Trigger Gospel (13 page)

I
T WAS
just breaking day when they got their first glimpse of the willows that lined Jake Creek. On Latch's advice they kept well above the stream until they reached a high pasture, well hidden in the hills on the western bank.

“This is it,” said Latch. “The house is down below among the cottonwoods.”

The place was not much in the way of a ranch; Leflett had found an easier way of making a living than raising beef. A cautious, close-lipped man, who never let his right hand know what the left was doing, he was continually being commissioned by the minor gangs and lone wolves who infested the Strip to transact business for them that they were in no position to do themselves. Corn almost raised itself in the black soil in the creek bottom. Under the bluffs he had a still. For customers—they came to the door. Nothing could have been easier. So, one way or another, he did well enough for himself, though he often had to wait for his pay and seldom hesitated to advance money of his own to the strange brood that gathered under his roof. They could properly be considered bad risks, but they paid Leflett.

Little Bill and Latch told him what they wanted. A deal was made with a minimum of conversation.

“You can lay out up on the bluffs,” he told them. “I got a shack up there that will hold you. I'll fix you up with some grub and see what I can do about a couple good broncs.”

“We ain't got no money,” Bill reminded him.

“That'll be all right,” Leflett answered. “I don't know you boys, but if Latch says it's okay, that's enough. I'll take a look at this boy's leg while you're gone. See if I can't have him fixed up by the time you git back.”

That evening Little Bill crossed the creek and rode into Kansas. By midnight he was far enough east to be in country through which the old Sawbuck outfit had often trailed beef south into Oklahoma. After locating a landmark or two he was able to determine exactly where he was.

“We can turn north here, Six-gun,” he said to the gelding. “We've still got a long ride ahead of us.”

He set a course that he held for the rest of the night. When he came to a crossroads store or small settlement he did not attempt to circle around it. To avoid suspicion he had left his rifle with Luther. He wore his .45's openly; but there was nothing in that to excite comment in a country where nine men out of ten went armed.

As a matter of routine, Kansas peace officers had surely been informed that he was wanted. But without a photographic likeness of himself to aid them in identifying him, he felt he had little cause to fear being picked up. There was always the possibility, however, that he might encounter some one who knew him.

“Time enough to worry about that when it happens,” he told himself.

It was strange how these little Kansas towns that had once meant so little to him now loomed so importantly in his life. The location of a bank or hotel; the manner in which a place was set down beside a creek or out in the open; the direction in which the railroads, with their ever-accompanying tell-tale telegraph wires, ran—a hundred such things—were matters to be weighed and considered now with the greatest care.

They had once seemed trivial enough. But that had been a long time ago. Fortunately, these old Kansas cow towns, that already were saying farewell to the beef era and welcoming a new one of corn and sulky ploughs, were all more or less alike, with a main street, plank sidewalks and the usual assortment of sun-blistered, one-story frame buildings.

In the course of two days he drifted through three or four of them, looking them over, gauging the possibilities, only to decide that for his purpose they were too dangerous or offered too little.

He was moving farther north all the time. In itself, that must weigh heavily against any plans he made, for every mile that was added to their get-away lessened their chance of success.

In Reed City, however, he found a situation that was all to his liking. With care that would have done credit to Smoke Sontag or the great Red Doolin himself, he sized up the bank and the town, and went into every detail that could have any bearing on their enterprise. Thirty-six hours later he found himself safely back on Jake Creek. He had taken his time, being anxious to save Six-gun for the real riding that lay just ahead.

By the position of the sun, he knew it was the middle of the morning. He realized that he had struck the creek a mile or more below Leflett's place. Crossing the stream, he began picking his way toward the house. He had not gone far when he drew up sharply; he couldn't be sure, but he thought the breeze had carried to him the sounds of distant gunfire.

Listening intently for the sound to come again, he stood up in his stirrups. It was unmistakable this time. His jaws clicked together sharply.

“That's a fight, and a good one!” he ground out.

He headed for higher ground at once, taking it for granted that Luther and the others were in trouble.

“If Leflett's sold them out, I'll drop him for it!” he promised himself as he urged the gelding along.

It was only a few minutes before he got a distant view of the bluff on which he had left his men. The little puffs of white smoke that rose spasmodically from it told him it was indeed his outfit that was shooting it out with some one.

In another fifty yards he was able to locate the bunch that was attacking them. They were well up the bluff.

“The boys better not let 'em git any higher,” he thought. “Luther knows he can't fall back. Nothin' but a long drop to the creek behind him.”

He was in sight of the house now. He had to pass it to reach the bluff. Armed with only a pair of six-guns he could not be of much assistance. It occurred to him that he might find a rifle there.

He approached it warily. At first, he thought it was deserted, but as he reached the pole corral between it and the creek, he heard a rifle crack from one of the upper windows. Making his way around the house, he saw that it was Reb Leflett himself who was doing the shooting, and he was firing at the men halfway up the bluff.

“Say, what's the meanin' of this?” Little Bill yelled at him.

