Trigger Gospel (2 page)

They reached the bottom of the hill and began to pick their way down the draw, with Little Bill in the lead. He had not progressed over thirty yards when he pulled up abruptly to stare at something on the ground.

“What is it?” Tascosa whipped out as he saw him freeze to attention. For answer, Little Bill pointed to a bare, sandy spot in the jungle of grass.

“Fresh tracks of shod horses,” he said. “They ain't over an hour old. Five or six in that bunch.”

“Jest about.” Tascosa thoughtfully masticated a fresh chew of tobacco. “Headin' for the creek too. Didn't notice no tracks cuttin' across the trail.”

“Neither did I,” Little Bill agreed. “Reckon they was careful not to leave any. The grass ain't broken down neither. That's tellin' me plenty.” His manner was suddenly grave.

“Yeh?” The old man narrowed his eyes and squirted a stream of tobacco juice with expert aim at a blue beetle. “What do you figger it means, Bill?”

The question was beside the point, for he understood him perfectly. The intentness with which he was scanning the tree-choked creek bottom proved it.

“The same as you,” Little Bill snapped. “Long riders; somebody sneakin' out of the Strip on unfinished business. Not over two hundred and fifty yards to the creek. Reckon they got us covered this minute with a high-power or two.”

“Like as not,” Tas muttered grimly. The words were hardly out of his mouth before the bark of a .30-.30 shattered the stillness of early evening. “Well,” he grunted as the echo rolled down the creek, “that's language I can understand. We ain't lost no banks nor express boxes, so we'll just back-trail outa here pronto.”

He stood up in his stirrups and hailed his men with a shrill cry.

Five minutes later they were back on the trail. The wagon had come up too.

“What was that shootin' ?” Maverick cried out.

“The Skull is too crowded for us tonight,” Tascosa explained soberly. “We're goin' on to the Cimarron. We'll have to step along right lively to make it afore sundown. You shake up that team, Maverick; we're movin' !”

T
ASCOSA
and his five men rode abreast. They traded questions.

“Who do you figure they are?” Luther Stillings drawled casually. He had his brother's freckles and brick-red hair. In no other way were they alike, save in their promise of efficiency in a pinch.

“The Doolins—or maybe Smoke Sontag,” Little Bill answered. “It's about time for the Sontags to be breakin' loose again.”

“That's sumthin' for the marshals and sheriffs to worry about,” Tascosa reminded them. “It ain't our put-in no way at all. We h'ain't seen a thing.”

“I hope to tell yuh we ain't,” Link Appling grinned. “It's strictly a two-sided fight. Just part your hair in the middle, boys, and don't lean one way or t'other.”

“You're dead right, Link,” Scotty Ryan, the dean of Tascosa's hired hands agreed. “It t'ain't no shine off our pants no matter what happens. See nothin', say nothin' and you may live to a ripe old age, unless Maverick's cookin' kills you afore your time.”

They laughed, and there was no dissenting opinion, for Link and Scotty had only expressed a viewpoint that was typical of the attitude of their calling. Honest themselves, they never knew when they might drift into outlawry. Certainly most of those who rode with Red Doolin and Smoke Sontag had once been cowboys. They still had friends, legions of them, or else the law would have turned them up in a hurry. An outsider wouldn't have understood this bond between good men and bad, nor been able to find any definite line of demarcation between those inside the law and out, for the bad and good in them was sadly scrambled.

Little Bill set the pace. He was inclined to run away from the wagon. There was no point in that. He looked back to see Maverick dozing again.

“I'll start his circulation a hoppin' !” he ground out furiously. “He's got somethin' on his hip.”

He dropped back until he rode abreast the wagon. He didn't bother to shout to Maverick, but drawing one of his brass-handled .45's sent a slug crashing into the bottle that protruded from the cook's hip pocket. Maverick jerked his two hundred and ten pounds of fat erect as though he worked on wires.

“Why, you red-headed little ant, I'll eat you alive for that!” he roared. “Damn you, don't you ever try to curry me that-a-way! I'll—”

Little Bill emptied his six-gun over the heads of the weary horses and they leaped away with a rush that cut short the tirade.

“You high-tail it now, Maverick!” he shouted as the wagon began to hit only the high places. “I'm layin' back here to dust you off if you don't!”

There was a twinkle in his eyes, for Maverick and he were the best of friends.

The rolling hills began to give way to level plain. They made better time now. Maverick held the team to a steady trot, with the result that the sun was just sliding below the horizon when they rode down into the valley of the Cimarron to bring up a few minutes later at a grassy flat just below Cherokee crossing. Here was wood, water and grass.

In no time at all Maverick had his cook-fire going and his end of the wagon open. He was slicing thick steaks off a butt of beef as Little Bill approached.

“Nice goin',” the red-haired one grinned.

“Yeh?” Maverick growled. “I been pickin' glass outa my backside for ten miles. I hope I git hyderphoby or somethin' so I can give it to you.”

“You mean so you can charge me for it; you never gave nothin' away in your ornery old life,” Little Bill retorted as he reached under the seat for a currycomb and brush.

He had already watered his horse. The big gelding was picketed on the flat now, and as the others stretched out on the ground, glad to be out of the saddle after the long day, Little Bill got busy with his brush and comb.

Before long the animal's coat began to shine. The horse seemed to enjoy the attention that was being lavished on it. He was a clean-limbed three-year-old with a long barrel; the best proof in the world that there was little if any mustang blood in him.

