The Plains of Laramie (3 page)

“Sí, jefe, sí.”
Wes nodded to Bud, whose ashen face was getting a little color back with the possibility that they might close with the killers. “Let’s ride, cowboy!”

The dirt flew as the two younger men cut loose and charged down across the flat grassy range where an occasional clump of brush broke the monotony of the everlasting sameness. Jack watched them go with a level, approving gaze. When Wes and Bud were small specks in the distance, Masters and the other two went back to trotting slowly along, eyes glued to the frequent toe marks made by the running, barefoot horses. The sun was high now with exhilarating warmth that ate into bone and muscles with a soothing life-giving benevolence. They had been following the tracks in a steady, hesitant trot for some time when the faint report of a gun came down the wind to them. One of the cowmen swore and jerked in the saddle. “Comin’ from Cobb’s Ferry.”

Jack listened closely, heard nothing, and nodded to the cowmen. “Let’s ride, boys. Wes an’ Bud are up ahead somewhere an’ I reckon that was either a signal or an ambush. In either case we’re needed.” He flicked his spurred heels lightly and his horse jumped out with an eager lunge. Like four avenging angels they swung down across the land, slit-eyed and braced against the slipstream of warm air that slid over and past them. Two more shots came back to them and almost by instinct their horses gave an extra spurt of speed that sent them careening faster over the tundra.

A single shot, thunderous and violent, ripped the quiet atmosphere to shreds. The riders reined to a sliding halt. Two of the older men ducked involuntarily; one of them swore heartily. “That there’s a rifle, boys. We better hit the dirt. Feller makes one helluva fine target up on top o’ a horse.”

The others were dismounting as he spoke. Masters edged forward, leading his horse. He came out on the high side of the slope leading down to the ferry just as the rifles blasted again from a corner of the building and an answering shot came from the brushy lip about 100 yards from Jack. He turned and motioned to the others to leave their horses and come in. One of the cowmen yanked his carbine from the boot; the others followed suit as Jack palmed his .30-30 and gave his horse a gentle slap, heading it back away from danger.

Death scored the first kill for the opposition. One of the cowmen was a little careless coming through the brush. The hidden rifleman rolled his rifle to bear on the dusty Stetson and squeezed off a shot that echoed and re-echoed over the deadly range, and one of the sheriff’s company threw up his hands and went over in a heap, to hang lifelessly across a thick, thorny bush.

For a long time there was no firing. Jack and his two companions laid the dead man on the ground in a small clearing. If there had been a shred of mercy in
them before, it was gone in an instant. They crawled cautiously forward as Bud Prouty and Wes fired twice, almost in unison, and a large chunk of old adobe flew out of the edge of the old building. A furious fusillade drove the posse to earth. The Tollivers were cornered because they had returned for their kinsman, but, desperate or not, they were all joining in the fight with deadly intent. When Jack risked a shot, he was immediately answered by the well-protected renegades. Apparently each of the remaining three Tollivers was armed with a rifle.

The posse men took advantage of a lull to creep down through the brush a little closer. Suddenly a concentrated fire erupted from the adobe. Jack sensed intuitively that the cornered men were fighting for time, hoping to hold off the attackers until nightfall would give them a chance to escape. Someone called out suddenly, and Jack turned his head. It was Wes Flourney and there was urgent desperation in his voice. Jack swore irritably and began the arduous crawl to his deputy. Emerging from the brush, torn and scratched, he and his companions saw Bud Prouty, bloody and unconscious, lying in a grotesque heap.

“Jack! Bud’s got it bad. We gotta get him to Mendocino or he’ll die.”

Jack crawled over in silence and looked at the puffy little bluish puncture in Bud’s upper body. He nodded gravely and turned to the two remaining posse men. “You boys take him in. It’ll take both of you to hold him steady in the waddle.”

Wes frowned in protest. “That’ll only leave you an’ me, Jack.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Can’t be helped, Wes. One man can’t hold him on a horse an’ it’s a damned
sight more important that he don’t die than that the Tollivers get caught. It’s a rough choice, but its gotta be that way.” He swung his head to the posse men. “Get goin’ boys. Every second counts. Fer gosh sakes don’t drop him.”

The cowmen were grim-faced as they carried the last of the Proutys through the brush. As soon as their hunched forms appeared over the thicket, rifle fire sent winging messengers of death slashing into the sage and manzanita. Jack watched them until they were out of sight, then he swung back to Wes. “Come on, kid. We’re the whole damned posse now.”

Together they wormed their way through the thicket until they were back on the overhanging slope where the dead man was lying, sightless, glazed eyes on the clear sky overhead. Wes took a quick, startled look, turned away quickly, and shoved his rifle forward.

