Son Of a Wanted Man (1984) (18 page)

Monson laughed. "Sorry, mister sheriff, we ain't got time to talk. Supposin' you just shuck them guns an' walk ahead of us. Walk slow, up to the bank. That all right with you?" Monson turned in his saddle. "Anybody shows along the street, shoot "
em!
" Monson was cocky, and he was sure of himself. No hick-town
sheriff He
never saw the draw. Borden Chantry had stood there, big, formidable, his gun in his holster. Monson went for his gun but as Chantry drew he stepped to the left, and Monson shifted his gun to cover him, firing as he did so, and he shot his horse, the bullet grazing the black's neck.

The horse plunged and Monson was already falling.

There was a burst of gunfire all along the street, the stab of flame from pistols, plunging, rearing horses, the smell of gunsmoke. Riding from behind the Corral Saloon to become the horse holder while the robbery took place, Klondike heard the shots, saw Monson down, his horse racing away up the street. Somebody was shooting from the bank, and he saw a man kneeling in front of the express office with a Big Fifty Sharps. This was no place for a man who wanted to spend his old age sitting in the sun. Klondike wheeled his horse and headed for the shelter of a barn, from which point he hoped to make the wideopen country beyond. Klondike had never heard of Big Injun, a big,
slow moving
, quiet man who rarely smiled. He did not know that the year Klondike was born Big Injun had taken his ninth scalp. All Klondike knew was that things had exploded all around him and he wanted to get away from there, and fast. He turned his horse to go and the horse made at least two jumps in the right direction. Big Injun, kneeling in the doorway, fired his Sharps, and the bullet, because of the movements of the horse, was a little low. It grazed the cantle of Klondike's saddle and, badly deformed, careened upward. The jagged metal took off the back of Klondike's skull. What remained of Klondike stayed in the saddle for a quarter of a mile before it fell, toppling into the dust. The horse ran off a little way and, missing its rider, stopped, trotted off a few steps, and waited. Klondike lay where he had fallen. Klondike, a tough man, was tough no longer. He stared up at the sky. "I wish . . . I just wish . . ." The sun faded and a grasshopper leaped to his shirtfront, then hopped again. A few yards off his horse started to graze. Back in the street Clatt, who had always been proud of his silver belt buckle, had no chance to regret it. Up the street George Blazer was kneeling beside a post on the boardwalk in front of the express office.

His days with Sherman were long since gone, but his skill with a rifle was not. The belt buckle flashed an invitation and George accepted it. He was a quiet man who liked to read his newspaper over coffee in the evening, but he did not like a bunch of would-be tough men shooting up his hometown. You could have laid a silver dollar over the spot where the two rifle bullets went in, but you couldn't have covered with a bandana the place where they emerged.

Clatt was down, and nobody knew who accounted for the other two, as several men were shooting and all showed evidence of skilled marksmanship.

Suddenly the thunder of guns, suddenly the flashes of gunfire, the plunging horses, the shouts, cries, dust, and then silence with the smell of dust and gunsmoke.

A horse walked away up the street.

Another ran away between the buildings. Others, faithful to their training, stood where their reins had fallen.

Borden Chantry thumbed cartridges into his almost empty gun. People emerged on the street.

Prissy came from the post office. "Sheriff
Chantry!
You should be ashamed of yourself! What did we elect you fort So this sort of thing wouldn't happen! What will people say?" "I'm sorry, ma'am," Borden said. "We tried to spread the word that this was a quiet town. I'm afraid somebody didn't get the message." Big Injun, his rifle across the desk, came outside. "I'll get the buckboard an" pick "em up."
Tyrel
Sackett came up the street with two frightened outlaws. They stared at the fallen bodies, faces gray. Denny Dinsmore felt like throwing up. He didn't want to, not in front of all these people. Clatt and Monson, dead.

Kim Baca was looking at his gun. He had fired two shots and could not remember when or how.

He had no idea whether he had even hit anything.

