The Outlaws: Tom McLean
I had killed another man. Where his bloody hands had smeared it, my sleeve was hardly dry. Reckon I'd been better off dead myself, and I almost wished I was.
As the first bright stars of evening began to wink in the twilight sky, I rode the tangled bank of Clear Creek, letting my horse pick his way. Times like this, I was mighty thankful for Sheriff-that's what I called the gray. The name started out as a joke. But there was no joke to the way Sheriff watched out for me. He was cagey enough to keep me out of trouble when my mind wasn't on the trail. He knew where I wanted to go-even when I didn't.
Right now my own mind was far away.
It seemed like days ago, but the cigar-tainted air inside the bank and the black powder smell of my Remington still stung my nostrils. And the odors of the old man-the stink of early morning breath before a meal, and of night sweat. And in his face the look of hate, then desperation, and finally resignation. It was all there as he looked into my eyes and slid slowly to the floor, at last relinquishing his grip on my wrist.
I rammed my eyes shut and shook my head. It did me no good to relive the memory. The old man was dead. I'd seen his pupils get big and sort of dull. His life was gone; I had taken it. Now I had to make time, or I'd pay for his death with mine. Justice is a dandy idea-long as it's only dished out to other folks.
A breath of wood smoke reached me over the smells of sage and cottonwood. It drew my thoughts to a fire, a meal, and fresh water. The trace of a trail slipped over the dusty edge of the bench, and Sheriff took it. He'd smelled the wood smoke, too, and certainly a long time before I had. He'd been smelling the waters of Clear Creek, too, and the two scents must have meant camp to him.
At the bottom of the trail, we leveled out into a dry creek bed paved with water-rounded stones and littered with fallen limbs from the trees along its banks. Clear Creek had once run here, and maybe it still did, in kinder years. But some act of nature had changed the creek's course, or the water was low enough with the drought that it couldn't wander here. There was a cluster of tumbleweeds all heaped in one cove along the bank. I sort of gave them a nod as we passed. The tumbleweed and me, we were both drifters, both outsiders. I'd started to think of us as kin. They say the tumbleweed came in with grain seed Russian farmers brought all the way across the ocean. Me, I only came from as far as Ozark, Missouri. But we were outsiders all the same.
Sheriff picked his way, then paused in the middle of the wash. He perked his ears, listening into the darkness, beyond the rattling of the creek. Among the shadows above the creekbed, I picked out an old cottonwood, half-dead yet impressive in its massiveness. Its trunk prodded into the bank, and crooked arms bent upward and knitted themselves into the twilight, their dry leaves rustling like sheaves of paper. Its roots writhed over the lip of the creek bank, holding great stones prisoner behind a living cage. I rode closer and pulled Sheriff in with a tug on the reins. Peering at the furrowed trunk, I found the sign I already knew was there. A depression was hacked out of the bark-the sign of a cross.
Patting the gray's neck, I spoke softly into the dark: "Not far now, boy." His answer was a nicker and a bit chain-tinkling shake of his head.
Again, a momentary waft of wood smoke on a swirl of wind. A welcoming fragrance, yet acrid in comparison to the scents of the night range. It eased my memory of the bank in Buffalo. The gray flared his nostrils, pricking his ears forward and stamping his foot. After a moment, he nickered with apparent anticipation. At the touch of my spurs, he scrambled up out of the creek bed, adding the cool, musty smell of the dust to the other smells of the night. Head up and ears shot forward, he walked along through the drought-stunted grass.
Again the wood smoke, still stronger. Sheriff stopped to test the air. I keened my ears but heard nothing beyond the rustling creek. Still, I knew where we were. Ahead, the creek would cut across the dry wash, and in the triangular patch of grass at the junction I'd find camp.
With gladness I swung out of the saddle, favoring my right leg. It was always stiff around this time of night. A .38 caliber bullet had left me a scar as a souvenir below that knee as I pushed a herd of stolen shorthorns across one last cattle range in the Blue Mountains of eastern Oregon, back in eighty-three.
Less than fifty yards farther on, the glow of a campfire winked at me from a hollow beneath the black hulks of trees. I stopped and watched until I made out the dim features of a man seated by the fire. He peered into the night, revolver fisted, his eyes cutting into the shadows. The rest of the clearing was quiet except for the music of the crickets and the creek.
My voice rose with the long-practiced call of a great-horned owl. The near-as-perfect imitation of a nighthawk's scratchy cry answered from camp. My partner, Tyrone Sandoe, was as good as me at the sounds of the range.
I spoke soft into the night. "Tye, I'm comin' in."
A pause, while Tye got over being startled. "Come on, Tom. Spotted pup's hot."
I smiled at the thought of filling my belly and laying my head down to sleep. But before I'd let myself relax, I had to tend to Sheriff. The first thing I looked to was his wound. He'd taken a bullet in the hip, and it had come out, leaving a nasty hole. I dug a silver flask of whisky from a saddlebag and poured some on the wound, which the horse didn't like one bit. Other than that, there wasn't much I could do. I'd read about some government animal doctor in the Bighorn Sentinel, but it was obvious I couldn't chance looking for him.
I watered Sheriff at the creek. Then I brushed him down with twigs and grass, being mighty careful around his wound, and staked him out by Tyrone Sandoe's bay. As I worked, I enjoyed the smell of his hot skin, his dusty hair and sweat. Those were smells of home. Smells of a hard day plowing fields. This was quiet time I tried to grab at the end of a long haul, time the horse and me enjoyed. We'd been together four years now. Longest I'd ever owned a horse-perhaps the longest any wanted man had-maybe one for the record books. We were true amigos.
Sheriff and the bay whickered back and forth a couple times, then both went to cropping that curled-up grass in earnest. Wasn't much of it that year, but they made the most of it.
I walked to the edge of the firelight, smelling fry bread and the "spotted pup" Tye spoke of. That was his pet dish: rice, canned milk, and sugar, dotted all over with raisins and stewed to perfection. Tye sat near the fire, leaned against the rotted stump of a cottonwood. He set his plate aside as I came in, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. Stepping forward, he pumped my hand.
Tye was nineteen years old, with green-blue eyes like evening sky and jet black hair hanging over his ears and three inches past his collar. A soft mustache of the same deep black rode his lip like a spring caterpillar. On his chin, a scar half-hidden by a two-inch tuft of black beard rescued his face from being what some might've called perfect, but it never seemed to bother the women we came across. He had a white-toothed smile and clean-featured face that made them forget about the scar and the fact that he appeared to be no more than a saddle bum.
Tye was taller than me but slighter across the chest and shoulders-and stomach, too, I'd noticed of late. He wore a cross-draw holster and Smith and Wesson Schofield on his left hip. Tyrone Sandoe was about as naturally handsome a man as I'd ever laid eyes on, but he was no dandy. He could use that .45.
As for me, Thomas Jefferson McLean, I wasn't an overly tall man, not by any stretch of truth. But trudging after a plow and a crock-headed mule from childhood, wrestling cows and pounding spikes alongside the Chinamen on the Union Pacific had given my upper body its share of beef. And the rough places the rails took me had taught me a skill at rough and tumble I'd not have learned in an easier life. I lacked three inches of standing eye to eye with Tyrone Sandoe. He lacked twenty years of standing toe to toe with me.
Letting loose my hand, Tye grinned and pulled a sack of coins from inside his vest, holding it out. "Well, I guess you lost Bennett, or you wouldn't be standin' here. We pulled it off!" He threw the sack up in the air and let it land with a jingle in his hand, a grin cutting his face in two.
"We sure pulled it off, all right. Bennett's chasin' his tail." I allowed myself to smile back, though I was more the cynic and sensed our escape was far from secure. But we'd come away from Buffalo with more money than Tye Sandoe had ever laid eyes on. And some of his excitement was catching.
"Tye, why don't you be a pard and throw some of that spotted pup and bread on a plate? This old man's about had all the liftin' he can do today, outside o' maybe a fork."
He laughed. "Anything you say, gran'pap."
I sprawled out on my side by the fire and ate what Tye fixed for me. Spreading a saddle blanket on the ground, he began counting bills and gold coins from two bags into piles. In twenty minutes, he sat back and smiled at me, flashing those perfect white teeth and crossing his hands.