Sheriff Masters searched for a worthwhile target. In this speculative, unhurried existence, he used his bullets as sparingly as his words. There wasn’t any movement down below. Wes sighted at the edge of the porch and let drive. Two thunderous replies came immediately back from the edge of the house. Jack grunted a little, a perplexed frown on his face.

“Shoot down there again, Wes.” The deputy aimed closer this time and squeezed off a round. Again the twin rifles snarled back, snipping the brush close by. Jack nodded thoughtfully. “That’s bad. I don’t like it.”

“What?”

“Only two of ’em firin’ now. Where’s the third one?”

Wes looked apprehensively around and squinted down at the adobe. “Maybe we got one of ’em.”

Masters shook his head. “The last time we traded slugs, they were all three shootin’. Now only two of ’em are shootin’.”

Wes looked up at the descending sun and uncertainty began to reflect itself in his face. “Be hell of a note if they got away. Two slips in one day is bad enough, but we won’t be real popular if they get away, too.” He threw another shot into the adobe and drew two quick replies. Jack let his .30-30 slip out of his hand and shoved himself to his hands and knees.

“Where you goin’?”

“I’m goin’ to try an’ finish this thing before it gets so dark they can get past us. You keep on firin’ every once in a while. Try an’ get one of ’em, if you can. It’ll make it a lot easier from my end.”

“But, Jack, one man’s in a poor way to do much down there. Hell, they’ll kill…”

“Maybe. I’ll make ’em damned well earn it, Wes. You stay up here an’ make ’em think we’re both here. Be careful.”

Flourney watched the sheriff disappear in the copse ahead of him. He was white-faced now as he glowered down at the house, looking for a halfway target. There was none. For a long, uneasy while there was silence, then someone down in the house let go an exploratory shot. Wes cocked his rifle, sighted for a long moment, then relaxed and let the gun barrel droop. The silence was nerve-wracking. Two quick shots whipped into the underbrush far to the left. Wes still didn’t fire back. His eyes held a crafty, exultant gleam in them as the shadows grew longer.

He almost smiled when a side of a face came around the battered adobe house, sighting down a shiny Winchester barrel. Still he held his fire. The full face came into view and Wes figured about where the forehead would be, under the low Stetson’s floppy brim. He drew a careful bead but didn’t fire. The face disappeared briefly and Wes looked anxious. A man stepped into view, his rifle at the ready. Flourney lowered his head carefully, picked up the body over his sights. His finger was tightening over the trigger when a violent explosion down in front of him, in the brush, shook his nerve and he ducked without firing. Angrily he saw his target lunge out of sight behind the house.

Jack had reached the lower fringe of brush at the base of the slope behind Cobb’s Ferry. He was prone and slit-eyed as he surveyed the nearby adobe house. He wanted to find some way of getting in close, but the clearing immediately around the adobe was devoid of any cover at all. Crossing it, even in a zigzag run, would be the equivalent of a lead-embroidered death certificate. He rolled over and looked back up the hill toward the hiding place of his deputy. Horror made a grimace out of his normally composed features. Coming noiselessly through the brush toward Wes was one of the Tollivers. The assassin held a cocked six-gun in his grimy paw, and Jack caught infrequent glimpses of the sweat-stained, dirty Stetson and the crouched-over shoulders. He knew that Flourney was lying there blissfully unaware that death was staking him with an implacable certainty.

Masters rolled recklessly backward and came up to one knee. The brush shook violently but that was
a chance he had to take. A bullet in the back wasn’t half as bad as being forced to sit back and watch the slaughter of his deputy. He aimed back up the hill, hunkered over his carbine, and let his finger rest caressingly over the trigger. The hunched-over figure appeared briefly, sideways, as the killer dodged into a small clearing. Jack breathed a very brief prayer and pinched the trigger. The Tolliver bushwhacker disappeared in a flurry of threshing limbs. A wild, shrill, and abandoned scream chilled the listeners on the slope and in the house.

Wes scrambled furiously back toward the victim, cocked .45 in hand. Fury burned in him like a consuming flame. He had not only lost the only worthwhile target he had seen during the entire fracas, but the scream had startled him into a cold sweat. He emerged into the clearing where the dead posse man lay and glowered at the smashed head of a stranger who he knew to be a Tolliver. Reluctantly he turned around and crawled back to his rifle, grabbed it in a hard fist, and began a swift descent of the brushy slope.

Jack was in a position where he could see the three saddled horses tied to the old log corral. It made him feel more confident, even though the shadows were lengthening at an alarming rate. He scooped up a rock and flung it overhand toward the house. The ruse didn’t work. He skirted through the brush as far as he dared and gained a slight sideways view of the porch; ejected brass cartridge cases caught and reflected the dying rays of the sun like scattered nuggets of gold. There wasn’t much time left, and the sheriff had a reputation at stake. He arose to a crouch, dropped the carbine, and drew his six-gun. For a long second he hesitated, then he began
a wary, inanely reckless charge across the clearing toward the edge of the house.

