Trigger Gospel (7 page)

Chalk hopped along in his wake like a wounded fighting cock, cackling fiercely to himself, every bit as forbidding as he was grotesque.

From the arroyo came another exchange of shots. All was still then. Little Bill passed from sight only to reappear on the far bank a moment later, riding like a madman.

“Luther was right,” he groaned, his eyes everywhere. “I only hope I'm in time!”

The bluejoint and patches of catclaw made a veritable thicket. A man on foot could crawl through it without being seen. Once he thought he saw the grass move. He fired instantly. Nothing happened.

“Just a breath of wind,” he muttered glumly as he reached the spot and saw that the grass was not broken down. His blood began to run cold as he went on without drawing a shot. He knew he was a good target. The fact that no one banged away at him argued that whoever had jumped his father was either dead or had flown. The silence from the arroyo told its own story too.

White-lipped, he made his way to it, afraid of what he was to find.

“Pop!” he shouted. “Where are yuh?”

There was no answer. He called a second time and only a throat-tightening silence rewarded him.

“They got him,” he despaired, a sob in his throat. “He'd answer if he could.”

With a rush he came off the bank into the wash and began to work back toward the house. He saw a man's head appear. He almost banged away at him before he realized it was only Chalk.

A moment later he found Waco under the cut bank. With a stifled cry of anguish he flung himself out of the saddle and rushed to his father's side. The blood-bathed body, the wide, staring eyes told him his answer even before he clutched the stiffening hands.

“Oh, my God,” he groaned. “They got you, Pop … I got here too late ….”

He had been raised in a hard school, but there was a streak of tenderness deep-seated in him. His eyes filled with tears, and he was not ashamed of them.

Chalk came clumping up, snorting wildly. What he saw staggered him. It was seconds before he could speak.

“Snuffed him out,” he gasped. “Right here in sight of the house …. The murderin', black-hearted rats!” The rest of what he said can not be printed here, and it deserved a better fate.

“I guess this is the way he wanted to go,” Little Bill murmured. “He always said he wanted to kick off with his boots on.”

“Yeh, he must have liked all this excitement at the end,” Chalk agreed. “His guns is empty, Bill; kept bangin' away until the last.”

Little Bill shook his head sadly.

“Me and Luther had this on our minds last night,” he said.
“I
didn't sleep much for worryin' about him. Now you tell me what happened.”

Chalk's account was to the point.

“He shouldn't have done it, Bill,” he finished. “I told him so last night. It was n't up to him to kick his life away for somebody else's money—”

“You're wrong, Chalk,” Little Bill broke in. “He only knew one way to play the game. We mustn't take that away from him. Luther and me will get the hombres that cooked this up. I don't care how long it takes, we'll square it in full!”

He had ridden into Bowie ahead of Tascosa and the others, as he had said he would, intending only to linger for a few minutes. Martha Southard's dark eyes had been haunting him for months. No word of his had yet acquainted her with his romantic devotion, for with becoming humbleness he believed himself quite unworthy of her. And yet, whenever he was in town, he found certain crumbs of comfort in her apparent happiness at seeing him again that sent him away to dream of her for another five or six weeks. On the trail or in some lonely cow camp he became bold enough in his thoughts to foresee the time when he would speak frankly to her.

It had been in his mind to do so this trip. His run-in with Beaudry had changed his plans and he had come in this morning hoping for no more than a word or two with her.

He had circled around town to reach home. All that had been temporarily erased from his mind. It came back to him now with startling clearness.

“What about Beaudry?” he asked. “Is he back?”

“Yeh, came in last night. Waco was talkin' to him.”

“So? Was anythin' said about me?”

“Only that he had seen your outfit on the river.” Chalk glanced at him shrewdly. “Was there anythin' else that should have been said, Bill?”

“Plenty, Chalk. Beaudry is out to slam me into jail.”

He acquainted the old man with the facts.

“Damn his yellow hide!” Chalk cursed. “He better go slow about startin' anythin' with you with yore pa lyin' dead here! You got friends in this yere town—and that's somethin' Beaudry's got none of!”

“I don't reckon that'll stop him,” said Little Bill, his face grim. “It don't matter; I ain't runnin' now —and nobody is slappin' me into jail until I get the party or parties that did this.”

“It'll be around town in a few minutes that you're here,” Chalk warned him. “The shootin' must have been heard down the street.”

“Let 'em come,” Little Bill ground out. “Is Pop's mustang in the barn?”

“He is. Why—”

“You get him saddled pronto,” the red-headed one cut him off. “I want you to go for Luther. They must be this side of Cain Springs by now. You tell him what's happened—that I want him in a hurry. Luther will know what to do. You get goin' right now, Chalk. I'll carry Pop up to the house.”

He saw the old man glance at Six-gun, standing patiently, reins dangling over his head.

“It would save time if I took him,” said Chalk.

Little Bill shook his head.

“You can't ride him, Chalk.”

“I could handle him. You don't have to worry about my leg.”

“It ain't that. He's my horse; nobody ridin' him but me.”

“Well, I ain't hankerin' to ride him,” Chalk said sharply. “I'm superstitious of them claybanks. Like as not this would never have happened but for you ownin' that—”

“Don't say it!” Little Bill snapped. “No man's turnin' me against him! You get movin'!”

