Lawless Trail (10 page)

Wes nodded at the woman and said, “You can ride with us as far as Mexico. Then you're on your own.”

“Sí, Méjico,”
the young woman said, raising her face. “I will take good care of your brother, you'll see.”

“Good,” the doctor said. He stepped in and nodded toward a tall white supply cabinet against the wall. “Rosetta, help me gather what we'll need.”

As the woman hurried away to help the doctor, Wes looked at Claypool.

“Get on ahead of us, Carter,” he said. “Clear the trail out of here.”

“You got it,” Claypool said, his swollen, dust-streaked face looking tired and haggard. “Want me to check around town first, see if anybody else wants to ride with us?” he said wryly.

“No, I think we're good,” Wes said. “Now get going, 'less you want to stick around, cook breakfast for Fatch Hardaway and the Ranger.” He gave a slight half grin, but then it went away and he said, “We spilled blood in this town, Carter. That changes everything.”

“I know that,” Claypool said, his tone more serious. “I'll do whatever needs doing.”

The first thin line of buttermilk sunlight streaked along the low, jagged hill line as the Ranger and Fatch Hardaway rode onto the wakening street leading into Maley. A freight wagon pulled to one side and stopped as the two rode by. Three men stopped on a boardwalk and stepped back out of sight into the shelter of morning shadow and stared warily.

“This is an edgy bunch, for sure,” Fatch Hardaway said, looking back from his saddle in the grainy morning light.

“They've been hit hard by your amigos,” the Ranger said, riding a few feet in front of him.

“
Former
amigos,” Hardaway said. He winced and looked all around as if to see who might be listening. “I wish you'd keep that in mind if you're going to keep bringing it up.”

“I'll try,” the Ranger said, staring ahead.

Three of the last loosened steers still wandering free looked back and forth from the mouth of an alleyway. They back-stepped in unison as the two riders moved past them.

The Ranger led the way toward the scent of coffee and the glow of lamplight in a restaurant window up the wide dirt street. Out in front of the restaurant, two workers stood atop ladders, their hammers already banging against the silence of morning. Two other workers stood steadying a new support post beneath a sagging overhang. All four workers stopped and stared as Sam and Hardaway veered their horses to a repaired hitch rail. They stepped down from their saddles and hitched their tired animals.

A bald head above a black string tie and a long white apron appeared in the open doorway and cocked around toward the workers, the man having noted the halt of work tools.

“I'm not paying for the time you're loafing. I'm only paying you for the time you're working,” the restaurant owner called out to the workers. Then he turned, looked the Ranger and Hardaway up and down, noting the badge on the Ranger's chest.

“My goodness, that was fast, Ranger!” he said, stepping back for them to enter. “We just got the pole and broken lines repaired last night.”

“I'm not responding to a telegram,” Sam said. “I met Dallas Garand and his posse on the trail last night.”

The owner looked at them as they walked past, across the floor to a counter, following the aroma of boiling coffee as if drawn to it. Four townsmen who sat huddled in conversation around a corner table straightened and watched as they stopped at the counter.

“Oh? And you didn't ride on with them?” said the restaurateur, slipping deftly around behind the service counter. Sam and Hardaway both caught a critical edge to his voice.

“That's right. I didn't,” Sam said bluntly, leaving no promise of further explanation. He nodded toward a row of clean coffee mugs sitting bottoms up along a white cloth on the inside edge of the counter.

The restaurant owner tried to redeem himself as he set two of the mugs upright. A Chinese waiter with watery red-veined eyes reached out with a large steaming coffeepot and filled them.

“Oh well,” the restaurant owner offered. “I suppose not everyone should go the same direction at once.”

“That's right,” Hardaway said almost in a growl. “If they did, the trail would tip over.”

The owner gave Hardaway a puzzled look.

“Drink your coffee,” the Ranger said sidelong to Hardaway.

Chairs scooted back from the corner table and the Ranger watched as four townsmen rose and walked to the counter, stopping a few feet away.

“Ranger Burrack?” said a strong voice.

Sam and Hardaway both turned, coffee mugs in hand. Sam only nodded in reply at the broad-shouldered townsman.

