Marauders' Moon (12 page)

He went on to explain that the bulk of the Dollar riders would be over in San Patricio, with only a skeleton crew here at the ranch and in town. The Mexicans had been armed, so that they could defend the place. Meeker wanted Lute and his men to draw ammunition from Mooney and be ready to assist in the defense if they should be needed. The triangle over at the blacksmith shop would sound the warning in case of raid. There was hardly any possibility of one, Meeker reiterated, but they wanted to make sure.

After he was gone, the play was resumed. Webb stared at his cards, but he was not seeing them. This then, would spell the finish of San Patricio's revolt. Its men would walk into a trap, its homes and ranches and town would be burned. The thought of it made Webb a little sick. He thought of gentle, reasonable Wardecker and what would happen to him. And to Tolleston, not gentle, not reasonable, but, Webb believed, a man who might have a kinder side. And to Martha Tolleston, who had put her trust and hope in a man who thought her a “killer's wench,” a man who knew that by night she would be homeless and fatherless and who would help to make her so.

“Wake up, cowboy. It's checked to you,” Lute's voice was saying. Webb grinned a little and resumed playing. But he was thinking, and the more he thought, the more absent-minded he became.

Finally Lute, in exasperation, said, “Fella, if you played this way all the time, I'd make some money.”

Webb yawned, and said carelessly, “Sure, and when you want some more, you'll hire out to a big wind like Bannister and let him kick you around for a month when you could be makin' money, big money.”

Lute looked hard at him. “Leastways, I never got pulled in by a tank-town sheriff on a job yet.”

“What good does it do you?” Webb drawled. “You stuck up a bank the other day. Three days later you're broke.”

“And what if I am?” Lute said softly.

Webb shrugged. “Oh, nothin'. You'll sit around here like a squaw over a bucket of tea and let other riders make the money.”

“Like who?” Lute said belligerently.

Webb thought a moment, then suddenly grinned and reached for the cards. “Nothin'. Forget it. I'm just sore, I reckon.”

“What about?”

Webb jerked his thumb in the direction of the big house. “All those thirty-dollar-a-month cowpokes goin' on that ride and not knowin' what to do with it.”

Shorty looked at Lute. “How you mean?” he said to Webb.

“Why, there's big spreads in that county. Money, horses, guns, gold.”

Lute said, “Well, what about it?”

Webb shrugged and started to shuffle the deck. “Nothin'. Only we sit here like a bunch of women, protectin' the spread of a big stuffed Stetson just because we was told to.”

“We?” Lute said dryly. “You couldn't leave if you wanted to.”

“That's right,” Webb agreed idly. “It's a damn shame, too, because I reckon I know that county.”

The seed had been planted. Webb watched it work. The game soon broke up, and they drifted out to the plaza again to watch preparations. Lute was restless, as was Shorty. The other three Montana men—Wes, Manny, and a vicious-looking one named Perry Warren—usually slept all day, drinking a little, but today they seemed to catch a little of the unrest. They, too, lounged around the plaza.

Lute started drinking in the early afternoon, and by dark he was drunk. It was the dangerous kind of drunk, Webb knew; the man got quieter, his eyes got sharper, his brain more active, and his speech was quick and hard and cruel.

Dark had just come when the Dollar riders scattered to get their mounts. Afterward, the whole cavalcade rode through the plaza and out north, Hugo Meeker, Britt Bannister, and Wake Bannister, whom Webb had never seen until now, heading them.

The Mexicans and a few odd ranch hands lined the plaza to watch their exit. Lute watched with hard, jeering eyes, Webb noticed. The Montana men went back to the bunk house, but Lute stopped in at the
cantina
to get a couple of bottles. Back in the bunk house, he did not join the perpetual poker game, but drank quietly, moodily. Webb was playing with a patience that was close to the breaking point.

But he was not surprised when Lute said suddenly, “How good do you know San Patricio, Red?”

“Fair. I know how to get to two or three ranches.”

“Big ones?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which ones?”

“Tolleston's. The Chain Link.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lute grunted and lapsed into silence. But Shorty was watching him now, and the poker game seemed to lack interest for everybody concerned. Presently, Shorty said morosely, “I don't hear no raid alarm.”

