Rebel Yell (11 page)

Fly Norvine awoke. His head hurt and he had a splitting headache.

He opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him. He was struck by a bolt of panic. Was he blind?

Memory came flooding back.
He was on the lookout for Johnny Cross but Cross found him first, getting the drop on him and marching him quietly to the back of the saloon, He hit him on the head with a gun, knocking him out—Had he been hit so hard he'd gone blind? Good Lord, what a dire fate!

Fly jumped up, upsetting some trash cans standing at the back of the building. The action dislodged the hat jammed down tight on his head, the hat he'd been unaware of, the hat covering his eyes and keeping out the light, leaving him in darkness.

Light struck him. He could see!

Fly put a hand against the rear wall of the saloon, bracing himself to keep from falling down. His mouth was dry, his heart pounded, and his hair was standing on end. He looked around. He was in a weedy dirt alley between the backs of two buildings. He staggered out of the alley into the open.

A couple passersby a hundred feet away didn't so much as spare him a second glance as they hurried past, going south on a cross street to Trail Street.

“What's your hurry?” Fly called after them.

One bothered to reply, not slackening his pace. “Big gunfight on Trail Street. Johnny Cross killed three men!”

Fly bent down to pick up his hat, triggering a return of his immense headache. Fighting dizziness, he snatched his hat off the ground. Before putting it on, he gingerly felt around the back of his head, discovering a goose-egg-size lump.

He put the hat on his head, avoiding the lump as best he could.
What next?

His instinct was to run, putting as much distance between himself and Hangtree as possible. Fear of Moran held him back. Fear and hatred. They didn't call him Terrible Terry for nothing. He'd take a life as easily as snuffing out a candle.

Fly was no killer. He lacked the nerve to even shoot a man in the back. He hated and feared Moran. He felt the same about the Randle brothers, Haycox, and Kern, though not to the same degree.

They didn't have much use for him. They kept him around as a lookout and to hold the horses while they were pulling a job. And to run errands and just generally stooge for them.

Fly lacked the nerve to run out on Moran but thought perhaps things had changed. The passerby had said something about Johnny Cross killing three men. Who could those three be if not Moran, Haycox, and Kern?

Fly knew all about Moran's trick of having Cort Randle bushwhack the opponents in Moran's so-called gunfights and figured something must have happened to keep Cort from interceding. Had Cross somehow tumbled to the setup and moved to eliminate the Randles before the showdown? Or had the brothers decided to step aside and let Fate take its course . . . Fate in the form of Johnny Cross?

That seemed unlikely. Terrible Terry Moran was on the threshold of the biggest job of his life, part of a crime whose scope was so bold and audacious that it scared Fly well beyond the limits of his normally fear-filled life. Moran had a big part in the scheme, heading a force far greater than his core group of the Randles, Haycox, Kern, and yes, Fly. Moran had rounded up two dozen hardcases from Weatherford, Parker County, and surrounding areas to gather in Hangtree on the eve of a raid of such size and ambition that nothing like it had been seen since the war.

Not counting Red Hand's raid, of course, but that was different. He was Comanche, and the same standards didn't apply to Indians as they did to whites. Bandit chief Brock Harbin had made a bold thrust against Hangtree but not of the magnitude and brutality of the forthcoming event. With all that was in the works, Moran should have had better ways to occupy his time than rigging a fixed shoot-out with Johnny Cross.

You'd think that, if you didn't know Moran,
Fly thought.

Moran was a glory hound, ever eager to fill the minds of men and women with his name, fame, and exploits. Moran had argued that the way things were falling out, he'd inevitably have to buck Johnny Cross. What better way than to take him out as a factor in the upcoming struggle by burning him down in a time and place of Moran's choosing?

Except it seemed like things hadn't worked out that way. Best for Fly to see exactly how things lay before making any moves he couldn't take back.

Pulling his hat brim down low to partially conceal his face, Fly slunk over to Trail Street, where a crowd had gathered. It didn't take much snooping around to learn what had happened. A curious trick of fate had put the Randles in the same café where Johnny Cross's friend and partner was having lunch.

Moran and his key sidemen were dead, leaving Fly alive. How would that affect the Big Job?

Two dozen gunmen recruited by Moran for the undertaking were already in Hangtree or would be there in a matter of hours, certainly before sundown. Moran or not, the enterprise would soon take place. He was just a cog in the machinery, one easily replaced.

Fly knew some but not all of the owlhoots Moran had tapped for his part of the job. Fly had no wish to encounter any of them.

