Trigger Gospel (15 page)

I
T LACKED
a few minutes of three when they slid out of their saddles at the hitch-rack beside the bank. Scotty slipped across the street. Little Bill, Latch and Link walked briskly to the corner. Cherokee and Luther were only a step or two behind them.

Reed City was doing business as usual. Up and down the main street men and a sprinkling of women could be seen. Half a block away a little group lounged under the wooden awning of the hotel.

“This is workin' out nice,” Bill muttered. He flicked a glance at Link. He wasn't worried about Latch. “Git your guns out as we step through the door,” he said.

There were three men behind the counter. A fourth, a cowman, stood at the cashier's window. Not until Bill and the others were ten feet inside the door was the cashier or the others aware that three men with guns drawn had stepped into the bank.

“Stick 'em up!” Bill commanded hoarsely. “We got yuh covered!”

“Why—why it's Bill Stillings!” one of the three behind the counter gasped.

Bill saw that it was Monte Bassett who once had worked in the bank at Bowie. Monte's face was chalky with fright.

“It's me, all right, Monte! Just git your hands up and you won't git hurt!”

He was a bit taken back to find Bassett there. He had not seen him when he had stepped into the bank several days past. Still, it couldn't matter now that he was recognized.

The surprise of Monte and the bank officials was complete. Hands raised they started to back away.

“Freeze where you are!” Bill whipped out.

The man at the window turned as though to run. Link shoved a gun into his ribs. It took the fight out of him. Bill ran a hand over him and found a .44.

“Now you crawl over the counter with the others!” he jerked out. “Be foolish and you'll git all the trouble you want!”

The stranger obliged without delay.

Latch was in the cashier's cage already. The safe stood open. It did not take him long to scoop up everything in sight.

“Yuh ready?” Bill called to him.

“Yeh, we can be goin',” Latch answered.

They began to back out. They had not been in the bank more than three minutes. Not a shot had been fired. It had been almost too easy. And then as they reached the door their hearts missed a beat at the sight that greeted them. Coming down the main street was a herd of bawling steers that choked it from sidewalk to sidewalk.

The cattle were kicking up a great cloud of dust as they came on, heading for the railroad corrals.

“I thought we'd beat 'em across!” Luther ground out. “There's a lot of 'em! We'll never get through! We'll have to go out the way we came in!”

Link groaned. Cherokee cursed.

“All right!” Bill snapped, refusing to lose his head. “Git to your horse, Latch! I'll fetch Scotty! Luther, you and Link and Cherokee cover us for a second!”

They realized that the street was deserted now. It had nothing to do with this herd of beef. Common sense told them their presence had been noted; that a whisper to the effect that the bank was being robbed had run over town with the speed of a prairie fire.

It was only a few steps to the corner of the bank building, but they had not yet reached it when someone pushed a rifle barrel out of the opening between the drug store and the saddlery shop opposite and began to work the trigger as rapidly as he could.

At the first blast Cherokee went down, rolled around on the sidewalk and jumped up quickly, the upper half of his right ear shot away.

“Git to your horses!” Little Bill cried. “I'll take care of that fellow!”

In such rapid succession that it did not seem possible that five shots could be fired from a single action gun, he stitched a little circle around the rifle opposite. Whether he hit the sniper or not, the firing ceased abruptly.

He took advantage of the lull and leaped around the corner of the building. Opposite him, Scotty was blazing away with both guns. He was a deadshot with a .44, and cool as ice now.

There wasn't a man in sight. For want of a better target he smashed the old-fashioned street lamps to bits. The glass fell with a shivery sound and the oil streamed. For an instant a hat appeared on the roof of the drug store. He drilled a hole through it and it came sailing down into the street.

If anyone had to be impressed with the fact that this bunch could and would shoot they were being enlightened in a hurry.

The barking guns threw a panic into the oncoming steers. For an instant the leaders turned and tried to fight their way back through the herd. Failing in that, they lowered their heads, and bellowing with rage, dashed past the bank. The milling cattle began to streak after them. In a few seconds the whole herd was in mad motion.

“Come on!” Bill yelled at Scotty.

Together they backed to the horses. The others were mounted already. Cherokee was covered with blood. None of the others had got so much as a scratch. They had put away their six-guns and drawn their rifles from the scabbards.

It was down the side road now, doubling back on their own trail. They had not gone the distance of a city block, however, when they saw that several old wagons had been rolled out into the road. Suddenly from behind the barricade a dozen rifles began to erupt violently.

Bill pulled Six-gun up in the air and whirled him around before his forelegs hit the ground.

“We can't get through!” he shouted. “Follow me!”

Riding like a madman he dashed back to the main street. The others were fanning it after him. A glance told him that none of them were down.

It seemed that he intended to fight his way through the herd. But at the last moment he sent the gelding tearing down the plank sidewalk.

He had to bend low to avoid the overhanging wooden awnings. His rifle was spurting flame, shattering windows and splintering store fronts. The others were at it too as they raced after him.

Through the biting swirl of gun smoke, rifles barking, glass crashing and steers bawling, they rode the length of the long block.

Finally they were around the herd. Open country beckoned ahead. In two or three minutes they had left the town behind.

They did not bother to look back; they knew they would be followed. Seconds were precious now.