Wes Flourney was unaware of the sheriff’s charge toward the adobe until he heard the close crash of two guns nearby. One was a rifle and the other a deeper, less piercing belch of a short-barreled six-gun. He wanted to risk a peek but dropped flat instead. None of the slugs bludgeoned into the brush within hearing distance and the deputy correctly assumed that they were aimed at the sheriff, not him. He came up to one knee, held his six-gun ready, and risked a quick peek.

Jack had swapped point-blank fire with Link Tolliver. He had recognized the big paunchy figure before one of the renegade’s bullets crumpled his right leg to support him as he limped forward, three slugs still left in his hot gun.

Suddenly Link Tolliver appeared on the porch; he had two heavy saddlebags thrown over his massive shoulder and a defiant, crazy look on his face. He had made a decision. Either he shot his way clear or he went to hell with the Mendocino loot still in his possession. Jack Masters leveled and fired once. Tolliver sagged, forced himself upright, and began an inexorable walk toward the sheriff. There was a ghastly smile on his sweat-streaked face, a wild, animal snarl. His gun belched twice in quick succession. Jack felt the burn of the slug over his hip. He was dimly conscious of the sticky warmth that was running down the inside leg of his pants to pour into his boot.

He raised his gun barrel a little and squeezed the trigger. The heavy walnut butt slammed into his palm. Link Tolliver stopped in mid-stride. The snarl of hate and challenge changed to a lopsided, crazy
glare. He knew he was finished now. The second shot made a gorge of thick, salty blood rise in his throat. Still, there was no pain. He realized he’d never live to spend the heavy weight of the gold and silver that gouged into his fleshy shoulder, and he didn’t care. Link Tolliver wanted just one thing on earth. That was to kill the representative of the law—of everything he loathed and despised—that was standing up, spraddle-legged, shooting it out with him.

He brought up his gun in a white, weakening fist; there was a red rim border to his eyesight that he tried to ignore. A mushroom of incredible brilliance exploded in his face; the salty taste in his throat was a torrent now. Sheriff Jack Masters had methodically shot his last shell. Link’s gun wavered. The barrel drooped, the great body sobbed once, and a rush of blood broke past the slackening lips and cascaded down the grimy shirt. The big renegade went down slowly, gracefully; he fought off going with every bit of his remaining strength. When the body hit the warped old planking, Jack could feel the reverberation all the way over to where he stood on one good leg.

With the grim singleness of purpose that made the old-time sheriffs great and respected, Jack Masters went slowly forward until he was over the fallen Tolliver. He stooped and painfully picked up the dead man’s gun, saw that two bullets remained in the cylinder, and dragged his lacerated leg after him toward the open door of the house. He stopped just outside the opening and there were little beads of painful sweat popping out on his forehead.

“Come out,
hombre
, or I’ll come in after you an’ we’ll go to hell together.”

There was no answer, and Jack made a crazy lurch
that brought his gory, ragged form into the doorway. He was crouched and holding back the trigger of Tolliver’s warm gun. His thumb was already sliding off the hammer when a muscular convulsion stayed the deadly digit. There was a foolish look on his face. His voice came out cracked and rasping: “Who are you?”

“Jessica Tolliver, Link’s sister. I came here to try an’ talk them out of it. It’s always been the same. Trouble an’ bloodshed.” The voice was rich, even in its agony and pathos. “They wouldn’t listen.” A pert, oval of a face with monumental suffering writhing in the dark depths of the cobalt eyes swung up to Jack. “Go ahead, Sheriff. I have a gun. Shoot me.”

“Jessica.” The voice was husky. Something jolting had struck Jack under the heart somewhere. He had never had it happen before. It was crazy that it should hit him there and then, while the still warm blood of her dead brother and kinsmen was even then congealing only a few feet away.

“Jessica, drop the gun. Stand trial, Jessica.”

The girl shook her head and a wealth of taffy hair glinted under the dove-gray Stetson as her full bosom rose and fell irregularly under the sudden impact of a weak, delicious agony that ran wildly within her as their eyes locked. “What’s your name, Sheriff?”

“Jack. Jack Masters.”

“No, Jack. It’s too late for the trial.” There was an almost desperate wistfulness in her voice and eyes as she walked over close and looked up into the sheriff’s face, drawn and white with weakness and pain.

“Oh, Jack, I’ve had one awfully brief glance of what might have been tonight. I didn’t think it
would ever happen, and now”—her round arm waved in a hard, frustrated little circle that covered the embattled ground of Cobb’s Ferry—“it not only did happen, but here, where there’s death.”