He seemed to have put the money he'd lost totally out of his mind now, and I was glad. It'd been eating at him. "Three thousand six hundred and forty dollars," he said. "An extra three hundred twenty each for spending money. Won't the girls be happy to see us now!"
"Me, maybe. Them girls ain't pinin' fer a 'spotted pup' like you." I chuckled, but Tye already knew well enough I was joking. Any woman drawn towards this pair of drifters wasn't there for my whiskered jowls.
"Hey, don't feel bad," was Tye's answer. "If I get too many to handle, I c'n sure enough find a blind one an' send her hobblin' yer way." He let out a roar of laughter, then spit between his teeth into the fire.
"Laugh now, kid. Soon enough you'll see women ain't all they're cracked up to be. They'll be neck and neck with you, sowin' your wild oats right alongside you, and spendin' your money, too. You ain't nothin' but fresh meat to the calicos we're liable to bump into."
"Yeah, yer just a stick-in-the-mud. One o' these days I need to teach you how to have a little fun."
I nodded, only half listening. Sometimes I envied Tye Sandoe and his easy-going, live-for-the-day outlook. He didn't seem to have a care past what he'd eat that day, where he might sleep or what girl he might kiss. But he was young. The cares would come soon enough. He'd get old like me and watch the women forsake him.
As for Tye, I sort of thought he envied me, too, at least just a little. After all, I could use a gun, and I could plan a bank robbery. And when we chose to ride with other men, it was true enough they tended to lend an ear to what I had to say. Likely because I'd been in the game a long time. And an outlaw had to have more than mere luck to survive long as I had.
Sometimes I felt a twinge of regret for leading Tye off on the owl-hoot trail. But he was a wild kid when we met over in Idaho City, and someone, if not me, would've led him astray-or he'd have gone alone. I needed a partner, and he'd took to the outlaw life like a bear to a beehive.
Sandoe's voice suddenly broke into my ponderings. "I just wish I could go back. I'd like to hang onto the rest of that loot better." A bitter regret had come into his voice.
"Dang it, Tye. I told you before. Stop worryin'. Leastways we saved my half." When he didn't laugh at my attempted humor, I stopped grinning. "We all make mistakes, kid. Your biggest mistake was ridin' out with me in the first place-not droppin' them bags."
Sandoe looked at me, then finally let himself smile again. "I can see 'em now, chasin' their tail around the prairie. Bet they're goin' crazy lookin' for us. Two men against an entire town!"
I chuckled, despite myself, and my thoughts took a trail of their own-back to Buffalo . . .
Chapter Two
Buffalo, Wyoming Territory, 1886
We'd heard the town was there, nestled down in the valley under the shadow of the Bighorns. Even so, it surprised us. We topped out at the crest of the road, and Buffalo sat below, just a dot among the gray and rolling sagebrush hills. Two rows of log and clapboard-sided businesses lined the long, winding main street, and a scattering of residences hemmed them all in. Midway, cottonwoods traced the path of Clear Creek, which cut across the street, splitting it neatly in two.
As we rode down the street, the smells of the creek way mingled with those of the town-of wood smoke, food cooking, and of stables and stock pens. Flies hummed about the street, frequenting animal dung and the occasional household waste.
We rode past a number of saloons, most on the west side of the street; a number of eating establishments; a drug store; furniture store (which was also the undertaker's); and two hardware stores, one of them displaying the brand-new, bright green John Deere plow out front, and a three-foot stack of Glidden bobwire rolls. We counted three livery stables, a grocery store and two banks, the biggest being the First National. Clear Creek bubbled sweet and clear out of the Bighorns and held tight to its free-flowing charm as it rambled through town. Here it was over thirty feet wide, and our horses' hooves made hollow clopping sounds crossing its sturdy log and lumber bridge. We passed the Occidental Hotel, the courthouse soon after.
The main street was busy as I imagined it ever could be on a Wednesday evening, when most of the residents would be resting up from a day's labors. In spite of any imagined importance as the seat of Johnson County, Buffalo couldn't have been home to more than a thousand people that year. Many of those were ranchers and cowboys who had better things to do than roam the town streets at six o'clock in the evening, mid-week. Still, in the short time it took me and Tye to ride Main Street from one end of town to the other, we must have seen a good forty people, one place or other along the way. Some were obviously businessmen, some were women on the last-minute errand. Some were idle loungers. But all of them watched us like we were the most curious couple of drifters they'd ever seen.
We picked out one more element in Buffalo: the wolfers. They'd come from miles around, hoping to cash in on the wolf bounty put up by the Wyoming Stockgrowers Association. If the look of these men hadn't made them stand out like a second nose, their stench did. Between the animal rot and sweat and dog pee, I couldn't figure which was worse. They used the dog pee to mask their scent around traps.
It was a prime country for wolves, too. They had gathered from miles around that spring. They had feasted heavily after the death of so many cattle from hard snows and lack of grass going into winter. Wyoming's cattle ranges were in a hell of a bind.
"Looks just like the bunch that finished off the buffalo three years ago," I said. Other than an occasional solitary straggler, the year of eighty-three had seen the last of the northern herd-the last of the American buffalo.
Tye turned and looked at me, shaking his head with a half-puzzled grin. "Yeah? Buffalo, hell! They name a town after somethin', an' then everybody an' his baby sister come along and wiped the critter off the face o' the earth!"
I laughed. "It was a fever, Tye. Some boys were at it for years. All the way across the plains, Texas and Kansas. Finally here. They didn't know any other way. Then there was those that did know it was a dyin' way of life, and they just wanted a piece of it to tell their grandkids. The way they tell it the town wasn't named after the animal anyway. It got its name from some homesick settler comin' out here from New York. We had a Buffalo in Missouri, probably from the same thing."
"I guess it didn't matter then. Kill all the fuzzy critters!" Tye said jokingly and slapped his leg, looking brazenly at the huddle of wolfers at Charlie Chapin's Saloon. "Bet them wolfers are retired buffalo hunters theirselves. Wiped out the cows, now they're here to kill the dogs. Personally, I'll be glad when they're gone. Them gents could draw blow flies off a bloated carcass."
When me and Tye had rode the length of the street and casually glanced over the two banks and the looming red brick courthouse, we turned around and rode back the other way. Just before the Clear Creek bridge, we reined in at the Occidental, a big two-story log hotel. It was cool and dark inside, a single kerosene lamp glowing directly above a mirror behind the front desk. Any other light was provided by the two windows in front. Down a long hallway back of the desk we could hear the rattle of plates and silverware from the dining area. And to the right, beyond a set of doors, came the clack and buzz of a billiard room.
"How you set for rooms, friend?" I asked an elderly man seated behind the desk.
The fellow pushed his glasses farther down his nose and looked over them at us. He glanced several times back and forth between us, and his eyes narrowed noticeably. "Well…I have one for two dollars-only one bed in it, though. Are you two friends?"
"Yeah." I glanced at Tye, who grinned broadly.
The old man cast an unfavorable glance at Tye, his eyes sliding over the shoulder-length hair. Long hair had fallen into disfavor with the general public in the last decade. Sign of a rebel. "Just so's you know m' mind, I run a quiet place here," he said. "I like to keep it that way."
I lifted my hands away from my body in a gesture of surrender. "I don't plan on giving you any trouble, friend. We're not drovers in for a bender, if that's what you're thinkin'. Just travelers lookin' for a place to light."
"Where you hail from?"
"Just around," I said after a pause. His brazen curiosity annoyed me.
The old man nodded nervously and dismissed the exchange. "Room's two dollars a night."
I nodded and placed three silver dollars on the counter, then backed away, letting Tye pick up the key.
"Room's at the head of the stairs," the old man added.
We stepped out onto the porch to the horses. Here we leaned across our saddles and reviewed what we'd seen of the town. There were at least a dozen saloons; I made note of those things. My memory ticked off five-the Senate, the Cowboy, the Minnehaha, Kennedy's, and Charlie Chapin's. As we passed, Kennedy's and Chapin's had been the only two with any sign of life. Kennedy's seemed to be where cowboys hung out, and at Chapin's the wolfers had been lounging. There were at least three livery stables, the Fetterman, the Pioneer and Billy Hunt's. But we'd paid a room at the Occidental, and it boasted its own stable. We untied our horses and walked them around to it. A boy took them from us, leaving us free to walk the streets.
