Trigger Gospel (19 page)

“I'd figgered that out,” Bill said impatiently. “It ain't tellin' me what I want to know.”

“I'll try it another way,” Short ventured. “The night that Smoke stopped that Rock Island train your father stepped into the Longhorn Saloon here in Bowie. There was a bunch present—all congratulating him. Beaudry walked in. His talk was pretty loose. Among other things he told them that the package Smoke had got out of the safe was just a bundle of billheads for Hahn's butcher shop.”

“I've heard that too—” Bill muttered.

“It was a bad slip up, Bill. I caught it soon enough. I talked to every man who'd spoken to your father from the time of the robbery until he stood there against the bar. He hadn't told a one of them what was in that package. Maybe he didn't know himself. Beaudry knew it though—and the only way he could have come by the information was because he was right there on the Skull with the Sontags when the package was opened.”

“Say—pop told Chalk that Beaudry had given himself dead away,” Bill exclaimed. “I never knew what he meant—”

“You know now,” said Heck, “and you can take it for granted that Beaudry and Chilton realized that Waco had caught the slip. Now Smoke don't forgive a thing like that in a man. You can't be thick and string along with him. So it was up to Beaudry to do something in a hurry …. The next morning your father's mouth was closed forever.”

Bill nodded to himself. “I see—” he whispered tensely. “You can't be wrong about it.”

“There's no chance of my being wrong. If Beaudry didn't get your father, then Smoke did, and I'm telling you that if Beaudry had stalled, and it had been necessary for Smoke to come in and tend to the job, that you would have found two dead men in Bowie that morning.”

“It's plain enough,” Bill murmured.

“It is, now that I know where Beaudry lit out for today,” Short agreed. “If he'd ever had words with Smoke he would have been afraid to show his face in the Strip.”

The red-haired one nodded. The observation was so obviously true that he found any comment beside the point.

“I'm much obliged, Heck,” he said simply. “Now if you'll just turn around and head back for the hotel I'll get out of town.”

“Don't lose any time about it,” Short replied brusquely. “I got to regard you as I would any other outlaw, Bill. It's war to the hilt between us; you know that. I'll pick you up the first chance I get.”

Little Bill grinned. “When you come for me, come a smokin',” he said.

“That's the way I'll come.” There was no mirth in the marshal's voice. “It ain't anything I look forward to with pleasure. You're playing a losing hand, Bill. Dead or alive I'll get you in the end, and it's a damned shame that it's so. But there's times when it's too late for advice. I know I'm just wasting my breath now.”

Without another word he turned on his heels and strode up the street. When a hundred yards separated them, Little Bill forked his horse and rode away.

“T
HE
afternoon's half gone and he ain't here yet,” Luther muttered nervously as he scanned the country to the east for the hundredth time. “I'm thinkin' he won't be comin'.”

He, Latch and Link had climbed to the crest of a hill. The others waited below. For nearly five hours they had waited at the rendezvous.

“He'll be along all right,” said Latch. “You underestimate him, Luther; he's sharp as a whip.”

“Yeh, and they're just the kind who overplay their hand,” Luther returned gloomily.

“That's what I been thinkin',” Link seconded. “That Lytell is poison. If he was able to figger out a way of gettin' word to Bowie you can bet he did it.”

“He would have been hours too late,” Latch argued. “The two of you have been jumpy ever since Bill left us. I tell yuh this will work out. It wa'n't necessary to have any words with the Kid jest because he took it on himself to pump Lytell a little.”

“I got a different idea about that,” Luther growled. “I warned him not to have no talk with Lytell. I meant it. If he thinks I shut him up just to put the crawl on him he's crazy.”

“Whatever he thinks he'll git over it,” Link observed philosophically, shading his eyes with his hand as he stared intently at a moving speck to the northeast. “That's a man on horseback. I don't know whether it's Bill or not, but he's sure ridin' a long-legged critter that's gaited mighty like Six-gun.”

Fifteen minutes passed before they agreed that it was Little Bill at last. They signaled to the others below that he was in sight and then started down the slope.

“I didn't mean to hold yuh up quite so long,” the red-haired one remarked casually as he joined them. Hooking a leg over his saddle-horn he calmly proceeded to roll a cigarette.

“Ain't yuh goin' to give an account of yourself?” Luther asked impatiently. “We been here for hours.”

“Yeh, I've sure got some news for yuh,” Bill smiled. “Cash Beaudry has flown the coop; Blackie Chilton is on his way to Guthrie in irons and Kin Lamb is the new sheriff of Cimarron County —”

It pulled Cherokee to his feet, his eyes widened to circles of consternation. The others were hardly less excited.

“If you're givin' us facts, suppose you give us all of 'em!” the Kid got out tensely.

“Give me a chance,” Bill drawled. Cherokee was reacting just as he had figured he would.

Save for their muttered expressions of astonishment and satisfaction they permitted Bill to tell his story without interruption. It was piling surprise upon surprise for him to proceed from his meeting with Tascosa to his encounter with Heck Short.

Instead of hurling a barrage of questions at him as he finished, they were silent for a moment, each busy with his own thoughts.

Luther was the first to find his tongue.

“So it was Beaudry that got pop, eh?” he muttered fiercely. “Well—that don't change nothin' for us, does it?”

