High Wild Desert (8 page)

The dealer looked at Dave and let out a breath.

“Go on, get out of here,” Dave said, shoving the few remaining chips to him. Following his brother, he stopped halfway across the floor and watched Oldham stagger up the stairs, finally heading toward Anna Rose's room. Dave saw Little Deak, Blind Simon and Karl Sieg standing at the empty bar. They looked away from Dave as his eyes met theirs.

Next Dave noticed the stoic faces of Henry Teague and Sonny Rudabough. The two sat at the same table they'd occupied over the past three days, every time they'd come into the saloon to check on Oldham at the poker table.

“The hell are you two looking at?” Dave said in an angry voice.

Sonny Rudabough stared coldly at him; Henry Teague shook his head slowly.

“Nothing. We're here to see your brother, when he gets some free time for us, that is,” Teague said smugly.

Before Dave could respond, Oldham came staggering back down the stairs, wild-eyed, his gun waving loose in his hands. He hung against the hand rails and looked back and forth.

“She's gone! So's my money!” he said.

“She's a whore, brother,” Dave shouted up at him. “Of course she's gone. What did you expect?”

“She said she'd wait,” Oldham called out, his voice week, shaky.

“Maybe she did wait for a while,” said Dave. “But you've been gambling for three days and nights! You haven't eaten, haven't slept.”

Three days and nights?

Oldham rubbed his beard-stubbled jaw in confusion.

“No whore waits that long for anybody,” Dave said, “unless she's simpleminded. What'd you think, that you married her?”

At their table, Sonny Rudabough gave Teague a sly look.

Above them on the landing, Oldham slumped down onto his knees, gripping the handrail. He sobbed against his chest.

Dave gave a nod toward the bar. “Deak, you and Sieg give my brother a hand. Get him down from there.”

As the two walked past Dave toward the stairs, Sieg spoke to him quietly under his breath.

“Where are we taking him?” he asked.

“Outside of town,” said Dave. “We'll make camp and get ourselves shook out and sobered up some.”

Deak and Sieg just looked at each other. The only one needing to sober up and shake himself out was their leader. But they kept quiet, crossed the floor and climbed the stairs.

While they gathered Oldham and pulled him to his feet, Dave Coyle walked over to the table where the two gunmen sat.

“I've seen you both snooping around here every time I come to check on my brother,” he said.

“Snooping around?” Sonny Rudabough half rose from his chair, shooting an icy stare at Dave. Teague stopped him with a raised hand.

“The man's concerned about his brother, Sonny,” he said. “Sit down and have some whiskey for breakfast.” As Sonny relented and sank back down on his chair, Teague said to Dave, “I presented a business proposition to your brother the other day. I'm still waiting around for an answer.”

“What kind of proposition?” Dave asked, hearing Deak and Sieg helping Oldham down the stairs.

“No offense,” said Teague, “but it's between him and us. If he wants to tell you, that's his call.”

“I'm getting him out of here and getting him some rest,” Dave said.

“Good idea,” Teague said. “I'm Henry Teague. This friendly young man is Sonny Rudabough. We'll be waiting. Tell him for me.”

Dave nodded. As he and the others left the saloon with Oldham hanging between Sieg and himself, he saw a group of soldiers riding into sight at the far end of the busy street. A wagon loaded with loud, laughing, cheering miners rolled in at the other side of town. Behind the wagon, he saw other miners arriving, on mules, on horseback and on foot.

“Damn it, Oldham,” he grumbled under his breath. “It's already payday for these square heads. We've missed our shot.”

Chapter 8

Inside the New Delmar sheriff's office still under construction, the Ranger and Captain Leonard Stroud stood watching as the town sheriff chained a thick hundred-fifty-pound ball of solid iron to Cisco Lang's ankle. Cisco dragged the ball by its chain to the far side of the room. A chalk line on the floor showed where iron bars would soon stand.

“Stay behind the chalk line and we'll get along just fine, Cisco Lang,” said the sheriff, Ed Rattler. Lang stopped beside a chair and sat down facing them. He gave the sheriff a cold stare.

“I always say it takes more than bars to make a good jail,” said the sheriff. He smiled behind a thick coppery gray mustache. “It takes good attitude.”

“I won't be forgetting this,
Rattling Ed
,” Cisco called out in a threatening tone.

“It's
Sheriff Rattler
henceforth, Cisco,” said the sheriff. “I wouldn't be threatening me if I were you. Dankett here would love to goose you with double loads of gravel rock and metal shavings.” He turned to a grim-looking young man with a pale red-blotched face and eyes as sharp and cold as a viper. “Wouldn't you, Deputy Dankett?”

The grim young man, Clow Dankett, sat in a thick corduroy trail coat and a tall Montana-style high-crowned drover's hat, one knee crossed over the other, supporting a long-barreled shotgun. A leather shoulder strap drooped from the shotgun stock.

“Wouldn't I, though?” he said expressionless, leaning forward, his trigger finger tensed, ready to empty the shotgun into Lang at the slightest provocation.