I knew from research the sheriff of Johnson County was Van Bennett. I knew the man-only by sight and reputation-from my days in Oregon. He'd retired from a whaling ship after fourteen years of hell and had been working for a freight outfit out of Baker City.
We spotted Bennett early on during our rounds of the town. He stood at the corner of the Senate Saloon, glaring through eyes like tarnished silver coins from under the over-wide brim of a sweat-stained hat. Physically, he was all I'd heard tell, towering at least nine inches over my head and nearly as broad through his chest from front to back as I was from side to side. The late afternoon sun splashed over his stone-like features, made twisting flames of the curls of his full beard. He took in everyone and everything with a keen eye while seeming to dwell on nobody.
We walked past the lawman and into the Senate Saloon. We looked the part of work-hunting cowpokes down on our luck, both dressed in ragged range clothes and riding boots. Tye wore a natural-colored Boss of the Plains Stetson, and I wore my Montana peak with board-straight brim, a common style of north plains buckaroos those days. Tye carried his Schofield, and I had a Remington Frontier. They were in sight, but we carried them like cowboys, tight in the holster and high on the hip. Other than Tye's uncommon looks and long hair, there wasn't anything about us that should have drawn anyone's attention to us. But everyone watched us anyway, and there was suspicion in their eyes.
We drank light and slow in the Senate. Wanting to play out our part, we asked about work, found none. Acting appropriately disappointed, we moved on to Kennedy's, then to the Cowboy. Thanks to the drought and the scarcity of grass, people were scared. No work anywhere, and we were glad. It would have been pure hell if someone had took pity and offered us a job.
In every place we stopped, folks sized us up carefully before giving any response at all. Like I said, the town was scared, and it was more than just the drought. I'd heard tell of the war shaping up in Wyoming Territory between the big eastern and foreign ranchers and the homesteaders. The way folks were looking at us, I was beginning to take serious notice.
Last stop was Germania House Restaurant and Beer Depot, where they advertised lager beer on tap, straight from the Buffalo Brewery. After our customary query about work, we ordered a meal of steak and fried potatoes. Before we got our grub, an old man happened in, and when he saw us sitting there he stopped. His eyes peered at us from a shaggy, grizzled face. He was nowhere near secret about his suspicions. Finally, he just up and invited himself to sit at our table.
"Where you gents from?"
"South of here, most recently," I said.
"Oh?" The shrewd look in his eyes sharpened. "South, eh? Cheyenne, maybe?"
"We were there."
"What doin'?"
I chuckled, half-amused at his lack of tact. "Same as here, old feller. Huntin' a job."
He gave three deliberate nods of his head. "Didn't find it, eh? Let me see yer hands."
Taken by surprise, I turned my left hand over on the tabletop. I kept the right in my lap, closer to my gun. He peered at my hand, then nodded again. "Workin' hand, all right. Maybe you are a-huntin' work." He skewered Tye with his eyes. "But he ain't got no workin' hands."
"You'll have to pardon Tye. He's my cousin, up from California. Worked in a bank but wanted to be a cowboy." Of course it was all a lie. First place, he was from Idaho.
The old man seemed to relax after that. He placed an order of black coffee when the waitress came by. Then he glanced back and forth from me to Tye again.
"Well, gents, I hope you'll pardon my curiosity. If I read you two right you are what you say you are. But we're keerful in Buffalo. This place is on the verge of all-out war," he told us with a knowing nod. "Now, mark my words. Them rich Cheyenne Club boys, they're pushin' their weight around the entire territory-even beyond, where they figger it'll do 'em some good. When you said you come through Cheyenne, well…" The suspicion returned for a moment, but he seemed to shrug it off. "You boys don't look the part, but they's a rumor the big ranchers are hirin' help-gun help. Already got a couple range detectives shovin' folks around."
Like I said, I'd heard a bit of news about this war. But I didn't let on. "My pardner an' me've been long on hoofin' an' short on hearin'. We didn't stick in Cheyenne long enough to catch the gossip. What's caused all the ruckus?"
The old man scoffed, but his eyes lit up with obvious pleasure that we hadn't heard. "They don't like the small folks that's been movin' in here an' tryin' just to live. Tell you this, gents: Any man don't have proof he's workin' for a Association brand is quick becomin' fair game all acrost the territ'ry. Them Easterners-an' worse yet the fureigners-they've bought up as much of this country as they can. An' the rest they act like's theirs. It's a gold mine fer them what's got the means. They're tryin' to run off the little ranchers-homesteaders, too. They want it all. Callin' ever'one else rustlers. So beware. Johnson's a good county-a small man's county yet. But it's gittin' so's yer only middlin' safe here. You go out of this county, best watch yerself an' don't trust nobody. You see a group of riders, best avoid 'em if you can. Like I say, they're callin' anyone they don't know rustlers, an' they're mad 'nough to bite rocks-an' spoilin' for a shootin'. They won't let nothin' come 'tween 'em an' their money-nothin'. I g'arantee you, it's comin' fast onto some killin'."
I started to respond when I saw the five wolfers we'd watched earlier stumble through the door, loud and hungry-eyed. They leered about the room, one of them guffawing seemingly at nothing. Even across the room, we already smelled their stench.
A wiry Mexican with a thin blade of mustache sat on a stool, sipping a beer with his hat lying on the counter nearby. I'd seen the man when we first walked in, and he'd nodded politely as we passed. Quiet curiosity was in his eyes, but he quickly looked away. His somber skin was made darker by the sun, and although he didn't appear to be much past twenty-five, thin white wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. He wore the simple clothing of a cowboy.
The wolfers swaggered toward him, one of them sweeping the Mexican's plainsman hat up off the bar and holding it at arm's length to eye it with a sneer. "Whad'ya call that? Greaser, that ain't no hat!" The man flung the hat across the room, where it thudded against the wall and rocked to a stop on the floor.
The wolfer was a big man, the largest of the five. Blond beard hung in oily snarls, hiding his throat, and hair made dark by grease, smoke and dirt hung limp against the shoulders of a wear-shined buckskin jacket. He glared at the Mexican.
The Mexican's eyes ticked over the group. He stood up and took his glass of beer, starting to step away. The wolfers waited expectantly, watching the Mexican and their henchman.
"Where you goin', greaser?" growled the blond wolfer. "No one steps away from Lige Swofford without he invites 'em to. Now set yer carcass back down there."
I glanced over warily at Tye. He'd never said as much, and I'd never asked, but he was dark enough to have Mexican in him. He sat there outwardly calm. But his eyes burned, and his fingers turned white against the arm of his chair.
"That's Poco Vidales," the old man whispered. "He's a game little banty rooster. If that feller was alone, I bet he c'd fix his wagon."
Vidales stood still. Resignation shone in his eyes as they rolled over the group. He looked at his hat on the floor, and in swinging back his glance touched on me and Tye and the old man. At last, he settled his gaze on Swofford.
"Señor, I don't wish no trouble with you, please. I am here for a drink only."
"Señor, I don't wish no trouble with you, please." Swofford scoffed. "Yer not only a chili eater, yer a yella back. Well, you got trouble. I had a great uncle or some such kin 'twas butchered down in San Antone. At the Alamo. I swore I'd beat
hell outta ever' greaser I saw the rest o' my life. An' you shore fit the bill."
Vidales wore a belt gun, but he didn't have time to use it. Swofford's big fist came up and struck him across the cheek, laying him and his stool both out on the floor.
The Mexican sat up slowly, putting his hand to his cheekbone. I could see Tye was getting edgy in his seat, so I spoke his name soft. When he looked my way, I shook my head. "Ain't our fight, Tye. Let it go, or you'll disappoint me."
Tye didn't get out of his seat, but he didn't like sitting. I figured part of the reason he sat was the other four wolfers standing there spoiling for a fight of their own. It was obvious they were a brutal lot. They'd be merciless in a fight.
"Now get up, greaser!" Swofford bellowed. "Get up an' hit me back-chili eater. How you even call yerself a man?"
Poco Vidales pushed to his feet, careful to keep his hand away from his gun. He glanced toward his hat then looked back at Swofford, waiting. I noticed his hands were shaking at his sides, but I didn't think it was for fear.
When Swofford came in it was with killing rage in his eyes. He swung at Vidales, but the little man ducked out of his way and planted a hook in the big man's midsection. He landed three blows before stepping away.