Lute shifted restlessly. Everyone in the room, including Webb, was looking to Lute for leadership.

Suddenly Shorty said, “Why don't we go, Lute?”

“And have one of these Mexes tell Meeker? Huh-uh.”

“How they gonna know?” Shorty persisted.

“They can come over here and look.”

Shorty was silent a moment, his forehead creased, his pig eyes greedy.

“How about just a couple of us goin'?”

Lute did not answer immediately. The other three hardcases seconded Shorty.

“All right,” Lute said, rising. “Two of us'll go, and three stay here. But I'm goin', see?” He looked at them belligerently. “Anybody want to argue that?” Nobody did, and then he explained why. “Cousins has got to go because he knows the way. I got to guard him—unless I want to get a shot in the back. You boys can cut cards to see who gets to side us.”

Shorty, with his accustomed luck at cards, cut a king high, and the other three, after some mild cursing, resigned themselves to staying. Lute wasted no time. He picked up a rope from the bunk, flipped up his gun, and said to Webb:

“You're goin' to ride, son. Bring the saddles, Shorty.” Shorty gave Webb his, took the others, and they went out into the night.

Lute left Webb behind Mooney's with Shorty guarding him and went to confer with the wrangler. In a few moments he returned leading three of the big Northern horses.

Lute made a thorough job of tying Webb's feet under his horse's belly and tying his hands, then they mounted and rode quietly past the corrals south, circled the spread and once clear of the ranch buildings, headed north.

Webb figured that the Dollar riders had an hour's start on them, but to offset this advantage they were certain to travel slowly and carefully. They would probably head first for Wagon Mound, and then, after it was burned, split up into raiding parties. If Webb traveled hard and straight, he might be able to reach Tolleston's before Bannister's riders did. He would try.

Lute asked questions only once, and that was to find out where they were going.

“Tolleston's Broken Arrow,” Webb told him.

“Is that big?”

“Big enough.”

“Any loot?”

“Plenty,” Webb told him. “Do you think I'd be riding for it like this if there wasn't?”

Webb set a stiff pace and held it and it seemed to satisfy his guards. Riding through those long hours, he turned over in his mind the chances he had of escaping. If he could only get to the Broken Arrow before Bannister's riders, he could do something. He didn't know how he could escape, but escape he would, and it would have to be in time to save Tolleston's house and buildings. By the time they reached there, Lute would be drunk. Even if he were more dangerous than usual, he would be less careful. From Shorty, Webb had nothing to fear.

It lacked a full four hours of daylight when Webb pulled up on the lip of ridge behind the house and said, “She lies down yonder.”

“No one been here yet,” Lute observed with satisfaction.

He pulled the bottle from his hip pocket, had a drink with Shorty, and they dismounted.

“What's the lay down here?” Lute asked Webb.

“Untie me and I'll show you.”

“You likely would,” Lute observed dryly. “All the same, you stay here, fella. And I'll hobble your horse to make sure you do.”

Webb chuckled. “
Bueno
, but how about leavin' me a drink for company, anyway?”

“Sure,” Lute said agreeably, for the bottle was empty. Shorty hobbled Webb's horse, and before they left, Lute handed up the empty whisky bottle and laughed. Webb thanked him politely and listened to their footsteps on the rocky slope die into the silence of the night.

This was easier than he had hoped for. Waiting until he was sure they were out of hearing distance, he took the bottle in both hands and brought it down sharply on the saddle horn. It shattered, but in several large shards, two of which were in his hands. Rising up in the saddle, Webb took the half which was the top and placed the neck under him, then sat on it, wedging it between him and the swell. The razor-sharp edge stuck up and by maneuvering a little, he found that he could get his bound wrists in a position where he could drag the ropes over the glass edge. After cutting himself twice, he succeeded in sawing one strand, and then pulling, straining, manipulating it with his teeth and tugging until his wrists bled, his hands were soon free of the rope. It was the work of only a few moments to cut the rope which held his feet together and in their stirrups, and he was free.

He went quickly to the other two horses to see if either Lute or Shorty had carried a carbine in the saddle boot, but he found them both empty. Turning, he started down the slope. He was unarmed, but it would take more than the lack of a gun to stop him this night.

