Webb's Posse (37 page)

Upon hearing Dahl's words, Moses Peltry stopped cold in his tracks and turned slowly. “What did you say to me?” Moses' voice rumbled like thunder from a dark, distant sky.

Sherman Dahl kept walking. “You heard me, Moses.”

“Stop right there!” Moses demanded. “Turn and face me!”

“Why, Moses? So you can tell me what a crack shot you were back in your village somewhere?” Dahl kept walking.

“Why you—” Enraged, Moses Peltry snatched the Walker Colt from his waist, cocking it on the upswing.

But before he raised it level to Dahl's back, Will Summers shouted, “Dahl, look out!”

Sherman Dahl spun on his heel, his Colt appearing in his hand as if it had always been there. One shot split the silence on the dirt street, and Moses Peltry clasped his gun hand to his heart with his Walker still in it, then fell forward on his face, dead before he hit the ground.

“Well,” said Abner Webb, “there went our hideout idea.”

“Yeah,” said Will Summers in a lowered voice. “I think the schoolmaster did that on purpose just to make us go home.”

The possemen left Punta Del Sol in the dark of night, Sherman Dahl atop the supply wagon, his horse reined to the rear of the wagon in case he needed it for a quick getaway. With Oberiske and his
Federales
out of the picture, Sherman Dahl and Lawrence Teasdale rode up above the town and brought back the Gatling gun and the last crate of ammunition Dahl had hidden between two rocks. They loaded the gun and ammunition in among the supplies, but in such a way that it could be gotten out easily should they have cause to use it.

While the others had prepared horses and gear for the trip back across the border, Will Summers, with the help of old Hector Roderio, set about the grisly task of collecting the outlaws' heads. Owing to his religious beliefs, Hector Roderio did none of the actual cutting. Instead, he watched Will Summers and, when the cutting was done, simply held out the bag. Summers offered to pay old Hector for his help, but
Hector would have none of it. “I do this for free, just to get you men out of Punta Del Sol and on your way.”

“That's most kind of you, Hector.” Will Summers smiled. When the four-man posse rode away in the moonlight, Hector Roderio and Juan Richards were the only two to see them off. In the dusty square riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood, Hector leaned on his cane and waved
adiós.
But Juan Richards spit at them from his wheelchair and cursed them under his breath.

For the next few days, the posse traveled unseen, following the river valley until at length they had to venture up onto the flatlands leading toward the border. The four men exchanged little conversation until they had crossed the border and were headed toward Diablo Espinazo. To their surprise, standing there outside the dusty little town to greet them was Trooper Frieze. “My God,” said Abner Webb as he and Will Summers stopped beside the supply wagon and watched Sergeant Teasdale leap down from his horse and go running to his recovered trooper. “We left that boy on his deathbed at Little Sand River. He's made it all the way here—looking better than any one of us.” Webb grinned with satisfaction. “And
you
said he was going to die.”

“I never said he was going to die,” Will Summers retorted. “It was his own sergeant there who said it.” He nodded toward Sergeant Teasdale as Teasdale and Frieze shook hands and greeted one another.

Abner Webb said, “Maybe it wasn't his sergeant. Maybe it was Campbell Hayes who said it.”

Will Summers replied, “It doesn't matter who said he was going to die.
He
kept saying he was going to live. And so he did…for the time being anyway.”
He sighed. “Looks like that clears things up for Teasdale. He can return home a hero now. He's got a witness, and he's recovered the machine rifle.”

“Good for him,” said Webb. “I hope things work out that well for us in Rileyville.”

“I don't know why things wouldn't,” said Summers. “We brought back the outlaws. We even brought back most of the supplies they stole. Don't tell me you still dread facing the sheriff after all we've gone through?”

Webb chuckled. “After all we've been through, I doubt I'll ever dread facing anybody again for any reason.” In Webb's saddlebags, wrapped in a bandanna, he carried the trigger fingers of both Moses and Goose Peltry for Wild Joe's son, Eddie.

“Does that include Renee Marie Daniels?” Summers asked.

“You had to mention her, didn't you?” said Webb, a look of dread coming to his face.

“Sorry,” said Summers. He turned to Sherman Dahl, who sat in the driver's seat of the supply wagon. “What about you, schoolmaster? How do you feel now that this is all over? Think you'll have a hard time settling back into teaching kids how to read and write after this rip-roaring adventure we've been on?”

“I doubt it,” said Sherman Dahl, reaching his free hand over and scratching the head of Junior the hound. Junior lay asleep like some ancient warrior sated from the kill, at peace now on a rough plank wagon seat, a fly circling close above his head. “If I do, I suppose I'll look you up, Will Summers. I've got a feeling you can always come up with something to do.”

The three men laughed among themselves as townsfolk came forward from their abode and stood
looking at them with curiosity. Some of the townsmen circled wide and walked to the rear of the wagon and nudged one another at the sight of Moses Peltry's head stuck atop a length of broken hitch rail. The dead face was stonelike and expressionless, peaceful with its closed eyes and its long gray beard asway on a passing breeze.

“Come say hello to these three possemen,” said Sergeant Teasdale, “They've turned out to be good men all.” He and Trooper Frieze walked over to the supply wagon, Frieze limping, but only slightly. On their way to join Summers, Webb, and Dahl at the supply wagon, Sergeant Lawrence Teasdale thought he saw something more than just curiosity in the townsfolk's eyes. He saw respect and admiration. In the eyes of the men, he was sure he saw envy.