Sunset Trail (5 page)

“Shet up, kid,” Dunn snarled. “I say them brown-skins air Cheyennes. I orter know ’cause they nearly got my ha’r.”

“But Shane said they were Kiowas,” Mick insisted.

“Shane.” Dunn whispered the name.

“I’m here all right,” Bruce said grimly, coming along the wagon to where Flint and Dunn were. “I told you I’d kill you.”

Dunn rose and plunged at Bruce, his knife slash ing the air. They came together hard, both knowing this time there would
be death for one or the other. There was no exchange of blows. No kicking. No eye gouging.

“Give him Green River,” Purdy said.

There was the shuffling of feet in the sand. Grunts from the fighting men. No other sound but the breathing of the watchers.
If Flint realized how much was at stake, he gave no sign. Glover pressed against a wagon wheel, face tightly drawn by fear.
Mick Catherwood stood nearest to the fighters, her slim hands clenched, a prayer in her heart as she watched.

The renegade’s knife inched closer to Bruce’s chest. Suddenly, without warning, Bruce released his grip on Dunn’s right wrist
and bowed his body back. Dunn’s knife whipped down like a bowstring suddenly released from tension, the razor-sharp point
slashing the front of Bruce’s buckskins and opening a long shallow gash. In that same instant Dunn’s grip on Bruce’s right
wrist instinctively relaxed, and Bruce whipped his blade into the renegade’s hard-muscled belly and slashed a half circle.

Dunn wilted and fell, blood pouring into the sand. Purdy pounced upon him, crying: “Hyar’s wolf meat! They’ll gnaw your bones
clean and die o’ your pizen meanness.” He ran his knife around Dunn’s head and peeled the scalp back. “Want hit, Flint?” Purdy
snarled, throwing the bloody mass at Flint.

Bruce wiped his blade across his thigh as Flint stepped back to let the scalp fall at his feet. He said: “When you deal with
a coyote like Dunn, you can expect to get sold out. Kiowas are waiting for us to line out across the river. If we’d done what
your man wanted us to, we’d all have lost our hair. I reckon Dunn wanted the gold you’re carrying, and his Kiowas wanted your
guns and powder. When this is over, Flint, I’ll show you how to deal with a traitor if we’re both alive.” He swung to face
the men. “We haven’t got long. The devils will expect us to do what Dunn said. When they see we ain’t rolling out, they’ll
tackle us. Fill up the holes with bales and blankets and saddles. Hold your fire till you know you’ve got a bead on an Injun.
We’ll save our hair if you don’t lose your heads.”

They came suddenly, came from where an instant before there had been nothing at all, their yells high and terrifying. Swift
moving figures circled the wagons, painted bronze-skinned devils, loosing a cloud of arrows that rapped into the wagons with
sickening
thuds.

Rifles
cracked.
Flame tongues vomited into the dawn light. Purdy’s exulting battle cry rose above the din as a Kiowa was knocked off his horse.
“Give hit to ’em fer hoss ’n’ beaver, boys. Thar’s one fer the wolves to chaw.”

Mick Catherwood lay beside Bruce under a wagon, her rifle taking the same toll his was exacting.

Men cried out in agony. Kiowas split the air with strident, taunting war cries. Whites flung back their curses. Horses plunged
and neighed. Mules brayed.

An arrow ripped into Bruce’s shoulder. He clenched his teeth and reloaded his rifle. Outside an Indian crept close to the
wagons, raised his bow, and died before the crack of Mick Cather-wood’s gun.

“We got ’em, boys!” Bill Purdy howled. “They’re pulling out.”

“They’ll hang around waiting for us to roll out, ”Bruce said, “so we’ll fool ’em and stay corralled.”

“I’ll give the orders now, Shane,” Flint said quietly. “We’ll roll out now, and I don’t want to hear any argument out of you
about going the Fort Bent way.”

“We’re staying here, Flint.” Bruce swung a hand toward the men who had begun
to gather. “You’re Americans, most of you, and being Americans there’s only one thing you can do when you’re told that Wade
Flint is freighting four thousand guns into Santa Fé to supply an army he hopes will establish a Republic of New Mexico, an
army that will fight Kearny. Some of these guns are supposed to go to the Comanches who have been bribed to stop every American
caravan on the trail. Flint’s a traitor.”

“You’re a fool, Shane, if you. . . .”

“These guns will kill American Dragoons in Raton Pass,” Bruce cut in, “or Apache Cañon. I say to hold them here till Kearny
comes, and hold Flint for Kearny to hang.”

