigorously. “Right you are, Colonel.”

“Even if they don't tell us anything,” said Hinler, “I take satisfaction they have a little time to think about that rope snapping tight right beside their ear, eh?”

Patterson returned Hinler's grin.

“I fully agree, Colonel,” he said.

“I'm
real
glad you agree with me, Duke,” Hinler said with restrained sarcasm. “Go help round up our horses. We'll take these two with us and hang them whenever it suits me.” He nodded at the distant rise of dust lying in the wake of the fleeing riders and corral horses. “That was Max Bard and Holbert Lee Cross. I want to be on their tails before they have time to catch their breath.”

“Uh-oh,” Duke Patterson said under his breath. He stepped back as he watched an irate town councilman elbow his way through the rail guards and detectives toward the colonel.

“Where is he?” the councilman demanded from the men as they moved aside for him.

“Here I am, Fairchild,” Hinler said, taking a rigid stand facing the red-faced councilman. “What do you want?” He hooked a thumb in his belt near a white ivory-handled Remington. Sunlight sparkled on the gun's nickel finish.

Noting the Remington, the irate councilman stopped
in his tracks at a respectable distance. But he wasn't going to be put off. He glared at Hinler.

“What do I want . . . ?”
he said. “Colonel, we have dead bystanders on our streets. I want to know what the blazes you—”

“Move them,” the colonel said bluntly, cutting him off. He turned away. “I have dead of my own.”

“Now, see here, Colonel,” said Fairchild. “We're not going to stand by quietly and allow the railroad to cause this sort of violence in our town.”

“Then wire Chicago, Fairchild,” the colonel said. “Tell our home office you want this forty-mile rail spur taken up—stop this whole endeavor. Is that what you want?”

The councilman cowed a little.

“Well, no, of course not,” the councilman said, relenting. “But we're not going to allow the railroad, or any big business, to come into our town and shove us aside—”

“How many dead?” the colonel asked, again cutting him off, making no effort to mask his impatience.

“Four dead, sir,” said the councilman, “an elderly widow, two townsmen and a Piute Indian.”

“Workingmen, family men, those two townsmen?” Hinler asked.

“Why, yes, working,
family
men indeed,” the councilman responded, “even the Indian.”

“One hundred for the widow's burial,” said Hinler, “three hundred each for the workingmen's families. That'll feed them awhile.” He paused and stared as if awaiting an acceptance of his offer.

“My God, sir!” said Councilman Fairchild. “This is outrageous! There's even been a dog and a rooster killed here! You can't buy your way out of this.” But he paused and took a settling breath and said, “What about the Indian? What about
his
family? Who feeds them?”

Hinler shook his head, let out a breath and pulled a folded stack of cash from inside his dusty black suit coat.

“Here,” he said. He licked his thumb and peeled off a ten-dollar bill and tossed it at the councilman, who caught it expertly midair. “Give them this. Tell them a dead dog and a chicken come with it—good stewing meat.”

Duke Patterson stifled a laugh under his breath as the colonel turned from the councilman and walked away.

“Duke,” Hinler called out over his shoulder. “Make certain my stallion wasn't among the horses those poltroons ran away.”

Duke gave Leon Foley a questioning look.

“Well, was it?” he asked Foley.

Foley looked pale and ill.

“Oh
my . . .
,” Foley said under his breath.

“Much obliged, idiot,” Patterson growled. “I'm the one who has to tell him.”

*   *   *

At a small water hole two miles back up into the hills, the three bandits pushed themselves up from the tepid water on their elbows while their horses drank their fill beside them. Cross wiped his face and looked at Worley,
whose blood-crusted face had smeared in long black-red streaks. The wet bandanna around Worley's forehead allowed fresh blood to ooze freely down from under its edge.

Cross chuckled and gigged Bard beside him.

“Look at this,” he said under his breath.

Seeing Worley's red-striped face, Bard and Cross both let out a short laugh.

“What's so funny?” Worley asked, pushing himself farther up from the water.

“You are, Kid.” Bard chuckled. “You ought to see yourself.”

“What . . . ?” said Worley, not getting it. He looked all around himself as if searching for an answer.

“Wash your face,” Cross said. “You look like a village weeper at a Mexican funeral.”

The two laughed again. Worley shook his head and cursed and stuck his face back in the water, scrubbing it with a hand. The horses inched away from him and kept drinking. When he raised his face, he looked at the two older gunmen again.

“How's that? Is that clean enough to suit you?” he said. Stifling a laugh himself, he looked at their shied-away horses. His horse nickered a little. “Oh, so you think it's funny too?” he said.

The three stopped laughing suddenly and swung around, guns drawn, at the sound of a hoof scraping flat rock behind them. Then they all three relaxed, seeing four of the corral horses slowly walking to the water hole.

“You cayuses still with us?” Bard said laughingly to
the horses as they eased forward to the water's edge. One of the dusty animals was a well-groomed dapple gray stallion that had been among the horses saddled and ready for the trail. Its reins dangled to the ground.

The three men laughed as the thirsty animals helped themselves to water.

“Looks like we must've made a good impression on them,” Cross said.

Eyeing the dapple gray closer, Bard stood up and walked over to the horse and placed a hand on an expensive tooled saddle.

“This fine fella looks like he's been living better than the three of us,” he said. He looked at the saddle closer, held up a flap on the saddlebags and read the initials CH tooled expertly in the leather. “I believe we're being visited by Colonel Hinler's personal mount.”

“Hey, let me see that,” said Worley, rising to his feet, pressing the bandanna to his bullet graze. Cross rose also. The two walked toward the dapple gray.

“Easy, boy,” Bard murmured as the horse sidestepped away from them. “Nobody here's out to harm you.” He rubbed the horse's side gently, settling him.

“I bet the colonel's having a conniption about now.” Cross chuckled, also rubbing the horse's side.

“If he's not, he will be next time he sees this stud,” Bard said, looking the stallion over good.

Holbert Lee and Worley gave him a curious look. Bard stooped and ran his hands down the horse's foreleg, inspecting it.

“That's right,” he said quietly, “because I'll be riding this fella.”

“That's a
great idea
!” said Cross with feigned enthusiasm. “The colonel doesn't hate us enough as it is.”

But Bard didn't seem to hear him. He stood and ran a hand down the horse's short-cropped mane. “Give him some time, let his mane grow out. This fella is going to be a real huckleberry.”