Swofford roared with rage and tried to grapple, but the Mexican was too quick and whirled aside, scoring two more solid blows that should have hurt Swofford but only seemed to anger him more.
The Mexican's tactics impressed me, but he could only do so much alone. When two of the wolfers stepped in and grabbed his arms, I knew it was over for him. And me and Tye, with our plans of laying low, couldn't afford to take a hand.
Swofford's blows were sickeningly loud in the room, but Vidales took them without a groan. I cursed, wishing I could be elsewhere. I knew what some folks thought of Mexicans, but they were just people. Most of them didn't have anything to do with the Alamo, no more than I had to do with driving the Injuns off their homelands. Besides, Vidales was a game man. He deserved a fair chance.
A big shadow loomed in through the front door, and before I realized what was about there were two wolfers on the floor by the bar. My glance showed big Van Bennett lumbering toward Swofford and the other two, and he swung with the same gun that had laid out the first two. The barrel struck Swofford alongside his head once, then again. He dropped to his knees with a groan.
The bore of the gun now swung back and forth between the other two wolfers, who had let Vidales slide to the floor. For a moment, I thought he'd shoot them both. His eyes glared fire at them, and his mouth twitched in his beard.
There was a barely audible scrape behind Bennett, and I glanced that way. One of the downed wolfers had managed to come to his knees, and he started to pull an old Dragoon revolver from his holster.
Without me thinking, my Remington was fisted, and I spoke quickly to catch his attention. "Mister! I'll kill you if you do." My sights lined on his throat. From the corner of my eye I saw Van Bennett whirl, and his gun turned on me.
Chapter Three
First National Bank
I didn't have time to regret drawing my gun. All I had time to do was cringe and wait for Bennett's shot. I was still aiming at the wolfer, and I didn't even know why I'd drawn. There hadn't been time for a sensible decision. Had there been, I think my pistol would still have been in the holster.
Bennett glared at me, his bared teeth showing behind his beard. I could see the tension go out of him slowly, and he looked over where my gun was aimed, at the first man he'd knocked down. The man still knelt there, his hand froze with the Dragoon half out of its holster.
Three big strides brought Bennett to the wolfer. His boot drove out viciously and the bottom of its heel caught the man in the mouth, sprawling him backwards. He landed on his back but rolled over quickly. With terrified eyes, he came again to his knees. His torn upper lip bled down through his beard.
"Mister, I quit!" he yelled. "I'm out of it."
I thought Bennett was going to kick him again, and maybe he was. But instead, he just pointed his gun at the man's face. "Drop that gun or I won't mind takin' your head off." The wolfer did as told. "Now get over with your friends." Bennett motioned with his revolver barrel toward Swofford and the other two.
The man looked puzzled, but he stumbled to his feet, squinching his eyes to clear his vision. He scrambled over by his partners.
Bennett again walked close to the two who had pinned the Mexican's arms. He looked at them for a long moment. I could see a move being tossed back and forth inside his brain. His face settled, and his gun barrel swung out, taking one man above the ear. As the man dropped, Bennett advanced on the other with equally vicious intent.
"No!" The man's plea was frantic as he backed up, covering his head with his arms. "I'm done, I'm done! I'm beggin' you!"
The cries infuriated Bennett. He struck at the wolfer several times, battering his forearms. At last, a blow slipped through to the crown of the man's head, dropping him to his knees. Bennett's kick to the man's face knocked him onto his back, and he lay still, his arms sheltering his face. I figured him for a fake, but I couldn't blame him for playing unconscious.
Bennett's eyes were wild when he looked over at me. His mouth twitched. I didn't know what to expect, but he nodded as he holstered his weapon. I took that as thanks.
In spite of his wild-eyed appearance, Bennett treated Poco Vidales like a loving father as he helped him to his feet. Tye and me both stared at them, wondering at the obvious affection as the big sheriff brushed sawdust off the back of the Mexican's vest.
"You all right?"
Vidales just nodded. "They didn' give me much chance, but hell, I recover quick. Quicker than they will."
Vidales looked over at me and Tye. Wiping a sleeve across his cheek, he walked to us. He wasn't smiling, but there was a look of gratitude mixed with curiosity in his eyes and the twist of his open mouth.
"I don' know you, amigos, but I have to say gracias. Thank you-for the Sheriff."
The Mexican held out his hand, and it wasn't until then I realized my Remington still dangled along my thigh. Embarrassed, I stuffed it in the holster and shook his hand, nodding.
"My name is Enrique Vidales." He smiled and dabbed at his bleeding lips with two fingers. "Everyone just calls me Poco."
"McLean," I replied with a nod. I was instantly cursing myself. I'd not meant to use my name, but Bennett looking on must have made me nervous. It had slipped out.
Bennett walked to us with a swinging gait that made him look like one leg was too long. He had the ominous appearance of a gnarled red ponderosa that would one day topple and crush someone to death. "I'm the law in Johnson County. Bennett's the name. I appreciate the stepping in there. Too bad you couldn't have done it a touch sooner. Before Poco got trompled." One eye squeezed shut a little as he looked from me to Tye. Belying his words, I saw no gratitude in his eyes. Only cold calculation.
After the place had been cleared, Tye and the old man and me sank back in our chairs, and Tye and me looked at each other. I sighed.
The old man glanced back and forth between us, then spoke for the first time since the fight broke out. "That Mex-Poco-he an' the sheriff're friends, if you couldn't tell. Poco's papa sorta partnered up with Bennett in the War Twixt the States. Saved his life a couple times, they say. Then got hisself killed the last time he tried to save it-at Chambersburg."
I nodded, recalling the fury in Bennett's eyes. "Bennett would be a good man to make a friend of."
The old man chuckled. "Right enough, he would. He's sorta like a big dog with sharp teeth an' a lotta brute force. Loyal to the end-to his friends. But prob'ly the worst enemy a man could ever make."After leaving Germania House, we walked north a ways until we came across a building whose sign read GEO. L. HOLT and CO. DRUGGISTS. I went in there with Tye on my heel and bought me a newspaper. I wasn't much of a reader, but I'd learned to muddle my way through a paper or two in my time. If I had a hard time of it, I'd have Tye read it. He was a natural-born reader.
On our way back to the Occidental, after the sun set, we stopped to gawk at Buffalo's red brick courthouse. It towered on a grassy hill just off Main Street. Johnson County's lawmen had a pretty nice setup. I hoped we wouldn't have to rely on their hospitality before our business here was done. We went on and turned in at the stable to collect our personal gear, then went into the hotel carrying our rifles.
There was music playing back in the barroom, and the soft voice of a woman singing. They'd advertised nightly music at the Occidental, and I'd've liked to go, but right then I had other things on my mind.
A woman I assumed to be the owner's wife, a smiling old girl of sixty-odd years, lit a lamp and led us up the stairs. She even turned the key and opened the door for us. She walked inside and lit a lamp on a table next to the bed.
"You get cold, there's another blanket under the bed with the chamber pot," she said.
"Oh, we'll keep each other warm," Tye said, grinning and winking at me. I had to chuckle. I was too old to get embarrassed.
Smiling impishly, the old woman shook her head. "I'll start frying eggs at five. I stop at eight."
"Don't expect us," I replied politely. "We'll prob'ly sleep in a little."
After she left, I sat down at the head of the bed and tried to work through some of my copy of The Bighorn Sentinel. I was amazed to see them still talking about Custer's massacre, which had been over for ten years that month. Another one talked about how long-horned cows were no good and had to go. Guess they figured the wolfers would take care of all the wolves soon enough, and them cows wouldn't need the protection of their horns. They wrote of a big flood down in New Mexico Territory, and how Laramie City had just put in electric lighting, which made me shake my head in amazement. I read that to Tye, and he seemed to take it all in stride. Being younger, I reckon he could accept more change.
Calf roundup on Crazy Woman Creek was over, and they claimed to have a heavy crop, which surprised me after that winter's die-up. And new towns were still cropping up and making the newspaper: a place called Douglas had just been named, over east of Fort Fetterman. A little town called Sheridan seemed to be prospering, or at least they claimed one store in that town was the most complete establishment of its kind in the country.
