Showdown at Gun Hill (6 page)

As Sam passed the colonel, he picked up the big Remington and unloaded it, walking toward the prisoners and motioning the colonel to walk in front of him. With his hands up, the colonel walked along, cursing and grumbling as he went.

“You're making a big mistake, Ranger,” he said. “These men tried to rob the express car at the new rail station in Gun Hill. They killed innocent bystanders! Wait until those people hear that you stopped this.”

“Bet they didn't get any money, though, did they?” Sam said knowingly.

“Fortunately, no,” the colonel said.

“Because there was no money to be had, was there?” Sam said.

The colonel fell silent.

“You've been baiting these rail spurs with empty strongboxes and letting the word out that there's big money being shipped to the mines.” He paused, then said, “Wait until those townsfolk hear what
you've
been doing.”

“This is railroad business, Ranger,” said the colonel. “Mr. Siedell has a right to do what needs to be done to protect his interests.”

Sam stopped him a few feet back from the two prisoners. Looking down at the outlaws' battered faces, the bloody untreated bullet wounds, he shook his head.

“Let me remind you that hanging is not an illegal
act, if justified, Ranger. The territory law is clear enough on that.”

“Here's another law, Colonel,” Sam replied. “If I happen upon a hanging in progress, I'm sworn to stop it and make an inquiry. If I feel it necessary, I'm obligated to take the accused to a place where charges will be filed and a territorial judge will preside over the case.”

“There . . . you son . . . of a bitch,” Parker Fish wheezed, and chuckled in a weak voice.

“Give it . . . to him, Ranger,” the other prisoner said in a broken voice.

“Shut up, both of you,” Sam said. He turned and stared at the two rail guards holding the outlaws' horses.

“Are we in trouble?” one guard asked.

“No,” Sam said. “Not if you get these men some water and get them washed. I'm taking them into custody. I'm sure that's what an upstanding man like Curtis Siedell would want.” He gave the colonel a flat stare. “Come to Yuma and make your charges, Colonel. That's how the law works.”

“The law,
ha
,” Hinler returned with sarcasm, his tone growing louder with his rage. “All the law does is mollycoddle these thieving reprobates!”

“Everything all right over there, Ranger?” Sheriff Stone called out, keeping his Colt aimed at the detectives. “If not, let me know. I'll clip an ear off from here.”

The colonel stiffened at the sound of the sheriff's voice.

“I don't think he likes you, Colonel,” Sam said,
seeing the fear in Hinler's eyes. “You might want to keep your mouth shut while we get these men ready to ride.”

Hinler backed up a step. He stood watching as the Ranger and Stone prepared the two prisoners for the trail.

“Are we going to stand here and let them take these prisoners from us, Colonel?” Patterson asked quietly at Hinler's side.

“Yes, we're going to abide by the law for now,” Hinler said in the same guarded tone, “but taking them doesn't mean they're going to keep them.” The two gave each other knowing looks. “It's a big, mean desert out there, Duke. A lot can happen.” He paused, then said, “Take Anson along with you. It's time he showed me something.”

It was afternoon when the Ranger and Sheriff Stone rode away from Colonel Hinler and his band of railroad detectives and rail guards. The prisoners' wounds had been attended to and bandaged. Their hands were uncuffed from behind their backs and recuffed in front of them, making it easier for them to negotiate the dips and rises of the sloping sand hills as they crossed the desert flats. On the far side of the flats they stopped to rest their horses at a stone-lined water hole bedded in a hillside thirty yards up a rocky trail.

The Ranger sank a row of canteens into the water to let them fill and stood back and watched as man and horse quenched their thirst. The first to finish drinking was the younger of the two prisoners, a wiry Texan named Rudy Bowlinger. The Ranger had seen his face on Texas wanted posters for the past two years. But the face looking up at him from the water's edge was battered, swollen and barely recognizable.

“Ain't you drinking, Ranger?” Bowlinger asked, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. “It's a long hot ride to Yuma.”

Sam only stared at him, not liking the sudden familiarity the wounded outlaw tried to establish. He knew that in spite of his saving the two men from the slow death the colonel had bequeathed them, they would kill him and Stone without batting an eye if the opportunity presented itself.

“Sounds like you're feeling better, Bowlinger,” said Sam, with no attempt at masking his distrust of the wanted man.

“Call me Rudy, Ranger,” Bowlinger said with a swollen, twisted grin. He raised a careful hand and cupped his bruised jaw. “All us ol' boys heal fast. You know that.” He paused, then added, “What's the chance they won't hang us once we get to Yuma?”

Sam considered it as Parker Fish and the sheriff pushed up from the water. Fish spat a stream of water and wiped some from his face. Having heard Bowlinger's question, he lay anticipating the Ranger's answer. Stone rose to his feet and stood listening too.