Fly turned away from Commerce Street and retraced his route up the alley to the street behind the Golden Spur, where the gang had tied up their horses to a hitching post.
Well, at least the horses are all still there,
he thought.

He was more than eager to get out of town, but not so much as to leave behind perfectly good loot, ripe for the taking. Loot in the form of the gang's horses, not to mention saddles and outfits and whatever else might be stowed in their saddlebags.

Damn good horseflesh, too. Moran and the Randles rode thoroughbreds for fast getaways. Better mounts than Fly's nag, but it was no time to switch horses. He was in the proverbial middle of the stream and not supposed to switch horses—especially because thoroughbreds were high-strung, nervy critters, like to balk under a strange rider. Fly wanted nothing to interfere with a hasty getaway.

Not with Johnny Cross and Moran's marauders on the loose and maybe looking for him.

Fly took the time to rig his lariat into a lead rope, tying one end to his saddle horn and using the rest as a lead line to arrange the other horses into a string, filing one by one behind him.

That done, all knots checked and secure, Fly stepped up into the saddle and took a last look around Hangtree town. All clear!

He rode east out of town, angling southeast toward the stone bridge spanning the north-south-running Swift Creek bounding Hangtree on the east.

He felt a little better once he and the string of horses were across the bridge and on Hangtree Trail eastbound.

Not until he was over the next ridge and Hangtree was hidden behind it did he allow himself a sigh of relief. He headed someplace far enough away for him to rifle the contents of the saddlebags in undisturbed peace and comfort. Next order of business was to unload the horses and rigs to a buyer who wasn't too particular about their source or things like a bill of sale. Fly's line of work put him in the know of many such persons.

After that—well, he wasn't sure what his next move would be. He'd have to study on it.

That was Fly Norvine—the Man Who Learned Better.

“Have a drink.” Marshal Mack Barton sat behind the desk in his office in the Hangtree jailhouse, a one-story flat-roofed stone block building at the east end of Trail Street.

Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew stood facing Barton across the desk. Luke was supported by a sturdy brand-new crutch fresh-bought from the town pharmacist.

There was no shortage of crutches, canes, and the like available in any town, North or South. The recent war had left so many men maimed and missing a limb or more.

Luke stood a mite uneasy on his new perch, trying to get used to the fit and feel of the new crutch not yet broken in to his personal specifications. For all that, he was steady enough.

“Pull up some chairs and make yourself comfortable,” Barton said.

Johnny went to a table along the left-side wall around which were several chairs. He set up one for himself and one for Luke, facing Barton at his desk. Luke unslung his sawed-off shotgun from his shoulder, hanging it by the strap over the top of the back of the chair, but Johnny hung back, waiting for Luke to sit down. He let out the breath he'd been holding after Luke had successfully managed to sit down without upsetting himself or the chair.

Above all, Luke wanted others to avoid fussing over the handicap of his missing limb. He wasn't looking for pity, compassion, or special treatment. He just wanted to be treated “like everybody else.” He could get around pretty good on a wooden leg and a crutch, considering. But he had a brand-new crutch and might not have mastered the unique “feel” of it in the short time he'd had it.

Johnny sat down, too.

Barton uncorked the full bottle of red whiskey which he'd taken from a drawer in his desk. He slid it across the desktop to Johnny. “Have a jolt. No cups or glasses so we won't stand on ceremony,”

“Thanks.” Johnny took a small swallow, brightening with surprise. He rolled the taste around on his tongue and smacked his lips. “Hmm, not bad.” He uptilted the bottle and took a good long pull, his face reddening with warmth. “Pretty good,” he said, sighing with pleasure.

“That's my own personal private stock,” Barton bragged.

Johnny grinned. “Not the rotgut you usually reserve for visitors, eh?”

“Hell no!” Barton was genial, unabashed. He seemed to radiate good feeling.

Johnny knew that was the time to be most wary of the old lawdog. Barton wanted something. What?

“Most folks I see in the line of duty are prisoners or citizens looking to lodge a complaint,” Barton said. “The jailbirds got nothing coming, but I don't like to send an honest upright citizen off without a taste.”

“Especially if he's a voter.”

“That's right! Besides, it ain't sociable.” The marshal grinned.

Luke put out a hand for the bottle, but it was out of reach. Johnny took another drink, a big one.

“Leggo of that bottle, hoss, and let me have some,” Luke said, not shy about letting his feelings be known. He took possession of the bottle and drank deep, making a sizeable dent in its contents.

Watching the whiskey vanish, Barton manfully fought to keep from wincing, his toothy grin wilting at the edges.