And then a story that really caught my eye: the Bighorn Sentinel was arguing against an article that had appeared in the Yellowstone Journal claiming ninety per cent of the cows around Buffalo were dead, due to the hard winter and lack of grass. The Sentinel claimed the ranges around there had never been in finer condition, but on that count I knew they were lying. Sandoe and me had seen the bones of dead, skinned cattle all the way from Cheyenne, where the skinners had been hard at work the previous April. Wyoming just didn't want to admit their losses to the world because so many people had their money tied up there.
They were talking about General Nelson Miles' inability to capture "General Geronimo," down in Arizona; rioting in Belfast, Ireland; how a feller by the name of King Ludwig had recently been deposed from-I figured that meant kicked off-the Bavarian throne and then committed suicide by drowning. They claimed his doctor had drowned trying to save him.
But the story that most caught my eye was one about a feller name of Lampasas Jake. Its title, in great big letters, said, LAMMING SINNERS AND RAPING THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. That second part could've been about me, but as for lamming sinners, they were talking about somebody else. I'd heard of lamming season, but I wasn't guilty of anything to do with sheep, in spite of whatever that feller up in Oregon said.
But never mind about that. About Lampasas Jake-the article went like this (and I read it out loud to Tye before I realized how close to home it really hit): "Lampasas Jake", the cowboy evangelist who is holding revivals in New Mexico, can beat Sam Jones as a vernacular preacher. Here is an extract from one of his sermons: "How many of you's ready to die with your boots on? Where'd you be to breakfast? Don't any of you drunken, swearin', fightin', blasphemin', thievin', tinhorn, coffin paint exterminating galoots look at me ugly, because I knows ye. I've been through the drive. You're all in your sins. You know a fat, well fed, well cared for, thoroughly branded steer when you see one, and you can tell whose it is and where it belongs. There's a man that owns it. There's a place for it to go. There's a law to protect it. But the maverick-whose is that? You're all mavericks and worse. The maverick has no brand on him. He goes bellowing about until somebody takes him in and claps the branding iron on him. But you whelps, you've got the devil's brand on you. You've got his lariat about you. He lets you have rope now, but he'll haul you in when he wants firewood."
We laughed about that quite a bit, but me, I was laughing only because Tye expected me to. Inside, I felt like them words were printed just for me, and it gave me a cold feeling down deep. Lampasas Jake had sure enough read my brand.
After Tye had drifted off, I lay there staring at the ceiling, with sleep far from me. I couldn't get them words out of my head. I just kept thinking I ought to get out of the outlaw life while I still could-if I still could. Maybe it was already too late.
I rolled over and dug around in my saddlebag until I came up with an old tintype. Turning onto my back again, for several minutes I studied that picture. It was a pathetically marred portrait of my daddy, Jedediah McLean, with his arm around Mama.
Memories of my folks were good. I smiled when I looked at them, as I often did of a sleepless night, even though they'd both been dead more than twenty years.
Outside of a coating of trail dust and five days of whiskers I toted now, I favored Daddy in most ways. I had his rough-hacked face, his short-cropped brown hair, tinged lightly with red. His had been streaked with gray at the hairline, I recalled. And last time I looked in a mirror mine was going that way, too. Like Daddy, my low-hung eyebrows shaded blue-gray eyes flanked by crow tracks. The wrinkles that slashed my forehead and the sides of my mouth gave me eight or ten years I didn't feel I'd lived. I guess they spoke of the worry and troubles my life had seen. People used to tell me I looked meaner than God had intended me to because I seemed so easy-going. Most of those folks hadn't seen me with my back up.
In the morning, I woke with a backache. It wasn't that the bed was bad. In fact, it was pretty soft, and that was the problem. For a man used to sleeping on the ground with a saddle for a pillow it was too soft. And don't let some soft-headed city boy tell you using a saddle for a pillow isn't done. A man gets mighty dizzy lying with his head on the ground. I've tried it and hated the feeling. I've even laid my head on the heel of a boot once, and another time on a holstered gun, when a saddle wasn't to be had-I'd try anything short of a rock to lift my head off the ground. Take it from a trail rider-the saddle's preferable.
The sun was up, and the street was abustle with activity long before me and Tye stepped into it. Rigs and saddle horses crowded the main thoroughfare, and somewhere along it we heard the cussing of a deep-voiced man. A half-interested glance showed me he was a freighter, upset at a wayward horse. He was only speaking the common rough language of his kind. The rest of his train, five wagons and ten teams long, made every other outfit on the street seem small.
We didn't see Sheriff Bennett around, but before long two riders, one on a stocky sorrel and one on a red roan, caught my eye. The man on the sorrel wasn't much above average height, perhaps an inch or two taller than me. A silver star clung to his vest above one pocket. His lips were pursed beneath a well-kept moustache, but as they passed us he smiled and nodded. The corners of his blue eyes crinkled up under the slightly curved gray brim of his hat.
The other man was younger, his face thin and his eyes nervous. He wore his gun a little too low on his hip.
Tye and me glanced at each other. This answered one of our questions: what if Bennett had deputies? He did, leastways today.
I shrugged and shook my head. "Don't worry 'bout it, Tye. They won't know what hit 'em. I promise. I've hit a hunnerd banks in towns livelier than this." I was lying through my black teeth there. I'd robbed five banks and a few stagecoaches in my lifetime, and a handful of establishments that didn't amount to much. Most of my work had been stealing horses and cows. But it didn't hurt to give Tye a little confidence.
Tye pulled his eyes away from the riders and looked at me, a grin breaking over his face. "Who's worried? I know you ain't lived this long for nothin'."
Just then, I caught a change in the riders' movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see the both of them turning around and riding back towards us. They climbed down and walked over, the older one smiling amiably, the other just watching.
"You must be the pair that saved the sheriff's bacon yesterday," the older one said. "My name's Anthony Ribervo, and this is Lucius Bird. We help the sheriff out a little."
"Good to know you," I said, not volunteering our names.
Ribervo's eyes flickered back and forth between the two of us. "Well, I just thought I'd say hello. Van-the sheriff-is a gruff fellow, but he's a good man. I appreciate you keeping him around a while longer."
"My pleasure," I said with a smile. I looked at Lucius Bird, and he was staring at me like I'd kicked his horse. He just nodded as the two of them turned away.
"That younger one looks like somebody stepped on his nose this mornin'," said Tye as we walked along the boardwalk.
I laughed and stopped at Germania House. "Let's drop in for some breakfast."
We killed that day "job hunting", crossing our fingers again in hopes of no success. Toward mid-afternoon, I paid the First National Bank a visit to tack up a notice to the effect that two experienced punchers were looking for ranch work. Inside, there was a long mahogany counter cut in half. The section near the door had a sign that read TELLER, and the other advertised ACCOUNTANT. I tried as casually as I could to look over the two men beneath the signs. The accountant, a black-haired fellow with spider-like limbs, was speaking rudely to an older customer. It was plain he had the old man flustered, and he kept pushing him-not enough to gain notice from the teller, but enough to anger me, even when it was none of my affair. It was plain he was enjoying his self-importance. Holding my irritation in, I left the building.
The bank closed at five o'clock. I left Tye in the room again and went to the street. Figured I'd be less noticeable to passersby alone than with a young man of Tye's looks and charm. He drew people-especially women-like hobos to a money tree. Me, I was just a drifter, nothing more. Couldn't even spare a dime for a shave.
I wandered like my only goal was killing time. I soon found myself near a shed behind the bank at a little run-down corral. Leaning up against the top rail, I rolled a cigarette and watched a rangy pinto bully his corral mate, a Spanish burro, until the littler fellow gave him a solid kick to the jaw. The fight, such as it was, ended with that, and I watched the burro wander to a trough and soak his muzzle as if nothing had happened. The pinto cut him a wide swath.
I glanced at the sun, then reached into a vest pocket and drew out a scratched silver watch. Ten minutes past five. And still no sign of the bankers.
Sudden voices from the back door of the bank drew my attention. I looked over casually. The two bank clerks stood there twenty yards away. The older one spoke to the tall one as he bent and wiggled a key into a hole and turned it with a sound click. Then his partner did the same on a lock above the first. Two locks-two separate keys. I cursed under my breath. A man had to work like hell to make a honest living anymore.