Little Bill flashed a glance at the others.

“All here,” he muttered.

Cherokee was a gory sight. Bill was not worried about him. The Kid was marked for life, but the wound was slight enough.

Three miles south of Reed City they topped a rise. At a signal from the red-haired one they pulled up to breathe their mounts. To the north a tiny dust cloud told them a posse had been organized and was after them.

“We're pretty far ahead of 'em,” Link grinned.

“Yeh, they ain't breakin' their necks to overhaul us,” Latch agreed. “We gave 'em a pretty good idee what to expect from us. I tell yuh, Bill, I've never seen neater work. You didn't miss a trick.”

“Sure I did! I plumb overlooked the chance that we'd find that street blocked off for us with steers. We were just lucky, Latch.”

“Just how lucky were we?” Cherokee demanded with a muttered curse.

“My guess would be between six and seven thousand,” Latch answered. He took a good look at Cherokee. “I got to hand it to yuh, Kid,” he laughed, “you're a ridin' massacre. Better let me tie up yore head.”

“That'll have to wait,” Bill spoke up. “We'll strike water later and clean it up right. You just got nicked. It can't be hurtin' yuh much.”

“Not a bit,” Cherokee sneered. “It's just one of them souvenirs you were talkin' about.”

“That's the spirit!” Bill chuckled. “We both got one, Kid—only I'm carryin' mine around in my pocket.”

T
HE
Sawbuck wagon was creaking into Bowie again. Chalk Whipple sat on the seat in Maverick's place. The four men who rode ahead of the wagon with Tascosa were all new hands. The outfit was on its way north once more from another drive to the Nations, the Chickasaw country this time.

Seven weeks to a day had passed since the fight at Cain Springs.

Sam Swift sat under the wooden awning of the Bowie House, talking to Heck Short, the U. S. marshal, as the little outfit passed. Sam hailed Tascosa. His men went on, but the old man turned into the hitch-rail and climbed out of his saddle.

“Glad to see you, Tas,” said Heck. “Take a chair and sit down!”

Short was a chunky man with the pink, unwrinkled cheeks of a child. His voice was strangely mild for a man of his formidable reputation. There were no notches in his guns—that was something he said he preferred to forget—but on the side of the law he had engaged in a hundred gun fights. His placid countenance suggested that he and Sam were only sitting there passing the time of day, for he was of that indomitable, bulldog breed of men who were slowly but surely bringing law and order to Oklahoma, and doing it without any flourish.

“Felt my ears burnin' as I rode in,” Tascosa grinned. “You boys talkin' about me?”

“Talkin' about the bunch that used to draw their wages from you,” said Sam. “They've just cracked a bank.” He turned to Short for verification.

“No!” Tascosa shook his head forlornly. “Is that a fact, Heck?”

“Yeh, they rode into Reed City, across the Kansas line, day before yesterday in broad daylight, shot up the town and hoisted the bank. Apparently they made a clean get-away.”

He supplied the details as he had heard them.

“That's too bad,” Tas sighed. “I knew it was bound to happen. If a man is pushed outside the law there's nothin' for him to do but follow his trade. I know those boys is wild and reckless, but they were all square-shooters. I never found a wrong drop of blood in 'em.”

Heck nodded. “I agree with you it's too bad,” he said. “If they'd only held off I could have squared the trouble they had with Beaudry. The law's got a grudge against them now that can't be overlooked.”

“Well, I'll say this for 'em,” Sam volunteered, “when they get strong enough they'll do you a favor.”

“How come?” Heck questioned.

“They'll wipe out the Sontags. With a bankroll and some reputation, Little Bill won't have any trouble buildin' up his gang.”

“He's been doing that already,” Short remarked with a preoccupied air. “He had eight men in his bunch when he rode into Reed City.”

They talked on for half an hour. Sam went down the street then. A few minutes later Tascosa got to his feet. He appeared his usual imperturbable self. Actually, life for him had lost its zest with the breaking up of the old Sawbuck outfit, a fact which he would have denied vehemently. It followed that the news he had just received was more disturbing than he let on.

“Don't be in a hurry,” Heck murmured, motioning him back to his chair. “I want to talk to you.”

“Private, yuh mean?”

The marshal nodded.

“Suppose we step inside,” Tascosa suggested.

“No, I want to keep my eye on the sheriff's office. I've got some business with Beaudry.”

Something in his tone said it was business of an unpleasant nature for Cash. Tascosa raised his eyebrows sharply and shot a glance across the street at the sheriff's office. Beaudry was apparently seated at his desk, for the crown of his hat was visible through the window.

“Yuh havin' some trouble with him?” he asked frankly.

“I don't expect to have very much trouble with him,” Heck smiled. “I arrested Blackie Chilton, his chief deputy this mornin'.”

“You did?” Tas gasped, unable to conceal his surprise.

“Yeh, I've got him chained to the safe down at the depot right now. He's a federal prisoner and I'm taking him back to Guthrie tonight.”

“Well, I do be damned!” the old man exclaimed. “Have yuh got a real case against him, Heck?”

“Air tight.” The marshal crossed his legs to a more comfortable position. “When I came over here on that Rock Island stick-up, I recognized Chilton … You've heard of Black-faced Charlie, haven't you?”