Webb's Posse (5 page)

“Nope, neither place, but I've always wanted to. I've heard plenty of talk,” Webb replied.

“Always
wanted
to?” Summers shook his head, finding the notion absurd. Then he added, “You haven't missed anything, take my word for it.”

“You've been through the desert and Mexico both?” Webb asked, looking Summers up and down.

“More times than I ever wanted to,” Summers remarked.

“Then I reckon we can count on you riding posse with us for the good of the town?”

“Nope,” Summers said flatly. “If there was going
to be a posse, you should have been on their tails before their dust settled. It could take weeks now—that's if you ever catch up to them at all. I'm too busy to turn loose right now, not for free anyway.”

“Oh, you think you ought to get
paid
for doing something good for this town?” Webb asked.

“You get paid, don't you?” Summers responded.

“That's a whole different thing, Will.”

“Okay, forget it.” Summers shrugged. “Let's just say that Rileyville ain't really my kind of a town. Never was.”

“Damn, Will, you don't want none of these men to hear you say something like that. Not after what happened here.”

“Why? My conscience is clear.” He smiled. “Unlike some I could mention.”

“That's enough, Will. I mean it,” said Webb. “Here they come now.” He nodded toward the gathering of soot-streaked townsmen walking toward them, some of them dropping empty buckets to the ground as they neared. “Sure you don't want to cut out while you're able?”

“Yep, I'm sure of it,” said Will Summers. “I've done nothing wrong.”

“Just don't go losing your temper and start talking short to them,” Webb cautioned, his voice dropping quieter as the townsmen neared.

“Don't worry, I won't let things go that far,” Summers murmured, keeping an eye on the approaching townsmen.

“You've got some tall explaining to do, Will Summers!” said Ned Trent, leading the men with his fists balled stiffly at his sides, his right fist wrapped tightly around a shovel handle. His breath hissed in and out through his clenched teeth. A black smear
stretched down his cheek. Fifty yards behind him and his followers, the Trent Mercantile Store lay in a charred, smoldering heap.

“How so?” Will Summers asked calmly, his left thumb hooked in his lapel, his right hand resting on the pistol butt at his hip.

“
How so?
By God, you
know
how so!” Ned Trent raved. The rest of the townsmen seethed in their rage. Summers looked past Ned Trent, seeming to ignore him. Among the angry faces, Summers spotted Virgil Wilkes, the bartender; the town blacksmith, Big Miles Michaels; Carl Margood, the livery owner—

“Look at me when I talk to you, Summers!” Ned Trent bellowed. “I lost my store because of you! Theodore Logsdon lost his barbershop! Ike Stevens lost his drugstore!” As Ned Trent ranted, young Joel Stevens slipped in and stood close to his father's side. Ike Stevens dropped a tired arm across his son's thin shoulder.

“You're out of your mind, Trent,” Summers remarked in an even tone. “I'm sorry you people lost your stores. I'm sorry the town got looted. But, folks, don't blame me.”

“I
am
blaming you!” said Ned Trent, poking his finger close to Will Summers' face. “If it hadn't been for your damned horses, they would have just taken what they came for and rode on!”

“You're a fool, Trent,” said Summers. “And you better back off a step before you get in deeper than you want to.” Still, Summers didn't raise his voice. Abner Webb stood watching, not wanting to say any more than he had to, knowing he too was on thin ice with the townsfolk.

“You don't scare me, Summers,” said Trent with
contempt. “You and your big gun and your big, tall hat!”

“My hat?” Summers looked bemused. “What the hell does my hat have to do—?”

“You know what I mean,” shouted Trent, cutting him off. “Don't think we haven't all seen how you look down on the rest of us like you're some kind of big sporting man! Highfalutin horse trader!”

“That's enough out of you,” Summers hissed, his hand slowly raising the pistol from its holster.

“Oh! I see,” said Trent, throwing a hand to his waist in a gesture of superiority. “Are you threatening me, Summers? What are you going to do, shoot me? I reckon it's easy enough to do, knowing my guns have all been stolen!” He tossed a glance over his shoulder to the rest of the men. “There, you see? He gets brave now that there's no one here but honest, hardworking—” His words stopped short as he turned his eyes back to Will Summers just in time to catch the full impact of Summers' pistol barrel across the bridge of his nose.