Absorbed in what he was doing, Little Bill worked on without glancing at the lounging men who, without exception, were watching him with growing interest. He had owned the gelding but a short while, having acquired the horse down in the Panhandle as the result of some shrewd trading and the spending of the better part of his bankroll. His pride in the animal and the care he lavished on it had already resulted in an inordinate amount of chaffing at his expense, and the present moment was pregnant with fresh possibilities. Link Appling fired the first gun a few moments later.

“Too bad a high-falutin' critter like that has to be bogged down with a common, cow pony name like Six-gun,” he declared, addressing Tonto Baker. “You been below the Rio Grande and you savvy them tony Mexican names, Tonto. Why don't you suggest somethin' fittin' to Bill?”

“Well, there might be something to that,” Tonto replied, putting on a thoughtful face. “But I ain't up much on anythin' but girls' names. You could hardly tack any thin' like Conchita or Estancia on that geldin'. Bill might think I was castin' aspersions.”

“I'll do a little castin' myself, and like as not it'll be this currycomb,” the red-haired one retorted, “if you start any of your greaser lingo on me.”

“There he goes; on the prod already,” Link protested. “You can't open your mouth even in a helpful way no more.”

The others laughed as he shook his head sadly.

“Now look here; you boys lay off of Bill,” old Tas put in with deep cunning, for he enjoyed the fun as much as any. “Bill's got a big impression to make when he rides into Bowie tomorrow mornin'. If I thought for a minute that I was goin' to meet anybody half as sweet as he does I'd begin usin' a currycomb on myself, I'm tellin' yuh!”

“Now I did forget all about that for a fact,” Link asserted gravely. “I sure beg your pardon, Bill. You go right ahead and put ribbons in that horse's tail if you want to and it'll be all right with me. But just the same, I think you're takin' a chance in dollin' that animal up that-a-way. I can't speak for the lady, but if it was me, I'd find it a little confusin'; I wouldn't know just which one of you to choose.”

“I'd take the horse,” Scotty Ryan called out.

“I'm sure you would, Scotty,” Little Bill fired back. “A horse and a jackass ought to hit it off pretty good.”

The laugh was on Scotty now, and they enjoyed it quite as much as though it had been on Bill. They returned to the attack then and kept at it until Maverick was ready for them. The cook ran a critical eye over the gelding.

“Fly speck there on the right stifle, Bill,” he cried. “Take care of that and you can come and get it!”

They ate with a hearty appetite. The purple haze of twilight was beginning to settle down on the river bottom. Little Bill sat beside Tascosa.

“The joshin's over, Bill,” said the old man. “The geldin's a fine horse. But sure as fate somebody'll try to steal him. If you'll take my advice you'll sell him. You can get a good price.”

“Not a chance,” Bill answered bluntly. “Nobody but me is ever goin' to ride him. He's all I ever wanted in a horse, and I'm keepin' him. The hombre that tries to lift him won't live long.”

“All right, have it your way,” Tas grumbled. “But mark my words; that claybank will make you trouble. I never knew one that wa'n't unlucky.”

They had just lit their cigarettes when five mounted men appeared on the skyline across the river and headed for their camp. Luther was the first to see them.

“Make out who they are?”. Tascosa demanded anxiously.

“They're ridin' with their rifles across their saddle bows,” Little Bill answered, his eyes narrowed on the oncoming horsemen. “It ain't likely it's the bunch we spotted on the Skull. That big fellow in the lead looks familiar.”

A moment or two later he recognized the man.

“It's Cash Beaudry, the so-called sheriff of Cimarron County,” he sneered.

“It's Beaudry and a bunch of deputies, all right,” Luther seconded. “Their broncs look like they'd ridden 'em into the ground.”

“Long riders—now the sheriff,” Tascosa muttered. “That usually makes sense.”

“Not this time,” Little Bill rasped. “If Beaudry ever bumps into an outlaw's way it'll be by accident. He's a cheap, double-crossin' crook, accordin' to the record. You know it as well as I do. There's some connection between the Sontags and him, and that's what gravels me—makin' a splurge about runnin' 'em down when he's really trailin' with 'em.”

“I've heard it, but I don't know it for a fact. If he's comin' here for grub he can have it. If it's information he's lookin' for he won't get it.”

Tascosa tossed some brush on the fire. As it flamed up, the sheriff and his men forded the river and walked their jaded horses into the circle of firelight.

“Hi, boys,” Beaudry greeted them with a wave of his pudgy hand. He was a lantern-jawed individual with a wisp of black mustache that failed to hide his cruel mouth. “Smelled your fire a ways back. Didn't know who we'd find here.”

Tascosa stepped forward.

“Maverick will shuffle up some grub for yuh if yuh'll light,” he said.

“No time for that tonight, Tascosa,” Beaudry returned. “Much obliged just the same. Where you from?”

“Down to the Kiowa country. Jest pulled in here about sundown. Came up by way of the old trail after leaving the North Fork.”

“Humph,” the sheriff murmured. It was impossible to say whether he was pleased or not. “See anyone?”

“Nary a soul … I take it you're lookin' for certain parties.”

“Yeh,” Beaudry laughed with a preoccupied air. “Been out all day on a red hot tip that some of the wild bunch has come out of the Strip with somethin' on their minds.”