“You don't know me, Ranger, but I sure know about you,” the man said. “If you'll permit me, I'm Walter Nye, Maley's blacksmith.” He gestured a wide callused hand toward the other three. “This is Albert Hasp, Barnes Coomer and James Franklin.” He explained, “We're sort of the town overseers until we get ourselves a new sheriff.”

“Gentlemen,” the Ranger said with a nod. He gestured a hand toward Hardaway. “This is Mr. Hardaway. We were on our way to Cottonwood when we ran into Garand's posse.”

“Mr. Hardaway, you look familiar,” said Albert Hasp, speaking around a thick cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“No, I don't
look familiar
,” Hardaway said bluntly. “I've never been in Maley before.” He continued to stare at Hasp.

Hasp shrugged and tried to let it go. He took his cigar from between his lips.

“I hope you'll excuse me,” he said. “I see lots of faces in the beverage and entertainment business. I often think I recognize faces I've never seen—”

“You're excused,” said Hardaway, cutting him off. He raised his coffee mug and sipped through a rising curl of steam.

“Any success to report from the posse, Ranger Burrack?” Walter Nye asked, diverting the conversation away from Hardaway.

“None, I'm sorry to say,” the Ranger replied. “Whoever owns the stolen buckboard will find it up the trail—no horses, though. I expect they took them for the young woman and the doctor to ride.”

“Yes, of course they did,” said Franklin, the town real estate broker. “But that's a relief. Better than those two walking, being dragged along on these hill trails in the dark of night.”

“Yeah,” said Hasp. “But I'm not nearly as concerned for the young
puta
as I am for our town doctor. Let them drag her along. Mexican whores come a dime a dozen these days.” He chuckled under his breath.

“Do they, now?” the Ranger said pointedly, his eyes fixed and locked on the saloon owner.

Hasp's smile vanished.

“Figuratively speaking of course, I should add,” he said.

“Tell me about this woman,” Sam said, eyes still locked on him.

“Tell you what,” Hasp said, his hands spread. “She's about so tall, a hefty gal, but sweet as a plum—big on top, if you know what I mean.” He cupped his hands at his chest and jiggled them and laughed. But his laughter wasn't returned.

“Who'd you buy her from, the Durango slavers?” Sam asked flatly.

“Oh no, no! Ranger,” Hasp said, wagging a finger, “I'm afraid you mistake me. I don't
buy
Mexican
putas.
They just show up.”

“Her name is Rosetta,” Nye cut in. “Or so she says.”

“Yes, Rosetta is her name,” said Hasp. “She showed up out of nowhere less than a month ago.” He gave another innocent shrug. “Said she needed work—said she likes whoring, to tell you the truth.” He looked back and forth among the townsmen for support. “So . . . I put her to work. Can you blame me?”

The Ranger ignored him.

“What about the doctor?” he asked Walter Nye. “What kind of man is he?”

“Oh, Dr. Bernard is the best, Ranger,” Nye said. As he spoke he and the other townsmen gave each other a look. “He may have his peculiarities,” he said. “But we're all grateful to have such a talented young physician.”

“What's that look?” the Ranger cut in.

“Look? What look?” said the blacksmith.

“The look you just gave each other,” Sam said, pressing, turning his gaze from one townsman to the next. “Is there something about the doctor I need to know?”

Franklin, the real estate man, stared to speak, but before he could the front door swung open and the barber, Lyle Medford, hurried in carrying a bloody wad of bandage in his hand.

“Whoa, Medford, slow down!” said Nye as the barber hurried to the counter.

Noticing the Ranger, Medford held the bloody bandage out for all to see and said, “Ranger, I'm glad to see you here. I'm afraid something terrible is going on.”

The Ranger and the others looked at the bloody bandage.

“I—I went by the doctor's house a while ago—” He panted, out of breath as he looked at the townsmen. “—you know, just to make certain young Burle Minton was comfortable there alone.” He saw the look on the other townsmen's face as he spoke. His hand trembled. “Anyway, Burle Minton is gone! I found this bandage and many more just like it. Something's going on there!”

The Ranger looked at the bandage, then at Hardaway.

“Let's go,” he said, already headed for the door.