“It is true,” said the captain, his hands folded behind his back, clutching his yellow cavalry gloves. “‘Iron bars do not a prison make.' Richard Lovelace, 1642,” he quoted, smiling with satisfaction at his literary reference.

The Ranger and the sheriff looked at him askance.

“Captain,” Lang said in disgust, “Loveless never said
iron bars
. He said,
Stone walls do not a prison make.
”

“Be that as it may,” Captain Stroud said, his countenance undeterred, “in this case I suppose one could support the premise that an
iron ball
certainly
does indeed.”

Dankett gave Lang a hard cruel stare, as if in anticipation.

“At any rate, Ranger Burrack,” said Captain Stroud, turning to Sam, “it has been my pleasure.” He reached a hand out. “Good luck killing all of these waywards and miscreants.”

Cisco Lang watched and listened.

“Obliged for your escort, Captain,” Sam said, shaking the captain's strong, dry hand. He ignored the reference to the killing of waywards and miscreants and watched the captain turn and walk out the door.

As soon as the captain was gone, Sheriff Rattler stood facing Sam with his hands resting on his gun belt.

“What's the town council's excuse for your jail not being finished, Sheriff?” Sam asked.

“Officially, they're saying everybody's too busy to get it done, Ranger,” said Rattler. “But that's malarkey. It's just low on their
give-a-damn
list. We're lucky it hasn't got Dankett or me killed. It's part of why Dankett stays drawn tight as a wire fence. He has to stay on his toes night and day, and it's getting to him.” He leaned in close to Sam and whispered in secret, “He calls his shotgun
Big Lucy.
”

“I'm all right,” Dankett said, staring at Cisco as he spoke.

“Anyway, that's my worry, Ranger,” said Rattler. “In case you don't know it, there's a five-thousand-dollar bounty on your head, Ranger Burrack. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But I got a telegraph telling me all about it.” As he spoke, he took out a wanted poster and unfolded it in his hands.

Five thousand?
That was more than most murdering outlaws of high notoriety.

“I heard about it,” Sam replied. He took the poster and looked at it closely, feeling a twinge in his guts, seeing his name and drawn likeness exhibited as if he were a criminal.

“Then I'm sorry I brought it up,” said Rattler, noticing the look on the Ranger's face.

“That's all right,” said the Ranger. He gave him a wry smile. “If someone's out to kill me, I appreciate somebody warning me ahead of time.”

“That's the way I look at it,” said Rattler, sounding a little relieved. “Note there's not a name as far as who's offering the reward is concerned,” the sheriff said. “That shows the kind of coward they are.”

“It's Hugh Fenderson,” Sam said without hesitation, folding the wanted poster and handing it back to Rattler.

“Hugh Fenderson?” Rattler said, taken aback. “My goodness! He owns the rail spur that runs up here. Owns the beef that feeds both the army and the Apache in San Carlos! What the hell's wrong with him?”

“I shot his nephew, Mitchell Fenderson, during a bank robbery,” the Ranger said.

“Kill him?” Rattler asked.

“No,” said Sam, “he's in Yuma, getting himself rehabilitated with a pick and sledgehammer.”

“Dang,” said Rattler, scratching his chin. “You'd think a man of influence like Hugh Fenderson would just get his nephew sprung out of there instead of wasting time wanting to kill you.”

“You would think so,” Sam said. “Anyway, there it is. If he owns the rail spur here, I expect he owns other interests too?”

“Yep, I'm afraid he does,” said the sheriff, “including the money it takes to finish building this jail. But I'm going to try not to let that influence me upholding the law.”

Try
not to
,
he'd said. The Ranger saw the look on Sheriff Rattler's face change. Before, he'd exhibited a sense of being in charge, but now his face showed something else, something less assured.

“I understand, Sheriff,” Sam said. “I'll see to it my trouble doesn't rub off on you.”

“Not that I'm going to allow you to be put in a bad spot,” he said. “Just that I might ought to step back away from this.” He stopped and shook his lowered head, ashamed. “How come these rich sons a' bitches run every damned thing?” he said. “Their rules make their money, and their money makes their rules. That's all there is to it—all there's ever been to it.”

“I understand your situation,” the Ranger repeated. “As soon as I get a telegraph to Yuma and get myself and my prisoner fed, I'm headed out of your jurisdiction. You won't be seen with me. You'll have no hand in the game.”

“To hell with Fenderson, you're coming to eat with me, Ranger,” the sheriff said, reconsidering. “Since when does one lawman have to worry about being seen with another? We'll send some food over here for Dankett and this one.”

“Sounds real good to me, Sheriff,” Sam said. Under his breath he asked, “Is Cisco going to be okay with this man watching him?”

“He will be unless he starts acting ugly,” Rattler said. “That's as fair as it gets, ain't it?”

“I suppose it is,” Sam replied.

“Oh,” said Rattler, “I also need to warn you there's already a couple of bad eggs blew in off the desert, asking around about you.”

Sam looked at him.