Luke set down the bottle at last, a bit breathless. “Good!”

Barton was quick to take advantage of the opportunity to reclaim the bottle, ruefully eyeing what little contents was left. “Careless of you,” he remarked pleasantly. “You left a mouthful.”

“I ain't no hog,” Luke said. “It wasn't easy, though, Mr. Cross here not leaving me much to work with.”

“Heh heh heh,” Barton said, unamused. “You boys worked up a pretty big thirst.”

“Killing will do that,” Johnny said. “It's thirsty work.”

“Well, you're certainly good at your job.” Barton drank what remained in the bottle, finishing it off. He set the empty down in a wastebasket behind the desk. “Don't want to leave it out in plain sight. Outsiders might get the wrong idea.”

“That you're drinking on the job?” Luke asked, working the prod a little bit.

Johnny spoke quickly to head off any bickering between Luke and Barton. “You said you wanted to see us, Marshal. What can we do you for?”

“I want to ask you a favor, both of you.”

“Whew! That's a relief.”

“How so?”

“I knew you weren't buying us a drink out of the goodness of your heart,” Johnny said. “I was getting anxious waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Set your mind at ease,” Barton said. “I've got no complaint about you boys cleaning up on Moran and his bunch. Quite the contrary. That was a damn fine piece of work you did.”

Johnny and Luke exchanged glances.

“That's a surprise,” Johnny said. “Here I thought you were gonna heap hot coals on our heads on account of us ventilating those sidewinders.”

“Nothing could be further from my mind,” Barton said, smiling blandly. “The way I see it, Moran came here to kill and got killed for his troubles, him and the rest of his bunch. A clear-cut case of self-defense, say I. The law says so, too.”

“So there won't be any problems then?” Johnny asked.

“Nothing to speak of,” Barton said, gesturing as though banishing away all legal squabbles. “Of course there'll have to be an inquest, but that's purely a formality. We've got to go through the motions to satisfy the machinery of the law. It won't amount to a hill of beans.

“That Yankee commander Harrison being out in the field with his troops helps, too. He won't be around to stick his nose into Hangtree business.”

“Glad you feel that way, Marshal. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure which way you'd jump on that showdown. Didn't know but that you might get salty about it.” Johnny was soft-spoken and polite, the way he almost always was. But his throwaway tone implied he really didn't give much of a good damn whether the marshal got salty or not.

“You know me, Johnny. You and Luke can trust me. Just like I know I can trust you. We're all friends here in Hangtree,” Barton said expansively. “Better than friends—pards, you might say,” he added.

“
You
might,” Johnny allowed, putting the emphasis on
you
. He didn't crack to much.

“That brings us to a delicate matter, but one that has got be considered,” Barton said, getting to the point after going the long way around the barn. “That is, I presume our usual arrangement applies, providing there's any reward on Moran and his gang.” He was referring to the arrangement by which Johnny and Luke kicked back to the marshal a percentage of any reward on the men they killed.

It was a lucrative deal for the lawman, considering the high body count the duo had managed to rack up in the relatively short time since coming home after the war.

And for any number of reasons, it was useful to Johnny and Luke to keep Barton sweetened up. Not the least, it motivated him to speedily process the legal paperwork needed to claim the rewards, a lengthy business at best, especially where out-of-town law enforcement agencies were involved.

“A friendly lawman is a useful thing to have,” was how Johnny had explained it to Luke when they'd first returned to Hangtree.

Poker-faced, Johnny said to the marshal, “It's my understanding that our agreement stays the same. I don't see any reason for changing it.” He turned to his partner. “That how you see it, Luke?”

“I ain't given it much thought but, yeah, I'm for it if you are.” Luke was a canny sort in his own way but preferred Johnny to do the thinking where strategy was involved.

Johnny nodded

Barton's somewhat wintry smile warmed up, widening. “Well! That's fine, just fine.”

Johnny smiled pleasantly. He'd been steeling himself against a Barton demand for an increase in his cut, but apparently the marshal was content for things to keep on as is.

Possibly the most recent display of their formidable gunplay was a factor in keeping Barton's no less formidable greed in check.

“Soon as we're done here, I'll send a wire to Weatherford to find out what's posted on Moran and the gang,” Barton said.

“From what I've heard, Moran threw a wide loop,” Johnny said. “Couldn't hurt to contact Dallas, Austin, and a few of the other big towns to see if the gang's got a price on their heads there.”

“Now you're telling me my job,” Barton said agreeably enough, cheered by the prospect of a future payday. He rubbed his palms together in a brisk washing motion, indicating anticipation. “Hell yes. I'll check all over as soon as I've got a minute to call my own.”