Bruce couldn’t tell, by watching the men, whether he’d convinced them or not. They stood in indecision while Flint’s taunting
laugh slapped at Bruce.

“I said you were a fool, Shane. I’m paying these men good wages to get these wagons through.” He turned to the wagoners. “We’ve
beaten off the redskins once. We can do it again. Harness up and get across. If Shane makes any trouble, put him on his horse
and start him for Fort Bent.”

They didn’t move, still gripped by indecision. It was Curt Glover, under the next wagon with an arrow in his paunch, who made
up their minds.

“Shane’s right!” Glover shouted. “Flint was inside the wagon while we did the fighting. He killed Ed Catherwood before we
left Independence because Catherwood was raising hell about the guns.”

Flint wheeled on him. Hand whipping to his gun, he bawled an oath-and then crumpled before the blazing blast of Bruce Shane’s
pistol.

“Stay corralled till the Dragoons come,” Bruce breathed, and, breaking at knee and waist, fell into the sand that was made
wet by his blood.

Mick Catherwood cradled his head in her lap. Purdy cried: “We’ll push thet arrer through and cut the shaft! Thet boy ain’t
gonna be wolf meat on the trail.”

Bruce’s eyes were open, searching the girl’s. He whispered: “I gambled that those boys wouldn’t back Flint when they knew
the truth. That’s why he pulled his gun on Glover. If Glover hadn’t had his say, I’d have been gone beaver.”

“Glover showed more courage than I thought he had in him.” Tears were in her eyes. “Bruce, you’ve got to live.”

“Sure. I want to see Kearny march into Santa Fé after I get some marrying done.”

And Bill Purdy, knife in hand, had to wait in astonishment while Mick Catherwood kissed Bruce Shane on the lips.

“What the hell . . .,” Purdy began.

“Aw oman, Bill,” Bruce murmured, “who found out that all of her instincts weren’t a man’s.”

TWELVE HOURS TILL NOON

I

Amity was on the biggest binge in its history, not alcoholic, but one of exuberance and enthusiasm and triumph. Tomorrow was
Dam Day. Enough money had been raised to finish building the dam on Buffalo Creek and the main canal as well, so the completion
of the irrigation project was insured at last.

As far as Sheriff Jerry Corrigan was concerned, this was fine. In fact, it was strictly wonderful because he could marry Jean
Dugan next month as planned. Not that there had been any doubt-except in his own mind. He had worried because the sheriff’s
salary was pretty slim for supporting a family.

But now all his worries were over, for Corrigan was one of the lucky ones. His quarter-section below town would be under the
ditch and so overnight he had become a well-to-do man. Not by any effort on his part. It was just that his place was located
in the right spot. Land that had been good only for grazing would now be the most valuable in the country.

The trouble was that Amity had rolled out the red carpet for the celebration tomorrow. In spite of the hot weather that had
held for several days, everybody who lived in the county was in town, and it even seemed to Corrigan that most of the people
of Colorado were here, too. The hotel was crammed, every spare bedroom had been rented out for the night, and people were
camped up and down the creek on both sides of town.

Tomorrow at noon the Populist governor of Colorado, Benjamin Wyatt, would speak. There would be a band concert, a free lunch,
and then the land that was for sale and would be irrigated from the proposed Buffalo Creek project would be auctioned off.
After that, there would be dancing in the Masonic Hall.

Yes, Corrigan told himself as he prowled Main Street and the side streets and the alleys, this was all very fine. It was stupid
to kick good fortune in the face. Still, it was a hell of a thing when you’re twenty-five years old and so much in love with
your girl that you can’t bear to be away from her, but you can’t leave your job long enough to take her buggy riding as you
had promised.

He was supposed to have picked Jean up hours ago. Yes, supposed to, and then he was supposed to get back to town in time to
attend a meeting that Jean’s father, Matt Dugan, had called for the committee heads to go over the final plans for the celebration
tomorrow.

Matt was the general chairman. Corrigan didn’t want to make him sore, but right now he knew he wasn’t going to that meeting.
If Jean wasn’t mad at him, and, if the damned town ever settled down, he was still going to take her buggy riding.

The crowd had thinned out and the men who were here seemed peaceful enough. He returned to the street and moved on down to
Cassidy’s Saloon. It, like the hotel bar, wasn’t crowded as it had been all evening, and he guessed that both of them would
be empty in another half hour.