“They call themselves the Derby Brothers,” he said, “but that's not their name, and they are no kin that I can figure out.” He gave a shrug. “Who knows why these knot-heads do what they do—idiots, is all I can come up with.”

“They're still in town, these two?” Sam asked.

“They might be. That's why I bring it up,” said the sheriff. “I had no real cause to boot them out of there. I had no idea you was coming, else I would have made up a reason. I still can as far as that goes.”

“No,” Sam said. “If they're out to collect the bounty, it's best I know where they are.”

“Like as not they're gone on by now,” said Rattler, the two of them turning to the door. “Their kind don't stick long. They most likely have bounty of their own to worry about.”

Rifles in hand, the two turned, walked out the door and followed a double line of walk planks along the edge of the crowed street. But before they had gone thirty yards, Sam saw Adele Simpson running toward them from the direction of the Number Five Saloon, recklessly forcing her way along the middle of the street through a tangle of wagon, buggy, horseback and foot traffic.

“Ranger! Go back!” she cried out, seeing Sam and the sheriff walking toward her.

“What the—?” Sheriff Rattler said, stopping, his hand darting to the gun holstered on his hip.

Sam ran forward, seeing the frightened look on Adele's face. When he reached her, she steadied herself against him, winded, struggling to catch her breath.

“Go back, Ranger Burrack!” she warned. “There's men back there waiting to kill you!”

“Easy, ma'am,” Sam said, looking past her shoulder in the direction of the big wooden beer mug hanging overhead. “What are you talking about?”

“Two gunmen . . . in derby hats, Ranger,” she said, gasping for breath. “They're in the alley . . . right before the saloon. They found out you're here. They're waiting for you.”

Derby hats? The Derby Brothers . . .

Passing onlookers gazed at them curiously, seeing the badge on the Ranger's chest. Looking toward the Number Five, Sam saw the thick crowd begin to part. Wagons veered off to the side of the street, horses and buggies hastily turned off into alleys. Pedestrians disappeared quickly into shops and businesses.

“All right, Adele,” Sam said. “Take it easy. Take a breath.”

She settled herself a little and looked back over her shoulder in fear.

“Now, then, tell me what you can,” Sam said in a calm, even tone of voice.

“I came back from the depot . . . to get some things before my train arrives this evening. The clerk at the mercantile store overheard these men talking outside the open window. They're waiting there for you.”

“It looks like they're not waiting now,” Sam said, noting the street traffic changing before their eyes.

“Ranger Sam Burrack!” a voice called out from beyond the stirring crowd.

The Ranger didn't reply.

“I—I had to warn you,” Adele said. “I couldn't let you walk into an ambush.”

“Ranger Burrack!” the same voice called out.

The Ranger still didn't reply.

“Here, let's get you off the street, ma'am,” he said to Adele. Looking toward the sound of the voice, he guided her off to the side of the quickly vacating street.

“What—what are you going to do?” she asked, a fearful look in her eyes.

Sam didn't answer her. Instead he looked at the two men walking toward him in the middle of the now-empty street, each with a battered derby hat cocked jauntily to the side atop his head.

“Ranger Sam Burrack,” said the same man, spotting the Ranger and the woman. “You can run, but you can't hide.” He grinned. “You best stop and face us. We're trouble that's not going away.”

Sam ignored the two and led Adele over to the doorway of a shop, where a woman rushed out, took her hand and quickly led her inside.

The two men stopped twenty feet from Sam and stepped away from each other, putting ten feet between them.

Still standing to the side, Winchester hanging in his left hand, Sam eased his big Colt from his holster and leisurely cocked it, as if it were something he did every day at this same time. Letting the cocked Colt hang down at his side, he stepped out into the street.

“The Derby Brothers, I take it?” the Ranger said calmly.

“What tipped you off?” said the gunman on the right. He was still grinning, a big beefy man with a red face and watery whiskey-swollen eyes.

Sam just stared at him, ready to swing the big Colt up and start firing. This big one would be the one to knock down first, he told himself. The other one was strictly the big man's backup.

“Manning,” the one to the left said, trying to talk quietly, “he's already drawn and pulled back.”

“I see that, Earl,” the big gunman, Manning Childe, whispered sidelong. He raised his voice for the Ranger to hear. “But it won't matter. I've got a rifleman on a rooftop, just over there.” He gave a nod and got ready to draw as soon as the Ranger turned his eyes toward the roofline. But the Ranger didn't fall for it.

“You're lying, mister,” Sam said without batting an eye.

Sheriff Rattler's voice called out from behind the Ranger, to his left by the walk planks.

“Anybody shows their face up there, Ranger, I'll stop their clock for them,” he said. Sam heard the sound of the sheriff's rifle lever a round.

The big gunman took a deep breath; Sam saw he was ready to make his move in spite of his failed bluff. He might have something else he wanted to try, but Sam wasn't going to give him the chance.

“All right, Ranger,” the gunman said. “In case you're wondering, this is all about the bounty that's—”