“Aw, damn it, Will!” said Abner Webb, stepping toward Ned Trent and faying to catch him as he fell. Blood flew from Trent's nose as he collapsed to the ground.

The townsmen started to surge toward Summers. Summers cocked his pistol and leveled it at them. “I didn't shoot him, but that don't mean I won't shoot you!” His words were directed at everyone. The townsmen stopped short and shied back a step.

“You can't shoot the whole town, Summers,” said Louis Collingsworth, a cattle buyer and land speculator.

“You might be right about the whole town, Collingsworth,” Summers replied, sidestepping backward
along the hitch rail as he spoke. He felt his way along his horse's side and jerked the broken sawed-off shotgun from beneath his bedroll. Holding it by the short stub of the stock, he cocked it. “But I can knock some fair-sized chunks of meat off with this.”

“That's my shotgun, Will!” Virgil Wilkes said, outraged by the condition of the sawed-off.

“Sorry, Virgil,” said Summers. “It couldn't be helped.” His eyes went back to Louis Collingsworth. “You ready to be the first to drop? If you are, just say so…. I'll take it from there.”

“Hold it, Will!” Abner Webb shouted, stuck between the townsmen and the menacing shotgun and pistol in Summers' hands. “Damn it, you said you wouldn't let things go this far!” He cast a quick glance through the crowd, searching for Edmund Daniels. Not seeing Daniels caused him to cast a quicker look over his shoulder as he spoke.

“I said I wouldn't fly off and lose my temper,” Will Summers said, correcting him. “So far, I haven't. I'm just accommodating the crowd.” He looked back at Louis Collingsworth. “What about it, Louis?”

From behind the townsmen, Sherman Dahl's voice rose above the tense silence. “Lower the guns, Mr. Summers. We all see that you mean business.”

“Oh?” Will Summers stared in the direction of Dahl's voice as the schoolteacher stepped forward, parting the crowd. “And what are you bringing to this little gathering, Mr. Schoolmaster?”

Sherman Dahl's voice was as calm as Summers' as he slowly opened his coat and drew the right side back out of the way. The butt of the big army Colt stood leaning a bit toward his right hand. His right hand was thin and pale, but dead steady. “I'm bringing nothing, sir, unless I have to,” said Dahl. “I'm just asking you to lower those weapons before somebody
gets hurt. There's children here…. Let's show some civility.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Abner Webb said quickly. “Listen to the teacher, Will. He's talking good sense.”

“Can't you see how bad this whole town is suffering, Mr. Summers?” Sherman Dahl continued, his voice calm and level. “Of course it wasn't your fault what happened here. Everybody will realize that once they've had time to think. Right, Mr. Collingsworth?” He turned his eyes evenly to Louis Collingsworth then back to Will Summers.

“All right,” said Collingsworth. “Maybe I wasn't thinking straight.” He wiped a hand across his forehead. “This is a terrible damn thing to have happen to a good bunch of people. I admit it might have us all a little stunned, not thinking clearly.”

Seeing the townsmen ease back at the sound of Collingsworth's words, Summers lowered the shotgun barrel an inch. He looked back at the face of the young schoolmaster, not quite sure what he saw in the man's eyes. He started to ask Sherman Dahl what his intentions had been with the big army Colt. But before he got a chance to speak, a whip cracked from the far end of the dirt street. All eyes turned toward the sound of the southern stage from Greely as it rumbled forward in a rise of dust.

“He's in a powerful big hurry,” said Abner Webb, relieved that Summers' and the townsmen's attention had been diverted away from one another.

“Yeah,” said Will Summers. “Reckon he ran into the Peltrys out there?” As he watched the stagecoach driver pull back on the brake lever with all his weight and slide the big coach to a halt, Summers slid a glance at the schoolmaster, still wondering how far the young man would have gone with the big Colt.

“Let's see what Matthew's so excited about,” said Abner Webb, starting forward as the old stagecoach driver dropped down from his seat and slung open the stagecoach doors.

“Oh Lord!” said Carl Margood, seeing the stage driver pull Sheriff Hastings from the coach and lower him to the ground.

“Somebody get the doctor!” Matthew Bowden shouted out to the townsmen. “Hastings is about done for!”