“Let's drink on it,” Luke suggested.

Barton shook his head. “Sorry, son, but the whizz has already been drunk.”

“Maybe you've got some of that rotgut left, the kind reserved for just plain ordinary folks who drop in,” Luke said. “I ain't particular.”

“You don't want to drink that stuff,” Barton said, making a face.

“You don't know Luke,” Johnny said dryly.

“If you insist,” Barton shrugged.

“At least you didn't say, ‘it's your funeral,'” Luke said.

“That comes after you take a drink.” Barton ducked below desktop level to haul a bottle out of a bottom drawer. It was significant perhaps that the drawer was unlocked, indicating he didn't feel the need to protect that whiskey from pilfering. He set the bottle on the desk, a brown bottle with murky contents and no label. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Luke waved off the warning, uncorking the bottle and taking a long swallow. He sat back, keeping a straight face, smiling with his lips. His guise of seeming unflappability was undone by choking on the last gulp.

His features swelled from the effort of trying to keep from coughing. He couldn't maintain it and broke out into a wheezing, barking coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. When the spasm passed, he set the bottle down on the desk, hands trembling slightly. “I've had worse,” he said, game. “Try some, Johnny.”

“I'll pass, thanks,” Johnny said quickly. Not without some good-natured malice, he added, “Have another, Luke.”

“I'll let that one settle,” Luke said, trying not to gasp.

“History has been made,” Johnny announced with mock solemnity, looking to heaven. “Luke Pettigrew has refused a drink.” He gathered himself up as if making ready to go. “If we're done here . . .”

“One or two small matters before you go,” Barton said.

Johnny eased back into his seat, once more guarded and wary.

“Moran ain't the first red-hot to come gunning for you, hoping to make himself a reputation as a fast gun,” Barton said. “He won't be the last, either. You can't help it. It's not your fault. That's just the way of things.”

“I don't look for trouble, but I don't run from it, either. Not ever,” Johnny said quietly, something ominous in his deadly calm.

“I know that. But it would make my job a lot easier if you and Luke would get out of town and stay out for a few days. We've got a lot of wagon trains passing through and camping down on the south flat this week. I don't want to encourage any would-be red-hots to try their luck against you, Johnny.

“I know you can handle yourself, but that's not what I'm worried about. It's the folks, the townsfolk. I'd hate to see any innocent parties—men, maybe even women and kids—catch a bullet that some bushwhacker meant for you.”

“I'd hate that, too, but I'd hate even more for me to catch one of those bullets you're talking about,” Johnny said.

“You're joshing, right?” the marshal asked.

“Yes and no,” Johnny said. “You're saying you want me—and brother Luke here—to find a hole to hide in.”

“That's not the way I'd put it.”

“Well and good.”

“I'm not asking you to duck a challenge,” Barton said quickly, “but if you're not around nobody can take a shot at you.”

“I'm not minded to jump in a hole and hide out,” Johnny said.

“I'm not asking you to. I'm just requesting that you stay out of town for a few days until this Moran business blows over,” Barton said, trying to sound eminently reasonable and fair-minded. “The wagon trains'll be moving on in a day or two. There'll be trouble enough having them in town Friday and Saturday night. They've been on the trail for weeks and they'll be looking to blow off some steam. This is the last place to do it short of El Paso.

“You can do what you want, Johnny—hell,
you will.
I'm just saying that you'd be doing me and Hangtree a kindness by absenting yourselves for a few days.”

“What about Damon Bolt? You gonna ask him to get out of town, too?” Luke demanded.

Damon Bolt, owner of the Golden Spur, was a well-respected gambler and gunfighter.

“I can't hardly do that, Luke, what with Damon living here in town,” Barton said, sheepish.

Thoughtful, Johnny decided to throw the marshal a bone. “We've got some chores at the ranch that need doing and could keep us busy for a few days.”

“That makes for a mighty dull Saturday,” Luke fretted.

“Good Lord!” Barton said feelingly. “Haven't you had enough excitement for one day?”

“I'm talking about whiskey and women, not gunfighting,” Luke said.

“Maybe we'll stick to the ranch this one weekend,” Johnny said. “That okay with you, Luke?”

“I reckon,” Luke said grudgingly. “If that's what it takes to keep Hangtown from being swamped with all them poor dead bushwhacked innocent women and children. All I can say is, there'll be a passel of heartbroken ladies in town when ol' Luke fails to make the rounds come Saturday night.”