The black-haired man's legs climbed at least halfway up his back. He was little but legs, in fact. As I followed him from the bank, trying to be nonchalant, he set a pace my shorter legs were hard-pressed to keep. Fortunately, he didn't walk far.
He went three hundred yards up the slope behind the bank to a white house with a picket fence, then up the walk and through the front door. I walked on to a point of cover where I could watch the house. I wanted to make sure Longlegs wouldn't come out. There was a chance he could just have been visiting, though he surely seemed to be at home there.
I gave Longlegs an hour then slipped from the bushes where I'd been concealed. I took a moment to brush ants and other assorted wildlife from my clothes, then ambled downhill toward the Occidental. A simple plan formed as I walked, and by the time I reached the hotel porch it was set in my mind. Barring the unexpected, me and Tye would be some richer by tomorrow at that time. I smiled and pushed through the hotel door.
I hashed my idea over with Tye until both of us were satisfied with its details, such as they were. No-more than satisfied. We were dead sure we knew it forward and back.
Five minutes after I doused the lamp, Tye was softly snoring. As for me, I couldn't stop going over the plan in my head. You know how it is, when you really want something to work. I was only a bank robber-an occasional one at that. But I couldn't do a sloppy job. If ever I was found out, at least I wanted them to know they'd had a task doing it. Thinking about that made me think back to giving my name away in front of Sheriff Van Bennett, and I cursed myself for that. I hoped his memory for names was as bad as mine.
Somewhere around midnight I drifted off. When I blinked open my eyes again it was still full dark. Outside our window flickering pinpoints of fire filled the sky. I pulled my watch and lit a match. Four o'clock. I lay down and stared at the dim blackness of the ceiling, listening to Tye's breathing. Another half-hour, I told myself. No more. And that half-hour galloped by quick as a cabbage full of slugs.
Out among the houses, a dog barked, startling me awake. I cursed myself for dozing off. Looking at my watch, I saw only twenty minutes had passed since I lay back down. I stretched and sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes. I groped for my hat on the floor, found it and shoved it on. Then I shook the bed lightly and whispered, "Tye. Get up, boy. It's time."
I was disappointed at the time it took Tye to revive himself. Every day I tried to teach him the art of catnapping, but he couldn't get it into his head. Guess he had the notion men needed sleep to survive. I worried that someday if I wasn't there to watch out for him that foolish idea was going to cost him his life.
I threw the covers off on the floor and cuffed his head lightly. "You're gonna get us killed, Rip VanWinkle," I said.
"Stop it."
He spoke too loudly for the thin-walled hotel, and I grasped his arm in a grip that came from years of holding a plow and swinging a nine-pound hammer.
"Keep it down," I whispered harshly. "And get your butt out of bed now or stay here."
My words and tone of voice somehow reached Tye's brain, and he sat up when I let go of his arm. "Bruised my arm," he said, half in fun.
"Good. Remember it tomorrow. Now get dressed."
There was quiet in the room. Only the rustling of trousers, the tinkle of a gunbelt buckle, metallic clicks as we put our weapons on half cock and checked for six full loads. (We carried a round under the hammer on days we expected trouble.)
Except for the long, curved brace under the barrel, and the little pin of a front sight, my 1875 Remington Frontier was a careful mimic of Colt's Peacemaker but chambered for Remington's own .44 cartridge. When I had checked its loads, I dropped it into the Mexican double-loop holster and drew it out again even as it settled. I repeated the exercise a dozen times. Tye did the same with his Schofield then finally holstered it, and I patted his shoulder.
"Keep at it, Tye," I encouraged. "You got the touch. By dang if you ain't another Hickock."
Picking up our saddlebags and rifles, we stepped to the door and eased it open. In the hallway, all was dark except for the dim starlight coming through the window in the front. We crept down the stairs and out the front door. Remaining motionless for several moments in the shadows of the porch, we listened to the talking of Clear Creek, hurrying by on its night rounds.
Once certain there was no one about, we walked around to the barn. Used to operating in the dark, we found the oat bin. Tye struck a match so he could search the gear on the wall, and seeing the nosebags he brought two of them down.
As Tye set about the feeding, I threw saddles on and cinched them down. When impatience overtook us, we removed the nosebags, slipped on bridles, and shoved the Winchesters into their boots.
I patted Sheriff's neck and let him rub his head up against my chest, nudging me backward. "Okay, boy. Just hold on, an' we'll be movin'," I said softly.
I rested my hand on Tye's shoulder and tried to focus on his eyes in the dark. "Remember, when I've been in that bank five minutes, take 'em to the creek and let 'em drink. But not much. I'll be comin' on the run. Be ready."
"All right."
"Let's go."
In the shadows, we crept toward Longlegs' residence. In five minutes we were inside the picket fence, and Tye stepped around the side of the house to look for a back door.
The front door was unlocked-most folks didn't worry about burglars back then, leastways not in the West. I eased it open and left it ajar as I stood listening into the shadows. The rustling of blankets told me someone was awake.
Taking a deep breath, in four strides I was at the bedroom door. I'd no sooner reached it than Tye made his entrance. Well, leave it to Tye to do things in a big way. Don't just humiliate them-make them really despise you. Around the corner he came with his .45 in one hand and a brightly glowing lantern in the other, throwing the room into full light. The man and his wife were huddled close together, their bare shoulders showing over the top edge of the blankets.
The man recovered first and sat up, making the covers fall away from both of their unclothed torsos. He reached frantically for his nightclothes on the floor beside him but overbalanced and fell off the bed on his face, pulling half the covers with him. The woman's mouth dropped open like her jaw had dissolved. Whipping her arms up to cover herself she sat staring for some seconds while Tye gaped at her hesitantly.
I lunged to where Longlegs, on his hands and knees, was clawing for his clothing. I jammed my boot heel down hard on the back of his hand. He cried out in pain and anger, glaring up at me and my Remington.
"If either of you move or yell out, you'll both die." I wasn't that hungry for blood, but I said it with a tone that left no room for doubt. I tried to look the same way.
Must've been my voice that brought the woman out of her trance. She suddenly whipped the quilts up to her neck and sat staring at me like I'd just crawled out of a rotted apple. "What are you doing in my house?" she snapped.
"Shut up, Martha!" yelped Longlegs, his hand still pinned under my boot.
"Good advice, ma'am. Mister?" I looked at the banker with my deadliest glare. "Cover your ugly body an' get your shoes on. We're goin' for a walk to your partner's house." I stepped back and let him rub his hand for a couple of seconds before I spoke again, gun barrel riveted on his head. "Now."
Once Longlegs had made up his mind, he climbed into his clothes rather nimbly, considering the two armed robbers surveying his every move. Tye covered Martha the whole time with his revolver, and she hadn't opened her mouth or moved since the first time. Tears of terror rolled silently down her face, but I forced all sympathy out of my gaze. I wished I could force it out of my heart.
"I'm takin' this gent to his pard's house, then to the bank," I told Tye. "If you hear shootin' or a commotion of any kind, kill her an' go for the horses."
Tye wouldn't kill a woman, and I didn't expect him to. I wouldn't have either. I gave the order only as a scare tactic. The plan was for him just to tie her up and gag her, then leave her on the bed. I guess Longlegs really did care for his wife, because his eyes widened even farther at my words. "Please don't hurt her-I'm begging you. Please. She's going to have a baby. I'll do anything you want if you won't harm her."
With my hardest stare, I shoved Longlegs for the door and growled, "Just do what I say. Maybe there'll be someone besides an orphan living here when this is all over."
Me and Longlegs reached his partner's house without event and without seeing another soul. We walked in, lit a lamp, and pulled the groggy older man from bed, my pistol at his temple.
"Where's your key to the bank, mister? Fetch it now."
It took no time for the older man to find his senses when he looked down the barrel of my gun. He went right to a dresser, opened one of its drawers and withdrew a key. I took it and thrust it toward Longlegs. "Is that the right key?"
He nodded vigorously and looked at the older man. "Thank you so much, Henry. They've got Martha at the house."
The older man looked at me with fire in his eye and took a menacing step toward me, stopping only when he heard the click of the Remington's hammer. "That's my daughter up there," he said, shaking a finger at me. "If you hurt her, so help me…"
"What?" I waited, but he didn't finish his thought. "Come on and get dressed, mister. You're goin' to the bank with us, where I can watch you."