“Hard to say,” Sam replied to Bowlinger. “I know the judge is not real happy with how Siedell has been letting the colonel set up these fake cash shipments. He feels like it has drawn unnecessary violence from robbers like yourselves—gotten lots of innocent people killed.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Bowlinger said with his swollen, twisted grin. “There's something don't seem right about it, baiting us that way.” He looked at Parker Fish.

“I've never gone on a robbery in my life that I thought didn't have any money to it,” Fish said.

“I see the judge's point,” Sam said, looking back and
forth between the two outlaws. “If the railroad didn't put the rumor of big cash shipments out there, nobody would try to rob it.”

Stone, who'd been listening closely to the Ranger, took the opportunity to cut in when Sam paused.

“Maybe if their inside man did a better job, he wouldn't send them riding into a trap,” he said to Sam, knowing he had the outlaws' full attention.

“I see your point too, Sheriff,” Sam said.

Fish gave Bowlinger a look that stopped him nodding at the two lawmen's conversation.

“Who said we've even got an inside man?” Fish said in a wary tone. “Could be the information just gets out there on its own somehow.”

Sam just stared at him.

“I see,” he said, “sort of the way cattle round themselves up and do their own branding?”

Fish cursed under his breath.

“I ought to know better than try to converse with a lawman,” he grumbled.

“That's right,” Sam said. “We're not here to
converse.
Our only interest is taking you both to Yuma—let the court deal with you.” He turned toward his bay as the horse raised its dripping muzzle from the water.

“Oh . . . ?” Fish said, as if surprised. “You mean you don't want to try making us tell where the Bard Gang hides out?”

“I already know,” Sam said. “Close enough anyway.” He reached out and rubbed the dun's wet nose as he spoke. The horse twisted its lip back and forth, liking it.

“Ha! You're wishing that was true, Ranger,” Fish said. “You don't know anything. If you did you'd be spurring that hammerhead right now, trying to get there.”

Stone caught the thread of what the Ranger was doing; he stood still, listening, watching.

“If I were a betting man,” Sam said, “I'd wager I could leave here right now and be there in four days, five at the most.” He studied the two swollen faces as he spoke, checking their reactions.

The two looked stunned, but just for a second, just long enough that the Ranger knew he'd struck a nerve. But Fish wasn't to be bluffed. He chuckled as he gripped his bandaged wound.

“And I would take that bet, Ranger,” he said. “Good try, but you're a long ways off target. Besides, leaving some men behind like they did, Max Bard and Holbert Lee Cross won't take any chance on one of us talking. They'll pull stakes and go looking for a new place to hole up. I wouldn't know where to find them now myself. The colonel's too damn stuck on himself to figure that out.”

“Maybe he figured that's so,” Stone cut in. “Maybe he just wanted to see you two die real slow-like.”

“That's more how I see it,” Fish agreed. He directed his attention to the sheriff. “Say . . . didn't I hear somewhere that you've been turning yourself into a bear or coyote or something?”

Stone gave the Ranger an embarrassed look.

“I might have thought that,” he murmured, humiliation lowering his voice.

Fish chuckled and said, “Hellfire, Sheriff, it ain't nothing to be ashamed of if you did. I've been that loco drunk myself, on mescal and peyote and the like.”

“Mescal and peyote . . .” Bowlinger shook his head, thinking about it. “I once thought I was somebody else for going on a week,” he put in. “I couldn't find my horse or nothing else.” He looked back and forth between the two lawmen.

Sheriff Stone looked away, not wanting to say he only drank rye, albeit lots of it. Seeing the conversation unravel, Sam took his dun by its reins and led it toward the filled canteens on the edge of the water. He cupped his hands and washed his face and spat a stream of water. Then he raised a cupped handful of water and drank it down without letting the two outlaws out of his sight.

“Time to go,” he said, standing, lifting the canteens by their straps. He handed two canteens to Stone and hung the other two on his saddle horn. Watching the prisoners, he swung up into his saddle, his rifle still in hand. “Fish,” he said, “we both know Bard's not going to change his hideout. He's got too nice a setup over in the hill country.” He nodded toward the border. He watched Fish's expression tighten.

Bowlinger said without thinking, “There's plenty of other good hiding places. He don't have to—” His words halted as he saw the scorching look in Fish's eyes.

Fish looked back at the Ranger. Sam gave a faint, wry smile.

“Like I said, Fish,” he repeated, “four days, five at the most.” He backed his dun and watched the two
handcuffed, wounded outlaws struggle up onto their horses. Stone gave him a nod of approval and swung up himself.

“Get in front,” Stone said to Fish and Bowlinger. Then he backed his horse a step and motioned them forward.