Denny licked his dry lips. "What's for us?" he asked, glancing at Chantry.

Men who tried to steal the money others worked hard to earn got no sympathy from him. "For you?

If you're lucky you may get no more than twenty years." Denny stared at him. Denny was twenty-two.

He had thought an outlaw's career would be wild and exciting. He turned and stared at the bodies in the street.
He had never really liked any of them, especially Monson.
He had always been a little afraid of Monson, but he had eaten with them, told stories and talked, he had slept in bunkhouses with them and in camps.

Now they were dead.

Twenty years? Why, he would be over forty when he got
out!
His youth gone. He'd be an old man,
he'd What
about Mag? Why, she would never even know what happened to him! And after a little while she wouldn't care. "Mister," he pleaded. "
You
put your money on the wrong card," Chantry said. "You dealt your own hand, and in this life a man pays to learn. You just didn't learn fast enough." He walked away and held out his hand to Sackett. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks very much." "I'll buy you a drink," Tyrel said, "or coffee." "Later," Borden said. "I'd better go speak to the wife first. She'll have heard all that shootin"." She was standing waiting, her face white and still.

"Borden? Bord? Are you all right?" "All right, Bess. They were going to rob the bank. We had to stop them before somebody got hurt.

We stopped them." "You're all right? You're sure?" "I'm all right, Bess. I will have to go back and see everything straightened up, though. There was some shooting. was "I heard. Was anybody-his I mean, was.-?" "Some outlaws. Tyrel Sackett arrested two of them. There were some pretty bad men among them.

Some men just can't understand there isn't any free ride. Everything has its price." "I can't stand it, Borden. I just can't! I'm not cut out for this. Borden, I want to go
home
. I want to go back east! I want to get away from all
this!
" "I know, Bess, but what would I do back there?" "I don't care. Anything is better than
this!
" "Well"-he turned away-"I'll give it some thought, honey. Now I've got to go finish my job." He walked to the cafe and stopped outside. Already the bodies were gone, dust thrown over the blood, the loose horses tied up.

What could he do back east? What would he do?

Sackett stood in the door of the Bon Ton.

"Come on in, Bord Hyatt Johnson's here, and George. We'll have some coffee." He turned toward the door, looking back once more. This was his town, and it was safe once more.

Firelight flickered on the canyon walls, somewhere in the distance a coyote howled. Wind stirred through the pines and fluttered the flame of the fire.

"You set up an' eat. You an' me, we're goin' to have a long time together. How long you live depends on how I get treated, understand? You give me any back talk or any trouble an' I'll kill you. "Wouldn't be the first woman I killed, although the others were squaws. I never had nothin' like you." "You will hang for this." He chuckled harshly. "Yeah? Who is goin' to know it ever happened? You sure ain't goin' to be in no shape to tell anybody, an' who could find this place? Nobody's been in here for fifty
year!
Maybe more'n that." Out in the darkness a horse stamped and blew. Ducrow straightened up from the fire, listening.

"Monson an' them," he said, thinking aloud, "I'll bet they went to do that bank
job!
Well, that
will be
an easy
one!
Then if they are smart they'll head for Mexico." He glanced around at Juliana. "Your pa thought he was king bee!" He paused, then shook his head.

"And for a while there, he was. He could plan "em, I'll give him that." He glanced at Juliana.

"Your pa's dead, you know. Perrin an" them, they'll have killed him by now. I mean whoever Perrin left to do it. There was nobody but him, all alone in that stone house of his." Juliana sat up straighter. "Don't be too sure," she said, "and when he has time he'll hunt you down. Don't you suppose he knows this place? Who knows this country better than he does?" Ducrow stared at her. "What makes you think he knows this place?" "Peach Meadow Canyon?" Juliana was frightened, but desperation was making her think. "I've heard him speak of it," she lied.

Ducrow was uneasy now, and she sensed the doubt.