The bank was gray in the quiet chill of the dawn. The clicking of the keys in their locks sounded unnaturally loud. I dared a glance toward the water trough in the corral across the way, and there in its shadow crouched Tye. I didn't want them to know he was there, for then they'd know we no longer had a hostage. I smiled and raised my hand in signal once the bankers had turned their backs on me and stepped inside the building. Tye returned my signal by raising his pistol above his head, and I saw starlight flicker off its nickel-plated barrel.
Old Henry didn't seem to have any will to fight, knowing we had his daughter. Once inside the bank, with quick, deft turns he spun the dial on a huge safe and clicked open its door. Thirty or forty plump bags were stacked on its floor.
"Open one," I said. "I'd like to see what you're payin' for your daughter's life."
Henry undid the string on one of the bags and laid it open for me to see. Gold coin, all of it. Twenty-dollar double eagles.
"We'll take one bag of those," I said. "But I want the rest in cash-big bills. You-" I turned to Longlegs. "-as soon as your pardner gets a bag full, tie it up."
Henry turned to his shelves, where crisp new bills were stacked in banded bundles.
"Twenties and above," I said. "And show 'em to me first. I don't trust you any more than you do me."
Henry went to work quickly, showing me each bundle before he dropped it into the sack.
He had ten bags sitting on the floor before I stopped him. I was letting my greed carry me away. I didn't know where we'd even carry that much money. At the time, I guessed there was close to eight thousand dollars on the floor.
"All right, gents, your chore is almost done. Now, take four canvas bags and divide them little ones evenly in 'em. Move." And move they did, nervously, as if expecting me at any moment to shoot them down in cold blood.
Just as they finished, I heard a horse nicker outside the back door. I turned involuntarily toward the sound, and in that fleeting second I heard metal scrape on wood, and I wheeled back toward the bankers. I lunged to my right a half-second before a huge Colt Walker revolver exploded in the hands of old Henry, its bullet missing me by inches. In that next second, when he swung the barrel on me and laid a thumb to the hammer again, I shot him in the chest, then again.
Longlegs' gumption surprised me as he swung a foot to kick the gun out of my hand. He missed, but I didn't. I leaped forward and buffaloed him alongside the skull with the Remington. He spun into the counter and dropped like a dry goods dummy.
Old Henry was leaning against the wall, trying to bring the massive revolver to bear again. But its four pounds was too much for him. Blood trickled from both corners of his mouth, and with a sickening realization I knew I'd killed him.
I reached over and pried the uncocked weapon from his stubborn fingers, throwing it over near the counter. His hate-filled eyes glared at me. He was close enough I could smell his breath, his body smell…his hate. I wished I could put my weapon to his head and end it all quickly for him, but it wasn't in me. The urgency of the moment was gone. The old man reached up suddenly and grabbed a hold of my wrist with his bloody hand. I don't know why, but I didn't try to pull away. He slowly sank to the floor and finally just let go of my wrist.
I whirled around, Remington cocked, as the door swung open. No one was there, but a voice hissed from around the corner. "Tom?"
"I'm okay, kid. Let's go!"
Tye rushed through the door and jolted to a halt. He stared with wide eyes at the fallen bankers, frozen for several seconds. Then, with fear in his face, he turned to the heavy canvas sacks, and with one hand grabbed two of them. As I picked up the other two, my eyes were forced back to Henry and Longlegs. Longlegs lay unconscious, but Henry continued to stare at me, his eyes accusing. What life was left in them-and it was little-drilled me with reproach. It was a sight I could never forget. And then the sight began to fade from his eyes.
As I looked down on him I heard the first voices from close outside. "-shots from the bank!" were the first words I heard. "If it's robbers, kill 'em all. Hey!" A handful of shots rang out. And they couldn't be Tye's. He had his hands full of stolen money.
Chapter Four
The Getaway
The town looked like a stomped anthill. Voices called back and forth, and lights flickered to life to brighten the streets in sickly rectangular patches. I looked toward the water trough to see Tye and his dark horse, lit up eerily by bouncing lanterns. Even as I looked, Tye's arm came up and spurts of orange light speared out as if from the tips of his fingers. Two hollow reports crashed along the street. A rifle answered, then several handguns. Tye screamed like a madman and fired again, snapping a glance toward me.
Cursing, I shoved the two bags of cash under one arm without thinking. I should have just left it. I thrust my Remington into its holster, clawed the big Walker off the floor and charged out the door into the line of fire.
A Colt Walker makes an awesome sound in the dark of dawn. I snapped a shot into the gathering group. With two gunmen against them now, people scattered, only one of them finding the nerve to fire back. At a sprint, I reached Sheriff, and I daresay he'd've left me if Tye hadn't been holding on to his McCarty so tight. He was pitching around like he had a far better place to be and a strong urge to get there. I still can't say how, but I managed to drop the bags of money into the nearest saddlebag, though I didn't get it buckled. A shot zipped past me, and I turned and answered it without trying to hit anything. That time I shot twice, and somebody swore angrily and dropped a lantern.
I stuffed the Walker hastily inside the front of my gunbelt and went for the saddle. At the same time I reached for my saddle horn a gun cracked, and the top of the horn exploded into leather fragments even as I touched it. A bit of lead stung my palm, making me forget jumping aboard.
"Let go of him, Tye!" I yelled. He did so as I grabbed the horn, reached over the saddle skirt and got hold of two saddle strings, taking a wrap around my hand. The second I kicked my foot into the stirrup, Sheriff bolted forward. He nearly ripped horn and leather strings both from my grasp.
I cursed as I felt my foot slip out of the stirrup. I was dangling! Sheriff, even off balance, made for all the speed he could muster. He was after Tye's horse, and as for me, it was my lookout to stay with him. A hoof slammed me in the shin. Felt like it shattered the bone. I gritted my teeth and held on, trying to pull myself forward and up. Shots like fireworks rattled behind me. My feet slammed against the ground every few yards, jerking me around. It was only by desperation I held on. Where was Tye's horse? I couldn't hear it anymore. I only heard my own heart crashing and the frantic gallop of Sheriff's hooves. I hoped Tye was close ahead. He was my only hope now.
Behind me people were shouting, and lights were still flickering on along our path. It felt like we ran forever. But it couldn't have been more than seventy yards. Gunfire shook the night. Once, Sheriff screamed out, veering wildly to one side. I prepared to go down. Yet somehow he ran on, straight ahead into the night and past the courthouse that loomed like a castle in the dark.
I started yelling at Sheriff. I must have sounded like a maniac, but I'd nearly lost all hope. At that speed, without a stirrup hold I couldn't climb up. And I couldn't hold on much longer. The gray faltered in his step, but he'd got the urge to run. I couldn't penetrate the excitement in his brain long enough to make him stop. I felt my hand slipping on the horn. I gritted my teeth and squeezed harder, but my palm had already slipped away from the leather. Only my fingers and thumb held my left hand there, and it was a precarious hold. Then, like in a nightmare, my hand slid free. It seemed like I held on forever with my right hand alone. For a moment, my body weight made the saddle strings draw tighter around my fingers, so tight it hurt. But it must have been mere seconds before Sheriff's hoof caught me in the leg, and I let go.
Like I'd been rolled in some giant carpet, then had it ripped out from under me, I careened across the ground. The world spun around me until I couldn't tell where I was. I felt my face and hands tear against gravel, my mouth fill up with dust. I landed on my back, my wind gone, my head ringing. Panicking, I shoved up to a kneeling position, trying to force myself to take a breath. When it came it was with a tremendous gasp, filling my lungs with air and dust. I doubled over coughing. I could see more lanterns bobbing along the street. And now I heard people yelling behind me and to the sides.
A rifle sang out, spraying dust at me. I couldn't tell where it came from, but it was too close. Another cracked and made the wind move along my cheek. I clawed for the big Colt Walker. It was miraculously still in my belt. Jerking it free, I snapped off a shot towards the bobbing lanterns.
I fired another.
They wavered as I heard a horse bearing down on me from behind-no, two horses. I threw myself sideways, landing on a shoulder. A rider was nearly on top of me as I leveled the gun and pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
I cursed and threw the Walker, reaching for the Remington. But a voice drove through my panic. I looked up and saw the pale face of the rider I'd tried to shoot. I heard his voice screaming at me to take my horse.