Chalk clumped away, muttering to himself. Little Bill gathered his father's body up into his arms and started up the arroyo, with Six-gun following a pace or two in the rear. The gelding nickered softly.

“I'm puttin' the blame for this where it belongs—not on you, Six-gun,” Little Bill thought aloud.

F
ANNING
the little mustang with his hat, Chalk Whipple dashed out of the yard and raced away in a flash of dust. Down the street, Sam Swift and some others appeared, running toward the house. Sam hailed the old man, but Chalk thundered on without waiting to answer. It was five miles to Cain Springs, and it was his intention to get there in a hurry.

“That don't look good, him dashin' off that-a-way,” Sam panted. “He's goin' for the boys, sure as shootin'!”

“Beaudry must be right for once,” one of his companions flung back as they ran on. “He said it was the Sontags—come in to get Waco. They must a fetched him or Chalk wouldn't be tearin' off like that.”

“ 'Fraid you're right,” Sam muttered. “Beaudry will never overhaul 'em if it was the Sontags.”

“Him and his depities was sure crowdin' their ponies as they sailed out of town,” another volunteered. “Damn near run me down!”

Through the window Little Bill saw the group of men approaching. He recognized Sam quickly. He had placed his father's body on the bed. Pausing to cover it with a sheet, he stepped to the door.

“Why, Bill, I didn't know you had got in!” Sam exclaimed, heaving asthmatically. “Is—is anythin' wrong?”

He found the question almost unnecessary, for Little Bill's grim face was an answer in itself.

“He's dead, Sam,” he said. “They got him down the arroyo a ways.”

“No, you don't say!” Swift shook his head sadly and made a little clucking noise with his tongue. Usually a garrulous man, he had no words with which to express himself at a moment like this.

Save for a muttered curse or gasp of surprise the others were strangely inarticulate too. They had all been in the crowd that had shouted Waco's praises in the Longhorn the previous evening. They found it hard to believe that he was gone so soon.

“If there's anythin' we can do,” Sam volunteered soberly, “you know we'll be only too willin'.” He glanced at the others for corroboration. They were quick to voice it.

“I sent for Luther,” Little Bill told them. “We'll have a look down the arroyo as soon as he comes and see what we can find.”

“I guess it's no question but what it was the Sontags,” said Sam. “Your pa didn't have no enemies other than them. Beaudry and Chilton and a couple more have fanned it out of town already, saying they was goin' to cut 'em off.”

Little Bill's head went up.

“Beaudry? What does he know about this?”

“Joe here can tell you more than me. He says he was talkin' to him,” Sam replied. “What was it he said, Joe?”

“Why, I reached for my pants as soon as I heard the shootin',” the man explained. “It took me a few minutes to get down to the street. I was just turnin' the corner by the Longhorn when Beaudry and Chilton fanned it out of the alley beside the sheriff's office. I asked them what the shootin' was about. Cash yelled back that the Sontags had come in for Waco and that he was goin' to cut 'em off if he could.”

“So that's the way it was, eh?” Little Bill ground out threateningly. “I'll sure look into that!”

“Why, what do you mean, Bill?” Sam inquired.

“I mean it don't go with me at all! How did he come to be on the job so quick? Looks to me like he was waitin' for it to happen!”

“Well, I ain't no great booster for Beaudry,” Sam remarked. “I know if I was the sheriff of this county and I heard gunfire I'd go to the scene of the shootin' to catch my outlaws instead of tryin' to cut 'em off somewhere.”

“You wouldn't if you was takin' your orders from them same outlaws,” Little Bill exclaimed.

“Now, Bill,—” Sam started to protest feebly.

“Don't stall, Sam! You know you've been thinkin' it! All of you have! So why not say it? You know it's true!”

“No one's proved it yet,” Swift argued.

“I'll come damn close to doin' it,” Little Bill assured him, “and if I ever find out that he knew they were comin' in for Pop I'll drag his dead body through the streets of this town!”

“And I'll help you do it if you ever prove that on him!” said Sam.

By now Little Bill could see a score of men hurrying toward them.

“I don't want to talk to these people,” he told Swift. “If you will, Sam, keep 'em out of here. You can tell 'em what's happened.”

“Why, sure, Bill. And I'll be glad to take care of all the funeral arrangements if you'll let me. We want to pay our respects to Waco in a way that will do him proud.”

“Sam, I'll sure appreciate it,” Little Bill said gratefully. “I'd like to have a word with you if you'll step inside.”

Swift removed his hat in respect to the dead as he entered the house.

“Sam, Beaudry doesn't know I'm here,” Bill said as soon as he had closed the door. “I had some trouble with him last night. I know he's goin' to get me for it if he can. I'm goin' to tell yuh what happened.”

The mayor did not attempt to hide his concern at the tale Little Bill told him.

“No question but he can make it pretty hot for you, Bill,” he declared soberly. “From what I know of the law, he had a right to take your horse. I appreciate how you felt about it, but that didn't warrant your openin' up on him with a rifle—in the eyes of the law I mean. All the rest of it won't enter into the case.”

“What do you think he can do?”

“He can claim an assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill. That will mean upwards of five years for you if he makes a jury believe it. I don't figure he'll do anythin' until after the funeral. He knows how folks would take it, and there's enough feelin' against him already without that. I'll speak to him if you say so, but I don't think it would do any good, bein' the ornery skunk that he is.”