In the shelter of the wagon shed behind the house, he paused to get his breath and listen. Even as he was watching, he saw a light go on in the house. That would be the answer to Lute's hammering on the door. Webb broke into a run, hoping wildly that Martha Tolleston would have sense enough to answer the door with a gun. And as soon as he wished it, he thought of what Lute would do. Shoot her, probably.

At the corner of the house he slowed down and looked around it cautiously. There was Shorty standing in the light streaming from the door with a drawn gun pointing at the inside of the house. Lute, then, was already inside. The light was receding now, as if somebody had been holding a lamp and was backing into the room. Shorty stayed where he was.

Webb dropped to his knees and began to crawl forward. Shorty took a step so that he stood directly in the doorway. Webb edged closer. He could hear voices now raised in anger, and one of them was Martha Tolleston's. And then, as Webb crept forward, his hand closed over a rock. Automatically he picked it up and continued. Now he was close to the porch, and Shorty was still in the door.

Quietly, softly, he straightened up, swung a leg over the rail, had one foot directly behind Shorty, and then swung the other over.

But he didn't swing his leg high enough. His spur caught and jangled, and Shorty whipped around, swinging his Colt up.

Before Shorty had time to focus his eyes, Webb smashed the rock down on his head. Shorty sagged into Webb's arms and Webb grabbed the gun, dumped Shorty over the rail, and leaped into the doorway.

Before him, Martha Tolleston was facing Lute. Beside her stood Mrs. Partridge, the lamp in her hand.

Lute was saying, “He's got a safe, sister. Did you ever hear of a cattleman that—”

“Lute!” Webb whipped out.

Lute turned. He had holstered his gun, thinking Shorty all the protection he needed. Now he regarded Webb, and a thin smile broke over his face.

“Well, well,
compadre
. Give us a hand,” he said, mildly.

“The only hand you'll get is a filled one, fella. Make your play.”

Webb wanted to look at Martha, to see her face. He heard Mrs. Partridge's low moan, but he did not look at her either. It was Lute, hard-eyed, smiling narrowly, arrogantly, whom he was watching.

Lute said, “So this was a—” and he stopped, listening. The sound of someone running close to the house came to them.

Lute grinned. “All over, is it, Shorty?” he asked, looking beyond Webb.

Webb started to turn when the girl screamed. Lute, his right hand streaking for his gun, reached out with his left to yank the girl in front of him. Webb's gun shuttled up, and when hip-high, exploded deafeningly. He paused only long enough to note that Lute hunched in his chest and took a step back, dragging Martha with him, and then he whirled, to be greeted by the orange of gun blast that seemed to explode his head in a million pinwheels of stars.

When he awakened, he was lying on the ground in front of a crowd of watching horsemen. The night was bright, and he turned his head to see what made it so. There, fifty yards ahead of him, the Tolleston house was in flames. He could hear voices and raised up on an elbow. Behind him stood Martha Tolleston, her face utterly dead and expressionless. Beside her was Mrs. Partridge, crying softly, and beside her was Charley, the cook.

Mounted on a big bay beside and behind them sat Wake Bannister at the head of his riders.

Webb slowly dragged himself to his feet and started toward Martha when he stumbled and pitched on his face. It was Lute and Shorty, both dead, who had tripped him. He looked up into the cold eyes of Martha Tolleston.

Wake Bannister said, “So they didn't get you?”

Charley, the cook, looked murder at him.

“It wasn't my fault,” he said grimly.

Wake Bannister chuckled and said to Webb, “You'd have deserved it, friend, if they had.” And he added dryly, “Did you object to being left home tonight?”

Meeker pulled his horse over to Webb.

“I thought I told you men to guard the spread.”

Webb, quietly amazed, looked over at Martha.

“Perhaps he and his friends didn't want to be left out of your picnic,” she said quietly. “They were fighting over which one would make me open dad's safe.”

Meeker raised his quirt and lashed it across Webb's face.

“You tinhorn,” he said quietly and wheeled his horse. To one of the riders he said, “Get this man's horse and tie him on it.”