It was Tye!
Summoning strength from somewhere, I lurched to my feet and almost fell into Sheriff, cursing him but overwhelmed with joy to see him. This time when I grabbed hold of the horn and cantle it was with the devil's own determination. I urged the gray to a run, going alongside, Injun-style. When I got the rhythm I swung up. It had never felt better to have a saddle pound my backside. I never intended to get down again.
Tye galloped along behind me. I could hear him swearing vehemently about something and yelling my name, but I didn't dare look back. As we passed the north edge of town I laid eyes on big Van Bennett, his face a snarl of desperation and hate.
When I heard him yell "Stop!" I ducked low in the saddle, and a bullet flew past me, not close enough to feel but enough to hear its breath.
The gray gave his urge to run to Tye's bay, and we thundered at full speed along the road. The bay was a good horse, but he fell back in spite of the excitement. More shots crashed behind us, but they were firing blind. In the darkness none found their mark.
Then, dead ahead, a horse charged into our path, wheeling broadside. Its rider held a rifle on us and at seventy yards he roared, "Halt!" I spurred the gray harder and drew my Remington. I wasted two shots on this fearless, stupid man who refused to give us the road. He was so far out of town he couldn't even have known who we were and if we were fugitives! He was a fool to try and stop two total strangers, judging only by circumstances. But fool or not, he was right about us.
Tye was firing past me. I cursed as the other man's first shot echoed down the road. When he fired again something burned along my ribs. I almost dropped the pistol. We were only twenty yards away when he decided to move, and my next shot-the last one in my pistol-dumped him from his saddle. Even as he fell, recognition flashed across my fevered mind. It was one of the deputies we had met the day before-Lucius Bird! His mount backed up, then turned and bolted.
We were clear of Buffalo except for a scattering of ranches that hid out there in the dark. Our horses splashed through a narrow creek and started up the gentle rise beyond. We let them run until completely out of sight of the last lights and the vengeful chatter of Buffalo. A mile out I had to slow down and wait for Tye to catch up. Like I said, he had a good horse under him-we'd picked it together. But I didn't keep old Sheriff for nothing. There were few horses that could best him on a flat stretch.
After several more minutes of running, I eased Sheriff to a walk while I checked the wound in my side. The bullet had just nicked me, cutting through my shirt and vest. I got down and felt around until I found warm wetness at the point of Sheriff's right hip. He shied a little when I felt it, and his skin quivered, but he waited to see what I'd do. The bullet had sunk in at an angle but had come back out, leaving a nasty hole. There wasn't anything I could do.
Stepping around him, I moved one of the moneybags to the opposite saddlebag, relieving the strain being off balance had put on the horse and on the saddle strings. Taking this chance to catch our breath, I walked the gray, renewing the loads in my Remington as I rode. As we went along, I could see by Tye's face he was upset. After a while, I asked him why.
He looked over at me, a sick expression on his face. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Tom, I…I had them bags. I had 'em tight! But when they started shootin'… I … Tom! Damnit!" I thought he was going to break into tears. "I couldn't get 'em in my saddlebags. All that shootin'... You still inside. I lost the bags when they started shootin', Tom. I lost 'em. All that money!"
I was suddenly sick. All that for nothing. Nearly getting killed. Scared to death if not shot outright. In my head I called him a dozen names. Damn that worthless boy!
We rode in silence for a long time. I didn't look over at Tye, and all he did was look at me. Finally, I let a long sigh escape my lips. There was nothing for it now. The money was gone. Anyone could have lost it, especially someone like Tye, on his first job and all. I'd done worse things myself. And why be greedy? We still had half-several years' wages, to a cowboy. More than anything, I felt sorry for Tye. I knew he was cursing himself without mercy.
"Don't worry about the money, Tye," I finally said with a crooked smile. "At least you only lost your half."
When he looked at me with shocked eyes, I just laughed and put spurs to the gray. We turned off the road and headed toward the Bighorns.
The going became irritatingly slow. Washes slashed the land, and along hilltops we had to skirt low stands of mahogany or struggle through them when forced to it. The sun crawled into the sky, and I couldn't help but be glad for its guiding light. Unfortunately, it was on Bennett's side, too, and by now I knew a posse would be on its way. He didn't seem like a man to putter. But we had a plan of escape. We'd
planned that before anything else. With that in mind, I turned south.
It was nine o'clock when we rode to the west of the place where we'd make camp that evening. In-between, we could see the buildings of Fort McKinney, on the north bank of Clear Creek. That meant we were due west of Buffalo now, and not very far away. We'd camp just a mile east of Fort McKinney after the wild goose chase I planned to take the posse on all day long. No robber would be fool enough to hide near the fort. That's what I counted on them thinking, at least.
Circling to the south of the fort, we turned along the creek and rode toward Buffalo, glancing cautiously around for troopers. We knew the chances we were taking, but I planned on going back to draw off the posse long before they reached this point. They'd be led far away from here by nightfall, and Sandoe'd be alone.
We found the cottonwood where someone had carved a cross a foot long and wide. I turned to Tye, who was watching me. I jerked a thumb in the direction we'd come.
"You get down in there somewhere and hole up, Tye. Watch your hoss. Keep 'im from makin' noise if anybody gets close. That posse's close enough, I'm sure. But I won't let 'em find you. When I get done with 'em, they'll figger we're headed south-to Cheyenne or someplace. Then we can circle around and head north. They'll be chasin' their tails 'fore we're through."
Tye glanced along our back trail. "What'll you do if they catch up?"
"Lose 'em. Or die tryin'. But there's one thing I need you to do. While you're layin' low, you find a likely place to hide this loot. Just have a place ready, a place we can cover it up with brush and rocks. If it gets tight, we'll leave it here and come back another time."
I jumped down and reached into a saddlebag to tug out the sack. I handed it and the other in turn up to Tye. He looked at me with a heap of gratitude in his eyes, so much gratitude he didn't say a word. But I could feel it, and that was enough. He'd lost half our take, but I still trusted him.
"Don't bed down till after dark. Wait back in the trees an' watch. They won't be expectin' us to come here, so I'd say around dark you can build up a little fire. And don't worry, Tye. I ain't lived this long for nothin'. I'll use a few old Injun tricks-throw 'em off the trail."
I left Tye there with the loot at that cottonwood tree. He just sat his saddle and looked at me thoughtfully as I touched my hat and rode away. Tye could ride anywhere he wanted to now and be a wealthy man-at least for a while. He had all the money. And as much as I liked Tyrone Sandoe, I'd probably let him go, if that was his choice. I wouldn't have the heart to hunt him down.
As I rode, I thought about what some folks might say I'd done to Tye. I'd led him on his first big robbery. By the time I returned to camp, if Tye hadn't buried the money I knew he'd have counted every dollar, maybe several times. I'd helped convince him the outlaw trail was the way to go. And under my guidance, Tyrone Sandoe, a man of only nineteen, was bound never to turn back from a lawless path. At that moment, with the old banker fresh in my memory, the thought made me sick.
I rode north, and on the horizon I spotted a thin veil of dust only minutes after leaving Tye. If that was the posse, they were way too close, and I was afraid they could catch Tye if they split up and tracked us both. But the problem was about to be remedied, even if I had to get my tail scorched in the process. Hopefully I wouldn't get it caught in a crack.
I rode straight for the dust cloud that grew more and more distinct above the dry grass. In half an hour, I reined in and sat the saddle, rolling and lighting a quirly. I watched the dust and knew the posse was close. Close and keeping their horses to a healthy trot. They'd found our trail, and they weren't sparing their animals, from the looks of it. I guess they figured they'd catch me before long.
Five minutes later, the first rider's head appeared over the top of the hill. He saw me instantly, and as his horse came into view he hopped to a halt. Even at four hundred yards I could see it was the little Mexican, Poco Vidales. He pointed toward me and looked back at someone on his left. When the other man showed himself there was no mistaking the fiery beard of Van Bennett. A couple more seconds, and my tally came to more than ten men.
With a show of nonchalance, I pulled the cigarette from between my teeth, crushed it on the saddle horn, and dropped the dead butt into the grass. Sucking in a deep breath, I turned the gray, rolled my spurs across his sides, and took off like a rabbit at a beagle show.
Rifle shots rang out behind me, and the race was on.back to the Books page