The Palace across the street was the only other saloon in Amity. Corrigan hesitated, having a notion to get the buggy and
pick up Jean and leave town for an hour. The Palace catered to ranchers and cowboys, and, if they wanted to kill each other
off, it would be a good idea.

So far today he had stopped three fist fights and one gunfight and had tossed eight men into jail for disturbing the peace
or drunkenness or, as he’d told the last one, just plain orneriness. There hadn’t been a farmer or a townsman among them.
All had been cowboys.

Then he shrugged and crossed the street. When he pushed through the batwings and glanced at the crowd, he groaned. The place
was jumping just as it had been an hour ago. From the buzz of talk, he had an idea these men had no intention of leaving.
By the time this crowd went home, Jean would be in bed asleep and maybe never speak to him again.

He saw Uncle Pete Fisher talking to three Owl Creek ranchers at the far end of the bar. He started toward them, surprised
that Uncle Pete was here. He was an old man, seventy or over, bent by rheumatism and hard work in his youth. He had been the
first to settle in Buffalo Creek valley, his original sod house still standing on the slope north of town. He had been a successful
stockman and then a banker, but the Panic of 1893 had cleaned him out less than a year ago.

Now Fisher was a defeated and bitter man who smoked countless cheap cigars and lived off his wife’s money. Matt Dugan, who
had taken over his bank, felt the old man should have a part in tomorrow’s celebration, and had given him the job of planning
the activities of Amity’s brass band.

“Jerry!” Sam Elliott called from behind the bar.

Corrigan stopped, his gaze still on Fisher and the Owl Creek bunch who were, as usual, drinking too much. He knew them all:
Vance Yarnell, Zach Lup-ton, and Harry Mason. They ran shirt-tail spreads near the head of Owl Creek and raised hell every
time they came to town.

Corrigan turned to Elliott who owned the place. “Having any trouble?” he asked.

“Not yet, but you may have some tomorrow.” Elliott leaned over the bar and said in a low tone: “Jerry, you ought to listen
to those Owl Creek boys. They’re talking about shooting the governor tomorrow.”

Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping the peace without having to
run herd on a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys who hated the Populist governor. Probably they were merely echoing what Uncle
Pete Fisher had been telling them. Fisher blamed the Populists and the governor in particular for losing everything he owned
and he had sulked ever since he’d heard that Matt Dugan had invited Benjamin Wyatt to speak.

“Probably just the whiskey talking,” Corrigan said.

“No, it’s more than that,” Elliott said worriedly. “They sold a jag of steers yesterday, and at today’s prices they got next
to nothing. They’re sore about that, and now they’re listening to Uncle Pete’s wild talk. Of course, he tells them that Wyatt
is to blame for the hard times, and tomorrow they’ll have a chance to take it out of his hide.”

Corrigan shook his head, feeling as if he had been caught in a great flood and was being carried far away from where he wanted
to go. “I’ll talk to them,” he said, and threaded his way through the crowd to where the Owl Creek men stood listening to
Fisher.

The old man was saying: “I tell you that, if Wyatt is re-elected in November, the sovereign state of Colorado will be bankrupt.
There will be rioting in the streets of every town from Denver down to little burgs like Amity. Blood will flow to our knees.
On the other hand, if Wyatt was to die suddenly between now and election day. . . .”

“I don’t want to hear anything about Governor Wyatt dying,” Corrigan said. “I’m surprised at you, Uncle Pete. The governor
is to be our guest for an hour or two tomorrow. It’s our job to treat him as a guest.”

Fisher turned slowly and glared at Corrigan. He had a mustache and beard that were black, although his hair and brows had
turned white long ago. There were those who were irreverent enough to say he used shoe blacking on his mustache and beard,
but no one had the temerity to say this to his face.

“You are a young squirt, Sheriff,” Fisher said sullenly. “You haven’t seen the things happen that I have. The Populists are
no better than Socialists or Anarchists. We built this country, these boys and me and Matt Dugan and some more. We hate like
hell to see it destroyed by a bunch of fools and crooks. Wyatt is the biggest crook and fool in the lot.”

“Matt is expecting you in the bank, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said.

“Well, I ain’t ready to go,” Fisher snapped. “I was just educating these boys about the Populists and I ain’t finished. Look
at what they’ve already done. Brought about the worst panic in the nation’s history. Gave women the right to vote here in Colorado. Women’s
place is in the home tending to their babies, and not going to the polls and holding office and acting like they want to be
men.”

“Uncle Pete, if you’ll just go to the bank. . . .”