•   •   •

In the first silvery light of morning, Carter Claypool backed his horse out of the early rays of sunlight into a dark shadowed crevice atop a steep ridge. Stepping down from his saddle, rifle in hand, he listened as the sound of hooves pounded closer along the trail far below him.

Stepping forward in a crouch, he stooped down, laid his Winchester across the top of a rock and aimed down on the shadowy trail. As the riders drew into sight around a turn in the trail, he recognized Wes Traybo in the lead and centered his aim on his chest, adjusting the sights on his rifle with his finger and thumb until the yardage and his adjustment suited him. He waited and watched until Wes rode into a long stretch of sunlit trail.

Perfect . . .
He took a breath, let it half out, then held it again, the rifle sights homed on his target.

“Bang,” he whispered to himself, his finger only lying loose against the trigger. As soon as he whispered, he simulated jacking a fresh round into the chamber as he swung the rifle sights away from Wes Traybo onto Ty Traybo, who rode double with the woman, lagging back a few feet at his brother's side. “Bang,” he whispered again. Then he lay with a half smile as he watched the riders file past his rifle sights, Wes casting a quick glance up along the ridgeline.

When the riders had disappeared out of sight, he lay quietly for a few minutes, his swollen face feeling the lingering coolness of morning. Moments later he stood and looked all around. This was a good spot for a gunfight, he told himself, dusting his trouser legs. He'd have to get a move on now, get in front of them and scout the trail toward the border. He might have to scour the hill line a long ways before finding another spot this good.
But that's the work,
he told himself. He jacked a real round into his rifle chamber, stepped over and had started to shove the Winchester down into his rifle boot when he caught the distant sound of more hooves on the trail below.

Turning, he slipped back into the same position behind the rock and waited as the sound grew nearer. He watched the trail where the sunlight cut sharply across the shadowy darkness. When the riders came into the slanted sunlight two abreast, he was ready for them.

The first two to ride into his rifle sights were Artimus Folliard and Suell Crane, Garand himself having instinctively fallen back when he saw the bright open stretch of trail ahead. Claypool's first shot flipped Crane backward from his saddle and sent him sprawling on the trail in a spray of blood. The sound of the shot followed a second behind its impact.

From his rocky perch, Claypool jacked a fresh round and swung his smoking rifle to Folliard. In a split second he centered his sights on Folliard as the stunned detective drew his horse around in a sharp circle. The sights moved from Folliard's chest to the center of his back as the horse finished its turn and bolted away. Claypool started to squeeze the trigger.

No, wait!

He stopped himself, turned down his shot at Folliard and instead swung his rifle at the sound of a pistol shot. He squeezed the trigger without hesitation and lifted Huey Drambite from his saddle, sending him spilling from his saddle behind a spiraling ribbon of blood.

As he levered another round and swung his Winchester, searching for his next target, he heard Dallas Garand shouting at the posse as the riders turned their horses, the animals bunching up on one another, and fell back out of the sunlight in a billowing rise of dust.

Two more quick pistol shots erupted, but Claypool heard them fall short and whine as they ricocheted off the hillside rocks.

Damn it!

“Why'd you do that?”
he chastised himself under his breath, wincing. He'd just let Detective Artimus Folliard, the man who had beaten him mercilessly, ride out of his sights when he knew he had him cold. That was crazy!

Claypool tightened his trigger finger, needing to make up for what he'd just done. But he had to ease down as he realized the posse men and their spooked horses were already melting from sight into their shadowy back trail.

It was nothing but stupid!
he scolded himself in silence, still smarting inside for letting the detective go. He backed away in a crouch as rifle fire from the shadowy trail began nipping at rock and hillside in retaliation. All right, it was a mistake, but now it was over.
Forget it,
he reconciled with the angry voice inside his head.

Loosening his horse's reins, he led the animal away on a hidden path leading up the side of rocky cliff. Below, rifle fire filled the air. Looking back, he saw a gray looming cloud of burnt powder drifting up the hillside. At the top of the path, he led the horse aside, slipped back down a few steps and watched until he saw a man in a bowler hat and a long duster venture forward, scanning the hillside, a rifle in his hands.