“Damn, what a day,” Will Summers said, moving forward yet staying a few steps behind the rest of the men. A few feet away from Will Summers, Sherman Dahl walked along at the same pace, staying parallel, not allowing Summers to drop back behind him. What was the story on this young schoolmaster? Summers asked himself.

The door to Dr. Silas Blayton's office stood wide open, the crowd of townsmen having filled the waiting room and spread out along the boardwalk and into the street. Cigar smoke hung thick and low in a blue-gray cloud. The doctor fanned a hand back and forth as if parting a way for himself when he stepped out of the door to his treatment room and closed it behind him. Deputy Abner Webb moved forward, holding his hat in his hand and nervously fidgeting with the battered brim. “Well, is he going to make it, Doc?” he asked in a hushed voice. Will Summers stood three feet back, listening, still keeping a cautious eye on the crowd.

“It's too soon to tell,” said Dr. Blayton, shaking his bald head. “He's taken two bullets; one barely missed his heart. He's lost a dangerous amount of blood.”

“Can I see him?” asked Webb, moving a step closer to the door as he asked.

Dr. Blayton raised a hand, stopping him. “Not now. He needs to rest some…get some blood back in his system.”

“But I got to find out what happened to him, Doc!” Webb protested. “I need to hear what he wants to do about raising a posse!”

“I can tell you the whole story, Deputy,” said Doc Blayton, maneuvering Webb back from the door. “Sheriff Hastings told me everything.” He looked around at all the anxious faces, then back to Abner Webb. “The sheriff ran into the Peltrys on his way back from Little Dog Creek. Goose Peltry shot him. They took his horse and everything else he had…left him for dead.” Doc Blayton looked back and forth at the eyes staring at him, then added, “Everybody go home now. If you want to do something for the sheriff, you might think about praying for him.” He started to turn and go back inside the treatment room.

“Wait a minute, Doc!” said Abner Webb. “Did he give you any instructions for me? I need to know what to do here! Should I get on the Peltrys' trail or what?”

“Don't ask me,” said the old doctor. “That's a matter for a lawman to decide.”

“Yeah,” said a voice full of contempt, “but where are we going to find a
real
lawman around here?”

Abner Webb snapped a harsh glare at the crowd. “All right, who said that?”

Before anyone could answer, Dr. Blayton gave Abner Webb a slight shove, getting him headed toward the front door. “I want this room cleared. Any discussing you need to do can be done on the
boardwalk. I'll keep everybody posted on how the sheriff's doing.”

As the men began filing out onto the boardwalk, Abner Webb looked back over his shoulder at the door to the treatment room, not knowing what to do next. As he hesitated, Will Summers coaxed him forward. “Come on, Deputy. The sheriff can't help you now.”

Outside on the boardwalk, a skinny young cowboy slid down from his saddle holding a lead rope to a string of five dusty horses. Under one arm he carried three rifles wrapped in a wool blanket. A few townsmen stepped to one side as the cowboy tied the lead rope to the hitch rail and bounded up onto the boardwalk. Looking past him at the five-horse string, Abner Webb said, “Doggone it, Bobby, is that all? Just five horses?”

“That's all,” Bobby Dewitt replied. “Five horses, three rifles, two boxes of cartridges.” He handed the rifles over to Will Summers, who unwrapped them and tossed them out one at a time to the reaching hands of the townsmen. Two boxes of ammunition fell from the blanket, but eager hands snatched them up as soon as they hit the boardwalk. Bobby Dewitt slapped dust from his jacket with his gloved hand.

“McAllister sent everything he had,” said Bobby Dewitt. “He's got his whole herd and crew off in the high grasslands. Said we're welcome to more horses, but it'd be three days getting to them. The Big R spread said pretty much the same: offered to send you every man he's got once they get back from their drive two weeks from now.”

“Two weeks!” shouted a voice from the crowded street. “Hell, they'll be no need even looking for them in two weeks!”

“All right, men,” said Abner Webb. “I know we
need more horses and guns.” His eyes swept across the crowd and saw that many of the men were now wearing old pistols they had scraped up from their homes or barns. “But before you all go flying off the—”

“What we
need
is somebody who can
take charge
,” Miles Michaels, the blacksmith, interrupted. “All we've seen Abner Webb do is
take advantage
!”