Trigger Gospel (8 page)

“I don't want you to speak to him,” Little Bill said flatly. “I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of lettin' him think I was lookin' for an out. I reckon if he didn't have a reason last night for wantin' me locked up he's got one now. If he's got a lick of sense he must know I won't quit until I know who handed it to Pop.”

A wild tattoo of driving hoofs brought him to the window. Six riders were sweeping up the road in a swirl of dust, their horses flecked with foam.

His first thought was that it was Beaudry and his deputies. He saw now that it was Luther, Chalk and the whole Sawbuck bunch, with the exception of Maverick.

Chalk had met up with them a short distance out of town, for they had come on ahead of the wagon, anxious to know what was happening to Little Bill. Chalk's news had brought them into town on a slashing ride.

The crowd gathered in front of the house scattered hurriedly as they swept into the yard. They were riding the horses Beaudry had left them. They brought them to a slithering stop and slid out of their saddles with an angry flourish.

Luther looked around for his brother.

“Where's Bill?” he jerked out.

“He's inside,” two or three in the crowd answered.

At that moment Little Bill opened the door. Luther and the others made a rush for it.

“Where is Pop?” Luther demanded huskily. His face was haggard-looking.

“I put him in on his bed,” Little Bill answered.

Luther and Tascosa went into the bedroom together. The others stood about uneasily, their faces hard.

“You know what we all think about this,” said Link Appling. “We're here to help you square it, Bill.”

“We ain't got nothin' else to do until it is squared,” Scotty Ryan seconded.

Their loyalty touched Little Bill. He nodded his head in token of appreciation.

Tascosa and Luther stepped out of the bedroom. There was a steely glitter in Tas' eyes.

“ 'T ain't for me to say what should be done,” he remarked somberly, “but Oklahoma wouldn't be big enough for the Sontags to hide in if it was left to me.” He wiped his tobacco-stained mouth with the back of his hand. “You and Luther talk it over, Bill. We'll go along with yuh whatever yuh decide.”

“I'm goin' to have a look down the arroyo,” Little Bill informed them. “We may find some sign that will tell us what we want to know. Sam is goin' to take charge of the funeral for us, Luther. You and me can be runnin' things down a little in the meantime.”

“I'm agreeable to that,” said Luther. His face was wooden. “Have you seen anythin' of Beaudry?”

“Not a thing.” Little Bill told him why. “He's overplayed his hand this time, Luther.”

“I'll say he has!” Luther got out accusingly. “He knew it was the Sontags the moment he heard a gun bark, eh? I reckon that ain't all he knows! I figure to find out the rest of it! Ridin' out of town to cut 'em off!” he spat out with supreme contempt. “That ain't foolin' me!”

“He'd have to bring me their scalps before I'd believe him,” Tascosa growled. “I'll have somethin' to say to him.”

“Take my advice and go slow, Tas,” Sam counseled. “He's got Bill in a bad jam if he wants to prefer charges against him. I'd kinda hold in for a day or two until you see what he intends to do about that.”

“Maybe you're right,” Tascosa admitted grudgingly. “But things is jest nacherally workin' toward a showdown. It can't be put off long. If you're goin' to have a look at that arroyo, I'll trail along. I ain't forgot all I knew about trackin'.”

“We'll go now,” said Little Bill. “Chalk and Sam can take charge of things here.”

T
HEY
found Waco's hat and then quickly found where he had rolled down into the wash. In the sandy soil it was no difficult matter to follow the way he had taken over to the cut bank.

“There's where I found him,” Bill told them. “You can see the empty shells lyin' around. Blood on the bank there …. He must have propped himself up against it.”

“No question about it,” said Tascosa. He sat himself down as he imagined Waco had done. “Just what I thought!” he announced. “Your pa must have stumbled or thrown himself down before he got here. I examined him and I know the slug that killed him got him through the back.”

“Looks like this is where he fell,” Luther declared after moving a few feet out into the draw. “A man concealed up there on the bank couldn't have missed him at that distance.”

“That's the way it was,” Tas muttered gravely. “Waco figgered if he reached here he had a chance. The bank overhangs so that to git him from above a man would have had to show himself, and your pa would have marked him at least.”

“We'll get up there now and see what we can find,” said Little Bill.

They had to drop down the wash before they could find a place their horses would climb. Empty cartridges and the broken-down grass showed them where the killer had lain. Luther compared one of the brass shells with his own. They were identical.

“That won't tell us anythin',” he said. “Regular Remington .45 calibre shell. No blood stain up here either.”

“I didn't expect to find any,” Bill told him. “I want to find out how that hombre got in here and which way he went in gettin' out—and if there was some others waitin' to cover him.”

“You follow me,” Tascosa ordered. “Shouldn't be no trick to follow signs as plentiful as this.”

On foot, leading their horses, they began moving across the flat toward a little grove of old cottonwoods that marked the site of what had once been Bowie's original boot hill.