“Not a thing!” Bill answered, his face hard in a flash. “Beaudry got him, but Smoke was responsible. They'll learn that I was in Bowie, and figger that I had somethin' to do with Heck bein' tipped off. They'll be comin' after us for sure now.”

“What happened at the depot?” Cherokee asked. His face was inscrutable once more.

“Well, I pulled up out on the flats,” Bill told him. “I figgered I'd hear some shootin', but not a shot was fired. A few minutes later Grat and his bunch fanned it west. Chilton wasn't with 'em.”

“That's one out of the way then,” the Kid said with satisfaction. His tone sounded surprisingly sincere, even to Bill. It didn't fit in at all with certain conclusions he had reached.

They camped in the Strip that night. Seated around the fire, Bill discussed their immediate future. Money was set aside to pay Reb Leflett, and another sum with which to outfit themselves. The balance was divided share for share.

“I suppose Reb can get the guns and stuff we need,” Bill remarked. “But the fact is, I'd like to keep out of that country up there for a few weeks.”

“Well, there's always Windy Ben to fall back on,” said Latch. “You'll pay him a little more, but he'll have what we want. As for Reb—he won't mind waitin' for his money.”

All of them were more or less familiar with old Ben. For years he had been moving about the Strip and Panhandle in his old yellow wagon. He pretended to be just a peddler of notions and odds and ends that men living in the open always needed. He was really a fence for the outlaw gangs.

“Can you locate him?” Bill inquired.

“Sure! He'll either be home on Hat Creek or between there and the Raton Peaks at this time of the month. He has to git pretty far west to do business with Doc Mundy's old crowd. If—” He broke off abruptly to turn something over in his mind that had just occurred to him. Pulling at his mustache, he fixed his eyes on Bill in a contemplative squint. “Speakin' o' Raton,” he mused aloud, “reminds me o' sunthin'. If yuh think we'll be needin' an extra man or two right soon, I might look up Bitter Root and Flash Moffet. They were the backbone of the ole Mundy bunch, an' they ain't forgot what Smoke did to Doc. If yuh never hear o' them east o' the peaks no more it's only because they figger two or three don't stand no chance against the Sontags. If they knew a bunch was organizin', they'd come quick enough.”

“Well, we sure could use 'em!” Bill exclaimed without hesitation. “I've heard enough about Bitter Root and Flash to know they'll do to take along no matter how tough the goin' gits. Suppose you and Scotty pull away from here at daybreak for Hat Creek. Do your business with old Ben and then look up Bitter Root and Flash. How long do yuh think you'll be gone?”

“Not more than three days, I'd say,” Latch ventured. “Will we find yuh here when we git back?”

“No, you won't,” Bill answered. “I was just gettin' around to that. Do yuh know a place on the Bowie road that some of the old-timers used to call Squaw Meadows?” He was speaking to all of them now.

Tonto seemed to be the only one who was not familiar with the Meadows.

“Well, there's an old sod shanty in there that ain't been occupied for three or four years,” Bill continued. “That's where we're goin'. There's lumber enough around the place to build some bunks. We'll put our horses back in the brush where they can fatten up a little. As for ourselves, we'll keep out of sight pretty well. I stopped there this mornin' and had a look around. The place will suit us to a T.”

Luther shook his head. Link and Latch objected too.

“That's too close to Bowie,” said Luther.

“Ain't that the best reason why no one will be lookin' there for us?” Bill came back. “As for Kin Lamb, he ain't got no authority west of the county line.”

“That ain't the case with Short,” Link argued. “If Heck learns we're holed up there he'll be after us with a bunch of deputies.”

“You're wrong,” Bill insisted. “Heck may stumble onto us by accident, but he ain't likely to come at us with a posse for a showdown. Take it from me, he knows where to find the Sontags, but he ain't ridin' into the Grocery, and he won't be ridin' into the Meadows. He's too cagy to do his fightin' in the Strip. He's always got his ear to the ground, and when there's a leak, he turns up awful sudden, like he did when he cleaned out the Yeagers.”

“I ain't disagreein' with yuh on that end of it,” Latch declared, “but I'm thinkin' we won't be in the Meadows very long before some Sontag spy locates us. Of course, if you're ready for them, that's somethin' else.”

“Well, we ain't ready for 'em,” said Bill. Without seeming to, he was watching the Kid. Cherokee had not only said nothing but he pretended an utter lack of interest in the conversation. It was such clumsy dissembling that it secretly amused Little Bill. “I ain't goin' to be hurried into anythin' with them. If we lay out quiet in the Meadows we can be there a long time before Smoke tumbles to where we're at.”

Other arguments were voiced against his plan, but in the end he had his way. Before rolling up in their blankets for the night, he and Luther went out to have a look at the picketed horses. The animals were all right.

“Bill, you're bein' headstrong about goin' to the Meadows,” Luther said as they turned back to their smouldering fire. “You know damned well we won't be there a week before Smoke is tipped off.”

“Course I know it,” his brother grinned. “That's just why we're goin' there, Luther. I know more'n I've been tellin'. I don't want the bunch to know yet—especially the Kid—but my plans are all set. Comin' out of Bowie I followed Grat. I know the trail they use in goin' back and forth. It runs within a mile of the shanty.”

“Well, what's the idea?”