“Damn it, I ain’t done!” Fisher bellowed. “The Populists want to abolish the national banks. They want the government to take
over the railroads and telegraph. I tell you that, if Wyatt is allowed to live, and the fool voters of this state put him
back into office. . . .”

“All right, we know how you feel.” Corrigan took the old man’s arm. “Let’s go over to the bank and see if Matt’s got his meeting
started.”

Fisher tried to break free, but failed. Corrigan pulled him toward the batwings, but he had not taken more than two steps
until Vance Yarnell said: “Let’s take this snot-nosed sheriff and whittle him down to size. He sure needs a lesson, seeing
as he ain’t dry behind the ears.”

Yarnell lunged at Corrigan who had been watching them and, knowing that this was typical of cowboys who hated any figure of
authority, had expected some kind of a move. He let go of Fisher’s arm and drove his fist squarely at Yarnell’s chin, a pile-driving
blow that knocked the Owl Creek man cold. Corrigan jumped back, his gun in his hand.

Lupton and Mason were slow to follow Yarnell’s Lupton and Mason were slow to follow Yarnell’s lead, slow enough so that now,
facing Corrigan’s gun, they lost their appetite for fighting. “Pick Yarnell up,” Corrigan ordered. “Tote him out of here.
You’re going to jail, the three of you.”

“You can’t do that!” Lupton shouted indignantly.

“What’d we do?”

“You attacked an officer of the law,” Corrigan said. “Now do what I told you or I’ll pistol whip both of you and haul you
in myself.”

A cowboy on the other side of the room let out a rebel yell and shouted: “Let’s take the sheriffs pants off! He’s too smart
for his britches.”

“Stand pat!” Elliott bellowed above the rumble of the crowd as he brought a sawed-off shotgun into view from behind the bar.
“Any of you buckos who think you’re going to take the sheriff will get your heads shot off. I’ll start with you, Holly.”

The cowboy who had yelled raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, Sam. I decided I don’t want the sheriffs pants,
after all.”

“Get those Owl Creekers out of here, Jerry,” Elliott said. “I’m closing for the night.”

“Move,” Corrigan said.

Cursing, Mason and Lupton picked up Yarnell and started toward the batwings, Corrigan coming behind them, his cocked gun in
his hand.

Fisher was already on the boardwalk by the time Corrigan got there with the Owl Creek men. He was meek now as he said: “You’re
coming to the bank, ain’t you?”

“No,” Corrigan answered. “I’m supposed to take Jean buggy riding and that’s what I’m going to do. You tell Matt that.”

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Fisher said, “and you’d better listen. Wyatt will never live to ride out of this town.”

Corrigan turned away and went on toward the jail, keeping two paces between him and the Owl Creek men. They reached the end
of the business block and crossed the street to the courthouse square. A minute later he locked the three men in a cell, then
wheeled and sprinted to the livery stable.

Walt Payson, the liveryman, saw him run through the archway and called: “You don’t think Jean is gonna wait up for you this
long, do you?”

“I dunno,” Corrigan panted. “Just hook that horse up, will you?”

The Dugan house was across the street from the courthouse and directly north of the platform that had been built for the speechmaking
and the auctioning of the irrigated land. Corrigan was still breathing hard when he drew up in front of the house and whistled.
Usually he walked up the path to the front door and yanked the bell pull, but tonight, as late as he was, he was afraid to.
If Jean didn’t come, he’d know she’d given up and gone to bed. In that case, he’d take the horse and buggy back to the livery
stable and try to see her first thing in the morning.

The front screen slammed shut and he saw her run across the yard to the street. His heart began to pound. He couldn’t stand
it if she bawled him out. They never had quarreled and he didn’t want to start now.

She climbed into the seat beside him, not at all worried because her skirt flew up and exposed her trim ankles. She said:
“Lead on, McDuff, or whoever it was I studied in school.”

“Honey, I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I should have been here hours ago, but the town’s wild tonight and I couldn’t get away.”

“And what’s more, you probably shouldn’t be here now,” she said gaily. “Go on. Let’s get out of here before you hear somebody
shoot somebody else. Find a private little spot of beauty where you can kiss me properly without the neighbors watching us.”

“You’re not mad at me for being so late?”

“Of course not, silly. I was afraid you couldn’t make it at all. Just because you’ve got red hair and a hot temper aren’t
reasons for me to get mad at the drop of the hat.”

He took a long, sighing breath of relief. “Honey, I love you more every day.” He slapped the horse with the lines. “Come on,
Napoleon. Haul us out of here.”