They were not over forty minutes in reaching the trees. There they found the tracks of three or four horses.

“They was sure here to cover him if he got into a jam,” Luther observed. “If you'd come in this way this mornin', Bill, you'd have run smack into 'em.”

“I wish to God I had,” Little Bill rasped bitterly.

Tascosa said nothing, but the glance he directed at Six-gun said eloquently enough that he held the clay-bank to blame even in this.

Mounting, they followed the tracks of the horses until they found themselves on the heavily used road that ran from Bowie to Kingfisher. In the past few minutes a three-wagon freight outfit had passed. They could see it moving into town now.

“That stops us,” Little Bill fumed, “‘cause they sure turned into the road.”

“And we can't tell now how far they followed it before they turned out—”

“I don't care about that,” Little Bill interrupted. “All I hoped to learn was whether one of 'em went right on into town. I don't believe Beaudry ever went out lookin' for 'em until he knew where not to look.”

“Well, let's jog along as far as the old ‘dobe anyhow,” Tascosa suggested. “Anybody headin' for the west would most likely turn off about there. We may pick up somethin'.”

Little Bill was about to consent when he became aware of a horseman hurrying in their direction.

“Whoever he is he ain't losin' no time,” he murmured with growing concern.

“Yeh, usin' the quirt all right,” said Tas.

In a few seconds Little Bill recognized the rider.

“Why, it's Martha!” he exclaimed with a start. “There's somethin' wrong. I never saw her crowd a horse like that before.”

“Only bad news travels fast, they say,” Tascosa muttered to himself.

The tenseness that tightened Martha Southard's face told them even before she spoke that she came on an urgent errand.

“Please, Bill,” she interrupted as the red-haired one started to voice his surprise at seeing her there, “let me do the talking; you haven't a minute to waste! The sheriff has a warrant for you and he's at your place now trying to serve it!”

Little Bill stared at her speechlessly for a moment. The spell of her presence was enough in itself to tighten his throat. In her excitement he found her more beautiful than ever, and he had only to gaze into her eyes and see the concern in them for himself to be rendered helpless.

“But, Martha—” he protested weakly, “I can't go now with Pop lyin' dead at home—”

“But you must go,” Martha insisted. “Sam has told me all about last night. I'd just heard about your father and was going to your place when Sam came hurrying out of the courthouse. He told me where to find you—to tell you to go; that he would look after everything … Beaudry hates you. If he ever gets you into jail you'll never get out—and you've got to get justice for your father.” She turned to Tascosa. “You make him go, Tascosa; Beaudry will not be sheriff long; Bill will soon be able to come back.”

Tas had to get rid of his cud of tobacco before he could answer. Being in the presence of a lady, he turned his head respectfully before spitting it out.

“Well, Martha, I reckon they ain't no two ways about this,” he said weightily after wiping his mouth. “Bill's got to git goin'. It's one thing for the law to have a grudge ag'in yuh and quite another to be languishin' in jail while the hombres that put yuh there is free to continue their deviltry.” He turned to Bill. “There ain't nothin' you can do for yore pa now half so important as what Martha has just said; that's to get him justice.”

“You're right,” Luther agreed. “That goes for both of us. If I had a fresh horse—”

“You can have this one,” Martha offered immediately. “I know it will be all right with Paint—”

“Paint?” Bill echoed with a stab of jealousy. “What's he got to do with it?”

“It's his horse,” said Martha, coloring unconsciously. “He broke her for me and brought her in the last time he came to town. I told him I couldn't accept the mare, but he insisted on leaving her with our string. She hasn't been ridden much.”

Bill found a grain of satisfaction in that. He had once thought of offering Six-gun to her. That couldn't be now, but he couldn't help wondering what her answer would have been.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of horsemen crossing the flat. It pulled him up to sharp decision.

“We'll take the mare,” he got out gruffly. “Yank that saddle off in a hurry, Luther! We've got only a few seconds to make the change, for here comes Beaudry and his bunch now! They'll see us as soon as they reach the cottonwoods!”

Martha lost no time in dismounting. Little Bill had her saddle off before Luther was ready to drop his own on the mare. Tascosa had turned to watch the posse.

“So you're the cause of all this trouble,” he heard Martha say. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her stroking Six-gun's muzzle. “You're a beauty!”

“He's most powerful bad luck, if you ask me,” Tas grumbled under his breath. “Get movin'!” he called out suddenly. “They got you located and they're sure a-poundin' leather!”

“You ready, Luther?” Little Bill jerked out hoarsely as he swung up into his saddle.

“Let 'em go!” Luther answered. He gave the mare the spurs.

“Hurry, Bill!” Martha urged, her face bloodless.

“I'm goin',” he answered. “It may be some time before I see you again, but I'll be thinkin' of you …. If you remember it, I wish you'd say a little prayer for Pop—”

“Good-bye—” she murmured, her eyes misting.

The powerful gelding leaped away. In ten yards Little Bill had pulled Six-gun into a distance-devouring gallop.