“Put that hoss in the shed and git up here!” Leflett barked. “It's Grat Sontag and some hombres from the Grocery! You'll find a rifle back of the door!”

He emptied his gun as Bill ran up the stairs. There was a bag of cartridges on the floor beside Reb. He moved over slightly.

“Start throwin' it into 'em!” he snarled, his grizzled face as black as a thunder cloud in his wrath. “I'll show this pack o' weasels they can't ride in here and run things! This is neutral ground! Grat Sontag nor Smoke himself can bring his troubles to my door!”

“How'd this start?” Bill demanded.

“They rode up ‘bout an hour ago. I don't know how they knew your bunch was here. Grat said he wanted 'em. I told him to forgit it and go about his business. I thought they'd left until I heard the guns begin to bang. Yuh got 'em located?”

Bill let his rifle answer for him. He and Leflett did not have much to shoot at in the way of a target, but their fire apparently began to have some effect, for Grat and his crowd fell back a bit and for the next twenty minutes wasted ammunition recklessly without improving their position.

“How many of them is there?” Bill questioned.

“'Bout seven or eight. Look! They're droppin' down towards us now! Got enough of this, I guess!”

It was only a few minutes before seven horsemen dashed down the slope in the direction of the house. They had their rifles to their shoulders and fired as they rode.

“Sure as you're born they're comin' after us now!” Little Bill jerked out. “We'll have our hands full holdin' 'em off!”

“Mebbe,” Leflett growled. “We're damn poor shots if we don't pick off one or two of 'em before they git in. Let 'em come on a few yards more.”

Whatever Grat's intentions were he changed his mind in a hurry. Luther and the others had broken cover and were racing down the bluff.

“Pump your gun!” Bill yelled at Leflett. “We'll end this right here!”

He was right. In a few seconds the Sontag crowd was in full flight. Luther and Link dashed up to the house. The others were only a few yards behind them. All were surprised to have Bill hail them from the window. His face was dripping perspiration.

“Well, you all look okay,” he called out. “How'd yuh come through it?”

“Not a scratch,” Cherokee answered. “They wasn't so lucky.”

“That's right,” Tonto seconded. “There's one of 'em up there on the bluff.”

“Serves 'em right!” Leflett cried. “The dirty scuts! Grat knows he can't track a man to my place and go for his hardware. You boys step inside; the drinks is on me!”

Later, with Leflett still sputtering vitriolically over the violation of his rights, they started up the bluff.

“This may mean trouble for you,” Latch warned him. “Grat ain't the kind to forgit.”

“I've taken care of a lot of trouble in my time,” Leflett answered grimly. “I'll take care of this.”

Little Bill rode up alongside Cherokee.

“You're lookin' better,” he said.

The Kid nodded. “Yeh, I'm feelin' pretty good. Leflett fixed me up, sure enough.”

Latch recognized the dead rider as Dib Fletcher.

“Jest a errand boy for the Sontags,” he declared. “He don't mean a thing. But it's first blood for us.”

Leflett stared at the dead man for a minute.

“I'll dig a ditch and roll him into it after you boys git away.” He turned to Bill. “When you figgerin' on pullin' out?”

“Right away. We'll put a few miles behind us and lay up until it's dark.”

“Then you got somethin' all set?” Cherokee inquired. Somehow the question didn't sound as casual as it should have.

“Yeh. It looks all right.”

“You mind sayin' what it is?” the Kid persisted.

“We'll have a powwow after we pull away from here,” Little Bill answered him flatly.

In less than an hour they were on their way. Latch dropped back to ride beside Bill. He had overheard the Kid's question up on the bluffs.

“Bill, you was pretty short with Cherokee. It was him that spotted Grat's bunch. He put up a whale of a fight. By rights you ain't got no cause to be suspicious of him.”

“I ain't sayin' I am suspicious of him or Leflett or anyone else; but with a job ahead of us I wasn't sayin' anythin' about it until I knew we was alone and we're not losing sight of each other for a minute until it's over. There can't be no leaks that-a-way—accidental or otherwise. When we pull up this afternoon I'll make my say to the bunch of yuh and let yuh ask all the questions you mind. Cherokee ain't no right to ask for better than that.”

“Reckon not,” Latch mumbled. “It's jest that he's touchy about things.”

“If he is he can git over it,” Bill advised as they began to close up the gap between themselves and the men ahead. “Maybe it'll change his luck. Things have had a habit of goin' wrong for him; they ain't goin' wrong with this bunch if I can help it.”

I
T WAS
long after the hills had given way to rolling Kansas prairie that Little Bill told them they could begin looking for a place in which to wait out the afternoon.

They finally pulled up on a little grassy flat, well screened by protecting cottonwoods, in a creek bend. They picketed their horses with great care. Link climbed one of the trees and studied the country about them. He saw nothing to arouse suspicion.

Luther and Maverick spread a pair of blankets on the ground.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Luther invited. “We'll be here some time.”

They had yanked their saddles off their mounts. Ordinarily they would have stretched out and pillowed their heads on them. Instead, they sat up stiffly or squatted on their heels, waiting for Bill to have his say.