*   *   *

Holbert Lee Cross and Pete “Kid Domino” Worley had spotted Max Bard's rise of trail dust as soon as horse and rider wound into sight on the desert floor. At least they thought it was Bard. Their leader had started out as a black dot at the head of the rising dust. It took a while longer before he grew into a recognizable form against the harsh glare of sand and wavering sunlight. Neither man commented upon seeing him. They sat their horses in the cover of rock and watched him ride.

When Bard drew close enough for the two to be certain it was him, they both relaxed a little and stayed out of sight up on a rocky hillside.

As the rider drew nearer, Cross stepped his horse to the edge of the sandy trail and looked all around. Then he raised his rifle sidelong and adjusted it back and forth until sunlight reflected sharply off the shiny steel chamber. He counted three flashes and lowered the rifle.

“Think he saw it, Holbert Lee?” Worley asked.

Cross looked at the younger outlaw but didn't answer at first. Instead they sat and watched as their leader veered the colonel's stallion and a spare horse on a lead rope beside him in their direction.

“Yeah, Kid,” Cross finally said, “he saw it.” They
turned their horses and rode down at a walk to meet Bard on the hill trail. Cross led Bard's other horse beside him.

Near the bottom of the hill, they found Bard sitting on a rock, the reins of the colonel's stallion and lead rope to the spare horse, a blaze-faced chestnut, in hand. In his other hand he held his rifle and an open canteen of water he'd been sipping from.

“We've had no shortage of riding stock this time out,” Cross commented, looking the spare horse up and down. A canvas bag lay tied down on the chestnut's back.

“These corral horses are scattered everywhere,” said Bard, capping the canteen. “I figured it was a good idea to bring him along. He was following us anyway.” As he spoke, he walked over to the canvas bag on the chestnut's back.

“How'd it go, Max?” Cross asked, watching him rummage down into the bag.

Bard pulled up a bottle of whiskey and a package of medical gauze and supplies.

“It went like I expected,” he replied. He walked over, pitched the bottle up to Cross and the medical supplies to Worley. “The whole town's shook up. The colonel and his men are on our trail.”

“You took a hell of a chance riding in on that stallion,” Cross said.

Bard gave him a short grin.

“I had to see how it rides,” he said. He watched Cross shake his head, raise the bottle and take a deep
swig. He continued. “We've got dead there. They've got Fish and Rudy. The colonel took them along with him, following our trail.”

“Damn it,” Cross said under his breath. He sidled his horse over beside Worley and handed him the bottle. “Fish won't tell them nothing. Rudy might.”

“The colonel took them along so he can hang them out here, keep from too many townsfolk seeing it,” Bard said.

“Since when did townsfolk start caring about watching outlaws hang?” said Cross.

“The colonel likes to play it safe, I suppose,” said Bard. He looked back across the stretch of desert he'd just crossed. “For two cents I'd stick here and pick their eyes out when they get here.”

“I've got that two cents,” Cross said.

Bard looked at Worley.

“What about you, Kid Domino? You up for it?” he asked. He looked at the dark dried blood on the young outlaw's shirt, his neck, down his ear. Worley wiped a hand across his lips, following a deep drink of whiskey.

“I've got nothing planned that can't wait,” he said with a weak grin. He handed the whiskey down to Bard, who took it, swirled it in the bottle and took a drink.

Corking the bottle, Bard studied the settling whiskey as he considered the matter. He knew the colonel and his men were on their trail; he knew they would be showing up here, either on the hill trails or on the desert flats he'd just crossed.

This is perfect ambush country.

“Well, what do you say, Max?” Cross finally asked.

Bard let out a tight breath. “No, we're going on. I hate to start out doing one thing and end up doing something else.”

“Hell, Max, we got ambushed ourselves,” said Cross. “We didn't ask to get skunked out on this job.”

“It makes no difference if we kill the colonel or he and his men kill us,” said Bard. “It's no skin off Siedell's rump. He still gets no sting from it.”

“Likely he never will,” Cross said in a weary voice. He rested his gloved hands on his saddle horn and let out a breath. “So, you call it. Stick here and shoot who we can, or cut out of here and get ready for what comes next?”

“I'm still out for King Curtis Siedell,” said Bard. “I want him to pay for what he done.”

“So do I,” Cross said stoically.

Worley sat watching, listening, knowing that this was all about things that had happened before his time, all the way back during the last days of the civil conflict.

Finally Bard said again, “No, we're going on. We'll circle wide of Gun Hill and try to find Dewey Lucas and Russell Gant.”

“What about Fish and Rudy?” Worley cut in.

Bard and Cross gave each other a look.

“Forget them, Kid,” Bard said. “They were as good as dead the minute the colonel sank his claws in them.” He turned to the stallion and rubbed its hot, sweaty muzzle. The spare horse stood beside it. “One good thing,” he continued, “all these loose horses running around out here is making it tougher for the colonel to figure which prints belong to us.”

“Aw, ain't that too bad?” Cross said with a wry grin. “I hate putting the man to all this trouble.”