He had believed himself secure, but her comment had injected an element of uncertainty. If she had a chance it lay in that doubt. He had believed himself secure, but if she could make him wary, make him
hesitate" Aw
, he don't know nothin' about this place! Nobody does! Anyway, those boys back at Toadstool have taken care of him. All that damn' discipline! Do this, don't do that! Makes a man sick! This here's been cumin' for
months.
" "The man you call Perrin," Juliana said, "was killed! I looked back. He was down, and Mike Bastian was standing over him." Ducrow squatted by the fire. Rig Molina would be killed attempting to rob the treasure train, Monson and Clatt were gone, and if Perrin was dead, then what would stop him from moving in and taking over? Juliana had been afraid but was so no longer. She was like a trapped animal fighting for its life. Dru would have known what to do . . . but what would she do? There had to be something, some way to outwit him, some way to trick him .... How?

The fire-if she could only get him into the fire!

If she could trip him, push
him!
if she could get hold of a gun! She could shoot, even if not so well as Dru.

Or a knife, something she could hide until the proper moment. Even a sharp blade of stone.

Indians used them, and some of the scrapers she had seen seemed hardly to have been shaped at all. Her eyes searched the ground for a sharp-edged stone.

She would slash him across the face . . . no, not the face. It must be the throat. She must try to kill him or hurt him badly, she must "Here!

Eat up, damn
you!
I haven't time to be stallin' around! Eat! "Come daylight we're movie' further up the
canyon!
There's a place-was "This is the place, Ducrow. Right
here!
" He couldn't believe it. Ducrow put the frying pan down and slowly he straightened. Was the thong off his gun or not? "Of Roundy was right." Ducrow was stalling for the moment he wanted. "He said you could track a snake across a flat rock. "Well, now that you're here, what are you goin' to do about it?" "Whatever you like, Ducrow, but I'd suggest you just carefully unfasten your belt and let your guns drop. If you don't want to do that you can always shoot it out." "You're too soft,
Bastian!
You'll never make a gang leader like of Ben was! Ben would never have said aye, yes, or no, he'd just have come in blasting! You got a sight to learn, youngster.

You're too soft! Too bad you ain't goin' to live long enough to learn it.

"Perrin always thought he was good with a gun. Never a day in his life I couldn't have beat him!" He lifted his right hand and wiped it across his
tobacco stained
beard. The right made a careless gesture but at the same time his left hand dropped to his gun. It came up, spouting flame! Mike Bastian simply palmed his gun and fired. It was smooth, it was fast, but most important it was accurate.

He fired and then stepped to Ducrow's left and fired again. Ducrow stood staring at him and then his gun dropped from loose fingers. His knees sagged and he fell forward, facedown in the sand. One hand fell into the fire and his sleeve began to smolder.

Bastian stepped forward and pushed the hand away from the fire with his toe. Then he loaded his gun and holstered it.

Dru came running, rifle in hand. "Oh, Mike! I thought you'd been killed!" She dropped on her knees beside her sister, and Mike walked back to the horses.

For a long moment he stood leaning on the saddle. After a while he heard the girls coming and he said, "There's the ruins of a stone house over yonder. Go there. I'll come along in a minute and build a fire. We'll go home in the morning." He went to where Ducrow lay, and dragged him over against a low ridge of sand and gravel. Then he caved sand over him. "That's good enough for now, Ducrow.

When we come back, I'll bury you right and proper." The coffee was already made, so he brought it to the new fire he built. Later, as the coals burned down, Dru asked, "Mike? What will you do now?" "Go back to Toadstool," he said. He sipped his coffee and stared into the cup, then at her.

"I've got to go back to Ben. I've got to make sure he's all right." "And then?" "Go someplace and start over." "Not as an outlaw?"' I never was one, never really wanted to be one." He looked up at her. "Dru, folks have to live together, and it can only be done if they work together to keep things right. There's no room for outlaws in a decent world, not even the kind of world they would try to create.